High Cotton

Summer                                                    Hiroshima Moon

We’re back in high cotton here in Andover.  The chiller’s putting out cool air and the outside temps have veered back into roughly normal.  Makes working inside and out better.

Brother Mark comes to town next week for a week or so.  He has a new job in Riyadh, but he gets a return home visit and flight back as part of his package.  He’ll be with us, then move on to see a friend in Boston.

Tomorrow will be a Latin day since I have a session with Greg on Friday.  We move through the verses faster now, not as colleagues for the most part, though that happens from time to time, but definitely as more than student and teacher.  It’s been an interesting transition.

AMANDA HOUSE PHOTOGRAPHY!

We were walkin’ in high cotton

Old times there are not forgotten

Those fertile fields are never far away

We were walkin’ in high cotton

Old times there are not forgotten

Leavin’ home was the hardest thing we ever faced

-Alabama

 

Summer                                                                  Hiroshima Moon

Bought a new piece of software: Scrivener.  Where has this been all my life?  Well, at least the last 20 years.  It makes writing, manipulating, revising and researching novels, short stories, scripts, non-fiction so much more intuitive.  And, dare I say it?  Fun.

Just loaded Missing into it about thirty minutes ago as well as a short story with a working title, The Protectors.  I spent yesterday afternoon and most of today figuring how to use it and I passed over all the initial hurdles.

On Lughnasa I start both the first revision of Missing and the new book in the trilogy, Loki’s Children.  With this tool to hand it will make the mechanics of the process much, much simpler.

 

Ninja Weeder

Summer                                                                  Hiroshima Moon

Kate and I spent time working in the garden this am.  I plucked out extra beets, collard greens and chard.  Getting a second round of all these underway.  The tomatoes have grown fat, tall and filled with fruit so I got out the plastic tomato handcuffs and cuffed separate stalks to the red metal supports.  Barring a drop in temps (unlikely, eh?) we’ll have a big tomato harvest.  The leeks and potatoes continue strong, dark green.  Both of these develop out of sight, as do the carrots, but the above ground leaves and stems give good evidence of their overall health.

Kate put out water for the bees while I was gone.  A neighbor called and said she had a lot of dead bees in her bird bath.  Not sure it was due to lack of water but it never hurts to add water for them.  I forgot that when I moved them into the orchard.  It’s looking like  this will be a non-honey harvest year which means I’ll have to do the work to  overwinter these colonies, something I did not want to do anymore.   Ah, well.  So much for that management idea.

Kate does a wonderful job of keeping our garden beautiful by fighting the good fight against weeds and other invaders.  She is, as she names herself, “a ninja weeder.”

Summer                                                           Hiroshima Moon

Outside.  Thinning.  Good to be outside in less than tropical heat.  Though 81 degrees with a dewpoint of 72 is not the desert, either.

Got my new bike yesterday.  Gotta take it over to Erik’s Bike Shop to have it assembled.  I’m not good at such things and it requires tools I don’t have.

 

Home Again, Home Again

Summer                                                               Hiroshima Moon

Back home. Aurora far away, Ruth and Gabe faraway, the mountains, far away.  Here the garden is close, the bees, Kate, the dogs, the city.  Home.

Each time I go to Denver a piece of me wants to stay.  The mountains, the grandkids, a hip urban scene.  And yet all of me wants to come home.  To come here where my friends are, where our home and land is.  Where I’ve lived for the last 42 years.  Where my adult memories are.

This American dislocation creates problems for families.  My sister in Singapore.  Brother in Saudi Arabia.  Son in Denver.  Son in Georgia.  Everybody knows long distance relationships are tough.  When they’re this spread out, as many are, it makes holding the family together a bigger, and more important, challenge.

The humidity.  Home.  The mosquitoes.  Home.  The lakes. Home.  The north. Home.  Home takes all these things geography, climate, weather, friends, family, memories, politics, art and wraps them up in a complex package of which we are an integral part.  That’s how we know where home is.

It may seem pedestrian in a global age to prefer the particular and the local, but I do.  And have.  A Midwesterner raised and now an Upper Midwesterner, I’m happy here.

 

Summer                                        Hiroshima Moon

Caution:  air travel rant ahead.

Delta strikes again.  After three delays, my 1:14 pm flight has gotten bumped back to 7:30 pm.  I returned my rental car at 10, Jon got me to the airport at 10:30 and 9 hours later, all things remaining as the current Delta claims, I’ll leave here.

This is the second time in two months Delta has screwed up my return flight, the first being the flight from Schipol to Minneapolis after my trip to Romania.  In both cases my return home has been delayed by many hours.  Don’t count me as a fan of Delta.  Or, air travel.

 

Decanting Myself Through Planes and Trains

Summer                                        Hiroshima Moon

At breakfast this morning a man came through the hotel corridor with three chocolate labs on leashes.  Had a funny reaction.  The dogs humanized the space.  People greeted the man, bent down to pet the dogs, yes, but the very presence of dogs made the place more human.  Odd.

Returned the rental car, Jon picked me up and we drove out to the airport.  He volunteered, so that made it special.  I’d already arranged the hotel shuttle, but was glad to cancel.

I’ve done the security shuffle, deshoeing, delittering pockets, disrobing my laptop, bagging my necessary liquids, remaining calm in the face of idiocy.

Lunch and then, since I had plenty of time my gate was at the very front, Gate 40 of 40 thru 99.  How bout that?

La Revedere

Summer                                       Hiroshima Moon

The Hiroshima moon rose in sickle form over the front range, its young light just above a bank of storm clouds.

Left Jon and Jen’s tonight around 9 pm.  Ruth came up and grabbed my legs, put her head against my waist.  She didn’t say anything.  I hugged her, told her I loved her and left.

Though children are never as innocent as we credit them, they are often transparent in their feelings, which appears as innocence.  Perhaps it is innocence, to be out there in the world as  you are, with no guard up.

We may mature as we age, but to the extent that we become opaque to the world, we will never again know innocence.

Innocence is the rising of the young moon, slender and beautiful, perhaps aging can be the waning of the same moon, a sickle slender and beautiful.

Grandchildren touch the heart in a way no other relationship can.  Ruth and Gabe occupy that part leaning toward the future; the part of the heart that will not die, but will live on in the lives of others.  In a profound sense we need our grandchildren far more than they need us.

Without them most lives hit a barrier as bleak as the dark of the moon, extinction.  With them the heart never stops beating, it transfers bodies, ready for another lifetime.

 

Living History

Summer                                       Hiroshima Moon

The Colorado History Museum tore down a perfectly good building filled with wonderful exhibits and built a new building in its place, a building with none of the exhibits.  A strange decision on their part, it seems to me, but, hey.  It’s their state.

In its place the same lot now contains a brand new history center, a large parking ramp and a court building, presumably a state court since the Colorado capitol building sits less than two blocks away.

The Colorado folks opted, in their new building, for a different approach to museology.  Whereas the old building had a cabinet of curiosities feel, it was a good one by my lights.  Still, its exhibits were static and didactic, familiar in style to any one acquainted with museums during the 20th century.

The new history center spikes on the engaged learner end of the new museological perspective.  The lobby has a ceiling made of wood from pine beetle destroyed trees.

Just inside the museum proper the first attraction is the floor.  A huge, maybe a hundred foot square map of colorado laid out in terrazzo tile, shows rivers, mountains, lakes and a few other key locations like Denver.  Latitude and longitude markings border the map on which sit two time machines.

Each machine has a distinctive steam punk style with interactive screens and an amazing feature.  The amazing feature is this:  if all using the time machine agree, it can move.   Along the map are several small circles denoting regions like central colorado or southwestern colorado.  The time machine works by region, so that when it is placed in central colorado it’s screens show historical artifacts, e.g. ledger books created by captive native american artists, peculiar to that location.

Near the time machine the visitor can pass through into Destination Colorado.  Through the doors is the town of Keota.  It has a school, a general store, a farm, a rural home and a tin lizzy.  In addition there is a structure called the little house on the prairie.  It has sickle moons cut out of its door.

Each one of these installations is interactive.  The store has items you can take off the shelf and buy.  Each item has a price equivalent to its price in 1920.  A cash register with mechanical keys allows a child to stand on a box and ring up tea, toothpaste, canned milk and baking powder among other things.  Ruth loved the cash register.

She also became fascinated (obsessed?) with another feature of the general store.  There were two wooden boxes with small rectangles inside, enough to hold a dozen eggs.

The eggs came from chickens set up in nest on the farm.  Every once in a while the chicken would cackle, a thunk could be heard and a small hand would reach inside the hole underneath the hen.  After retrieving a wooden egg, it goes in a small wire basket.

Once the child collects sufficient eggs they can take them back to the general store, put them in the wooden boxes one at a time and receive $.23 a dozen.  This is intermittent reinforcement, the strongest reinforcement in operant conditioning and it hooked Ruthie.

We had to stop her after she had collected buckets of eggs.

She also drove the tin lizzy which rides to Grandma’s house by way of a movie showing through the windshield, goes through rain spritzed down from a fan unit above the car and shakes and rumbles across the prairie.

Pretty fun.

Upstairs there was, drumroll please, a skiing exhibit.  Ruth jumped out of her skin at that one.  There she tried out a ski jumping simulation, crashing both times.  “That’s not what happens when I really ski,” she said.

The most impressive moment was, however, yet to come.  A mining exhibit contained another simulation, this one faux blast that required precision placement of dynamite in a particular sequence.  The small movie showed a pattern, then the pattern disappeared.  Based on that brief glimpse the explosives person had to press faux dynamite sticks into the wall in a particular sequence.  After they were in, a plunger was available to set them off.

After the plunger an explosion came on the screen and the mine told you how you did.  I watched older kids try. Their explosions caved in the mine.  6 year old Ruth went up, watched the movie, looked at the pattern, very seriously went over and pressed the dynamite then went over to the plunger and set it off.

“Excellent work, miner,” the movie said. “You brought the rock down in tunnel and did not hurt the mine shaft.”

Ruth ran between exhibits, trying this and that.  Excited.  A great trip.

Afterward we had ice cream.

Why?

Summer                                     Hiroshima Moon

If you take a quick look at the news channels, or scan the news aggregators on the web, Aurora, Colorado and the shootings at the Century Theatre occupy most of them. It’s strange to be here, so close, yet for the day to day, to be as far as away as anyone else in the country.

The more I read about the shooter, James Holmes, the stranger it gets. We may discover that he was a very well defended psychotic or a high achieving psychopath, either seems likely, but I’m increasingly skeptical of these kinds of explanations. Yes, when applicable, they are a contributing factor, but even for the universe of psychotics and psychopaths, these people are outliers. Said another way, the vast majority of both psychotics and psychopaths don’t go on to commit spree murders of become serial killers.

We might discover he was a deeply unhappy man whose life dream had begun to unravel. Perhaps, faced with the end of a seamless rise through the academic system, he could imagine no future for himself and decided to vent his frustration through a symbolic, but tragically real act.

Any explanation has to take into account the obvious long term preparation for this act.  He amassed ammunition, weapons and body armor over a period of months, making multiple purchases from different physical and online merchants.  His shooting had a plan that included the use of some kind of gas and the booby-trapping of his apartment.

These are not the acts of someone unable to think clearly or unaware of the implications of their actions.

One parser of humanity’s extremes suggested he might have been in neuroscience trying to understand the strange state of his own mind. And failed. Or, I suppose, maybe he succeeded.