jumpingfish › version 3.0

Thinking Too Much

Sat, 18 Sep 2010, 01:38 PM (-06:00)

I sat down at the computer the other day and read this article at the BBC about a study recently published in Science. According to the article,

[…] a nationwide survey recently found that some people think too much about life.

These people have poorer memories, and they may also be depressed.

When I read that, I thought about my life, and I thought my forgetfulness?. I sat back and thought about thinking about those things. And I thought about thinking about thinking about those things.

Then I read that quote in the article again. And I thought I’m so toast.

Reading Our Books

Tue, 7 Sep 2010, 07:00 PM (-06:00)

It was the end of the day.

The fair and industrious Trudy was sitting in the green recliner with her feet up. She was reading a book. I was sitting in the beige recliner reading my book. Periodically she would chuckle and sometimes laugh out loud.

I turned to watch her. She was smiling and chortling and wiggling in her feet, focusing so intently that she didn’t catch me spying.

After a while, I returned to my book. The centuries-old civilization was falling apart, their great libraries burned, their society fractured, their future crumbling before their eyes. As I read the final chapters, the grim story got worse.

The family was breaking. The goons were ascendant. The village was razed to the ground, the villagers killed by soldiers told to leave no trace of the place on the map. And little Yazid was killed by the captain on his horse as the boy invited the man to the family compound.

As I closed the cover, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.

I need to change the things I read. I want something to chuckle at.

Water, Water Everywhere

Tue, 7 Sep 2010, 05:05 PM (-06:00)

The August heat was brutal—not on us, we can always sit in the shade and drink iced tea or retreat to the house, but brutal on the garden.

As we dug in the dirt last weekend, preparing for fall, we looked in horror at the parched, dry dirt just below the surface that we had been so dutifully watering. It was a veritable Sahara Desert, I tell you. Clearly the soaker hose didn’t soak as much as we thought it had.

So on Saturday we cast our dollars to the wind and bought Submatic pipe and fittings and filters and valves and constructed a drip irrigation system for out two most-abused square foot garden beds.

We sat in the heat and cut the pipe and pushed the reluctant parts together. We cut up pieces of an old scrounged hose to connect one bed to the next. And in the full southern sun of afternoon, we installed the emitters, turned on the water and watched as the first drips dripped.

We stood beside the beds covered in dirt and sweat, smiling and congratulating ourselves, wondering silently how it could have possibly taken us so long.

And today?

Today we’ve had torrential rains as what’s left of Hurricane Hermine passes west of us, swinging her great counter-clockwise spinning arms overhead. Since last night to this very moment, it has been a deluge with more water falling from the sky in the course of 12 hours than we had all summer long.

I guess we’ll test out the drip irrigation system later.

The Elder Statesman’s Lie

Wed, 25 Aug 2010, 04:13 PM (-06:00)

Former Senator and elder statesman Alan Simpson recently ignited a firestorm when he sent an insulting email regarding Social Security to Ashely Carson, Executive Director of the Older Women’s League, an organization that advocates on behalf of older women. The headlines have included his accusation that America has become a “milk cow with 310 million tits” as an example of how the good former senator shows off his statesmanship.

Now I don’t want to talk about Social Security. I want to talk about the good senator’s subsequent apology.

I apologize for what I wrote. I can see that my remarks have caused you anguish, and that was not my intention.

Good for him, except that this is hogwash.

If it wasn’t his intention, then just what did he think he was doing? You can get a copy of the original email from the OWL website [PDF: here]:

I have news for you too, my friend.
[…] people like you babble into the vapors […] and all that crap.
[…] take a look at the chart […] which I hope you are able to discern if you are any good at reading graphs — or anything that might challenge your biases and prejudices.
Call when you get honest work!

I’m sorry, but this is not someone who accidentally strayed into a bout of bad language. This wasn’t a slip of the tongue. This was a calculated, intentional, sophomoric slam. It was clearly his intention to insult Ms. Carson.

Like most politicians, Mr. Simpson is fundamentally unable to issue a real apology. Even when he comes close (“I apologize for what I wrote.”), he obfuscates with disingenuous platitudes (“Next time I’m in Washington, perhaps we could meet in person”), and he lies (“that was not my intention”).

Elder statesman indeed.

—
hat tip: Barbara Morrill/dkos: “What was your intention, Mr. Simpson?”

$10.01

Mon, 23 Aug 2010, 09:01 PM (-06:00)

“That’ll be $3.46,” the girl behind the counter said.

I pulled out a ten and then said, “Wait, I’ve got some change.”

I looked at the coins in my hand: just a bunch of quarters and pennies.

“Well, at least here’s the penny,” I said, and handed her $10.01.

She didn’t flinch, which was a good sign. She just took the money and pushed some buttons on the cash register, and the cash drawer popped open.

There was some fiddling with bills. She got a five and some ones and then put some ones back and then put them all back and got out a small pad of paper and started scribbling. Then she mumbled something as she pulled out some coins.

Clearly, she was trying to figure out how to make change for my $10.01.

I swear I didn’t think it’d be hard. You don’t have to do math these days to run a register. Heck, you don’t even enter numbers, you just push little buttons for the burgers and the fries and the drinks. I figured the machine would tell her what to do. But the machine evidently didn’t tell her what to do, and her scribbling had evidently been an attempt at subtraction: 10.01 – 3.46.

Fortunately, there was no line behind me.

“Hey, how do I do this?” she asked the guy at the register next to her. She told him what I had done, and he stared in blank silence looking at her cash drawer.

I leaned forward.

“How much was my bill?” I asked.

She looked up.

“My bill was $3.46. I gave you $10.01. The penny makes my bill $3.45. So just give my change for $3.45 from $10.”

It didn’t help.

“$6.55,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the guy next to her said, nodding his head and quickly returning to his register.

She gave me $6.55, and I stepped back and eagerly waited for my burger and fries.

Summer’s End: Flying Back to School

Mon, 23 Aug 2010, 07:54 AM (-06:00)

He had an early flight. We left the house before the sun came up, and the three of us (Trudy, his mom and I) drove Ben to the airport to go back to school.

It was wonderful to have him back in town for the summer, of course: nice to eat eggs around the table in the morning, nice to meet at noon for lunch, nice to walk the dog with him in the fields in the evening, to hear his voice and see him smile.

But summer is over, and he’s going back to school.

At the curb, we got out of the car and hugged and said goodbye. He tossed his packs over his shoulders and pulled up the handles on his two suitcases and walked away, looking back over his shoulders and smiling at each of us. The airport doors slid open as he approached, and he went inside, looking back and smiling when his mom shouted goodbye one more time.

Southwest flight #1229 left on time about 30 minutes ago, and he should be changing planes in Chicago in a few hours. He’s probably looking out the window watching Arkansas go by, thinking about being back at Oberlin. No, what am I saying? He’s sleeping right now, because he was up late last night packing.

No need for tears this time: he had a great summer, and he’s so excited by be going back that he can barely stand it. Still there’s an empty place in my heart that feels a little like it used to feel when I would return to Houston on Sunday evenings, driving down Cattle Drive, flailing my arm out the window and watching him in the rear-view mirror as he waved goodbye.

And I sometimes secretly wish that he wasn’t going to school so far away.

Ramadan Sky

Fri, 13 Aug 2010, 10:17 PM (-06:00)

We’ve been watching the sky lately, gazing into the night with our eyes angled upward.

It’s been a pretty good show. Venus shining brightly in the western sky just after the sun goes down. Saturn and Mars in conjunction above her to the right and left, respectively. And for a while even Mercury lower on the horizon, barely twinkling in the rosy post-sunset glow.

I haven’t seen Mercury for a week or so, but a few days ago, as people around the world began their celebrations of Ramadan, a thin crescent Moon began to appear, gliding along her zodiacal path, making her presence known more and more with each passing night.

And last night, we went out to watch the Perseids. We took the dog and two chairs and sat out in the soccer fields behind the school and looked up at the heavens.

We’re not in the country, here. The light from downtown Austin bounced off thin wisps of haze, blotting out all but the brightest stars. And there were bright pink lamp posts not too far away along the highway and in the parking lots and around the track and by the bank. So the sky gazing was … sub-optimal.

Still, we saw one long streak that made us gasp. So we came home happy.

And we went out again tonight. It wasn’t in our plans, but the dog was telling us it was time. And so although we didn’t take the chairs this time, we hung around out there, lying out there in the middle of the soccer fields on the scratchy grass ignoring the distant lamp posts and the glowing wisps of almost-cloud. We hung around as the dog grew impatient and prodded us to go. We hung around and watched the sky.

I counted four. Trudy counted two. The dog counted none. And we all came home happy again.

Waiting for a Train

Thu, 12 Aug 2010, 06:39 PM (-06:00)

Soon after we sat down to wait for the next subway train, a woman and her young son walked up and sat near us. I didn’t notice them at first, but then the boy erupted in an exclamation of unconstrained glee.

“I’ve never ridden a train before!”

A few seconds later, he repeated himself, this time jumping up from his seat and shouting.

“Oh I’ve just never ridden a train before!!”

His mother smiled at us and got him to sit back down. Then a few seconds later, clearly unable to stand the suspense of waiting for the train to arrive, he got shouted again.

“A train. A train! I can’t wait for the train!!”

And he wiggled his body and shook his head and flailed his arms in ecstasy at the very thought of it.

And of course, in just a few moments we could hear the arriving train coming down the subway tunnel.His mother stood up and as the train came out of the dark tunnel, she grabbed his hand, and they walked up to board.

He’ll never forget it. How is it possible that he’d ever forget? I certainly won’t.

Got a Map?

Thu, 12 Aug 2010, 03:10 PM (-06:00)

We had just ordered breakfast atÂ ï»¿the Euro-bistro on the corner near the hotel, and we were trying to figure out how to get down toÂ ï»¿Vieux MontrÃ©al. A family sitting next to us suggested that we take a look at their map of the bus and metro system. It was the #129 bus that we wanted, but there were also some metro options.

We decided to take the metro.

So we retraced a bit of our walk from the night before, pausing once at a bench to let Dad’s knees recoup. And when we descended into the metro station, I walked up to the information booth and asked for a map in the best French I could muster.

“Est-ce que vous avez une carte?” I asked, carte being the word I know for map. Frankly, it was the first complete French sentence I had uttered since we got to Montreal, and I was feeling proud (in a lame kind of way).

The woman couldn’t hear me and motioned for me to ask again, which I did. But she didn’t understand and pointed to the microphone. I repeated myself again, leaning into the mic. She looked at me as if I were from Mars.

“Une carte, avez vous une carte … um … une carte du systÃ¨me?” And I waved my hands around the station to indicate what I meant by systÃ¨me, having pulled the word from English.

Again a look as if I were from Mars. She reached for some piece of paper that was clearly not what I was looking for.Â And then I saw the maps in a box behind her, a stack of neatly folded maps just like the one we had looked at earlier.

“Est-ce que vous avez … un … map?” I asked, pointing at the maps, desperate for the map, no longer caring if I used French or English.

She rolled her eyes and reached for a map and slid it under the glass.

“Merci beaucoup,” I said.

I looked down at the map. On the cover page it said, Plan du rÃ©seau, which explained everything. I didn’t want une carte, I wanted un plan.Â So much for my first French sentence.

They Can Just Tell

Wed, 11 Aug 2010, 09:19 PM (-06:00)

It was kind of like when I see a little kid from India or Pakistan. We pass each other, and they look up at me. I mean, they stare at me hard with a look of recognition in their eyes, turning to look back at me when we pass. Even Trudy can see it: they know. They know I’ve got some of that blood. The little kids, they can just tell.

So we were wandering around the McGill campus, having peeked into the Rutherford Physics Building in search of The Rutherford Museum. Trudy and I had alsoÂ spent a little time in the Redpath Museum looking at fossils and rocks and other geological things. We’d been walking a lot, and I’m sure Dad’s knees were hurting as we walked down hill, so we were walking slowly.

And we came upon a bright blue section of pavement marking two handicapped parking spaces. It hadn’t been there on our way up the hill earlier, so I figured it was still wet, and I steered around it, but Trudy, Khadija and Dad walked across it, making me cringe.

Two painters were taking a break on the other side of a little grass strip, evidently having just finished their painting. As we approached, they had stopped talking and watched us closely. I was waiting for them to yell at us.

And just then one of them did shout something. I looked over, and he was addressing himself to Dad.

“Pardon?” Dad said.

The painter repeated himself, but I couldn’t understand what he said.Â Dad replied using words and a tone of voice that were equally foreign. And of course it was at that point, just as the first “Acha!” came out, I realized they were speaking Urdu.

So we stood there, Trudy, Khadija and I, as Dad had this long back-and-forth conversation with this guy. They were clearly talking about where they came from and when they came to North America, and they were smiling broadly.

This went on for a few minutes with the two of them speaking in animated tones, periodically waving a hand to emphasize a point.Â And then the two men said goodbye, and we continued our walk down the hill back to the hotel.

So here’s the thing of it…

We were strangers in this French-speaking town wandering around this English-speaking university as tourists. And these two guys were painters taking a break in the shade. And the one looked at Dad and instantly broke out in Urdu as if Dad had a sign hanging from his neck saying, “I speak Urdu.”

He knew. He could just tell, just like those little kids.