tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-345331142024-03-14T00:39:13.277-04:00Life at Patience CornersNews and Notes from the Winona Lake branch of the Kerr FamilyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.comBlogger521125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-34392021276326870942013-06-22T14:37:00.001-04:002013-06-22T14:37:50.125-04:00Progress<p>What I meant to post in January, I'll post now: a time-lapse video of the construction of our house on January 9.</p>
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<p>Just a small, fun update. Even if it's completely out of date.</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-79264251441257328612012-11-05T18:29:00.000-05:002012-11-05T19:46:33.564-05:00Life, Not at Patience Corners<p>"Isn't it great that Uncle Jim is out of the hospital now?"</p>
<p>I know. It's annoying when someone starts in on a story <i>in medias res</i>, without the (usually rather important) back story. (In my family, the common example is the enigmatic, "Isn't it great to have another 'A' in the family?" that appeared on a postcard from an aunt.)</p>
<p>So.</p>
<p>Uncle Jim is fine now, and we're looking forward to getting started on rebuilding Patience Corners, hopefully sometime this month. We've got the plans all drawn up (those drafting classes did come in handy, after all!), a contractor we like, and a place to stay nearby so we can be involved in the demolition and construction. At this point, we're waiting on the bank to cross all the <i>t</i>s and dot all the <i>i</i>s on the financing.</p>
<p>But, wait, you say. What happened?</p>
<p>Well, this happened.</p>
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<p>On June 29th, the trees that had made me uneasy ever since we bought the house 14 years ago made good on their threats when a sudden, powerful storm blew through. The whole storm lasted seven minutes, but that was enough.</p>
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<p>I was at work at the time, keeping an eye on the radar as the storm approached. I gave Deborah a quick call to tell her to bring the clothes in off the line, and joined the crew rubbernecking at the storm once the power went out.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Deborah had just gotten the clothes in when the storm hit. With the rain pouring sideways, she tried phoning me to ask if the storm was bad. The phone was dead, and she yelled to the kids to get into the bathroom, screaming as the house shook and started to crack as the tree came down right behind them.</p>
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<p>I hadn't heard my phone ringing, but Marti found me and told me my mother had called: There was a tree on my house, and I needed to go home right away. I went. I got there in time to meet the firemen asking me if there was anyone inside. I stammered the directions to the bathroom, and waited in shock until they appeared a few minutes later, carrying the kids out, barefoot and shaking. Deborah walked herself out, no less shaken.</p>
<p>My parents showed up.</p>
<p>My insurance agent showed up. She handed me a bag containing five bottles of water, two notepads, a handful of business cards, and a packet os State Farm branded tissues. The rest made sense, so I asked what the tissues were for. Linda gave me a look I don't see too often, and informed me that most people she visits under these circumstances were sitting on the curb, bawling, not sitting there matter-of-factly asking what happens next. She also handed me a check for what I thought was a ludicrous amount of money, informing me that she expected that to last me a day or two. (Later, once we'd picked up minimal set of essential supplies and groceries—$250!—I conceded she had been right about the costs involved.)</p>
<p>My church called. Would I like to use the missionary residence? Why, yes, I would. I arranged to meet the church secretary a bit later, and as we hauled mattresses over, I spied a box of Legos and asked if we could use those, as well. Little details had been escaping me in the larger scope of things, and I realized that the kids had nothing to play with until that point. As I would learn over the coming days and months, those little things added up, and were, in some ways, more important than the big things. Happy kids who thought this was all an adventure was a huge blessing. </p>
<p>The firemen let us in tot he house to grab essentials; I grabbed our PC, and the basket of clothes by the back door. For once, I was extremely grateful Deborah had not folded and put away all the clothes, and we were both amazed that it contained a at least one complete change clothing for each member of the family— one of many little "coincidences" that did not escape our attention.</p>
<p>As we ordered dinner (a rather boisterous affair, given the circumstances) some of the reality started to sink in. As phone calls rolled in and we told the story over and over, it became more and more obvious that life was going to be very different for a while—but that it was going to be all OK. </p>
<p>There are more stories to be told, but some will have to wait for another day.</p>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-15635408883259854742012-06-11T18:39:00.001-04:002012-06-11T18:39:58.058-04:00An Embarassment of Riches: Race Day 2012<p class="poetry">You know, it's not every day you see a Conestoga wagon going faster than the space shuttle. — Gary Sibert</p>
<p>So, how'd we do?</p>
<p>What I can tell you is this: we did well. We did <i>very</i> well.</p>
<p>We did so well I kinda felt bad about it, actually.</p>
<p>What I can't do is show you a lot of pictures of it. That was the day my new camera and my new high-capacity SD card decided that they really didn't like each other, and I was too busy clicking away to notice the little red telltale that said "Demo Mode" — only the most recent photo was stored in memory. By the time I'd realized this, all the heats with Fiona and Aiden had passed. </p>
<p>One picture will remain etched in my memory for some time, though: The shocked look Aiden had on his face when <i>Time Machine</i> crossed the finish line, well in first. He was <i>not</i> expecting that. (Neither was I, for that matter!)</p>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mgDYUIcOBTo/T9ZxrwTRJ5I/AAAAAAAAAMs/YWwsXaaN0EQ/s1600/DSC_0723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mgDYUIcOBTo/T9ZxrwTRJ5I/AAAAAAAAAMs/YWwsXaaN0EQ/s400/DSC_0723.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Aiden getting a good look.</i></p>
<p>What I was <i>not</i> expecting was to win on speed. I hadn't really set out to compete in that category; I figured I had no chance. Turns out I was wrong. There were Fiona and Aiden, being called up to the podium, again and again, not just for the categories we'd been working towards, but for speed, as well. </p>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--dOpZTNOQZg/T9Zxrq8oMUI/AAAAAAAAAMg/RNVkcNghoOA/s1600/DSC_0754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--dOpZTNOQZg/T9Zxrq8oMUI/AAAAAAAAAMg/RNVkcNghoOA/s400/DSC_0754.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Taking the podium — again — this time in the "family" category, for speed.</i></p>
<p>I can think of only three reasons for our sudden jump to the top in this category:
<ol><li>The new rules prohibited some of the more esoteric means for achieving speed.</li><li>The Siberts weren't there.</li><li>The McKeevers weren't there.</li></ol>
<p>The last two, I think, were the main reasons. Both had large families, were exceptionally creative, and knew how to get the last hundredth of a second out of their cars. And, both families decided to skip the derby this year. Suddenly, the simple speed mods I'd made (polishing the axles, mostly) stood a chance. It took me a minute to realize I'd been <i>counting</i> on their competition. I'd hated that a lot of the good work we'd done in previous years had gone unrecognized, while certain families dominated. Suddenly, <i>we</i> were that family, and I was extremely conscious of it. </p>
<p>It got worse as they started calling out the prizes for the "family" category, because very few people had entered. I even saw the judges' sheets, where they tried to distribute the prizes more evenly, but we still walked away with a lot of the top honors for creativity and speed.</p>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gcs2pMbhVOo/T9ZxrJhmEpI/AAAAAAAAAMU/rwIthJ6J56k/s1600/DSC_0765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gcs2pMbhVOo/T9ZxrJhmEpI/AAAAAAAAAMU/rwIthJ6J56k/s400/DSC_0765.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Our enormous pile of loot.</i></p>
<p>So. Um. Sorry, other families. We'll try to do worse next year.... </p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-88608017869855735042012-05-01T22:21:00.000-04:002012-05-01T22:21:48.774-04:00All That Non-Wasted Time<p>At this point, I should probably point out that I'd been working on Fiona and Aiden's Pine Derby cars, off and on, for nearly a year. Given the last-minute nature of the previous year's entry, I'd vowed to get an earlier start. I bought some extra kits, and we worked on them leisurely throughout the year. </p>
<p>Then, three weeks before the actual race, I picked up the rule sheet for this year's competition. I knew I was in trouble. </p>
<p>See, the previous years had been something of an arms race, with dads doing their best to outdo each other. There were lathed wheels, alignment tools, and plated axles. This year, they'd joined up with the local Cub Scout pack, and were using the stricter rules that mandated a lot less technological warfare, and a lot more child involvement. I'd spent 10 months of quality time with both Fiona and Aiden, and both their cars were disqualified, right out of the gate. </p>
<p>The saving grace here was a provision for a "family" category, where serious parental involvement was allowed. If we raced, both <i>Boot Monster Big Rig</i> and <i>Great Endeavour</i> would have to go in this category. Fiona could have raced in the main, but I'd moved the axles, which was <i>verboten</i>. To claim Aiden had done the majority of the work on his would have been quite a stretch. So I put the question to them: Did they want to race just the cars we'd made? Or did they want to race in the regular heats, against everyone else, using the stricter rules, and new cars? Or . . . both?</p>
<p>To my surprise, even though we just had a few weeks to go, they chose "both." So, once again, we were making cars from scratch, right down to the last minute. I handed them each a sheet of paper, and told them to draw what they wanted for their "regular" cars.</p>
<p>Aiden drew a wobbly wedge, and said he wanted to paint clocks on it. Fiona went over to the fishtank and drew the lobster.</p>
<p>We got right on that.</p>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ov-ySw8tQzo/T6BluLEu7LI/AAAAAAAAALE/OElGgY2ein0/s1600/Picture%2B2071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ov-ySw8tQzo/T6BluLEu7LI/AAAAAAAAALE/OElGgY2ein0/s400/Picture%2B2071.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>First step, of course, was getting our model to pose for us.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0zD7lJeYBBU/T6Blvnh7c5I/AAAAAAAAALQ/LD4SqGFPxoo/s1600/Picture%2B2074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0zD7lJeYBBU/T6Blvnh7c5I/AAAAAAAAALQ/LD4SqGFPxoo/s400/Picture%2B2074.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Modifying the design for the block.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dS_NZsvyYRA/T6Bj3lW6ePI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Qif19ISjOxs/s1600/Picture%2B2078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dS_NZsvyYRA/T6Bj3lW6ePI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Qif19ISjOxs/s400/Picture%2B2078.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I did the tricky cuts, but Fiona stood there for an hour, sanding, sanding, sanding until she got the shape she wanted.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UiTmbdtw6sw/T6Bj3hirGTI/AAAAAAAAAKg/9Q5cup56e9A/s1600/Picture%2B2081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UiTmbdtw6sw/T6Bj3hirGTI/AAAAAAAAAKg/9Q5cup56e9A/s400/Picture%2B2081.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Ready to paint. We had to pre-heat the shed for an hour to get it warm enough for spray painting.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5pQje12RL1s/T6Bj4C547uI/AAAAAAAAAKs/v4Eg6xYPqdY/s1600/Picture%2B2082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5pQje12RL1s/T6Bj4C547uI/AAAAAAAAAKs/v4Eg6xYPqdY/s400/Picture%2B2082.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I'm glad we had a practice run before starting to paint. There's a few lessons to be had here on technique and, well, keeping paint out of your eyes.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GR6tCIy1J-M/T6Bj4ZkpCwI/AAAAAAAAAK4/GqXVMZYkgng/s1600/Picture%2B2152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GR6tCIy1J-M/T6Bj4ZkpCwI/AAAAAAAAAK4/GqXVMZYkgng/s400/Picture%2B2152.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Lobstery the Lobster, ready to race!</i></p></div>
<p>Aiden's car needed a different approach. I smoothed out his lines a little, and cut pretty much exactly what he had drawn — which took all of two minutes. Painting it didn't take much longer. What could we do to make it really cool?</p>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s3xEjBbA4hk/T6CPYddlQzI/AAAAAAAAALg/WXMW7lvELxo/s1600/Picture%2B2084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s3xEjBbA4hk/T6CPYddlQzI/AAAAAAAAALg/WXMW7lvELxo/s400/Picture%2B2084.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Aiden found this really cool paint, which dried to look like hammered gold. </i></p></div>
<p>Aiden just wanted to paint clocks on it, but I thought this might be a bit difficult for someone who was still learning how to write. After mulling it over for a while, I asked if he would like to put some real-looking clock hands on it. Aiden enthusiastically agreed. So we went on-line. Google Images is a wonderful thing: thousands upon thousands of clock hands, right there, isolated, and ready to use. We picked some out that we liked and his "print."</p>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kIA95EdF1oY/T6CPYeeJ6RI/AAAAAAAAALs/YP_yUTQGBDI/s1600/Picture%2B2086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kIA95EdF1oY/T6CPYeeJ6RI/AAAAAAAAALs/YP_yUTQGBDI/s400/Picture%2B2086.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A little glue and a hair dryer later, and the designs were stuck to some small scraps of wood.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LDuPDgtco8k/T6CPYqvTK8I/AAAAAAAAAL4/c0BJqrcJmjg/s1600/Picture%2B2087.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LDuPDgtco8k/T6CPYqvTK8I/AAAAAAAAAL4/c0BJqrcJmjg/s400/Picture%2B2087.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Guiding Aiden's hands as we cut out the ornate shapes on the scroll saw.</i></p></div>
<p>Once we'd cut out the hand, a few seconds on the sander removed the original paper, leaving us with the scrollwork. A little black spray paint and a dowel finished the look. </p>
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<p>We called it "Time Machine."</p>
<p><i>Next up: Race Day: An Embarrassment of Riches.</i></p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-29938690005944070312012-04-30T23:18:00.002-04:002012-04-30T23:18:22.281-04:00Boot Monster Racing<p><b>Many, many years ago</b> — so long ago I don't know when, so far back I don't know who — someone gave me a large block of balsa wood. Up until then, I'd never seen a piece thicker than 1/8 inch. This one was enormous by comparison: 6 inches to a side! I wanted to make something out of it, but not just any old thing. I felt like I needed to save that piece for something special. I didn't know what, but . . . <i>something</i>.</p><p> It mocked me for my indecision until, finally, I stuck a sign on it that read "POTENTIAL." It was a fixture on my desk all through college, reminding me to make something of the time I was given.</p>
<p>I finally made something out of it. </p>
<p>But first, I need to tell you about boot monsters. Boot monsters are a figment (and, as often as not, <i>pigment</i>) of Fiona's imagination. They are among the many marvelous beasts that make their way out onto paper when I'm not watching, and show up on my desk, marked "TO DADY FROM ?" (I've never had to guess who they came from.) They are great, gentle creatures who crunch up trash and sticks in the yard (they make great pets if you have a yard to mow) and used to be hunted for the warm, sturdy footwear that grew naturally on each of their four large paws. Fiona would ask me for tales of the great boot monsters of old, Paul Bunyan-sized creatures enlisted to build highways simply by shuffling their great feet along, two to four lanes at a time. <i>Marvelous</i> creatures.</p>
<p>So it wasn't surprising that, when I sat down to ask Fiona what she wanted for her pinewood derby car, her answer was swift and sure: A BOOT MONSTER! </p>
<p>A certain amount of negotiation followed.</p>
<p>Boot monster fur fades from purple and green down to brown furry boots. I didn't think I could pull <i>that</i> off. Fiona considered this, and returned with a request for a boot monster <i>big rig</i>, complete with trailers and stripes, and fades from purple to green and . . . it was a <i>very</i> detailed specification! </p>
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<p>I OK'd the big rig part, but pointed out that the trailer would certainly put it over weight and over length. So we settled on a boot monster <i>bobtail</i>, and got to work on a design. </p>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f4C0ISqjJDc/T1_-HSLz1CI/AAAAAAAAAJo/zDgjRMIKIEg/s1600/model587.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="202" width="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f4C0ISqjJDc/T1_-HSLz1CI/AAAAAAAAAJo/zDgjRMIKIEg/s320/model587.png" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Yeah, we swing for the fences around here. This is what I love about this girl: she knows what she wants, she's got great taste, and she doesn't mind the work necessary.</i></p></div>
<p>. . . and that's about where I blew it. We made the pinewood base of the truck, redrilled the axle slots to accommodate a design with three sets of axles, rather than two, and . . . stopped. We'd made great plans and I totally dropped the ball. Busyness reigned, despite Fiona's regular reminders. I felt terrible about it. (Still do.)</p>
<p>A month before the race, we picked it up again. And I reached up to the shelf and got down a certain balsa block — one I'd been saving for a special occasion.</p>
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<p>Balsa is light, and cuts very easily. It also dents, splits, and cracks just as easily, and absorbs paint like a sponge. It didn't occur to me until recently that I'd always used balsa for internal structure — never as an exterior surface. On the other hand, Fiona loved sanding it, because it felt "furry."</p>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfuDZnzcMX0/T1_9s1B0OII/AAAAAAAAAJE/_MiqDbc1h5s/s1600/DSCN6013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MfuDZnzcMX0/T1_9s1B0OII/AAAAAAAAAJE/_MiqDbc1h5s/s400/DSCN6013.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Checking against the source.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1NrV2YR8qtA/T1_9tcg6_LI/AAAAAAAAAJc/sFpIBFJakYI/s1600/DSCN6038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1NrV2YR8qtA/T1_9tcg6_LI/AAAAAAAAAJc/sFpIBFJakYI/s400/DSCN6038.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Because of the way the track is set up, I couldn't do the full ten wheels. The "inside" wheels, here are actually cut in half and glued in place to give the appearance of duallies from the top. </i></p><p class="caption"><i>The black part is the mandatory pine block that came with the kit; the purple is the cab Fiona and I built out of balsa. </i></p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bgle9idH0Hg/T1_9sW-AQWI/AAAAAAAAAI4/EYEFZHS_XUI/s1600/DSC_0777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bgle9idH0Hg/T1_9sW-AQWI/AAAAAAAAAI4/EYEFZHS_XUI/s400/DSC_0777.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I had enough warning on this one that I actually found an axle drilling tool so that I could reposition the axles and modify the wheelbase. The middle axle is lifted by about a millimeter, as well, so that, despite the appearance of having ten tires, it really only has six — and only four of those actually touch the track.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WfrR9b7eYW0/T54OJXTaIJI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/vCJjSTdKpP0/s1600/Picture%2B2146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WfrR9b7eYW0/T54OJXTaIJI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/vCJjSTdKpP0/s400/Picture%2B2146.jpg" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Does the shape of the grille look familiar? I had a metal outlet cover, and everything lined up right. It's the last-minute details you're proud of.</i></p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hriXRDzOy-U/T1_9sNuUPpI/AAAAAAAAAIs/v3ki8s6WnXE/s1600/DSC_0775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hriXRDzOy-U/T1_9sNuUPpI/AAAAAAAAAIs/v3ki8s6WnXE/s400/DSC_0775.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Speaking of last-minute details, check out the suction-cup fifth-wheel...</i></p></div>
<p>Fiona and I were pretty happy with it. We were all set to race. And then they made the announcement . . . </p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-47254716988968762172012-04-18T15:04:00.001-04:002012-04-18T15:04:56.127-04:00Worm's Eye View<p>One of my favorite memories from my senior trip was of someone making fun of me. </p><p>We were trundling across the countryside on our way to Prague, being about as rowdy as you'd expect a bus-full of high school seniors to be. In between rounds of Beatles sing-alongs, one of my classmates climbed up on the seats and suspended himself, spread-eagled across the aisle between the luggage racks. "Look guys, It's Andy Kerr, taking a picture!" he called, before tumbling to the floor in a heap. I laughed—not at the instant Karma, but that my reputation was cemented even then.</p><p>I thought about that memory a few weeks ago, as I was crawling through the grass, stalking the ever-elusive Perfect Photo. As an ant crawled over my arm, I decided that, once I got the photo I wanted, I would stand up in that exact same place, and show you the photo I <i>didn't</i> take. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSWPdgOjW-Q/T48N8-G0c0I/AAAAAAAAAPk/5ejF694mJro/s1600/edited-DSC_1269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSWPdgOjW-Q/T48N8-G0c0I/AAAAAAAAAPk/5ejF694mJro/s400/edited-DSC_1269.JPG" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>What I was after. Looks like a nice spot for a picnic...</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i7JF20XsI4s/T48N9YmHQPI/AAAAAAAAAPw/vIPVAofDEAM/s1600/DSC_1271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="265" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-i7JF20XsI4s/T48N9YmHQPI/AAAAAAAAAPw/vIPVAofDEAM/s400/DSC_1271.JPG" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>What I wasn't after.</i></p><p>Any questions?</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-11577945243504192902012-03-12T22:00:00.000-04:002012-03-12T22:00:01.903-04:00Great Endeavor<p><b>Yeah, OK, I'm a Derby Dad.</b> The shoe fits; I'm wearing it. Those of you who have been around for a few years have seen the lengths I went to for Fiona's cars the last two years. Well, this year, it was Aiden's turn to get the full treatment.</p>
<p>Trying to make up for the last-minute nature of last year's entry, and, realizing that I <s>had to</s> er, <i>got to</i> make two cars this year, I bought a couple of extra kits and decided to get an early start. (There's an enormous amount of irony here, but I'll talk about that later.)</p>
<p>So, I asked Aiden what he wanted to make. Sky's the limit, I said — I figured I'd let him choose, and I'd worry about how to implement it. Well, Aiden went <i>beyond</i> the sky, and said he wanted a space ship. I heartily agreed, and we started sketching. </p>
<p>Well, <i>I</i> started sketching, anyway. Where Fiona can't do enough on projects like this, I was finding it hard to keep Aiden involved past the first five minutes. I don't know why; I just haven't figured out how to connect with him and motivate him yet. He's a mystery to me in so many ways. So I did this largely in five- to ten-minute segments, as long as the attention held out. Maybe I'm a bad dad, I don't know. But I'm trying.</p>
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<p>Around the beginning of July, we watched the final flight of Atlantis, and something clicked in my mind. Instead of making up a spaceship, I asked Aiden, would you like to make a model of a <i>real</i> one? Aiden liked it, and the plan fell into place.</p>
<p>Fortunately, the details of shuttle design are well-represented on-line, and some quick calculations showed that the whole thing, tank, boosters, and all, would fit very neatly into the required pine car sizes at 1:300 scale. Better yet, there were plenty of patterns at that exact scale for people that liked to build paper models. A few printouts, and we had our blueprints. We could start cutting.</p>
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<i>One of the non-negotiable rules is that you have to use the block of wood that came with the kit. Here, I'm cutting the initial guides on the lathe.</i></div>
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<i>Getting the shape...</i></div>
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<i>...and cutting the shoulders down on the places where the wheels attach. There's a lot of sanding left to make this look good.</i></div>
<p>Fortunately, Aiden enjoys sanding. This is something I have a hard time explaining; Fiona really enjoyed sanding, too, both of them way more than I expected. Maybe it's the "hands-on"-ness of it, which isn't there for the cutting or painting. Not sure. Another thing I learned? Emery boards are perfect for kids and sanding. you can get all kinds of little details, in sizes just right for little fingers. A few bucks for a pack of 50 is a bargain, too.</p>
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<p class="caption"><i>The appropriate attire is essential to your pine-car building experience.</i></p></div>
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<p>The orbiter went together in several pieces:</p>
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<p>Then it was time for painting. One of the things that has always frustrated me about the pine car derby is the fact that the weeks and months preceding it are almost without fail COLD. Spray paint doesn't dispense properly below about 50°F, and it's hard to get a really smooth finish without it. Fortunately for this car, we got the main painting done back in August. The rest of the cars had to be done indoors, in the shed, with the little wall heater running full blast for at least an hour ahead of time.</p>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ctLtawPcvAE/T16cMIZMrhI/AAAAAAAAAHY/UrmhWd-MbZU/s1600/DSCN4888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="215" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ctLtawPcvAE/T16cMIZMrhI/AAAAAAAAAHY/UrmhWd-MbZU/s400/DSCN4888.JPG" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I made some special holders for both the painting and the drying. It let me (or the kids) hold the piece, while the other person did the painting. I'll be using these for many, many years, I think.</i></p></div>
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<p>The final product went together the night we had to turn the cars in.</p>
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<p class="caption"><i>It's the last-minute details you're proud of. I needed to add a few tenths of an ounce to bring the weight up to the 5.00 oz. maximum. I was about to unscrew the brass fitting I'd set into the back of the tank, and add lead shot, when I noticed a bullet tip among the weights offered at the last-minute pine car workshop before we turned them in. A little drilling, a little super glue, a perfect rocket nozzle.</i></p></div>
<p>I'm pretty happy with how the final product came out. Aiden was, too.</p>
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<p class="caption"><i>I left the remains of the turning on the front of the tank, but cut it down to serve as a rest for the car to sit against the starting pin. </i></p></div>
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<p class="caption"><i>Andy to Aiden: We are go for launch!</i></p></div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-65744443272836983912012-03-09T00:30:00.000-05:002012-03-09T00:30:00.785-05:00....and it's ours.<p><b>I've been twitching all week.</b> I'll look at the date, and suddenly panic: <i>ay ay ay ay, I forgot to pay the.... oh, wait</i>. And then I remember. </p>
<p>It's been a habit over the last 14 years, dutifully plugging away every month, sometimes more as finances allowed. But with our latest tax return, one little long-term goal finally came to fruition.</p>
<p>Patience Corners is ours. All ours. </p>
<p>If I've never explained it before, <i>Patience Corners</i> is the name of our house — our little cottage down by the lake. It's common here to have the name of the house out front; Shamrock, Wawataysee, Hannah Harbour, Tailwind, Aspir-Inn, and many more. We just never got the sign made. </p>
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<p>Yes, it's the name of a quilting pattern — Deborah named it — but in our minds it pointed to the four (now three...) towering maples at each corner of our property, and for the odd resignation that we were settling in here for a while. For someone who has moved, on average, once per year until that point, buying a house was like merrily wrapping ourselves in chains; like dropping the balled roots of a tree into the soil and filling in the hole. It seemed so reckless, a permanent solution to a temporary problem.</p>
<p>But here we are. The longest either of us have ever lived in one place. Stable enough that other people have moved to be closer to us. Long enough to stretch out into the loamy soil, and find that it's not bad to be rooted.</p>
<p align="center"><b>* * *</b></p>
<p>We told the real estate agent what our price range was. She laughed. And then she looked at us with amused pity, loaded us into her Cadillac, and took us all over Warsaw to look at houses that fit the bill. </p>
<p>Most of them were awful. Huge, gaping holes in the floors. Huge, gaping holes in the roof. Bedrooms that wouldn't even fit a bed. Dark, dreary places, filled with the stench of cigarette smoke and littered with old <i>Penthouse</i> magazines. We were pretty discouraged as we rolled up to a little white house down by the lake.</p>
<p> "I saved this one for last," our agent told us. We walked in. It was bright and airy, with big windows, fresh paint, and new carpet. There was plenty of room for us and our stuff. "We'll take it," we told her, and she whipped the paperwork out of her purse, already half filled out. We wrote the offer on the kitchen counter. Deborah wanted to wheel and deal, lowballing the offer. I fixed her with what I hoped was a steely gaze. "Which of those other places do you want to live in if we don't get this house?" We offered the full price with a sage nod from the realtor. "Now, if you don't mind, kids, I'm going to leave you here. I'm going to take this directly to the seller." We gave a happy shrug, and she was off. Good thing, too: while the sellers were signing to accept our offer, a competing offer was coming in on the fax machine.</p>
<p>We got this place by five minutes.</p>
<p align="center"><b>* * *</b></p>
<p class="poetry">The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance. — Psalm 16:6</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-66744660564148171732012-01-26T16:53:00.001-05:002012-01-26T17:14:15.207-05:00The Trouble-Free Blessing<p>Had I kept up with my blog (or my blog, somehow, magically, kept up with me) you'd likely know about the ongoing saga of our car.<p>
<p>Now, some of this trouble, I've brought on myself: I don't like to spend money on cars. My aversion isn't as deep as it used to be; for many years, I rode my bicycle everywhere, and looked down on people who drove. It was a moral superiority born of envy, poverty, two-wheel pride, and a large serving of sour grapes—a conflicted condition, to be sure. <i>Very</i> conflicted.<p>
<p>All the cars I've ever owned, combined, come out to a bit over $5000 — about what I paid for my motorcycle. (Priorities, see?) I nursed my '77 Phoenix along until it was eligible for classic car plates. I loved my station wagon until I started losing a friend a week from frequent rescues. I've had two $1 cars. Two more have been gifts of love and deep generosity. One, I actually paid a whole $500 for. I've never had a car payment. <p>
<p>I'm sure that part of this (ahem) extreme thriftiness is from the culture that I grew up in. One of the enduring images of my father is of him making major repairs on our early '60s Toyota nearly every weekend in Costa Rica. "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without" was the motto to go by.<p>
<p>Even so, long about September, even I had to admit that our car was on its last legs. This is the car where we kept a rubber mallet under the front seat, to start the car when it would stop and not re-start. It was creeping up on 190,000 miles, and I had a several-thousand-dollar list of repairs that it needed to keep it truly road-worthy. I had a stack of parts that had fallen off of it. Deborah hated the idea of getting a new car, but I knew it was a matter of time before we'd need to replace it, and I couldn't think of how to get much—if any—money out of it, and where I'd find the funds to replace it. <p>
<p>God took care of that.
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<p>It didn't take much—just a guy pulling out of a gas station, at just the right moment; enough to total the car, but leave it driveable for a week; enough to make it a total loss, but not hurt anyone. <p>
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<p>The insurance company offered us 10 times what I had thought I could get for the car (hint: the junkyard offered $200) and set us up with a rental just in time for us to take on vacation. I didn't want to give that car back — a 300 HP Dodge Charger — but I knew I'd have to. I started shopping.<p>
<p>About the best thing I can say about the process was that very few people outright lied to me. Oh, sure, we got the pink-sweater-in-the-passenger-seat ("Oh, I've been driving my daughter around in it. . ." Really, in the seat with the broken seatbelt?) and the car that wouldn't start in the pouring rain (Thanks, God) even though it had run fine the day before. But for the most part, we got honest people who listened to our needs, and then would point to the one car on the lot that met the criteria. Most of them were awful.<p>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KgH6L4EeRho/TxJa2UiE0TI/AAAAAAAAAE8/fDuEx9UZrz8/s1600/IMG_0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KgH6L4EeRho/TxJa2UiE0TI/AAAAAAAAAE8/fDuEx9UZrz8/s400/IMG_0019.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>Hmm. I don't think I'll buy this one.</i></p>
<p>Discouraged after chasing one option down as far north as Mishawaka, we walked across the street from Mr. Pinksweater to see the car dealer there. "We don't have anything in the price range," he said, "but I have a friend that works at a lot just down the road. They have cars that might fit what you're looking for." <p>
<p>Did they ever. A whole lot, stretching out, hundreds of cars. <i>All</i> of them in our price range. It was like a revelation, angels singing forth. And there, right where we pulled up to park — "Look, Andy, it's our car!" And it was — nearly identical to the car we'd just lost, but two years newer and with 100,000 fewer miles. We <i>knew</i> it would fit three car seats across the back. We looked around, but we kept coming back to that one. With the purchase price, tax, title, registration, inspection, and a few new tires, we came within $2 of what we'd budgeted.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LWcCA3zX_-c/TxJavvSN8JI/AAAAAAAAAEw/y8tQjW8AcA4/s1600/DSCN5126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LWcCA3zX_-c/TxJavvSN8JI/AAAAAAAAAEw/y8tQjW8AcA4/s400/DSCN5126.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>Yay! New car!</i></p>
<p>It was perfect. It was a blessing. <p>
<p>We reveled in it for months. We were even, I dare say, a bit smug about it. Then, one night, I got a desperate call from Deborah. Every light on the dashboard was lit up, and flashing like a Christmas tree. The numbers on the gas gauge and climate control jumped wildly, from Full Tank to -45° to 0 mpg and, mysteriously, "c." I talked her home, assuring her that, if the car was still running, she could ignore the antics on the dash. Finally, it settled down into a pattern of displaying the mysterious "c" and running the air conditioning full blast. I welcomed home a very cold Deborah, and told her I'd look into it.<p>
<p>The next day, I looked into it, and, since Deborah needed to go to work, I pulled the fuse for the air conditioning, so that she could drive in relative comfort. Unfortunately, by doing so, I also pulled the fuse that would have alerted her to the fact that the battery wasn't charging. A tow truck ride later, and we had a new alternator, battery, but still some odd behavior on the dash. My mechanic worked on it for hours, tracing one potential problem after another, but the haunted dash persisted. His best estimate for the next step involved pre-authorizing up to eight hours of labor for tracing down wiring faults — a figure echoed by the Cadillac dealership in town. We re-enabled the air conditioning, and stuck in a few blankets. <p>
<p>A few days later, on the way to church, an odd thwapping sound emanated from under the hood. I pulled over and had a look. The serpentine belt was shredding. I got it home, and installed a new one. Once I got it all together, though, I realized what the original problem had been: the new alternator was off by about a quarter of an inch, causing the belt to jump up on the edge. I couldn't adjust the pulley off the shaft, so I gave our mechanic a call. He graciously sent out a tow truck, and, because <i>he</i> couldn't move the pulley either, we went home with yet another new alternator.<p>
<p>Apparently, I groused about it often enough on Twitter/Facebook (I often update my status on Twitter, so that I won't be distracted by the rest of Facebook) that Dad called me up to see if he could have a go at solving the dash problem. <p>
<p>We started out by disconnecting the battery, and then spent the next few hours trying to get the battery connected again. <p>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--KCumggTJuo/TxJZnr04ZMI/AAAAAAAAAEY/Ype6S5PgB9w/s1600/DSCN5838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--KCumggTJuo/TxJZnr04ZMI/AAAAAAAAAEY/Ype6S5PgB9w/s400/DSCN5838.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>Stripped threads. On a battery terminal. Aaaaargh.</i></p>
<p>(We also ran the car out of gas. That's another neat little "feature" of this whole mess — no gas gauge.)<p>
<p>On the way home from <i>that</i> adventure, the whine that had been developing under the hood stopped, and a new dash light came on: the battery was not charging. Thank God for cell phones. My parents followed me halfway home from Valparaiso, until we met up with Paul coming the other way. Once the battery ran out, we'd stop, charge up the battery for 10 minutes, then hit the road again for another 5 miles. <p>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-arKTPMh3lnE/TyHPwxRrF1I/AAAAAAAAAFg/jUwvlEjlkds/s1600/DSCN5840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-arKTPMh3lnE/TyHPwxRrF1I/AAAAAAAAAFg/jUwvlEjlkds/s400/DSCN5840.JPG" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>Mere days before, I'd helped Paul pick out a new car from that same dealership. It came with jumper cables.</i></p>
<p> We kept that up until 2 a.m., when we were finally within striking distance of Warsaw, and we had a recognizable place where we could park it, and call the mechanic. A tow truck ride and <i>yet another</i> alternator later (the auto parts supplier now owes my mechanic several hundred dollars in towing charges) and we're back on the road, driving in style, if not comfort. </p>
<p>In the meanwhile, we're back to hunting and theorizing. Fortunately, our mechanic has the wonderful ability to separate his feelings about the car and the customer ("Andy, I'm starting to hate your car") and has been giving Dad and I feedback on some of our ideas about what to try next. Last time I was in there, he showed me some new software he was trying out. We plugged in the make, model, and year, and drilled down to climate control issues — sure enough, there was the problem, described in perfect detail, down to the lowercase "c" on the dash, along with what other mecahnics had done to fix it. There were six entries on-screen, and they all showed the same thing: replace the body control module (BCM). It would have been a revelation, except for one thing: <i>We'd already tried that.</i> <p>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v8v48l2k_6I/TxJaS0tMEFI/AAAAAAAAAEk/9VoSvlAKS6w/s1600/IMG_0047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v8v48l2k_6I/TxJaS0tMEFI/AAAAAAAAAEk/9VoSvlAKS6w/s400/IMG_0047.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p class="caption"><i>Oh, look. It's snowing. Inside the car.</i></p>
<p>We're working with a new theory, now, that it's the PROM (<u>P</u>rogrammable <u>R</u>ead <u>O</u>nly <u>M</u>emory) unit that sits between the computer and the rest of the wiring. Of course, they don't make them anymore, so I've been contacting junkyards from all over, trying to find one for a reasonable price. We may get there yet.<p>
<p>So, this car is a blessing. Did anyone say it had to be trouble-free?<p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-18774596004790027112011-11-08T22:17:00.005-05:002011-11-08T23:13:05.832-05:00Steampunk'n<p>Outdoing myself is now an annual thing. The only thing I can say in my defense is, if I had found all my carving tools, it would be even <i>more</i> complicated. I take some comfort in the fact that wild pumpkin carving is now a much more common thing, so I'm not so far out of the ordinary anymore. Yay. Rats.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Steampunk-falksen.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 260px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Steampunk-falksen.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>You may or may not be aware of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steampunk">steampunk</a>, a genre of sci-fi/fantasy (or, more properly now, speculative fiction) commonly set in the steam-powered Victorian England, which has taken on its own unique sense of style — lots of brass, gears, filigree, corsets, and heavy doses of "what if?" I confess my fascination with the visual theme, even if the fiction itself doesn't seem all that magnificent.</p><p>Of course, if you can get away with something punny, like crossing "steampunk" and "pumpkin," why, then, the gourds practically carve themselves:</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMCfcKJVTc4/Trn1PfedpRI/AAAAAAAAAEM/AaND_wWnmxg/s1600/299512_10150907683160707_597255706_21366544_1334298452_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMCfcKJVTc4/Trn1PfedpRI/AAAAAAAAAEM/AaND_wWnmxg/s400/299512_10150907683160707_597255706_21366544_1334298452_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672834852145964306" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Hey, I didn't take all those mechanical engineering classes for nothi.... OK, OK, I never took any!</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LwOCVEHFzfE/Trn0Ql1xGnI/AAAAAAAAADQ/7tdCwQquH6Q/s1600/300026_10150907683260707_597255706_21366546_2082212054_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LwOCVEHFzfE/Trn0Ql1xGnI/AAAAAAAAADQ/7tdCwQquH6Q/s400/300026_10150907683260707_597255706_21366546_2082212054_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672833771522562674" /></a><p class="caption"><i>This is also the first year that I went out to the shed and broke out the power tools in order to speed up the process. It made all those itty-bitty holes easier, but it feels like some kind of line has been crossed.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cCn_wP7Vvsc/Trn0QyxZ0tI/AAAAAAAAADs/n_9EHi2uiNI/s1600/320158_10150907683475707_597255706_21366547_1991622005_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cCn_wP7Vvsc/Trn0QyxZ0tI/AAAAAAAAADs/n_9EHi2uiNI/s400/320158_10150907683475707_597255706_21366547_1991622005_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672833774993920722" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I didn't set out to do it this way — but this counter-weighted wheel, with the light, looks like cast iron being poured out. Unintentional, but I like it.</i></p><p>Of course, I wasn't the only one carving, so I tried to leave mine towards the end, and help the kids with theirs first. Aiden chose his theme, and we worked it out on paper. Fiona drew hers, and Deborah helped her carve it. Risanna got to scoop seeds out of hers.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQ980TUtPcY/Trn0Rv4GubI/AAAAAAAAAEA/c0Gi7aqGxA8/s1600/388278_10150907684270707_597255706_21366559_981376250_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQ980TUtPcY/Trn0Rv4GubI/AAAAAAAAAEA/c0Gi7aqGxA8/s400/388278_10150907684270707_597255706_21366559_981376250_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672833791396592050" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Mine, Paul's Triforce-and-Master-Sword (which more people reconized than I would have thought), Risanna's bear.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FbTFCY6Knnk/Trn0RZfl0BI/AAAAAAAAAD0/hZU9bQ03EB8/s1600/379420_10150907684140707_597255706_21366557_528861958_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FbTFCY6Knnk/Trn0RZfl0BI/AAAAAAAAAD0/hZU9bQ03EB8/s400/379420_10150907684140707_597255706_21366557_528861958_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672833785388191762" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Fiona's dragon.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MPa8V_Sn4rk/Trn0Qmzdk8I/AAAAAAAAADY/cWcrjYAksVg/s1600/319581_10150907684065707_597255706_21366556_1030630557_n.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MPa8V_Sn4rk/Trn0Qmzdk8I/AAAAAAAAADY/cWcrjYAksVg/s400/319581_10150907684065707_597255706_21366556_1030630557_n.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672833771781329858" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Aiden's (pumpkin) cherry bomb, and Deborah's <u>Nightmare Before Christmas</u>-inspired Jack Skellington.</i></p><p>So, what did you make this year?</p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-22202494595258350542011-11-02T09:50:00.010-04:002011-11-04T15:16:08.896-04:00...and that's another way to solve the problem!<p>Let me get you in on a dirty little secret. It's something I've learned after years of working in publishing and web design.</p><p><i>People don't read.</i></p><p>You might find this an ironic observation, given that I work for an academic publisher, but I tell you it's true, and it's <i>especially</i> true of academics — <i>people don't read</i>.</p><p>I have my theories. They may all be wrong, I don't know. But I have them anyway. One is, people don't read because it's too easy. Most literate people can't help but read something; you see it, it registers as a word instantly, and — this is the critical part — <i>then</i> you decide whether or not to pay attention. In our information-rich, give me your attention <s>please</s> society, we're surrounded by words . . . and we ignore most of them. </p><p>Don't believe me? Stop and take a look around for a moment. Words, words, words. If your desk looks like mine, I'm willing to bet that, without turning your head, and without counting these words here, you can see around 500–1000 words. You're ignoring all of them (including the ten sticky notes that you wrote and put in prominent places in order to remember things.)</p><p>That's just you and me. Enter the academic, stage left, with his nose in a book. He is, obviously, reading. Or is he? My answer is, probably not. Remember the last term paper you wrote? Did you read every source, cover to cover? Of course not. You skimmed it until you found what you were looking for. You noted it, cited it, wrote your paper, you kept moving. The only difference is that the academic has gotten good enough at this to do it for a living. <i>Their</i> term papers get published.</p><p>And so we come to the relevant question: how do you alert someone like this to something they aren't expecting?</p><p>Case in point: each year, my employer attends and displays at a major conference. We're one of the bigger players in our market (big fish, little pond) and we generally try to get about six booth spaces to display our wares. In order to keep such a space all within easy reach, we typically reserve two sides of an aisle — books to the left, books to the right, and three booths' worth of books across the aisle.</p><p>Now, this creates two problems. One is the person who finds the booth staff first, and asks, "Where are the books?" It's easy enough to point out the stacks to them. The second is the person who finds the books first, but doesn't know to look to the other side of the aisle to find the checkout desk. This is harder. </p><p>The easy answer is, of course, to put up a sign saying that the checkout is on the other side. But people aren't looking for such signs — they're looking for a cash register (does anyone use these anymore at conferences?) or a person (there are plenty of those around) or . . . what?</p><p>Our solution? Make a sign they can't help but read. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V4FMNZ-TGCY/TrF6MP4BQVI/AAAAAAAAAEE/_a0BP7fiuBw/s1600/IMG_1419.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V4FMNZ-TGCY/TrF6MP4BQVI/AAAAAAAAAEE/_a0BP7fiuBw/s400/IMG_1419.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670447756674679122" /></a><br /><p>Specifically, we made them in Sumerian, Neo-Assyrian (both use cuneiform), Egyptian, and bet-you've-never-heard-of-it Hieroglyphic Luwian. Can you read it? I can't — <i>but we have customers who can</i>. Customers who are quite proud of that ability, actually, and who happily contributed their expertise into making the top halves of each sign. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o0U0KZ6aP2Y/TrF5bJ4_PvI/AAAAAAAAADg/KnNDU-VxyRw/s1600/IMG_1416.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o0U0KZ6aP2Y/TrF5bJ4_PvI/AAAAAAAAADg/KnNDU-VxyRw/s400/IMG_1416.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670446913254538994" /></a><br /><p>Why does it work? Well, for the customers that <i>can</i> read it, there's the unexpected, proud rush of being able to use their skills in an everyday setting. For the ones that <i>can't</i> read it, there's what Chip and Dan Heath call a "knowledge gap" that invites them to learn more — and gets them down to the English translation near the bottom. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wzeJjjCGDRM/TrF5bifhPuI/AAAAAAAAADs/nzQnzdZA2zU/s1600/IMG_1417.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wzeJjjCGDRM/TrF5bifhPuI/AAAAAAAAADs/nzQnzdZA2zU/s400/IMG_1417.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670446919858601698" /></a><br /><p>The added bonus is that it's also marketing: <i>We get it.</i> Our target market is ancient Near Eastern studies; we <i>want</i> people who can read this stuff. There's nothing like showing them that we literally speak their language. Outsiders, at the very least, get a memorable introduction to what we do.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v1uA6qZeIEE/TrF5b3SYgWI/AAAAAAAAAD4/L2US1hw2_7Y/s1600/IMG_1418.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v1uA6qZeIEE/TrF5b3SYgWI/AAAAAAAAAD4/L2US1hw2_7Y/s400/IMG_1418.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670446925440647522" /></a><br /><p>My part in all of this was quite fun. I got to take the handwritten samples (or in the case of the cuneiform, PDF) and either typeset or convert each one into a format I could use. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SSzIhXdSpEs/TrF3kT8HKLI/AAAAAAAAACM/FTIgg-NyHG4/s1600/handwritten_egyptian.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 242px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SSzIhXdSpEs/TrF3kT8HKLI/AAAAAAAAACM/FTIgg-NyHG4/s400/handwritten_egyptian.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670444871547562162" /></a><p class="caption"><i>My biggest barrier was learning to typeset Egyptian, but once I got into it, it was surprisingly easy to do. Having the transliteration below helped a <u>lot</u></i>.</p><p>Next, I wrangled the various pieces out of Photoshop, InDesign, and JSEsh, and got them into Illustrator, where I cleaned up the paths and got them ready to send out to Ponoko. (I don't get paid to promote Ponoko. I promote them anyway. Although if they're reading this. . . .) Most of the programs used for creating these languages aren't at the same level of development as other software (wonder why?) so there was a lot of cleanup involved.</p><p>A few weeks later, I got my expected package, and I got an excuse to get crafty.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--owToDGc_ZI/TrF3lDdzVHI/AAAAAAAAAC4/AoIjnNwy-qY/s1600/IMG_1409.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--owToDGc_ZI/TrF3lDdzVHI/AAAAAAAAAC4/AoIjnNwy-qY/s400/IMG_1409.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670444884305335410" /></a><p class="caption"><i>It's silly, but I love this tag on the boxes. I really do feel this way when I get a package with something I've designed!</i>.</p><p>I was a bit concerned about how I was going to get white engraving to show up on white plastic, until someone pointed out that the protective paper they apply to the acrylic forms a perfect, precision mask. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5L1sK_d0Xy0/TrF3lCOdGCI/AAAAAAAAACw/m6bYby_5vdE/s1600/IMG_1406.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5L1sK_d0Xy0/TrF3lCOdGCI/AAAAAAAAACw/m6bYby_5vdE/s400/IMG_1406.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670444883972528162" /></a><br /><p>A little masking tape and a spraycan later, and <i>that</i> problem was solved. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CbOGIQWTM1g/TrF3kqCLFHI/AAAAAAAAACo/ZGxm1RXlKaQ/s1600/IMG_1410.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CbOGIQWTM1g/TrF3kqCLFHI/AAAAAAAAACo/ZGxm1RXlKaQ/s400/IMG_1410.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670444877478564978" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imBSMAYNrRg/TrF3ktsdWkI/AAAAAAAAACU/z4aE5Edzxys/s1600/IMG_1412.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-imBSMAYNrRg/TrF3ktsdWkI/AAAAAAAAACU/z4aE5Edzxys/s400/IMG_1412.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670444878461229634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5zLB1oMpEpk/TrF5bMsEy9I/AAAAAAAAADQ/1NYUMiaIVio/s1600/IMG_1415.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5zLB1oMpEpk/TrF5bMsEy9I/AAAAAAAAADQ/1NYUMiaIVio/s400/IMG_1415.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670446914005683154" /></a><br /><p class="caption"><i>All that was left was to wear my fingernails down to stubs peeling off the protective paper and revealing the final product.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WNxhwtS-cIw/TrF5ayZ3OvI/AAAAAAAAADI/yhehXdeL1IA/s1600/IMG_1414.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WNxhwtS-cIw/TrF5ayZ3OvI/AAAAAAAAADI/yhehXdeL1IA/s400/IMG_1414.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670446906949974770" /></a><br /><p>Why stop at the "obvious" solution to a problem when you can have this much fun with it?</p><br /><hr><p class="poetry"><i>Several people have now asked who supplied the various texts for this project. <b>Gary Greig</b> (University of Chicago) supplied the Egyptian; <b>Annick Payne</b> (Freie Universität Berlin) contributed the Hieroglyphic Luwian; <b>Simo Parpola</b> (University of Helsinki) sent in the Sumerian; and repeat co-conspirator <b>Bob Whiting</b> (also of the University of Helsinki) gave us the Neo-Assyrian text.</i></p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-15735592265698728422011-07-29T19:45:00.004-04:002011-07-29T19:54:34.195-04:00You've got to start somewhere<p>We were looking through some pictures on the camera, when we came across a few that neither Deborah nor I remember taking. Looks like Risanna is getting an early start on photography!</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cMYZkIx-sEE/TjNGwa3bZZI/AAAAAAAAAC4/q-Eb7QQfIaw/s1600/Picture%2B001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cMYZkIx-sEE/TjNGwa3bZZI/AAAAAAAAAC4/q-Eb7QQfIaw/s320/Picture%2B001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634925356430091666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ut8g9uTLEg8/TjNGyJSpmHI/AAAAAAAAADA/dUH1bqUWWGA/s1600/Picture%2B002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ut8g9uTLEg8/TjNGyJSpmHI/AAAAAAAAADA/dUH1bqUWWGA/s320/Picture%2B002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634925386072168562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EIV7IJVGX2U/TjNGyngdWQI/AAAAAAAAADI/bZbNuhWcM2k/s1600/Picture%2B003.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EIV7IJVGX2U/TjNGyngdWQI/AAAAAAAAADI/bZbNuhWcM2k/s320/Picture%2B003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634925394183149826" /></a><p>Welcome, my dear, to a fascinating, maddening hobby. My your frames be free of camera straps, and your grip be steady and true. It gets better from here.</p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-23229039423495249322011-06-27T10:03:00.003-04:002011-06-27T10:22:33.985-04:00Fiona Joins the Glasses Club<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BzZGSGhP29A/TgiO53qh0ZI/AAAAAAAAACw/gNcuX9tdcZ0/s1600/Picture%2B4186.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BzZGSGhP29A/TgiO53qh0ZI/AAAAAAAAACw/gNcuX9tdcZ0/s400/Picture%2B4186.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622901259618079122" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Next up, braces? Hmmm.</i></p><p>Fiona's first grade teacher and the school nurse had been after us for a while to get Fiona's eyes checked. It didn't make sense to us, though, because the could obviously see very well at both a distance ("Look Daddy, there's a rabbit on the other side of the field!") and up close ("Look Daddy, this tiny bug has claws like a lobster!") but finally, we gave in and took her. Turns out one eye was doing great — well enough that the other eye was just taking a break and goofing off. So now Fiona has joined that grand Kerr tradition of being bespectacled.</p><p>Of course, now we have new problems. Now think, Fiona, do you remember where you took them off...?</p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-53087559423944311802011-06-18T20:41:00.000-04:002011-06-18T22:28:08.625-04:00Not Complaining<p>One, two, three, four. That's the number of large band-aids I see on my abdomen, each tender to the touch, each with a a much deeper echo of unease below it. Comfortable? No, but I'm certainly not in agony, either.</p><p>I had hernia surgery Tuesday.</p><p>It all seems unreal. That morning, feeling fine, I went into the hospital, where I was shaved, scrubbed, knocked unconscious, inflated with CO<sub>2</sub>, stabbed four times (six if you count the IVs), patched with mesh and dissolving screws, and here I am typing like it's no big deal. </p><p>In my father's time, you'd have been lucky to be standing upright at the end of the week, not gently sanding the drywall in the back room as I was this afternoon. (My father also assured me I'd still be able to father children afterwards — I hadn't realized that was a even a question, but the surgeon also asked me if I was done having kids — Deborah anticipated the question and told me to say no. All these people know something I don't.)</p><p>So even though I'm mostly feeling fine, I'm wondering what hurdles (not literal ones, I hope...) I have to clear to be approved to return to work. Obviously, I can sit at a computer, which is what I do for a living — well, that, and unload trucks, but I think I'm excused from <i>that</i> for a while, given that's what got me into this trouble in the first place. I'm guessing the main criteria will involve insuring that I can survive the drive there and back, and won't burst open if I go over a bump. (Sorry to be graphic. It's a real concern.)</p><p>In the meantime, people have supplied me with a surprising number of things that they'd like me to get done while I'm convalescing. I've got two websites that want attention, a two-hour speaking engagement to plan, a room to drywall and paint, and any number of other things. A get-well card from my co-workers came pre-printed with 20 things to do while getting better; they added 8 of their own! But for now, I'm doing a lot of something I've neglected over the past seven years: <i>sleep</i>. It's wonderful stuff. Not sure how I've gone so long while ignoring it.</p><p>G'night!</p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01495761149470856230noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-73012965570297070472011-04-24T13:25:00.005-04:002011-04-24T18:47:47.773-04:00Yeah, that's about right<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UJ-IjVwt4N4/TbRdOX-3Q-I/AAAAAAAADDc/HRF8InIMdxM/s1600/Picture%2B3670.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UJ-IjVwt4N4/TbRdOX-3Q-I/AAAAAAAADDc/HRF8InIMdxM/s400/Picture%2B3670.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599202738265605090" /></a><p> Frilly pink dresses, butterfly wings, and an ATV. <i>That's</i> what little girls are made of.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-44710035500511759802011-04-22T21:58:00.004-04:002011-04-22T23:06:26.155-04:00I didn't need to walk anyway<p>When I was a kid, I remember frequently enjoying a ride on my dad's foot. Now, my kids enjoy it, too. This is a bit ridiculous, though:</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KBbnN_boFk8/TbI8fdmHqcI/AAAAAAAADDU/M4YVVF2iIFw/s1600/DSCN3427.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KBbnN_boFk8/TbI8fdmHqcI/AAAAAAAADDU/M4YVVF2iIFw/s400/DSCN3427.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598603797993073090" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Three kids, two legs!</i></p><p>I can eventually trudge over to a doorway, and hang on to the jamb while I swing my legs (and their passengers!) to a little tune I made up:</p><p class="poetry">Swing Fiona, back and forth!<br />Swing Fiona, drop her on the floorth!<br /><br />Swing Fiona, to and fro!<br />Swing Fiona, don't let go!<br /><br />Swing Fiona, up and down!<br />Swing Fiona, drop her on the ground!</p><p>The kids rarely make it through all three verses before they're lying on the ground, laughing their heads off.</p><p>Walk? Who needs to walk?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-22960349289600410022011-04-11T11:12:00.001-04:002011-04-11T11:14:29.378-04:00J.A.W.L.S.<p>There's an acronym that runs through my head, usually during a hurried commute along the lake's edge, when my eyes are fighting between staying on the road, and wandering off to the horizon. It's a mocking reminder for me to appreciate the things I have, and a lament that I can't stop and appreciate them more.</p><p><i>J.A.W.L.S.</i></p><p>It's usually said with a little sigh, and then perhaps a tired, wry smile. Who am I kidding? It's a fleeting moment, one that's almost hopeless to try to preserve. It's something you have to be there, and enjoy it while it lasts. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/RzEr8LD6XFI/AAAAAAAAApw/qNBIyelqHD0/s1600-h/Oct2-0014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/RzEr8LD6XFI/AAAAAAAAApw/qNBIyelqHD0/s400/Oct2-0014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129929763313048658" border="0" /></a><br /><p>When I first got to Winona Lake, I landed my first job — yearbook photographer — while I was standing in line to register for classes. It was a job I took rather seriously (until the second year, when I got distracted by some girl I met on the internet, and eventually married.) I was rarely seen without a camera around my neck.</p><p>The first week of classes were done, and I took my Sunday sack supper for a ride through the quiet streets of Winona Lake, until I wound up at Winona Lake park, where several other Gracies had congregated with the same idea.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pt6MdejLAdI/TXpHjjXh1VI/AAAAAAAAC-s/I9zzBZ4PEWc/s1600/freshman-supper-at-WinonaLake-beach.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pt6MdejLAdI/TXpHjjXh1VI/AAAAAAAAC-s/I9zzBZ4PEWc/s400/freshman-supper-at-WinonaLake-beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582853364194071890" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Tammy, Rachel, Joelle, and Joanna. (One of the great advantages of being yearbook photographer is that someone goes through and identifies all your photos for you.)</i></p> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jFbTeFIZ4A0/TXpHjdz8nQI/AAAAAAAAC-k/WiD2FENZjoA/s1600/freshman-supper-at-WinonaLake-beach2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jFbTeFIZ4A0/TXpHjdz8nQI/AAAAAAAAC-k/WiD2FENZjoA/s400/freshman-supper-at-WinonaLake-beach2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582853362702654722" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Joanna, Carrie (a.k.a. "Cake"), Jon, and Sunny, who is trying to catch ducks with popcorn.</i></p> <p>As the sun crept down over the lake, conversation slowed, and someone — Joelle, I think — shushed everyone. "I want to watch this." I turned around at the picnic table to look out across the lake. "What am I watching here?" I asked, bemused. "The sunset," said someone as if it was obvious. It looked perfectly dull as far as sunsets go. "What, they don't have sunsets where you come from?" I joked, still puzzled. "No," said several voices in unison. Apparently, in the hills of eastern Ohio and western Pennsylvania, you don't get sunsets. The sun disappears behind the hills, and then it's dark. Sunsets were a rare treat for them.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nkunxl52pjk/TaJsMVTmkFI/AAAAAAAADDM/bRGgOyGOSy4/s1600/Picture%2B3507.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Nkunxl52pjk/TaJsMVTmkFI/AAAAAAAADDM/bRGgOyGOSy4/s400/Picture%2B3507.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594152646281171026" /></a><br /><p>Apparently, out-of-town college students aren't the only ones to be entranced by a Winona Lake sunset. A well known hymn, "Beyond the Sunset," was written not far from where I sat that evening, and a blind man saw it best:</p> <blockquote><p>The song "Beyond the Sunset" was born at the dinner table of the Brocks' home one night in 1936. Before dinner, text author Virgil Brock and his composer-wife Blanche watched a very unusual sunset at Winona Lake, Indiana, with a blind guest Horace Burr and his wife, Grace. Burr was Brock's cousin. A large area of the water appeared ablaze with the glory of God, yet there were storm clouds threatening gathered overhead.</p><p>Upon return to his home, at dinner, they still talked about the unusual spectacle they had earlier witnessed. What was amazing was what their blind guest excitedly commented, that he had never seen a more beautiful sunset.</p><p>The blind Horace's reply was simple and touching: "I see through other people's eyes, and I think I often see more; I see beyond the sunset."</p><p>The striking inflection in his blind cousin's voice forcibly deeply moved Brock. He began to write the first few measures of what is now "Beyond the Sunset" at the same time he started singing with his coined words. A spot-on inspiration.</p><p>His wife loved it, they went to the piano, and enhanced the first verse. The blind Horace Burr strongly urged that a verse about the storm clouds be added. A third verse was further added. Before dinner ended, all four stanzas had been completed and sang by them.</p></blockquote><p class="poetry">Words by Virgil P. Brock — Music by Blanche Kerr Brock<br> © Word Music, Inc</p><p class="poetry"><i>Beyond the sunset, O blissful morning,<br> When with our Savior heav'n is begun;<br> Earth's toiling ended, O glorious dawning,<br> Beyond the sunset when day is done.</i></p> <p class="poetry"><i>Beyond the sunset, no clouds will gather,<br> No storms will threaten, no fears annoy;<br> O day of gladness, O day unending,<br> Beyond the sunset eternal joy!</i></p> <p class="poetry"><i>Beyond the sunset, a hand will guide me<br> To God the Father whom I adore;<br> His glorious presence, His words of welcome,<br> Will be my portion on that fair shore.</i></p> <p class="poetry"><i>Beyond the sunset, O glad reunion,<br> With our dear loved ones who've gone before;<br> In that fair homeland we'll know no parting,<br> Beyond the sunset forever more!</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OgTTbFcv1Sk/TaJsMBRhp3I/AAAAAAAADDE/WxEkLCn5Wh4/s1600/Picture%2B3504.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OgTTbFcv1Sk/TaJsMBRhp3I/AAAAAAAADDE/WxEkLCn5Wh4/s400/Picture%2B3504.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594152640903751538" /></a><br /><p>Oddly enough, this wasn't the first time I'd run across this hymn. I first came across it in Germany, while I was looking through an old hymnal for something else entirely. <i>Oh, this is nice</i>, I thought, <i>you can sing this at my funeral</i>. Not so much because it's a nice song (it is) or because it's common at funerals (as I learned later) but because of something I asked God for. </p><p>After I die, have my funeral in the late afternoon. Bring a lawn chair. Bring a whole picnic. Don't be formal on my account. Sit out on the grass, or in the sand at the edge of the water, wherever you like, and watch the sunset. I asked God if I could paint it that day. And He said yes. Forget that my body is over there. I'm up here, in the sky, burning down the heavens, whooping my way across the horizon in a roar of oranges and purples. And maybe, if I can manage it, a little bit of green.</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IVTbE-ClEh0/TaJsLgfWE7I/AAAAAAAADC8/xckAJ9g8xV8/s1600/Picture%2B2145.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IVTbE-ClEh0/TaJsLgfWE7I/AAAAAAAADC8/xckAJ9g8xV8/s400/Picture%2B2145.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594152632103343026" /></a><p>It might be spectacular. It might be... just another Winona Lake sunset.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-85724171673909802812011-04-09T01:10:00.000-04:002011-04-09T01:10:00.476-04:00Race Day 2011<p>Want to guess what my favorite part of a pinewood derby is? Nope, it's not the thrill of speed. Not the joy of victory. Not the agony of defeat. Not even the cool gadgets timing things down to ten-thousandths of a second. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-NfyFAi_ms/TZ5IVMzUnSI/AAAAAAAADCU/Ja84sVciwQU/s1600/DSCN3225.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-NfyFAi_ms/TZ5IVMzUnSI/AAAAAAAADCU/Ja84sVciwQU/s400/DSCN3225.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592987316291673378" /></a><p class="caption"><i>It's not even the cake. Although that's quite good, too.</i></p><p>Give up?</p><p>It's the creativity.</p><p>OK, case in point: Normally, if you go to a car race, you'd expect to see people racing <i>cars</i>, right? Not here. On race day in a pinewood derby, your car might be matched up against...</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FDkjfvHQvB8/TZ5DuQinfOI/AAAAAAAADCE/r4bYdB8cMUI/s1600/DSCN3215.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FDkjfvHQvB8/TZ5DuQinfOI/AAAAAAAADCE/r4bYdB8cMUI/s400/DSCN3215.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592982249233939682" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A tank!</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mIm489dn6wk/TZ5DkFYThkI/AAAAAAAADB8/gMpKL4vm3sc/s1600/DSCN3216.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mIm489dn6wk/TZ5DkFYThkI/AAAAAAAADB8/gMpKL4vm3sc/s400/DSCN3216.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592982074439206466" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A shoe!</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--mCFzl1OdzU/TZ5DjySthTI/AAAAAAAADB0/Ir9Ri7d-UEc/s1600/DSCN3218.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--mCFzl1OdzU/TZ5DjySthTI/AAAAAAAADB0/Ir9Ri7d-UEc/s400/DSCN3218.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592982069315470642" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A gymnast on a balance beam! A UPS truck!</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWBxyxHTKKc/TZ5DjkFyCdI/AAAAAAAADBs/kf_Sc6VPQRk/s1600/DSCN3219.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lWBxyxHTKKc/TZ5DjkFyCdI/AAAAAAAADBs/kf_Sc6VPQRk/s400/DSCN3219.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592982065503144402" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A rocket-powered pizza delivery wagon! Rocket Barbie, whose pink ship has been hit by a silver meteor! (Seriously. I asked.)</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7zyfZJS-cOU/TZ5DjQ7UA6I/AAAAAAAADBk/N5dNRigqoDY/s1600/DSCN3220.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7zyfZJS-cOU/TZ5DjQ7UA6I/AAAAAAAADBk/N5dNRigqoDY/s400/DSCN3220.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592982060358960034" /></a><p class="caption"><i>A pirate ship!</i></p><p>....not to mention <i>dragons</i>, of course. But you already knew about that.</p><blockquote><b>CREATIVE WRITING ASSIGNMENT:</b> Write a short story involving a tank, a gymnast, a shoe, a dragon, and your choice of Rocket Barbie, a supersonic delivery guy, and/or a pirate ship. Send it to kerr at kconline dot com. I'll publish the best ones here. You have 10 minutes. Go!</blockquote><p>Of course, I enjoyed the racing, too.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0-PH05XYq08/TZ5IVm6bipI/AAAAAAAADCk/CAH8pnP8_Wg/s1600/DSCN3230.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0-PH05XYq08/TZ5IVm6bipI/AAAAAAAADCk/CAH8pnP8_Wg/s400/DSCN3230.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592987323300809362" /></a><p class="caption"><i>We were seeded 12th out of 31 this year, at 4.3262 seconds — a big improvement over last year's performance of 4.5771. Yeah, two tenths of a second is huge in this world.</i></p><p>OK, confession time. After last year's third-from-the-bottom performance, I was secretly quite pleased to find ourselves in the ranks of the "sorta-fast." While I'd let Fiona have free reign over the shape and design of the car, this year the wheels and axles were <i>mine</i>. Oh, the tools I got into. There were pipe cleaners. Files. Drills. Jeweler's rouge. Dad gave me a book of pinecar speed secrets for Christmas, and I used as many of the tips as I had time and tools for. It wasn't so much an overt competition with the other dads (there was enough of that going on without me getting involved, most of it pretty friendly) — it was more to see if <i>I</i> could do it, too. Granted, that's complicated by the fact that one has to compete to see if one measures up....</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u4cvbaKPLdg/TZ5IWDY2uaI/AAAAAAAADCs/ygGJj_UJfwE/s1600/DSCN3232.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u4cvbaKPLdg/TZ5IWDY2uaI/AAAAAAAADCs/ygGJj_UJfwE/s400/DSCN3232.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592987330944612770" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Wanna know why those other cars were so fast? There'a s <u>dragon</u> behind them! Yeah! You'd run, too!</i></p><p>On the whole though, there was good fun to be had from the start of the track...</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ylPXwOKvLoY/TZ5Iglg9ZBI/AAAAAAAADC0/YGtjQS6g4v8/s1600/DSCN3241.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ylPXwOKvLoY/TZ5Iglg9ZBI/AAAAAAAADC0/YGtjQS6g4v8/s400/DSCN3241.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592987511904101394" /></a><p class="caption"><i>At the starting pin.</i></p><p>...to the end of it.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6R8bUpQkVJg/TZ5IVbK_UoI/AAAAAAAADCc/UL9e3wqtdQs/s1600/DSCN3228.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6R8bUpQkVJg/TZ5IVbK_UoI/AAAAAAAADCc/UL9e3wqtdQs/s400/DSCN3228.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592987320149037698" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Racers get a prime spot right at the finish line. Remarkably, Fiona is actually in contact with the ground here.</i></p><p>We didn't win any prizes this year. I knew I hadn't done enough rocket science to win on speed, and our car really wasn't a replica of anything. I thought we had a chance on "best of show" (craftsmanship) or creativity, but those passed us by, as well. But all that's OK.</p><p>I won my prize two weeks earlier.</p><p>Fiona and were out in the shed together, huddled in our jackets, and sanding away happily at our little wedge. "So, Fiona," I asked, "Whose car is this? Yours, or mine?" She looked thoughtful. "It's your car <i>and</i> my car. And the time that we're working on it is, like, special you-and-me time."</p><p>What prize could be better?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-53488213241152794462011-04-05T08:20:00.000-04:002011-04-05T08:20:00.360-04:00The Client<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iGU3wN4iqE/TZE1uC4dUSI/AAAAAAAAC-0/l76rbLU2Sbk/s1600/Picture%2B3117.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--iGU3wN4iqE/TZE1uC4dUSI/AAAAAAAAC-0/l76rbLU2Sbk/s400/Picture%2B3117.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589307677707424034" /></a><p class="caption"><i>The client.</i></p><p><b>1 year before deadline:</b> Client starts talking to designer about a project they've got coming up in a year. Designer commits to helping the client achieve her goals. Client and designer discuss concepts leisurely, with no real hurry.</p><p><b>3 months before deadline:</b> Client starts developing concepts and models in earnest.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UEEM1KuXfSE/TZE2fTPd20I/AAAAAAAAC_E/KDZk6WNh7ns/s1600/Picture%2B3212.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UEEM1KuXfSE/TZE2fTPd20I/AAAAAAAAC_E/KDZk6WNh7ns/s400/Picture%2B3212.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589308523912485698" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CiZuY6STgUs/TZE2fME1GmI/AAAAAAAAC-8/dHLPoYGCbl4/s1600/Picture%2B3211.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CiZuY6STgUs/TZE2fME1GmI/AAAAAAAAC-8/dHLPoYGCbl4/s400/Picture%2B3211.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589308521988823650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rFMENq3rDMQ/TZFPYR70_hI/AAAAAAAAC_U/bjdvQw5R2m4/s1600/dragon-F-variations.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 312px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rFMENq3rDMQ/TZFPYR70_hI/AAAAAAAAC_U/bjdvQw5R2m4/s400/dragon-F-variations.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589335891093290514" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Left to Right: Fire F, Cactus F, Ice F, Sun F. If you look really hard, you can also see the Dragon F, Bunny F (my favorite), Cat F (Deborah's favorite), and the Frog F.</i></p><p><b>1 month before deadline:</b> Designer asks client what she has decided on. Client produces design brief, detailing her project.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RlJEy5uH0bA/TZFQzQS9-1I/AAAAAAAAC_c/NuThncF5MpA/s1600/dragon-F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RlJEy5uH0bA/TZFQzQS9-1I/AAAAAAAAC_c/NuThncF5MpA/s400/dragon-F.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589337454021573458" /></a><p class="caption"><i>"This is probably the best Dragon F I've ever made. Make my pine car like this one."</i></p><p>Designer balks, and suggests design alternatives.</p><p>Client sticks to her vision.</p><p>Designer wonders how in the world he's going to make this.</p><p><b>3 weeks before deadline:</b> Designer gets inspired during a sermon in church. Unbeknownst to the pastor, it's not inspiration concerning the sermon. Designer sketches designs on back of bulletin:</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AOHBB-HGXiM/TZFOcTR-UfI/AAAAAAAAC_M/8Eod77DtQco/s1600/dragon-design-sketch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AOHBB-HGXiM/TZFOcTR-UfI/AAAAAAAAC_M/8Eod77DtQco/s400/dragon-design-sketch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589334860662460914" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Hey, I could make this thing in layers...</i></p><p>Client approves concept sketch. Production work begins.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3DfexrFF-eg/TZFVAg8WA3I/AAAAAAAAC_k/eBv_yxHs8dA/s1600/p1_illustrator-dragonf.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 194px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3DfexrFF-eg/TZFVAg8WA3I/AAAAAAAAC_k/eBv_yxHs8dA/s400/p1_illustrator-dragonf.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589342079874892658" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Gotta love Ponoko. They make something as complicated as CNC laser cutting and engraving easy as just choosing the right colors for your design.</i></p><p><b>2 weeks before deadline:</b> Designer presents first proof to the client. Client marks up the master copy with corrections.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DvzRloa8R9M/TZqA1Q-E0uI/AAAAAAAAC_s/PbV_W6LKIEc/s1600/dragonF-designmarkup.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DvzRloa8R9M/TZqA1Q-E0uI/AAAAAAAAC_s/PbV_W6LKIEc/s400/dragonF-designmarkup.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591923539910644450" /></a><p class="caption"><i>She was very adamant that the texture be dots — not scales, not checks, not zigzags, not crosshatching, <u>dots</u>. And the eyebrow has to be straight. Get it right, Daddy!</i></p><p><b>10 days before deadline:</b> Client approves final proof; files are sent out for production.</p><p>Confident that all is well, client and designer turn their attention to producing supporting material.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xkq0uQ04qQQ/TZqBU6sHQ3I/AAAAAAAAC_0/gxGlSGWid_s/s1600/Picture%2B3404.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xkq0uQ04qQQ/TZqBU6sHQ3I/AAAAAAAAC_0/gxGlSGWid_s/s400/Picture%2B3404.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924083685540722" /></a><p class="caption"><i>The car body is painted blue, then covered in painter's tape; the client is given a marker and, after practicing on a separate sheet of paper, makes the design she wants...</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q82UxcVyyxw/TZqBVH4KEgI/AAAAAAAAC_8/YnEjv64qb-o/s1600/Picture%2B3406.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q82UxcVyyxw/TZqBVH4KEgI/AAAAAAAAC_8/YnEjv64qb-o/s400/Picture%2B3406.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924087225717250" /></a><p class="caption"><i>which is then cut out, peeled, and painted over...</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VwiL7AY0fMU/TZqBVtiFFdI/AAAAAAAADAE/WJvseAehkIU/s1600/Picture%2B3419.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VwiL7AY0fMU/TZqBVtiFFdI/AAAAAAAADAE/WJvseAehkIU/s400/Picture%2B3419.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924097333663186" /></a><p class="caption"><i>then cut and peeled again...</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OSnyNLc9e4c/TZqBVhhnYYI/AAAAAAAADAM/j_rhCQ1Vrxg/s1600/Picture%2B3420.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OSnyNLc9e4c/TZqBVhhnYYI/AAAAAAAADAM/j_rhCQ1Vrxg/s400/Picture%2B3420.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924094110491010" /></a><p class="caption"><i>to reveal just what the client wanted:</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oMatf7W-Pok/TZqBV9s8OuI/AAAAAAAADAU/YZqYraVnQQg/s1600/Picture%2B3421.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oMatf7W-Pok/TZqBV9s8OuI/AAAAAAAADAU/YZqYraVnQQg/s400/Picture%2B3421.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591924101674187490" /></a><p><b>8 days before deadline:</b> Designer, checking daily, starts to wonder what's taking so long. The file has been approved at the plant, but has not entered production yet.</p><p>Designer does some digging, and finds that the projected completion date is in two weeks.</p><p>Designer panics. Briefly.</p><p>Designer assures client that all will be well, even if not everything is together on time. Meantime, designer scrambles to find a local supplier who can work on very short notice.</p><p><b>6 days before deadline:</b> Designer finds a shop that will do the work in a single day. Relief is palpable. Tells shop that production will start as soon as first order is canceled.</p><p>Client discovers provision for cancellation fee at first shop. It's more than the job was worth to begin with. Shop agrees to slip this job in, a week ahead of schedule, if Designer will pay the shipping upgrade to get it there on time. The design spends 15 minutes on a laser cutter, and is packaged up and makes the last pickup of the day by less than 5 minutes.</p><p><b>5 days before deadline:</b> Designer discovers that the deadline isn't Saturday. It's Wednesday. The same day the parts are supposed to arrive.</p><p>Designer arranges for time off from work on Wednesday.</p><p><b>8 hours before deadline:</b> The parts arrive.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fbldjsWnk3I/TZqICrEcP0I/AAAAAAAADA8/xiXU4OoJYS0/s1600/Picture%2B3422.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fbldjsWnk3I/TZqICrEcP0I/AAAAAAAADA8/xiXU4OoJYS0/s400/Picture%2B3422.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591931466836361026" /></a><p class="caption"><i>There's something very oddly satisfying about popping out laser-cut parts.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HAwUo0YMTvo/TZqICHTxwpI/AAAAAAAADA0/8Fz2OjBrp7k/s1600/Picture%2B3426.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HAwUo0YMTvo/TZqICHTxwpI/AAAAAAAADA0/8Fz2OjBrp7k/s400/Picture%2B3426.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591931457237009042" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Test fitting. Everything lines up the way it should. Good.</i></p><p><b>5 hours before deadline:</b> Designer picks up client from school. They spend a leisurely afternoon together, decorating and assembling the final product.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-44rGQWc6_WE/TZqIBcxtRSI/AAAAAAAADAk/yp-aelDxwjU/s1600/Picture%2B3432-flamepaint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-44rGQWc6_WE/TZqIBcxtRSI/AAAAAAAADAk/yp-aelDxwjU/s400/Picture%2B3432-flamepaint.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591931445819819298" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jC5PBEZMA-Y/TZqIB8uYssI/AAAAAAAADAs/1QYisYBNXnk/s1600/Picture%2B3429-flamepaint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jC5PBEZMA-Y/TZqIB8uYssI/AAAAAAAADAs/1QYisYBNXnk/s400/Picture%2B3429-flamepaint.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591931454395822786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k5QiFgL12GU/TZqIBA_5JLI/AAAAAAAADAc/8vzJCfKM37A/s1600/Picture%2B3434.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-k5QiFgL12GU/TZqIBA_5JLI/AAAAAAAADAc/8vzJCfKM37A/s400/Picture%2B3434.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591931438363124914" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yKP41kilpQk/TZqKpN7vtSI/AAAAAAAADBM/ptc71ZTm6l4/s1600/Picture%2B3440.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yKP41kilpQk/TZqKpN7vtSI/AAAAAAAADBM/ptc71ZTm6l4/s400/Picture%2B3440.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591934328053413154" /></a><p class="caption"><i>My favorite part? The eyes follow you.</i></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ao4LZMdZlZw/TZqKo3aiGvI/AAAAAAAADBE/-kxf_hNRy7Y/s1600/Picture%2B3438.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ao4LZMdZlZw/TZqKo3aiGvI/AAAAAAAADBE/-kxf_hNRy7Y/s400/Picture%2B3438.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591934322008529650" /></a><p><b>3 hours before deadline:</b> Client leaves for Kids' Club. Designer stays behind to finish putting the project together. Saws, blowtorches (plural, both out of fuel), lead, drills, and very large hammers are used. Carefully, of course.</p><p><b>90 minutes before deadline:</b> Designer packs up the Product carefully in an old shirt and Amazon box, and roars off towards church on his motorcycle, with a small sledgehammer, balls of lead, and a tube of superglue in his backpack.</p><p><b>1 hour before deadline:</b> The final product takes its first trial run on the track. It flies off and breaks a wing. Designer does not swear. He is, after all, in a church gymnasium.</p><p>From previous research, Designer knows that superglue will leave a large white area on the acrylic. Appearances matter here.<p><b>45 minutes before deadline:</b> Wing is mended with acrylic fingernail glue.</p><p><b>30 minutes before deadline:</b> Weight is added and subtracted, to get the car up to the 5 oz. maximum. The weight of the drops of superglue attaching the weights to the car puts the car over the weight limit. Twice.</p><p><b>5 minutes before deadline:</b> Client cheerfully presents her car for weigh-in. It comes in at 5.00 ounces exactly, and is cleared to race on Saturday. She christens it "Fiona's Fiery F."</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EaASK30a83E/TZqM5mRaJGI/AAAAAAAADBU/nTX8pViVr3I/s1600/Picture%2B3465.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EaASK30a83E/TZqM5mRaJGI/AAAAAAAADBU/nTX8pViVr3I/s400/Picture%2B3465.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591936808487887970" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-30250358867505814052011-02-21T16:39:00.003-05:002011-02-21T16:48:18.722-05:00U2 on Grace and Karma<p>I haven't really kept up on my music collection over the years; I'm still several albums behind on such greats as Vigilantes of Love, Over the Rhine and U2. But I love, love love, reading an interview with Bono (lead singer for U2). He preaches, he meddles, but man, he gets the point across. <a href="http://www.thepoachedegg.net/the-poached-egg/2010/09/bono-interview-grace-over-karma.html">Go read this</a>. All of it. Would that we could all articulate it so clearly.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-80831872300477124472011-02-10T21:42:00.005-05:002011-02-10T22:35:45.220-05:00Well, what would you do with it?<p>Several years ago, I was given a project at work: managing the artwork and printing for a <a href="http://www.eisenbrauns.com/item/STA1ASHKE">huge, sprawling series of archaeological reports</a>. This being a well-funded expedition, the reports were to be in color. This, and other factors dictated that we have it printed overseas.</p> <p>I got to design the dustjacket. Now, each printer and bindery has their own way of doing things; one uses thicker cardboard here, one uses a different kind of paper there, and it's no good trying to guess at what the exact dimensions will be. So I wrote a note asking for the dimensions of the soon-to-be book. What I expected was a dozen numbers, or perhaps an Excel worksheet; what I got, express-mailed from Singapore a few days later, was... a book. </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iARyDq41xbQ/TVSoE1yBepI/AAAAAAAAC-E/5cYgm4VwuA8/s1600/Picture%2B3230.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iARyDq41xbQ/TVSoE1yBepI/AAAAAAAAC-E/5cYgm4VwuA8/s400/Picture%2B3230.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572263440073980562" /></a><br /><p>724 pages, using the exact paper they'd use for the final product. <i>And every one of them was blank.</i> </p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PztFQ8ON2Ww/TVSoFLoZ2AI/AAAAAAAAC-M/NRcznaJZLws/s1600/Picture%2B3231.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PztFQ8ON2Ww/TVSoFLoZ2AI/AAAAAAAAC-M/NRcznaJZLws/s400/Picture%2B3231.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572263445939214338" /></a><p class="caption"><i>They included a sample stamping on the cover that I found amusing. Sure, who wouldn't want a book like this?</i></p><p>So what would <i>you</i> do with it?</p><p>It served its initial purpose quite nicely, and then sat on the corner of my desk for several years. I knew what I <i>wanted</i> to do with it. And so, finally, after all this time, I've gotten started: I'm going to practice my chops at drawing in pen and ink. I'm going to fill it up, and work on my skills. So what if it takes me ten years....?</p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NXYIOaffjic/TVSoFY8P_LI/AAAAAAAAC-U/A4_l1hujxnU/s1600/Picture%2B3233.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NXYIOaffjic/TVSoFY8P_LI/AAAAAAAAC-U/A4_l1hujxnU/s400/Picture%2B3233.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572263449512115378" /></a><p class="caption"><i>The first drawing. I've had this walnut shell sitting in a little basket, just waiting to be drawn.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DXvqqQ9G6Js/TVSoFmmtbcI/AAAAAAAAC-c/qdAAuS4P9eI/s1600/Picture%2B3234.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DXvqqQ9G6Js/TVSoFmmtbcI/AAAAAAAAC-c/qdAAuS4P9eI/s400/Picture%2B3234.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572263453179866562" /></a><p class="caption"><i>One page down, 723 to go.</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-36674748694153749802011-01-29T10:48:00.007-05:002011-01-29T14:26:12.180-05:00Review: The Magicians by Lev Grossman<blockquote>I said to a guy, “Tell me, what is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful?” And the guy said, “Well, it intensifies your personality.” And I said, “Yes, but what if you’re an asshole?” —Bill Cosby</blockquote><p>Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it. Setting out for an ivy-league college interview, he is immersed in magical intrigue and — perhaps more important to Quentin — a glimpse at a manuscript for a previously-unknown sequel to a magical fantasy series about a group of children that go off to the magical land of Fillory. On chasing down this blowing manuscript, he finds himself just in time to take the entrance exam for Brakebills, a magical university. A magical education later, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright kid with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.</p><p>So, what would you do with a magical education, and a virtually limitless slush fund for freshly-minted magicians? Party 'til you drop, apparently. In the midst of the debauchery, a classmate shows up with intriguing news: There really is a Fillory, and he's found a way to get there. So they go. Not all of them return. In the end, Quentin Coldwater is a talented, bright adult with vast opportunities. He's just not happy about it.</p><p>Make no mistake: Grossman can write. And, for the first third of the book, that fools you into thinking it's worth reading. The novelty of the approach and the sheer inventiveness throughout lets you excuse some excesses in the characters, lets you call the details "gritty" and refreshing. </p><p>Now, I allow a bit more leeway than some do as to what's acceptable to read. I enjoy seeing truth through the eyes of others, and I'm willing to put up with a few things to see that. Some people would be offended at the mere mention of magic. Some people would hurl the book away from themselves should any character take a drink, use foul language, or look at each other in lust. Sinners sin. That's what they do. No need to be surprised by it.</p><p>That said, the excesses start piling on heavier and heavier. Time is marked in bottles, and by the midpoint of the book, the characters are pretty much engaged in outright debauchery. I plowed on past these points, thinking "it can't get worse..." and pretty much being wrong, every time. By the end of the book, it's downright gory. I don't mind a little dirt in a good story, but really, must one <i>wallow</i> in it?</p><p>It's tempting, at least initially, to compare elements of this story to other greats in the genre. Brakebills = Hogwarts, Fillory = Narnia, and so on. Grossman evidently didn't want to continue any of those traditions for their own sake; fans of Narnia in particular are going to feel like he sullied the tale for no good reason. "Narnia without Aslan" isn't a new literary concept, but the likes of Phillip Pullman attack it directly; in <i>The Magicians</i>, it's more negligent homicide than murder one.</p><p>The most pervasive theme throughout the book, however, isn't in the book: it's the intense desire, instilled in the reader, to reach into the pages and slap Quentin & Co. upside the head. Part of the discomfort for me was in identifying with the main character, and realizing that I would have wanted to do the same thing in that situation. Every bad decision that could be made, generally is.</p><p>At the end of it all, there are quite a number of things one can take away from the book: Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. Life without purpose is pretty depressing. No amount of talent makes up for being a jerk. Narnia without Aslan is no better than any other place. Escapist fantasy this isn't — quite the opposite. I'm not sorry I visited this particular world, but I'm not going to be making a return trip.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-24898212368444657872011-01-03T22:19:00.003-05:002011-01-03T22:22:59.996-05:00The Children's Hour by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<p class="poetry"><i>Between the dark and the daylight,<br />When the night is beginning to lower,<br />Comes a pause in the day's occupations,<br />That is known as the Children's Hour.<br /><br />I hear in the chamber above me<br />The patter of little feet,<br />The sound of a door that is opened,<br />And voices soft and sweet.<br /><br />From my study I see in the lamplight,<br />Descending the broad hall stair,<br />Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,<br />And Edith with golden hair.<br /><br />A whisper, and then a silence:<br />Yet I know by their merry eyes<br />They are plotting and planning together<br />To take me by surprise.<br /><br />A sudden rush from the stairway,<br />A sudden raid from the hall!<br />By three doors left unguarded<br />They enter my castle wall!<br /><br />They climb up into my turret<br />O'er the arms and back of my chair;<br />If I try to escape, they surround me;<br />They seem to be everywhere.<br /><br />They almost devour me with kisses,<br />Their arms about me entwine,<br />Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen<br />In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!<br /><br />Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,<br />Because you have scaled the wall,<br />Such an old mustache as I am<br />Is not a match for you all!<br /><br />I have you fast in my fortress,<br />And will not let you depart,<br />But put you down into the dungeon<br />In the round-tower of my heart.<br /><br />And there will I keep you forever,<br />Yes, forever and a day,<br />Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,<br />And moulder in dust away!</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-87007695084416051852010-11-13T22:49:00.006-05:002010-11-13T23:26:46.796-05:00First day of school<p>See? I told you I was behind...</p><p>Fiona is off to first grade, and Aiden is off to preschool for the first time.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9e-8FhM2I/AAAAAAAAC9s/zcnvtx_R3w0/s1600/Picture%2B1556.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9e-8FhM2I/AAAAAAAAC9s/zcnvtx_R3w0/s400/Picture%2B1556.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250502063174498" /></a><p class="caption"><i>The traditional picture on the front porch, each in their favorite outfits.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9e-kjdDxI/AAAAAAAAC9k/PjBRpZQgjuc/s1600/Picture%2B1563.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9e-kjdDxI/AAAAAAAAC9k/PjBRpZQgjuc/s400/Picture%2B1563.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250495746281234" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Both schools are in easy walking distance.</i></p><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ezVeUn7I/AAAAAAAAC9c/0cE4YkxPSFk/s1600/Picture%2B1570.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ezVeUn7I/AAAAAAAAC9c/0cE4YkxPSFk/s400/Picture%2B1570.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250302719664050" /></a><p class="caption"><i>I'm amazed that they bothered to put any vegetation in front of this sign before the first day. I assure you, we weren't the only people telling this particular story with cameras.</i></p><p>At the classroom door, it was very easy to see the difference between Fiona's and Aiden's personalities. Fiona got to the doorway, and froze:</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ezPmro-I/AAAAAAAAC9U/osUaUAH3RPY/s1600/Picture%2B1571.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ezPmro-I/AAAAAAAAC9U/osUaUAH3RPY/s400/Picture%2B1571.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250301144114146" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Fiona's hesitation at the door was just long enough to capture this perfectly.</i></p><p>Then, she immediately started seeking structure: "Where's my desk? Where do I put my lunch? Where do I put my backpack? Where...." ...is a high, semi-panicky voice.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ey2KLEtI/AAAAAAAAC9M/9KIkrWZZkTw/s1600/Picture%2B1573.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9ey2KLEtI/AAAAAAAAC9M/9KIkrWZZkTw/s400/Picture%2B1573.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250294313652946" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Mrs. Burgher was unfazed.</i></p><p>As we left, she was immersing herself in the experience as fast as she could.</p><p>Then, it was time to walk the two blocks to Aiden's preschool.</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9eyV6ymKI/AAAAAAAAC9E/-9LmlQIiUn8/s1600/Picture%2B1580.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9eyV6ymKI/AAAAAAAAC9E/-9LmlQIiUn8/s400/Picture%2B1580.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250285659199650" /></a><p class="caption"><i>And then there were three. Plus Daddy's shadow.</i></p><p>We got to Aiden's classroom, and he walked right in. Right past the teacher. Right to the toys. Adjustment? What's there to adjust to?</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9eyGYP4qI/AAAAAAAAC88/UWIth_60obw/s1600/Picture%2B1581.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_6rqF0G8DqfI/TN9eyGYP4qI/AAAAAAAAC88/UWIth_60obw/s400/Picture%2B1581.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539250281487786658" /></a><p class="caption"><i>Oh, this looks like fun...</i></p><p>Tomorrow, I'll be posting photos from their high school graduations. Hyperbole, yes, but then, consider: Fiona is seven. Somewhere between a third and a half of her time in our nest is already gone. Better enjoy it while it lasts!</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34533114.post-87537021936151274102010-11-13T22:45:00.002-05:002010-11-13T22:49:16.243-05:00Welcome back<p>Yes, I know, it's been nearly a month. You can blame Facebook, blame my job, blame my kids, blame my wife, any number of things. Mostly, it boils down to not feeling like I had the free time to write. But tonight, Deborah is out having a "girls' night out," and the kids are in bed (if not necessarily sleeping...) so I'll see what i can do to correct that.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0