And in case "Ring Out Wild Bells" is too religious for you, here's a fitting salute to the departure of 2020:
2020, for so many reasons, was not a banner year for reading. You'd think with a pandemic going on, and working from home I'd have a lot more time for reading. Noooooooo. I had time to remodel a bathroom and replace two bits of fence and put up a bunch of shelves in the garage, but not for reading.
Hoping 2021 is better. But I'm not counting on it.
Here goes the roll call for 2020, though. Some re-reads, obviously. But some great new reads, mostly books I got for Christmas 2019.
Eleven Blue Men was educational reading when the pandemic hit. I read it so I could hear what it was like when they had competent people in charge of public health (and the country for that matter).
Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis. 327 pages.
Better Mousetrap, The; by Tom Holt. 345 pages.
Biohazard: The Chilling True Story of the Largest Covert Biological Weapons Program in the World, by Ken Alibek with Stephen Handelman. 319 pages.
Book of Mormon, The; translated by Joseph Smith Jr. 535 pages.
Class: A Guide Through the American Class System, by Paul Fussell. 202 pages.
Cuckoo's Egg, The; by Cliff Stoll. 399 pages.
Dave Barry Hits Below the Beltway, by Dave Barry. 180 pages.
Dilbert Future, The; by Scott Adams. 258 pages.
Dog's Purpose, A: A Novel for Humans; by W. Bruce Cameron. 319 pages.
Eleven Blue Men, by Berton Roueche. 192 pages.
Going Postal, by Terry Pratchett. 377 pages.
Great Government Goofs! by Leland H. Gregory III. 264 pages.
Life of Pi, The; by Yann Martel. 326 pages.
Marguerite de la Roque: A Story of Survival, by Elizabeth Boyer. 316 pages.
McBroom Tells a Lie, by Sid Fleischman. 48 pages.,
Medical Detectives, The; by Berton Roueche. 403 pages.
Midnight Plan of the Repo Man, The; by W. Bruce Cameron. 334 pages.
Moving Pictures, by Terry Pratchett. 254 pages.
Narrow Sea, The; Barrier, Bridge, and Gateway to the World the History of the English Channel, by Peter Unwin. 340 pages.
Peter Principle, The; by Laurence J. Peter and Raymond Hull. 180 pages.
Rendezvous with Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke. 214 pages.
Salt: A World History, by Mark Kurlansky. 484 pages.
Stranger in the Woods, The; Michael Finkel. 203 pages.
The Taming of the Screw, by Dave Barry. 90 pages.
Up the Down Staircase, by Bel Kaufman. 340 pages.
Woman Who Smashed Codes, The; by Jason Fagone. 444 pages.
Page Total: 7,791
I re-read Dr. Laurence Peter's "The Peter Principle," this year, and was going to follow up with "The Prince" by Machiavelli and "What Would Machiavelli Do" by Stanley Bing AND WHY AM I FINDING OUT JUST NOW THAT HE DIED THIS YEAR? These are the books by which 2020 should most be remembered, where we saw both the results of competence and incompetence at the highest levels.
I won't name names. That would just upset people, and lord knows we've had enough upset people on the Internet lately.
And while I'm not surprised to see incompetence and competence at whatever level they show, what did surprise -- or disappoint -- the most this year is how many people I know and care about supported the incompetents.
And this is where it gets complicated. Because I'm sure on other levels, I supported the incompetents. If we look on our bookshelves or in our closets or round and about the cafeteria of belief we store in our skulls, there's bound to be incompetence there, bound up in the fuzziness of love, memory, blindness, what have you.
I, myself, have proved myself incompetent more often than not. And probably have vast areas of incompetence I will yet explore in this thing called life. In fact, as I type evidence of my incompetence is being blared anonymously on social media. I won't own up to it; I am no fool. But it's there, and those in the know will recognize it.
Recognizing it. Maybe that's the key to getting away from our incompetence and boobery, if I can mangle a phrase from Homer Simpson. But that requires humility, and that's getting harder to come by.
I'm sure 2021 will be filled with additional incompetence disguised as whatever you want it to be: Truth-seeking. Bravery. Heroics. But if we're honest, we'll see it. Almost everywhere we look, even if we're looking into the bottles containing our most cherished beliefs.
William Anders:
"For all the people on Earth the crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you."
"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness."
Jim Lovell:
"And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.
And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day."
Frank Borman:
"And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.
And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good."
Borman then added, "And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you - all of you on the good Earth."
I fully expected to live as an adult on the Moon, or beyond, when I was a kid.
Alas . . .
Maybe that time will come. Not within my lifetime, however.
But thanks to science fiction, I can still dream it.
Two books still manage to capture my imagination. The first is "The Lotus Caves," by John Christopher. Yes, the living in, then escaping from, the aforementioned caves is exciting. But I like the bit beforehand, where life on the Moon appears so pedestrian to its residents as to be boring.
Boring.
Living on the Moon.
I suppose it would be after a time, given the limited capacity we have for wonder on a daily basis.
Then there's "Rendezvous with Rama," by Arthur C. Clarke.
Not the Gentry Lee-ed sequels. I've read one, and it was terrible.
But Rama. There's the stuff. And every time I read it, the more I think I might have followed the Cosmo Christers and Boris Rodrigo's idea that Rama was an ark, meant for those to be saved.
Though that clearly was not the case -- and even at that time, Earth et al appeared not to have the spacefaring resources to get people to the ark in a timely basis if that were the case.
But that's all speculation, of course.
Right now, all I can hope is that Morgan Freeman follows through with his plans for a Rendezvous with Rama movie. Though even there I am not optimistic and believe it won't happen in my lifetime. Freeman has been talking about the movie since the early 2000s. And the book isn't a complicated one. A script ought to be pretty easy to generate, if they stuck with it. The story moves along at a brisk pace, and would not need embellishment (although moviegoing weenies don't appear to like space-based think pieces, else Interstellar would have done better).
There are a few Rama-oriented videos on YouTube. None of them worth posting here, particularly as most of them don't appear to have read the book, or at least forgot about it, in the throes of making their videos.
This is a story that has to be done right, or not at all.
Of note: I appear to have a first edition of this novel. Pretty cool.
Signs you have spent a long time in snow country:
1. You have at least half a dozen snow shovels, plus other tools dedicated to the removal of snow and ice, including a blunt axe.
2. You have a coal shovel like the one used as sleds in "It's A Wonderful Life" that you use exclusively for snow removal.
3. You have a favorite snow shovel.
4. You are worried your favorite snow shovel is starting to wear out.
5. You are really worried that when your favorite snow shovel breaks you will
a. Not be able to replace it with an equally adequate snow shovel.
b. Have to use one of the less desirable snow shovels you already have.
6. You're overly concerned with the amount of precipitation you're bound to receive.
7. It's a lovely shovel, Mother.
Got a letter from the Jehovah’s Witnesses this week.
Well, a Jehovah’s Witness.
Specifically, Annette.
She sounds really nice. Sincere. Hopeful and full of Christlike love.
I’m glad she sent a letter, rather than arriving at my door, so I wouldn’t have to be awkward and say no thank you, maybe after taking a tract, then close the door. In her face.
I get it, though. Covid means anything door-to-door is going to be frowned on. And it’s winter.
But I also get it. I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and spent two years doing the door-to-door thing in France of all places. I’ve been on the other end of those awkward nos. Even a lot of hostile nos. And a hell of a lot of stony silence.
So power, sister in Christ. Thanks for your message which reminded me that no matter what happens on this planet, God is indeed in charge.
Recently, a friend reminded me that a while back, Russell M. Nelson, president of our church, asked for us to fast and pray for relief from the virus.
Since then, infection rates and deaths have shot up.
Things have gotten worse.
But this same friend also reminded me that hey, we have multiple covid vaccines in the wings, with efficacies approaching one hundred percent. That is relief, he said.
God is indeed in charge.
(And no, Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t oppose vaccinations. They did, but in 1952, official objections to vaccines were dropped.)
Science and religion. Working together in my life, and in my friend’s, and in Annette’s, to show us that God is in charge. Relief does come when we ask for it, though not necessarily, perhaps, in the way we’d like it to come.
Also, religion and religion. Getting along together quite nicely, thanks for asking.
Elder Patrick Kearon spoke Dec. 1, 2020, at a devotional at Ensign College in Utah, and advised those listening to learn about each others' beliefs and to get away from the position of only listening to ourselves. He said:
"We must find others with whom we haven't always agreed and get closer to them and find common cause with them, find things that we can unite around and build a better town, better city, better world with them, and build happier families at the heart of all of that.
In the 111th section of the Doctrine & Covenants, there's a beautiful verse. In the 11th verse, it says, 'Therefore, be wise as serpents' — an interesting choice of words. Then it goes on to say, 'Therefore, be ye as wise as serpents and yet without sin; and I will order all things for your good, as fast as ye can receive them. Amen.'"
I’d love for covid to just go away. Now. I went Christmas shopping in my face mask today and hated every minute of it when I was in the stores. My wife and I would love to go to a restaurant and just sit an eat, like in the good ol’ days.
But that is not the way. I know for one if I don’t struggle, I don’t learn. And if having to wear a mask is the extent of struggle that God has thusfar asked of me, I have gotten off easy. It’s not the extent, though. The rest I keep to myself.
Or give to the Lord, as Annette suggests.
So thanks, Annette, for your letter.
Here it is, if you’d like to read it:
Hello,
I hope that this letter finds you and your family doing well. In light of current events, I am unable to visit you personally. Through his word, the Bible, God provides hope and promises that soon He “will wipe all tears from your eyes, and there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain.” (Revelation 21:3-4)
Soon, that hope of a better future here on earth, will be realized. I invite you to visit our website, jw.org, where you can learn how the Bible’s wisdom and help you and your family to get the best out of life now and to gain a new hope for the future.
You will find articles, videos, music, even an interactive Bible study free of charge. I sincerely hope that you and your family stay safe and benefit from this information,
Sincerely,
Annette
PS: You may contact me at the above address.
That’s a little bit of relief sent my way, Annette. Thank you.
Beware the Traveling Ideologue
I have on my desk a copy of Bill Bryson’s “The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America.” It was given to us by one of my sisters-in-law, a well-read individual who said she just couldn’t get through it.
First warning sign.
As with all travelogues, when I get one to read the first thing I do is read the bits that feature my home state or my home town – rare enough, I will admit. I do this for one primary reason: If the author has accurately depicted the place where I live, it’s more than likely he or she has done an accurate and adequate job with the rest of the travelogue.
Bryson had happened to visit Idaho, and my hometown of Idaho Falls on this trip. So I read that section.
And I will not be reading the rest of the book.
Because in that little section, warning signs abounded.
I realize it’s a Hurculean task to travel across a continent and find something to write about as you stop. But to manufacture falsehoods and to twist an innocent question into something far more jingoistic than it likely was intended, well, that’s sloppy reporting, sloppy writing, and sloppy living.
Yes, my town is home to the Idaho National Laboratory. Yes, it has been used as a nuclear waste dump. But no, Mr. Bryson, plutonium is not leaking into the aquifer. Oh, there’s a chance of it. But as I happen to work for the company working on the cleanup for the government and happen to know more about the situation, I can see where Bryson likely spent five minutes or less researching and opted to leave it at that. Reportage is probably not his goal in this book, but it’s inaccuracies or laziness like this that prompts me to question the author’s intent and to realize that the astounding facts he’s telling me about other areas he visited may be as lazily-reported and slipshod as the inaccurate description I can single out on my own.
The biggest pollutant fear where I work? Carbon tetrachloride, which has, in face, been leaking towards the Snake River Plain aquifer. But here’s something Bryon likely doesn’t know, nor care to know about because it isn’t NUCLEAR BOOGA BOOGA or demonstrative of the kind of crap he wants to see in small-town America: That problem is being effectively remediated. The bigger threat to water in Idaho is the cattle waste piling up in the Magic Valley area of Twin Falls, an area which make much noise about pollution coming downstream from the laboratory, but seems content to let the waste from their own dairy industry pile up. And here, I’m probably being inaccurate, or at least glossing things over. But if Bryson can do it, so can I.
Then there’s the tale of Happy’s Chinese restaurant, where he laments a jingoistic question asked of a Swedish exchange student: “What do you like better, Sweden or the United States?” Jingoistic? I guess on the surface. But also borne of wanting to start or continue a conversation, and not knowing, really, what to say. Naïve probably a lot more than jingoistic.
But let me tell you something: We’re used to it. We’re used to folks jetting in, or driving in, probably in a Subaru Outback, from the coasts or from Europe to tell us all about how nasty small-town America is. It’s a vocation that keeps many of the more urban elites employed and comfortable and damn glad they don’t live in a hellhole because they come into small-town America, the flyover country, with the predetermined notion that decent human beings couldn’t possibly live where you can’t get on-demand gluten-free cupcakes (which you can, but y’all are too busy bitching about Walmart and McDonalds to bother finding out).
And while I recognize Bryson does it with humor, it’s “humor” in quotation marks. Many of his reviewers compare him to Dave Barry. I think that’s a terrible comparison. Barry’s wit is considerably different than Bryson’s, in that Bryson comes off as a curmudgeon more than a comic.
The travelogue is an easy bit of writing to accomplish. Anyone can do it. But it takes a big name, with big chips on the shoulders, to get them published in the mainstream.
I read a lot of them. And invariably, they all fail. Even John Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” is less a deep look at America but way more a deep look at the hubris contained well within the flyover country of the author’s preconceived notions of what “America” is.
Side note: How much do I trust a book that references a review from a big-name big city review machine that cannot bother to check how Steinbeck spells the name Charley? I mean, it’s not like the book isn’t available everywhere to check, yanno? Just more slapdash.
Should it matter, I can hear you screaming. Sure, Steinbeck made things up about the people he supposedly met, but he was right that localism was dead in America and that the environment was in the toilet. And here’s the BIG SECRET that the coasties don’t seem to get: Localism is alive and well in small-town America if you get out of your vehicles and away from the interstates to find it. Actually get to know people in small-town America and they’ll show you. And yes, we know there are environmental problems. Spend more than five minutes on the Internet and you’ll see how we’re working to fix them. Now, remind me why New York always smells faintly of pee?
What concerns me is that people take Steinbeck’s travelogue, and likely Bryson’s as unadulterated truth. They are, as author Terry Pratchett put it on the similar subject of reading religious tracts, “not in on the joke.”
As writer Bill Steigerwald, following Steinbeck’s voyage and reporting on it for the Pittsburg Post-Gazette in 2010, says, “Some really smart people, not just high school kids with road fever in their blood, believe parts of the prevailing “Travels With Charley” myth without questioning.” No matter it’s poorly researched. Or made up out of whole cloth. To some, it’s gospel, particularly if it’s gospel that reinforces their notion that living in a small town makes you a Cletus Spuckler slack-jawed yokel.
It’s not literature, folks, it’s hubris.
Not that it matters. But it is.
It's quotable, start to finish, staring with acknowleding Martin's Geode to Lunchlady Doris' muted "Okey-dokey" to Groundskeeper Willie's "Grease me up, woman!" to Ralph being concerned about the dog in the vent and poor, poor Principal Skinner having a hiccup attack as Supernintendo Chalmers visits to the best scene of the entire episode: Poor Seymour trying to live it up by varying his choice of laundry soap.
And I still think this is one of the best lines Superintendent Chalmers delivers: "Oh, I have had it! I have had it with this school! The low test scores! Class after class of ugly, ugly children!"
And then there's Martin in his cage. Poor Martin.
I think what I enjoy the most about this episode is the time spent with more minor characters, namely Skinner and Martin. And Superintendent Chalmers never disappoints.
So here we are, early December. And on the inside, I'm beginning to feel like Homer here.
First the stats: I've been to the office twice since the end of March.
First time was to get a borked Mobikey fixed by the IT folks. I saw enough at the town facilities to make me glad I'm working at home. Not so many people there, but all wearing masks, getting temperatures taken at the door.
Second time was for an evaluated drill, which was done in pieces to make sure we didn't go over any crowd limits for covid safety. There was me and I think three other people in the room. Which was fine, since it meant it didn't go on forever, but it added to the artificiality of the whole thing.
I was worried there for a while that we wouldn't have enough work to fill the hours, but that has certainly not been a problem. Just this last week (which was exceptional, I admit) I finished 21 documents. And new work just comes trickling and sometimes pouring in. So no real changes there, to be sure.
I am getting a little tired of the ol' four walls. The furthest afield we've been this year was to go to Island Park for a few days' vacation. We have done some campouts with the Scouts, which has been helpful. But I'm ready for something a bit more involved.
Stress has really built up around here. With all of us home, we're tripping over each other. Nobody really wants to do things like dishes and dinner and such, which makes it frustrating. We ask for help, and it comes in spurts. Everyone seems to have an excuse why they can't help. So I try to show that I'm not accepting my own excuses by getting to work. Worky worky work. Which reminds me -- No one is working on dinner at the moment. Better go fix that.
But a few more things: I did finally get the drawer fixed in the kitchen. And fixed the chair in the kitchen. Just in time for one of the cupboard doors to fall off and for one of the chairs in the basement to snap.
But the more I listened, the more I began to recognize the noise. It was something I remember hearing at scout camp. Swans.
Then there they were in the sky. They don't show up very well in this video, or in the subsequent photos. But you could sure hear them. And there were fleets of them in the sky, passing over on their way south.
It was a touching moment, to be sure.
I have since confirmed these are sandhill cranes, as a swan's call is more "swan-like," whatever that means. Still glad to I got to see and hear them.
And I finally spent the time this weekend (and tonight) to watch Jacques Tati's "Mon Oncle" in full, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Definitely for the French aesthetics. I lived in France for almost two years, for a time in a building that reminds me a little of the one M. Hulot lives in:
There's still plenty of new coming in among the old, but they've done an amazing job of preserving the old. The apartment building I lived in when I lived in Blois is still there, built before Columbus discovered America.
And I love the visual comedy of it all. This is clearly a tale that could be told with lots of jokes and dialogue, but it's not. Most of it is in the visual absurdity of the new world M. Hulot is called to live in compared to the fuzzy, grimy, comfortable one he calls home.
There are a few odd editing moments that confused me a little, and while the payoff at the end is nice, I'm not exactly sure what led up to it. But seeing father and son holding hands like that is precious (I won't spoil the joke for those who haven't seen it).
It was this bit from the Royal Ocean Film Society that convinced me finally to watch the entire film:'
As this bit says, Tati does visual comedy well. The photo that starts this entry is a great example. The old Mr. Tudball character trying to help this guy park his enormous Cadillac between the cart and the beat-up local-production truck.
Anyhoo, for now the film is available to see at dailymotion.com, here. It's worth a try.
So it was 71 degrees today. Outside. On November 6th, in Idaho.
We raked up leaves. I finished installing a gate on the north side of the house and cleaned the camper out from the campout last month. Liam and I took down the Halloween lights and started on the Christmas lights.
Good thing, because even though it was 71 degrees today, it's supposed to snow a couple of inches tomorrow.
This is November. Snow is expected. Seventy-one degrees is not.
It was nice.
Winter. Yes. That's coming. In 2020, we also get winter. What joys will it bring?
We finally had a covid-19 scare in the house. The test came back negative. But we were in that odd little loop for about 36 hours. And an odd loop it was.
Started out at crushthecurveidaho.com, where we were assured we'd be given help to set up an appointment.
They got personal information. Insurance information. Email addresses and phone numbers. And at the end, a list of test providers in our area whom we had to call to set up an appointment. They also gave us a handy reference number to use with our selected provider to make the process go faster.
That's helping us set up an appointment in a technical sense, by which I mean I got a list of providers in the area offering tests. Not quite the help I wanted, so I decided to roll with it.
Called our selected provider and their first question was: "Are you in the parking lot?"
No. I'm at home, calling for an appointment like I was told to.
"Oh, you have to be in the parking lot, then call."
Fine. Maybe crushthecurveidaho.com could mention that with the phone number, but okay. We're only ten minutes away.
So we drive to the provider and are in the parking lot and are trying to make a call when another guy pulls into the spot next to us in a massive diesel Ford and I can't hear the person on the other end of the line.
We get the appointment. I offer them the handy reference number I got from crush the curve. "We don't do anything with them," she said.
Okay. So I give personal information. Insurance information. Emails and phone numbers. And we wait. For twenty minutes, we wait.
Finally get called in. And are told their test isn't accurate in the first few days of exposure, but we get an "order" which will allow us to get a test at another place.
We go to the other place. Behind a really slow guy clearly looking for an address. Very slow. Like five miles and hour up the road slow. He pulls over and we go ahead, because we've been to the place before.
And get in a line to wait. Finally it's our turn. We give personal information. Insurance information. Email and phone number. And finally get the test and a little card with a web address on it where we can go for results. We might have them in one to three days. As we're heading into the weekend, well, I'm not so sure about that.
Go home, and go to the website. There we're told because of a national backlog of covid testing, it could be four to six days. Or ten to fourteen days. WHO KNOWS? And we have to have a negative result or the testee has to quarantine for two weeks from both school and work.
Tonight, we get a call from the original provider, the one who could not administer an accurate test. The test from the other lab came up negative.
Good.
But I don't want to know how much that all just cost me. We're told insurance will cover it. But allow me a cynical chuckle. We'll see how that goes.
But today, today paid for it a little. Seventy-one degrees. And snow tomorrow. Maybe we'll last to 2021. Maybe.
And I guess for a given value of happy, I am happy about it. Happy in that they agreed they won't cut our rate to the bone and keep on cutting, as they are doing with their solar customers in Utah. But unhappy in that I learned about the decision this way, rather than through the Idaho Public Utilities Commission.
And this is the first time I've heard of their "No more than 10% addition to capacity quid pro quo."
I defy any normal human to go to the Idaho Public Utilities Commission website and find either:
1. The final decision
2. The condition on the no more than 10% capacity may be added.
I've looked. If it's there, is so well hidden as to make me suspect it's hidden on purpose.
Y'see, we got solar on the house to try to save money. We refinanced our home mortgage and rolled the solar loan into it to save money. And Rocky Mountain Power, and their pseudoaccomplices at the IPUC seem determined to scrape back any money they can.
And let's face it: Rocky Mountain Power says its solar customers aren't paying their fair share of upkeep on the grid. I've been on this grid most of my life, and I can say it's been in pretty sorry shape since before solar became an issue for them. Maybe if they spent less time making money for stockholders and such and put more of that money into, say, upkeep and such, they might have better equipment and not be forced to soak customers for upkeep on their monopoly.
The monopoly thing. That's why I'm supposed to be happy with this decision. "See? We wanted to soak you more, but the IPUC wouldn't let us, so be glad there's a flimsy layer of government between you and us."
I know I'm sounding cynical. If the cynical shoe fits, wear it.
So I am happy. Looking like this, holding their blessed letter up for all to see.
I aged about a year this morning.
Round about 8 am, I got a call from Human Resources at BYU-Idaho, where I teach online English. The very nice fellow on the other end of the line said a student had sent HR a message, claiming that at the end of a texting conference with him the evening before, I sent him a naughty anime picture, then said "Oops, wrong text."
We quickly figured out that the number the student texted and mine did not match up -- at one point, it was one digit off. I was lucky because:
1. The HR rep was already skeptical about the situation
2. While I recognized the student's name, I knew for a fact I had not conferenced with him by text or any other way the night before
3. The HR rep called the number the student texted and the person on the other end got really cagey and tried to disguise their voice.
I got two calls, in rapid succession, the second saying the matter was closed and that there was no wrongdoing on my part. He said he didn't want me to spend the day worrying over the event.
Nevertheless . . . that was a long ten minutes between phone calls.
Now, I do not blame the student for anything other than not double-checking the phone number he was texting. I was not made privy to the conversation he had with the other number about his paper, but apparently enough inroads were made he felt like he'd had a discussion with me and then was shocked when I texted the naughty picture.
He did what he should have done -- he contacted HR about the situation.
But I'm glad, in this cancel culture we live in, that the matter was resolved quickly and in my favor. It could have swung the other way quickly and ended up a lot uglier than it did.
This evening, I had a text conference with the student. He rightaway apologized if I'd had a scare, and I told him -- honestly -- it wasn't that big of a deal. We went on to conference about his paper -- for which I gave him the title, hoping he'd take that as a sign that I knew what his paper was, even if the other person he'd texted with the night before didn't, but was vague enough about things -- or said, remind me -- that they were able to bluff their way through.
Lesson learned?
Get that number right when you text.
And if you get a wrong number text, remember any jokes you play, thinking you're having a lot of fun, might very well have real-world consequences.
And act stunned enough when HR calls that they realize you don't have the brains to successfully pick your nose, let alone send someone a naughty anime picture.
One final lesson: Don't reveal the number the student texted so they get spammed with all sorts of crud. But really, really consider it.
So for the past week, and for the next week, I'm substituting in another online English class for BYUI. Same class I'm teaching now. You'd think that's easy, but it's not.
Here's why.
The class is designed in a way to make teaching the Argumentative Synthesis Essay a flexible teaching moment. They provide loose guidelines, but leave it up to individual teachers to custom-tailor the essay, done in three parts. And I know from personal experience in talking with other English teachers that not many of us teach the course in the same way.
So going into this, grading outlines and such for Part Two, I had no frame of reference for how their permanent teacher, due back in a week, is teaching the essay.
Now me, if someone came into my class as a substitute and read my announcements, they'd know right away how I teach the course. Not so with this teacher. So I had to dig deeper into things like her comments on their topics and on the Part One papers. So I think I have a grasp on what her expectations are, but I had to leave them an announcement today cautioning them that since I'm not the same teacher who started their section, my understanding may not match their teacher's expectations. So I laid out in the announcement where I intended to go. So that way, when their regular teacher comes back they can at least see the method to my madness. I hope that works, because it's what I'm sticking with.
This leads me to thinking about the error precursors we get hammered on at work. We can think we have a flawless plan, but as errors start to compound, they can compound in a way that makes incidents more likely. I'm hoping I've got my bases covered. Not for me, but for the students, because they don't deserve to have to do things over and over and over again to please different instructors.
I'm teetering on the edge of something, folks.
In the leadup to the election, I've opted on social media to snooze, or in some cases, unfollow, those whose posts are more than 90% political. And I'll be honest -- most of them have been conservative voices.
I don't need their lunacy peppering my already cynical view of politics with additional oxidation.
And now, a moment of clarity: I'm going to let them jabber, full-tilt, where I can see them.
And in a week (or more, which is more likely) when we know who won the election, I'll see manifestations of the pride and hubris that Mormon keeps warning us about in his little book inside the big one.
Because -- ha ha! -- I don't think it's going to matter who wins in November. The circus will continue unabated, though perhaps if we're lucky the clown car will break down and stop issuing forth its contents. We'll get the contents of another clown car, to be sure, but sometimes a change is as good as a rest.
But the jabbering. Oh, the jabbering. Whomever wins, right or left, the jabbering will continue, and we will continue on our merry wee way to Hell as, apparently, that's what we do in this country now.
What do we want, the New Normal,
or the Normal that Used to Be?
the one, all filled with sackcloth,
the other, which smells of pee?
Whom do we want, the leader,
Or the one who wished to be?
the one, all filled with anger,
the other, acrimony?
And do we want the nation
or the one we couldn't be
ill and fat from the pride of our hearts
or lean, a mockery?
And what do we want of Heaven
or the Hell that's soon to be
one the realm of the angels
now forever barred to we?
You know what’s fun and easy about finding Christian scriptural support for the party or candidate of your choice? It can be done easily with tools you probably already have in your home, particularly if you focus on the warts of one candidate or party while ignoring similar defects decorating your own.
And the thing about Christian theology, see, is that it’s
not a cafeteria plan. You don’t get to waltz in and pick only the stuff you
want. You have to take it all.
Similarly, when you select a candidate or political party,
your selection should not be made holding your nose or ignoring the faults that
are there. You get it all, the halos alongside the horns. To believe otherwise
is to be dishonest with yourself.
For example. I’m not much pleased in what I see in the official
platform of Black Lives Matter, the organization. I do, however, recognize that
in America, black lives indeed matter less than white ones. Maybe not to the
rank and file of most good Americans. But certainly that message comes out, and
loudly, from some good Americans, and some good American politicians and
political parties.
God tells me the following:
“A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one
another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.
“By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye
have love one to another.” (John 13:34-35)
I see little of this in the platform of Black Lives Matter.
And I see little of it in the attitude of “All Lives Matter,” which seeks not
to spread love and understanding and reconciliation, but the dismissal of
ongoing prejudice and justifiable anger for the sake of maintaining the status
quo, or even saying “wait a while longer; it’s getting better.” That kind of
thinking and rhetoric is certainly not making things better, and waiting since
at least 1860 seems long enough, doesn’t it?
Does that mean I love riots and the destruction of property?
Of course not. But if a party’s candidate’s answer to riots and destruction of
property is to shout that ongoing suffering that engenders it doesn’t matter
because all lives do, I find little to support in that either.
And also, I find little to support in a party that turns a
blind eye to racism in some of its base, its rank and file leadership, and its
top politicians.
“Brothers and sisters, please listen carefully to what I am
about to say,” said Russell M. Nelson, president of The Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-day Saints in early October 2020. “God does not love one race more
than another. His doctrine on this matter is clear. He invites all to come unto
him. Black and white, bond and free, male and female. I assure you your
standing before God is not determined by the color of your skin. Favor or
disfavor with God is dependent up on your devotion to God, and his
commandments, and not to the color of your skin. I grieve that our black
brothers and sisters the world over are enduring the pains of racism and
prejudice. Today I call upon our members everywhere to lead out in abandoning attitudes
and actions of prejudice. I plead with you to promote respect for all of God’s
children.”
This, to me, if I can borrow a phrase from U.S. President
Richard Nixon’s press secretary Ron Ziegler, is the operative statement. And by
asking members of his church to “listen carefully” to what he has to say, and
to “lead out in abandoning attitudes and actions of prejudice,” he acknowledges
such attitudes and actions exist among church members.
I see little in American politics of any stripe that
promotes such introspective action, and certainly not from the party currently
in power. And I hold little faith that President Nelson’s request will be much
more than a footnote as Satan continues to strengthen his hold on the hearts of
men, both inside and outside the church, unless we as members of the church
embrace this request in earnest. I know where that request comes from, and I
will do my best to follow it.
And while I see little to gain from a party or candidate who
turns a blind eye to the problems inherent in illegal immigration, I see little
to gain from a party or candidate who vilifies each immigrant, legal or not, as
criminals, rapists, sponges, or job-stealers.
Back in 2015, Elder Patrick Kearon said the following of
refugees:
“Being a refugee may be a defining moment in the lives of
those who are refugees, but being a reguee does not define them. Like countless
thousands before them, this will be a period – we hope a short period – in their
lives, Some of them will go on to be Nobel laureates, public servants,
physicians, scientists, musicians, artists, religious leaders, and contributors
in other fields. Indeed, many of them were these things before they lost
everything. This moment does not define them, but our response will help define
us.”
He then quoted the following from Matthew 25:40: “Verily I
say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
Jesus, in this verse, does not say “unless they came into
the country illegally,” or “unless they’re criminals.” He offered no such
exceptions. He did not excuse sin – He famously told the woman caught in
adultery to “go and sin no more,” but neither did He condemn her. Interestingly,
He asked her accusers to be the first to cast a stone, if they were sinless.
And they were not. And they left without tossing so much as a pebble.
In today’s politics, no such hesitation exists. No party
holds such innocence. Stones would be hurled, the woman killed, by politicians
and parties with blood on their hands from other such actions, literal or
figurative. To claim otherwise is, again, to hold one’s nose and ignore the
stink underneath the perfume.
So what’s the answer?
Oh, if I knew, and could implement it successfully, I’d be one of those Nobel laureates Elder Kearon spoke of. I do believe, however, the answer does not lie in turning a blind eye to the shortcomings of politicians or political parties merely because some of what they say aligns with what I believe. I see enough vilification of politicians who ideally express similar ideas, even among people who profess belief in God and profess adherence to all of His teachings; vilification that comes because not everything they do toes the expected line.
There is no ideal spiritual refuge in politics. I do know I
cringe when I hear someone say a particular politician is “the one” God or
Jesus has chosen to lead. Looking at the politicians vying for such leadership
leads me to conclude:
1. 1. God and Jesus really stink at selecting politicians
to promote what we read in the scriptures, or
2. 2. Earthly society is so far gone the bottom of the
political barrel is being scraped relentlessly, by both God and man.
The best principle I can come up with is this:
“Principles compatible with the gospel may be found in
various political parties, and members should seek candidates who best embody
those principles.
“While the Church affirms its institutional neutrality
regarding political parties and candidates, individual members should
participate in the political process. Please strive to live the gospel in your
own life by demonstrating Christlike love and civility in political discourse.”
This, from a letter signed by Russell M. Nelson, Dallin H.
Oaks, and Henry B. Eyring, on October 6, 2020.
Stunning news for fans of Tom Lehrer.
1. Tom Lehrer, at 92, is still alive.
2. Tom Lehrer has put his music and lyrics, with some exceptions, into the public domain, decades before law would do it for him.
For the curious, the details are at his website.
And even if you don't read sheet music (I don't) please take a look at it. There are little bits of humor throughout.
Take the instructions on how to play "We Will All Go Together When We Go":
I had to look it up: Eschatologically: Pertaining to death, judgment, and the final destiny of the soul and humankind. It's a Terry Pratchett footnote long before Terry Pratchett.
You can find his official music and lyrics on his website through the end of 2024, then the website disappears. I wonder why that is.
Once again I'm probably going to make secular humanist Terry Pratchett a bit upset.
But as I read his book "Going Postal," I can't help but to see its themes on hope and restoration as a parallel to the faith and redemption in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Bear with me a moment.
Take, for example, these passages from pages 276-77 of my American edition:
Handing all that gold over to a copper had been a difficult thing to do, but there really was no choice. He'd got them by the short and curlies, anyway. No one was going to stand up and say the gods didn't do this sort of thing. True, they'd never done it so far, but you could never tell, with gods. Certainly there were queues outside the three temples, once the Times had put out its afternoon edition.
This had presented the priesthoods with a philosophical problem. They were officially against people laying up treasures on earth, but they had to admit, it was always good to get bums on pews, feet in sacred groves, hands rattling drawers, and fingers being trailed in the baby-alligator pool. They settled, therefore, for a kind of twinkle-eyed denial that it could happen again, while hinting that, well, you never know, ineffable are the ways of gods, eh? Besides, petitioners were standing in line with their letter asking for a big bag of cash were open to suggestion that those most likely to recieveth were the ones who had already givedeth, and got the message once you tapped them on the head with the collecting plate a few times.
Even Miss Extremelia Mume, whose small, multipurpose temple over a bookmakers' office in Cable Street handled the wordly affairs of several dozen minor gods, was doing good business among those prepared to back an outside chance. She'd hung a banner over the door. It read IT COULD BE YOU.
It couldn't happen. It shouldn't happen. But, you never know . . . this time it might.
Moist recognized that hope, It was how he'd made his living. You know that the man running the Find the Lady game was going to win, you knew that people in distress didn't sell diamond rings for a fraction of their value, you knew that life generally handed you the sticky end of the stick, and you knew that the gods didn't pick some everyday undeserving tit out of the population and hand them a fortune.
Except, that this time, you might be wrong, right? It might just happen, yes?
OF course, Pratchett and his ilk feel they've got the greed behind this kind of "religion" right. And for the most part they do. I've heard the sermons of the so-called prosperity gospels, even seen a bit of it in my own church.
But what the mockers and scoffers miss is that, at the fundament of it all, there is that sincere hope.
But it's hope combined with works. And here is where I get in trouble with most mainstream Christians, who tend to believe that faith is all that's needed.
Not so.
Many seem to forget this admonition of James (emphasis mine):
What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.
And note this does not refer to works by God, or miracles, or mysterious bags of wonga falling form the sky or being dug up by charlatan postmen with winged hats.
The main word in that passage is you.
If we do not works, if we do not act in ways that could be the answers to prayers or if we do not act in godly ways, it is our faith that is dead. Not the faith of those who ask and receive not -- and receive not because some secular humanists tells them their hope in God is vain because he doe snot exist. It is because the fellow-believers in God do not act in God's name.
We have to have works, or this happens:
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
This, from the first letter to the Corinthians.
Good works turn faith into action, and that is what many Christians miss, and their critics rightly pick up on.
Moist von Lipwig, who prayed to the gods to pull the wool over everyone's eyes, had the works -- he knew where the money was buried. Literally.
And those who saw him had hope. Hope in a charlatan, yes. But hope in a man whose works came in time for redemption.
So again, Mr. Pratchett. Thank you for teaching me how to be a better Christian, even if I had to pray to Anoia in order to become such.
So this past weekend, Troop 1010 finished the Cycling Merit Badge.
Unfortunately, I did not get to go on their 22-mile bike ride with them. And fat as I am, I was really looking forward to it. But due to some unexpected bike breakdowns, I got to do only about 3 miles before I handed my bike over to Michelle so she could finish the ride with her girls.
I felt bad, not being able to fix Michelle’s bike, which has a bent rim, and Isaac’s bike, which we brought as a backup. One of his pedals fell off. They are both cheap Walmart bikes, so the question is now do we bother to repair them, or do we put that repair money into getting bike shop bikes that’ll last a while, and be good while they last? The latter is what I favor. But we’ll see where we go, now that Cycling is done and winter approacheth. I may begin moving bikes into the shed for the season, and then worry about it when Christmas rolls around. Michelle may want a new bike. Jury’s out on Isaac. We’ll see.
Pity is the 22-miler they did on the Ashton Rails to Trails, going from Felt to Grainville. Crossing two rather impressive trestle bridges and getting to see a lot of fall foliage. I was looking forward to that. But Liam and I had a good time in the support vehicle, tooling along the roads to meet up with the group, which made excellent time. There was one moment when we thought Bri and Lexie weren’t going to finish; Bri has athsma and Lexie’s back has been hurting her. But they kept each other going through the last seven or so miles, and I think they both felt pretty proud that they’d finished.
The night before we stayed in Felt with Cheryl Seidelmann, camping out on her property. We had lots of rain that night and into the morning, with wind gusts that at 3 am I’m pretty sure were in the 40 mph range. Rather unsettling to sleep in, particularly in a tent that was creaking like an old unanchored swingset. But we all made it through. Heidi, our newest Scout, did not come on the ride with us, and I don’t blame her, after that unsettling night. But she did make it the night through, which was awesome. I think it was the wind and rain that convinced her and her Dad to go home.
And it was probably a good thing, as the emergency backup bike was dragooned into operation before we’d gone 100 yards. We tried to fix Michelle’s rubbing rear brakes, but we final determined the rim was bent, so no matter what we did, the brake was going to be dragging. And then at about Mile Three, the emergency backup bike lost a pedal, putting it out of action. So I loaned Michelle my bike for the rest of the trip, as I explained earlier.
But the good news is this: Of the seven girls we began with merit badge with, five finished it this weekend. Hannah had to bow out, due to shoulder surgery, and Sam decided since she’d already earned the Swimming merit badge, cycling wasn’t necessary (which it isn’t in her case for Eagle).
Me? This is the third time I’ve done this merit badge, though technically I’ve only earned it once. Second round, I was released as Scoutmaster before we could do the 50-miler, and since I couldn’t do the 22-miler, not this round either, though I suppose I could go 22 miles elsewhere and say I did it. I’ve done more Scouting as an adult than I did as a Scout, so I’m hoping we’re giving these girls a good program. I’m hoping we hear from them today, as we put in more time for our Citizenship in the Community merit badge, that they enjoyed their weekend. Just wish I’d been able to go with them.
So I learned this today:
If you sell an e-book, you don’t get paid for it until the buyer reads it. If the buyer buys it and lets it sit idle on his or her device for months, years, you see nothing. Not until the book is read.
Welcome to digital content. At least from Amazon, I’m learning. And if Amazon does it this way, sure as shootin’ this is the industry standard.
I don’t see the reasoning here. Is there someone who can explain it to me?
Because it’s my understanding that with a physical book, as soon as the book is sold, the author gets paid. Even if the book goes to sit on a shelf for years. Or ends up at a book burning, unread.
Why the difference?
And why do authors put up with it?
Forgive me if I sound cynical, but I doubt if the seller waits until the book is read to take its cut of the sale price.
I really want someone to explain this to me.
And, whoa hoss, it makes me not want to sell digital anything.
Its name means "The Sea of Islands."
On one of those islands, according to Ken Alibek's "Biohazard: The Chilling True Story of the Largest Covert Biological Weapons Program in the World, Told from Inside by the Man Who Ran It," secrets lay.
Rebirth Island, or Tmu Tarakan, was the home of experiments into biological warfare. There they tested all sorts of nasty, bioengineered germs from anthrax to smallpox. It was the scale of the Manhattan Project, also bent on causing suffering.
Whether or not Alibek was consulted in the run up on the Iraq War, I don't know. But maybe there was enough in what he told them, or knew, or intelligence agencies knew, to be worried about what Saddam Hussein was up to.
And maybe I have to take what Alibek and co-author Stephen Handelman write in this book, but if even half of it is true, it's still chilling. All that effort into finding efficient ways to kill or incapacitate lots of people at once. Not what I should be reading, I guess, during "uncertain times."
And while it's a comfort that Alibek says the US hasn't indulged in similar research since the 1960s, I still have to wonder. And hope he's right.
What frightens me most is the Jurassic Park Effect. All of this knowledge, even the material -- the raw powder containing these weaponized germs -- is being bought and sought out by people who didn't have the discipline to attain it. Not that it matters much. Science had the discipline, and knew full well what it was doing.
But maybe we should all read it. And see what the cost of hubris, scientific hubris, is.
Ironically, I make a living off such hubris. The company I work for is cleaning up waste from nuclear weapons production. The Cold War, still paying off in 2020.
So I have some cleanup to do.
Last night, for reasons I forget, I logged out of my Google Account while on YouTube. As I recall, I was trying to find a video that was being blocked in the United States due to copyright purposes (probably for the brief bit of "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" in it, a silly, silly thing to do in a video meant to educate the masses about the art of Buster Keaton (nevermind that the music fit at the moment). I'm not sure why I thought logging out would fix the problem, but I was problem-solving at the moment. And it doesn't matter, since I found the video at Vimeo.
This morning, I tried to log in again.
My account -- one of many on this computer, since I have teenagers -- was not there.
Not a big deal, I thought. I'll just log in again. I have all my passwords saved independently of any computer.
But Email No. 1 did not work.
Neither did the password for Email No. 2.
Why two emails? Well, because I had one I used to set up this blog back in 2009. Then much later, I wanted to upload a few videos to YouTube, and created an account there using a different email.
Then Google bought both services and brought us all under one ring. To bind us, yes, yes.
I had no idea why neither account was working. I'm scrupulous in recording emails and passwords.
Maybe not scrupulous enough. But we'll get to other interference in a minute.
I at first thought, "Well, this is my fault." I kept putting off two-factor authentication. And one of the email addresses I used was a work address and they might have finally found the connection and cut it off.
But I was hopeful I'd be able to sort things out.
Then less hopeful.
Because Google put me into a do-loop where they'd send me a text verification (to a phone number I later confirmed was connected to my account) but they said they were unable to determine the account actually belonged to me.
I may have entered answers to security questions long ago when I set this blog up. Or my YouTube account. But all they would ask for is email and password.
Finally -- and I think it was through brute force determination rather than anything else -- I got back in again. And saw my email address had been changed to some cockamamie "temporary" account from one of my employers. I won't reveal which one.
So now I have done the following:
Reset my password.
Set up two-factor authentication.
Tried to change from that cockamamie email address. But that's going to prove difficult. I might have to set up yet another stupid email account in order to get the temporary one off the docket. But I have put in an alternate address in the meantime, in case this happens again.
I'm not sure losing access to the blog or to my YouTube content would have been a great loss, but this is more than a decade of blogging I'm talking about here. Still available online, but possibly compromised and certainly uneditable if I couldn't get access back. Just like the Blogspot account I started a few years before this one. It's out there, somewhere. I don't even remember what I called it. So if you come across a highly obscure blog with drivel that matches what I've got here, drop me a line.
So I have a Kindle Fire HD. I use it a lot.
But lately, when I open up the Silk web browser, I get this message:
So. You know, dear regular readers of this blog, that I've been working on the garage. Generally cleaning things up and putting up new shelves to store the crap we've accumulated.*
You also know how these projects have a tendency to cascade.
Allow me to demonstrate.
Back in March, the pandemic hit and my company sent me home to work. That meant a lot of time in the study in front of the computer. Now, when I work, I like distractions. Music. Videos. Sometimes games while I'm waiting on other people. My wife, who also has a computer in the study, has a very different approach to work. Maybe a little music. But mostly silence and concentration.
She went through a few months of this, then not too long ago moved her computer next door to the craft room. She hung a picture of me on the wall so she wouldn't forget what I look like. But that meant a lot of shuffling things around in both rooms, and the conclusion came that there was too much stuff in the craft room.
So we went to Home Depot, got some insulation and started working in the garage. After relocating shelves in the craft room and making them longer, of course.
Working in the garage meant, as I've already blogged, removing the garage window. Which is fine, since it'll give me a good long wall to practice replacing siding on before I get to the more visible parts of the house.
But doing the shelves meant moving stuff. Which includes my workbench, which will require more shelving, and the freezer, which means removing other shelving and replacing it since the Christmas trees have to live somehwere.
Then today the ping-pong table, conveniently stored in the basement blocking our access to the DVD shelves, collapsed and was threatening to fall on us, crushing us all. Because whoever engineered this thing wanted a sturdy, sturdy table but one that folded in half for easy storage, and supported it with the worst spindly assortment of screwed-together piping ever seen outside of a paper straw factory.
So the debris is now in the garage, in the location where I want to put my tool shelves. Meaning the table has to be fixed and relocated before the shelves can go up.
So I have unilaterally decided the table is going to become an outdoor appliance, once I reconstruct it so it has a sturdy foundation. I'll throw a tarp over it during inclement weather, or figure out a way to make it party dismantleable so it can be stored in the garage. or it'll burn down under mysterious circumstances and I won't know why.
And that still leaves half a house worth of siding in the garage spot meant for my car.
It's never going to get there.
*Yes, I've tried to weed through the crap. I occasionally succeed in passing off some of it to someone else, or sneaking some of it into the trash when no one is looking. But we still have lots and lots and lots of crap.
Just curious to see if anyone else notices this.
In case you can't read my henscratches:
The dotted line I call "teh funny," which represents my Facebook friends who primarily use the 'book to joke around. They are early risers,or at least early on social media. They make up the majority of my Facebook friends.
The hash line I call the "political loons." They're the ones who are all SHOUTY politics about 95 percent of the time. They represent all shades of the political spectrum, and are about a quarter of my Facebook friends.
Why is six to ten pm their social media prime time? I don't mind, as it gives me a great excuse to avoid Facebook most evenings. Also, their presence is most heavily felt Saturday through Tuesday, for some reason, but that's for another chart.
Does anyone else see this, or is it just me?
I'll head off some of the most obvious knee-jerks:
1. Most everyone I know on Facebook has a jerb, so don't tell me "teh funny" is the jerbless ones. They may be layabouts and dreamers, but they've obviously convinced someone they're employable.
2. I'll mention this again: The political loons are all over the spectrum, from left to right to Libertarian to a few who are borderline anarcho-communists (you know who you are and I love you). Yet they all appear with striking regularity in their allotted time slots. Maybe that's when they take their tinfoil hats off or something.
3. Don't tell me about Facebook algorithms or other such stuff. I have noticed this pattern for years.
A Venn diagram of these groups would show some overlap. And I don't mind if people occasionally discuss politics. They're the ones who tend to, shall we say, sag in the middle like I do.
Anyhoo, it's just one of those things.
Then ironically this comes up on Facebook just after I posted.
A new home wrecking/improvement project: Garage shelves.
Though as is familiar with a lot of projects, there's a lot of stuff that has to happen first before the shelves go up.
What you're seeing here is the end result of removing the single garage window and walling up the space. It maybe looks stupid on the outside, but the good thing is I still have siding to do on the house, so it'll be covered up before winter. (That's my goal, anyway, to finish the siding on the lower part of the house before winter.)
Funny thing is this morning I had convinced myself to leave the window in place. Then I went out to the garage and looked and figured this sixteen square feet of space would be much better used as shelves for storage than as a window. There are plenty of opportunities to introduce natural light, through the doors. And I'm hoping that once we're done with the shelves, I'll be able to use and open the side door to let more light in.
We have, shall we say, accumulated over the years since we moved in. I have moved a bunch of stuff to the crawlspace, but that's not a solution that's going to keep on working. Plus we've got a lot of camping equipment, for us and for Troop 1010, that needs to go somewhere. And I'd like an easier-to-access (and keep clean) work bench. So the work bench is being moved to the back wall of the garage, and floor-to ceiling shelves are going up on the north wall. We've had some shelving there, but it's hodge-podge and not really all that sturdy. Hoping this will lead us into a new era of storage. And probably more work when we look at the south wall with its sagging shelving and decide we need to do something to make that a bit better too.
One of the things I want to do with this current project is to find a space on the north wall to put Christmas trees, so the spot where the trees are now can be reconfigured to become home to the freezer and other tall things, like tables and such. Hoping that happens, but I have to find spots for the trees first or that project won't go anywhere fast.
And while this is again delaying the siding, it's at least getting a bit of exterior remodel done so when it's time for siding, I'm not worried about whether to cover up that window or not. That choice has already been made.
I can't complete the interior yet, though. we need to get some outlets put in before I get too far along. But we can't delay forever because the back porch has become a garage junk staging area.
What I'm undecided on is where my drawers are going to go. I brought a six-drawer dresser that was in our shed in Sugar City, and it's handy beyond all reason for bits from plumbing to painting. I may get rid of the shell and stack the drawers in a custom built-in by the workbench, if I can manage it.
So I'm plowing through more than 2,000 emails, finding those I need to keep and deleting the rest. They extend from August through late winter 2019, and it's been an interesting voyage through the covid-19 pandemic.
Going backwards through the emails, I saw conspiracies, delayed returns to church, plans for school to recommence, debates over masks, preaching about social distancing, talk of government stimulus, Zoom meeting links for the Scout meetings we held remotely, temples closing and church being cancelled, defiance of stay-at-home orders, a drive-through high school graduation for our daughter, companies letting me know "We're In this Together" and the initial uncertainties about stay-at-home orders, school being cancelled, working from home and every other little thing you could think of.
I also have emails from a friend who passed on, and link to his obituary.
I'm now into the pre-covid emails, marveling at how much simpler it was only a few short months ago.
And yet it's the message that contained the link to this video that means the most to me.
That "I love you" still pierces my heart. But in a good way.
But I came across a lot of blessings too.
Our son, on a local service mission, has been able to continue, with minimal interruption. Our daughter only had to pay $350 plus books for her first semester at Idaho State, thanks to scholarships that came in when needed. Our youngest has been able to use his budding leadership skills to help guide the Order of the Arrow lodge through covid times. And my wife and I have remained employed the whole time. These are blessings, temporal and spiritual. And for those, I thank God.
