Saturday afternoon, J and I returned from a drumming gig at the Oxford, Ohio farmers' market. It was hot and humid, and when I finally joined her in the pool, the afternoon popup storm was waiting to begin. It reminded me of a long-ago visit to Puerto Rico, where the saying is, "If you don't like our weather, wait a minute."
J climbed out to attend to other matters, but I decided to stay and see what might transpire. I put up a lawn umbrella at the side of the pool to sit under, and turned off the normally turbulent pool pump. As the current died away, the sprinkles began.
I sat in the pool with my eyes as close to the water as my nose would permit. Each raindrop splash instantly created a bubble about half an inch across. At first, I could count them, but very quickly, it became an impossible task. And as the rain became steadier, the bubbles were burst immediately by the drops that came more frequently. Soon, I saw no bubbles at all, but only small columns of water popping up, sporting tiny spheres on their tips.
The ripples generated by the pelting rain countered across each other in patterns of interlaced diamonds and circles. I submerged to listen to the music of the showers as I had many times in my childhood at the lake. This time, however, I could no longer hear the soft, high singing of the raindrops that I loved so much as a youngster. But I could hear the pinging and popping that is heard nowhere else in our lives as the rain dented the surface and the waves fanned out.
As I emerged, a sudden menace of thunder reached my hears. It turned out to be the only rumble of the afternoon, but it sent me back to the garage to change into my clothes. I went upstairs to the Zinn Center (named after a beloved friend of ours in Florida) which is essentially a framed, screened 8-foot cube on the deck with a tarp on top. The pattering and then pounding of the rain on the canvas brought back memories of what J refers to as my "two camping trips".
It was a day to be savo(u)red. If I had a waterproof camera, I could have taken one picture, which would have saved a thousand words.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Your moment of Zen
One of the incentives we use at work is a website called the "Good Job Blog". On it are listed members of our staff who have shown some initiative that goes beyond what is normally asked or expected. Anyone can be cited, and anyone can propose a citation.
It's a nice touch, I think, in terms of not merely motivating people to go the extra mile, but also because it shows people where opportunities exist to do extend themselves.
Many organizations use the same type of public exposure with their employee of the month awards. Some schools have signboards on their lawns that name a particular teacher, or a student, as an example for others.
As a Canadian, I have generally been uncomfortable with this kind of publicity, because we have a certain reserve about us, very like the British. A British comedian put it this way: "We don't talk about ourselves, you know. That would not be polite. Of course, we'll talk about anybody else..." And so, when I get the occasional mention in the Good Job Blog, I shuffle my feet, say "Awww, shucks" and go on about my business, even though there's a certain undeniable buzz that comes from seeing your efforts publicized.
In America, the saints and the scoundrels get unending exposure. With their enormous communications infrastructure, Americans never seems to tire of bringing people in front of a microphone or a camera, or plastering their picture (especially in the news media) on any convenient TV channel.
Why this need to publicize? Why does everyone have to know what everyone else says or does or thinks? How does that improve the life of the listener or watcher?
In some cases, it does. It is always worthwhile to hear or see the Dalai Lama. There are just some people who are wiser than the rest of us. But who the hell cares about Paris Hilton's jail time or her determination to sort out her life now that she's on probation? I won't even mention American Idolatry.
The internet has made it possible to have instant access to millions of people, most of whom are of little or no interest to the people who look them up. With new storage technology, it is possible to maintain records on almost anyone forever (or at least long after they die). Today I was reading about an FBI program that can locate, identify and record every keystroke on any computer that they want to examine over the internet.
America has been panicked by its government into trading privacy and liberty for security. We all know how this has been done over the last six years. And we also know how limited the security is, and how easily it can be breached. As Bob Dylan put it, "The times, they are a-changin", and not for the better. Where in Canada, do you walk into a public library past a sign that lays out penalties for carrying a concealed weapon?
There is hope, of course. But the way things look at the moment, the lame duck is still the top dog, wielding unconstitutional power as it suits his purposes, which, in the end, come down to oil and profits. The only instrument he trusts to ensure a constant supply of both is war.
J has a saying I like: "When the love is gone, there is only the money."
I would apply this to contemporary America. An administration that is as money-mad as this one is surely does not love America. But as the Dalai Lama put it so well: "If you have a situation that you can do something about, why worry? And if you have a situation that you can do nothing about, why worry?"
It's a nice touch, I think, in terms of not merely motivating people to go the extra mile, but also because it shows people where opportunities exist to do extend themselves.
Many organizations use the same type of public exposure with their employee of the month awards. Some schools have signboards on their lawns that name a particular teacher, or a student, as an example for others.
As a Canadian, I have generally been uncomfortable with this kind of publicity, because we have a certain reserve about us, very like the British. A British comedian put it this way: "We don't talk about ourselves, you know. That would not be polite. Of course, we'll talk about anybody else..." And so, when I get the occasional mention in the Good Job Blog, I shuffle my feet, say "Awww, shucks" and go on about my business, even though there's a certain undeniable buzz that comes from seeing your efforts publicized.
In America, the saints and the scoundrels get unending exposure. With their enormous communications infrastructure, Americans never seems to tire of bringing people in front of a microphone or a camera, or plastering their picture (especially in the news media) on any convenient TV channel.
Why this need to publicize? Why does everyone have to know what everyone else says or does or thinks? How does that improve the life of the listener or watcher?
In some cases, it does. It is always worthwhile to hear or see the Dalai Lama. There are just some people who are wiser than the rest of us. But who the hell cares about Paris Hilton's jail time or her determination to sort out her life now that she's on probation? I won't even mention American Idolatry.
The internet has made it possible to have instant access to millions of people, most of whom are of little or no interest to the people who look them up. With new storage technology, it is possible to maintain records on almost anyone forever (or at least long after they die). Today I was reading about an FBI program that can locate, identify and record every keystroke on any computer that they want to examine over the internet.
America has been panicked by its government into trading privacy and liberty for security. We all know how this has been done over the last six years. And we also know how limited the security is, and how easily it can be breached. As Bob Dylan put it, "The times, they are a-changin", and not for the better. Where in Canada, do you walk into a public library past a sign that lays out penalties for carrying a concealed weapon?
There is hope, of course. But the way things look at the moment, the lame duck is still the top dog, wielding unconstitutional power as it suits his purposes, which, in the end, come down to oil and profits. The only instrument he trusts to ensure a constant supply of both is war.
J has a saying I like: "When the love is gone, there is only the money."
I would apply this to contemporary America. An administration that is as money-mad as this one is surely does not love America. But as the Dalai Lama put it so well: "If you have a situation that you can do something about, why worry? And if you have a situation that you can do nothing about, why worry?"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
One more box
The other day, I came across one more box.
A good part of my family history has been captured on videotape. My first camera weighed about 15 pounds. It was a used one that we bought when our firstborn boy was at the stage where the proud parents want to capture every breath, twitch and burp. The camera was a used one in the Sony Beta format (remember how VHS won that battle?). It produced pastel colors in all lighting conditions, but through force of imagination, I could convince myself that they were vivid. And the viewfinder was a tiny TV monitor inside an eyecup, in black and white.
Then we graduated to a compact VHS format that produced a very high quality picture but sound, not so much. So we now had two different formats, neither one compatible with the other. However, with the aid of a special adapter, it was possible to play the new format in a standard VHS player. The old camera got thrown out somehow.
Then came DVD, and the need to convert the old formats to the newest and greatest. To handle the original betas, of which I had many, many hours, I eventually found a working Betamax on eBay for $100. I went through all the tapes and dubbed them and did a bit of editing, ending up with about three dozen DVDs. The compact VHS was a little easier, because the camera had outputs that would connect directly to the DVD recorder. And for those old movies that I had already converted to VHS, I bought a combination machine, one half VHS and the other DVD burner.
The Betamax stopped rewinding fairly early, so I hastened through the task and ended up completing it just as the machine gave up the ghost.
Without going into more tedious detail, let me say that I was well satisfied with these amateur conversions, and made a few copies for my progeny (after all, it was mostly their hockey games that were featured) and other interested parties.
Then, the other day, I came across one more box.
My grandparents would have disbelieved if confronted by the archival capabilities of today's digital technology. My parents would have been thrilled to be able to have sound instead of silent 8mm recordings of their young. Sound film did come in during the latter half of my childhood, but they would not indulge in the wasteful practice, because it cost more and involved special projection equipment. I remember them as having only one Kodak projector for their entire lifetime, and how hot it became to the touch after an evening of shows. Sprocketless film handling was a new feature that they never experienced, and that was a shame, because as the films got older they became more brittle and intermissions became more frequent as Dad spliced the films, often in mid-show. At first, it was a special acetone-based cement, but later, little tabs of splicing tape took its place. And who could forget those sudden bursts of circular color wheels which receded to white as the film became stuck and melted in the fierce Fahrenheit fire of the bulb?
Not all memories can be kept. Not all should be kept. But still, I have to wonder, as I gaze into that one more cardboard box, what have I forgotten that I am not likely to see again? A child spitting up some offensive baby food? A father and son building a snow bear? A Doctor Snuggles cartoon?
The generation that follows will not have the luxury of forgetting. It will all be there on YouTube.
A good part of my family history has been captured on videotape. My first camera weighed about 15 pounds. It was a used one that we bought when our firstborn boy was at the stage where the proud parents want to capture every breath, twitch and burp. The camera was a used one in the Sony Beta format (remember how VHS won that battle?). It produced pastel colors in all lighting conditions, but through force of imagination, I could convince myself that they were vivid. And the viewfinder was a tiny TV monitor inside an eyecup, in black and white.
Then we graduated to a compact VHS format that produced a very high quality picture but sound, not so much. So we now had two different formats, neither one compatible with the other. However, with the aid of a special adapter, it was possible to play the new format in a standard VHS player. The old camera got thrown out somehow.
Then came DVD, and the need to convert the old formats to the newest and greatest. To handle the original betas, of which I had many, many hours, I eventually found a working Betamax on eBay for $100. I went through all the tapes and dubbed them and did a bit of editing, ending up with about three dozen DVDs. The compact VHS was a little easier, because the camera had outputs that would connect directly to the DVD recorder. And for those old movies that I had already converted to VHS, I bought a combination machine, one half VHS and the other DVD burner.
The Betamax stopped rewinding fairly early, so I hastened through the task and ended up completing it just as the machine gave up the ghost.
Without going into more tedious detail, let me say that I was well satisfied with these amateur conversions, and made a few copies for my progeny (after all, it was mostly their hockey games that were featured) and other interested parties.
Then, the other day, I came across one more box.
My grandparents would have disbelieved if confronted by the archival capabilities of today's digital technology. My parents would have been thrilled to be able to have sound instead of silent 8mm recordings of their young. Sound film did come in during the latter half of my childhood, but they would not indulge in the wasteful practice, because it cost more and involved special projection equipment. I remember them as having only one Kodak projector for their entire lifetime, and how hot it became to the touch after an evening of shows. Sprocketless film handling was a new feature that they never experienced, and that was a shame, because as the films got older they became more brittle and intermissions became more frequent as Dad spliced the films, often in mid-show. At first, it was a special acetone-based cement, but later, little tabs of splicing tape took its place. And who could forget those sudden bursts of circular color wheels which receded to white as the film became stuck and melted in the fierce Fahrenheit fire of the bulb?
Not all memories can be kept. Not all should be kept. But still, I have to wonder, as I gaze into that one more cardboard box, what have I forgotten that I am not likely to see again? A child spitting up some offensive baby food? A father and son building a snow bear? A Doctor Snuggles cartoon?
The generation that follows will not have the luxury of forgetting. It will all be there on YouTube.
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