(First of all, my apologies to those who are offended by my use of the word "crap." I figured it was better than some of the alternatives, and I used it deliberately because it comes closest to what I'm trying to say.)
Most of my American and Canadian readers will remember the Yellow Pages, the part of the phone book that came after the alphabetical listings in the (non-capitalized) white pages. The Yellow Pages were a listing, arranged alphabetically by category, of businesses and services. The Yellow Pages were a great source of income for the telephone company and, in later years, for the independent publishers of telephone directories.
(The term "Yellow Pages" should be capitalized and marked with an (R) symbol, because it is a registered trademark of somebody. Let's pretend it is, in this posting. There, that ought to keep the corporate lawyers off my back.)
In recent years, the Yellow Pages went online. Both the paper and electronic versions changed their names to "Dex." The electronic version was known as "Dex Online," and then as "Dex Knows."
For a long time, Dex Online / Dex Knows was really useful. But this morning I became concerned that "Dex Knows" is being replaced by "Dex Blows." Let me illustrate by example:
I needed to find an address for Frontline Medical Laboratory in our town. I went to Dex Knows and typed in "Frontline Medical." Dex couldn't find it, told me so, and suggested some alternative search terms. That's good programming. I would expect a human being to do the same thing for me.
So I tried "Frontline Lab" instead. This one got results, all right: five advertisements from companies with the word "frontline" or the word "lab" in either the name of the company, their one-line advertising text, or their website URL.
In fact, that's all the information that was given on each company: the name, the spiel, and the URL. That's not what I wanted. I go to Dex Online to look up the address and phone number of a business, not this other crap. In fact, if what I need is an address or phone number, all this other information is useless crap.
I must be fair, and not overreact here. This behavior may be a simple aberration.
I decided to test it further. I entered the name of my favorite local auto body shop, and Dex gave me a name, address, phone number and map. Then I entered "Auto Body and Paint," and Dex gave me a listing of body shops, with phone number and address.
I entered "Old Cars," and Dex gave me a listing of auto shops that work on "antique vehicles." (Yeah, I guess a '67 Mustang is an antique. I still miss that car.)
So far, so good.
There used to be a wholesale beef outlet around here, so I searched for it using the term "meatmasters." Whoops - Dex served up the lousy, useless advertising again. Then I broke the term into two words, "meat masters." That worked: Dex didn't find "Meat Masters," but it did offer me a selection of delis and wholesale outlets.
I decided to try "Frontline Medical" again. This time, it didn't give me the friendly "We can't find ..." screen. Instead, it gave me the useless crap. I got suspicious. It had worked before; why not now? I clicked the "Search" button several times, to see what would happen. Sometimes Dex would come back with the "We can't find ..." screen, but often it would come back with the advertising junk. Moreover, the advertising junk changed every time I clicked "Search."
So it's not an aberration. Dex is programmed to be helpful to the consumer some of the time, and to be helpful to the advertiser all of the time.
Now, I'm not naïve. Dex makes their money by selling advertising; that's how they can afford to offer this service for free to customers like me. I understand that. I have a high opinion of the programming that makes Dex work so well -- except for this crappy "default to advertising and URL" branch. I think it's a mistake, and it makes Dex much less useful to me.
In fact, I ended up finding the address and phone number for Frontline Medical Lab by leaving Dex and going to Google instead.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
On Keeping a Journal
I think that writing in a journal or a diary is becoming a lost art. It seems like the secrets we used to record on the pages of our diaries, the most intimate details of our lives, are now broadcast for all the world to see -- on blogs, on social networking pages, on tweets, and on chats. I'm not willing to bare my soul to that extent.
My own journal contains two entries for 2006, nothing for 2007, and three entries for 2008. This is because, in 2005, I made a conscious decision to stop writing in my journal and devote that energy to writing letters to my children instead, as my four grown-up offspring found themselves literally in the four corners of the world. I rationalized that my mails and emails contained enough information for a biographer to reconstruct my life, if anybody really wanted to.
I stubbornly ignored the fact that, while my family letters contained news and the occasional patriarchal expostulation, they concealed my feelings and some of the more private events in my life. In fact, the past six years have been a brain-rattling, roller-coaster sequence of ups and downs: financially, spiritually, and emotionally. I don't want to commit the ascending parts or the high points to paper, fearing that although the words will remain, the hopes and the joys will be replaced again by disappointment and discouragement. I don't want to record the descents or the low points because, honestly, there are some details about this journey that I do not want to remember.
My online persona is carefully edited and managed, so that the rest of the world does not see the roller-coaster trajectory of my life or the framework that it is built upon.
But it's time for me to write in my journal again. Call it a declaration of hope, if you will.
--
I have a friend who keeps his journal on his computer. He stores a backup copy of his journal online, somewhere in "the cloud." Good for him. I can't do that.
Corporations and government agencies have thousands, billions, of records, stored on old computer tapes in climate-controlled storage. As long as the climate control keeps working, those magnetic tapes will last for a long time. However, the machines to read those tapes wore out a decade ago, and nobody is making any new ones. For all the good it did to store those records so carefully, nobody will ever be able to read them.
Today, with our "modern" computers, we face other risks with anything we commit to the computer: power failure, battery failure, OS failure, hard disk failure, CD/DVD damage, and Internet shutdown.
On the other hand, another piece of the Codex Sinaiticus was recently discovered in the binding of an old book at the Monastery of St. Catherine, at the bottom of the Sinai peninsula. The Codex Sinaiticus is one of the oldest copies of the Bible, having been written between 325 and 360 A.D. It was written in ink on sheets of parchment. The largest portion of the Codex Siniaticus is in the British Library; however, the monks liked to reuse old parchment, and so pieces of it keep showing up in other old books. It's practically indestructible.
I have been observing this "ancient vs. modern" trend for several years now. Technologists keep trying to come up with new archival document formats, to replace ink on parchment, but so far they have not been very successful. Nothing has proven to last even one tenth as long as ink on parchment, except maybe ink on paper. Since parchment is rather scarce and expensive these days, I'm going to write my journal by hand, in ink, on paper.
My own journal contains two entries for 2006, nothing for 2007, and three entries for 2008. This is because, in 2005, I made a conscious decision to stop writing in my journal and devote that energy to writing letters to my children instead, as my four grown-up offspring found themselves literally in the four corners of the world. I rationalized that my mails and emails contained enough information for a biographer to reconstruct my life, if anybody really wanted to.
I stubbornly ignored the fact that, while my family letters contained news and the occasional patriarchal expostulation, they concealed my feelings and some of the more private events in my life. In fact, the past six years have been a brain-rattling, roller-coaster sequence of ups and downs: financially, spiritually, and emotionally. I don't want to commit the ascending parts or the high points to paper, fearing that although the words will remain, the hopes and the joys will be replaced again by disappointment and discouragement. I don't want to record the descents or the low points because, honestly, there are some details about this journey that I do not want to remember.
My online persona is carefully edited and managed, so that the rest of the world does not see the roller-coaster trajectory of my life or the framework that it is built upon.
But it's time for me to write in my journal again. Call it a declaration of hope, if you will.
--
I have a friend who keeps his journal on his computer. He stores a backup copy of his journal online, somewhere in "the cloud." Good for him. I can't do that.
Corporations and government agencies have thousands, billions, of records, stored on old computer tapes in climate-controlled storage. As long as the climate control keeps working, those magnetic tapes will last for a long time. However, the machines to read those tapes wore out a decade ago, and nobody is making any new ones. For all the good it did to store those records so carefully, nobody will ever be able to read them.
Today, with our "modern" computers, we face other risks with anything we commit to the computer: power failure, battery failure, OS failure, hard disk failure, CD/DVD damage, and Internet shutdown.
On the other hand, another piece of the Codex Sinaiticus was recently discovered in the binding of an old book at the Monastery of St. Catherine, at the bottom of the Sinai peninsula. The Codex Sinaiticus is one of the oldest copies of the Bible, having been written between 325 and 360 A.D. It was written in ink on sheets of parchment. The largest portion of the Codex Siniaticus is in the British Library; however, the monks liked to reuse old parchment, and so pieces of it keep showing up in other old books. It's practically indestructible.
I have been observing this "ancient vs. modern" trend for several years now. Technologists keep trying to come up with new archival document formats, to replace ink on parchment, but so far they have not been very successful. Nothing has proven to last even one tenth as long as ink on parchment, except maybe ink on paper. Since parchment is rather scarce and expensive these days, I'm going to write my journal by hand, in ink, on paper.
Friday, August 21, 2009
"Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them"
Can I just say how much I love my children?
This morning, as my youngest child headed out the door for school, I stood at the open window and barked goodbye to him. Yes, really. It's a family tradition, which started when our dog was just a puppy and would bark like crazy whenever anybody entered, exited, or walked past our home. It's a way of saying "Goodbye, I love you, have a good day, I'll miss you, come home safe."
As he opened the car door, my son looked up, grinned, and barked back at me. We kept it going for a good 30 seconds. In those 30 seconds, my mind flashed back 12 years, to when I had a similar conversation with my oldest son, and then in an instant I remembered all the fun morning rituals I have shared with my daughters as well.
I've been especially blessed in this life to be a father, not only to my five biological offspring, but also to their friends, their classmates and teammates, and now their spouses; to my nieces and nephews; and to many of my Boy Scouts and my students over the years. I treasure these relationships more than any Italian villa or stock portfolio. And the ones I treasure the most are the ones I share with my own sons and daughters.
The psalmist said, "Children are an heritage of the Lord ... happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them." If that's the measure of happiness, then I'm happy.
This morning, as my youngest child headed out the door for school, I stood at the open window and barked goodbye to him. Yes, really. It's a family tradition, which started when our dog was just a puppy and would bark like crazy whenever anybody entered, exited, or walked past our home. It's a way of saying "Goodbye, I love you, have a good day, I'll miss you, come home safe."
As he opened the car door, my son looked up, grinned, and barked back at me. We kept it going for a good 30 seconds. In those 30 seconds, my mind flashed back 12 years, to when I had a similar conversation with my oldest son, and then in an instant I remembered all the fun morning rituals I have shared with my daughters as well.
I've been especially blessed in this life to be a father, not only to my five biological offspring, but also to their friends, their classmates and teammates, and now their spouses; to my nieces and nephews; and to many of my Boy Scouts and my students over the years. I treasure these relationships more than any Italian villa or stock portfolio. And the ones I treasure the most are the ones I share with my own sons and daughters.
The psalmist said, "Children are an heritage of the Lord ... happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them." If that's the measure of happiness, then I'm happy.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Here's a great way to lay someone off
Okay, all you CEOs, HR types, and managerial types out there, pay attention. Here's a great new way to lay somebody off or fire them. It's really cool.
Near the end of the workday, say around 4:30 p.m., send them an email saying "You're out." The closer to 5 p.m. you send the message, the better.
Cancel their email account sometime between 5:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. the next day.
This works best if they have no idea it's coming.
It's sneaky, it's clever, and if they complain, you can always ask them, "Well, why didn't you check your email between 4:30 and 5:00? Did you knock off early or something?"
Near the end of the workday, say around 4:30 p.m., send them an email saying "You're out." The closer to 5 p.m. you send the message, the better.
Cancel their email account sometime between 5:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. the next day.
This works best if they have no idea it's coming.
It's sneaky, it's clever, and if they complain, you can always ask them, "Well, why didn't you check your email between 4:30 and 5:00? Did you knock off early or something?"
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
On Removing Brake Drums
Our first car, a 1969 Plymouth Satellite, had drum brakes all around. I got to be an expert at working on drum brakes.
Our second car, a 1974 Chevy Impala station wagon, had drum brakes on the back, and I think it had disk brakes on the front. I don't remember. But because of my experience with the Satellite, the Chevy's brakes were no big deal.
A succession of minivans and small commuter cars followed, most of them with disks in front and drums in back. (Disk brakes, by the way, are a cinch.)
Today, in an effort to save money, I decided to do all four brakes on our 1990 Geo Prizm myself. Disks up front, both finished in about an hour. Drums in back, a different story. I pried one drum off with two large screwdrivers and some lucky hits from a rubber mallet. The other drum refused to give itself up. It was frozen to the axle, and it wasn't about to move.
I thought I was an expert. Phooey on my expertise.
Herewith, some advice gleaned from personal experience and from the Internet.
1. If it doesn't simply slide off, then try the following steps in the order given.
2. If it's a rear brake, then block the front tires and release the parking brake. (Duh.)
3. Check the lugs for retaining clips. Many new cars and some VWs have retaining clips on two of the lugs, used to hold the drum on during assembly. Remove the clips. Don't worry if you break them; you won't need them again. (Not on my Geo.)
4. Check the face of the drum for small bolts or a Philips head screw. Some cars use these to hold the drum on during assembly and maintenance -- sounds like a good idea. If you remove them, the drum should magically fall off. (Not on my Geo.)
5. Check the face of the drum for two threaded bolt holes. If you find them, you're in luck. Screw in a couple of bolts of the correct length, and as soon as they contact the backing plate, they will gently but firmly push the drum off the axle/hub. This is an elegant solution, as the drum becomes its own extraction tool. (Not on my Geo.)
6. If it's still not coming off, then you really do need to remove the rubber plug from the slot on the backing plate, reach in with two screwdrivers, hold the ratchet up and spin the star wheel all the way closed. (Read the manual; you'll understand.) If the drums are very old and have never been turned, then the shoes may have worn down the drum, leaving a lip on the edge, and the only way to get that lip past the shoes is to back the shoes off, all the way. You want the wheel/drum to spin freely, with absolutely no rubbing. (This applies mostly to old cars, but pretend it applies to your car, too.)
7. Still not coming off? Okay, the next step lets you take out your frustrations on the wheel. WARNING! WEAR GOGGLES OR SAFETY GLASSES WHEN YOU DO THIS! Long sleeves, long pants, closed toe shoes and work gloves might be a good idea, too. But at the very least, PROTECT YOUR EYES.
Apply PB Blaster, WD-40, or some other penetrating oil to the seam between the drum and the axle/hub, and to the lug nuts where they pass through the drum. Do this several times. Wait an hour or more -- be patient. Then, take a regular old metal hammer and give the drum an enthusiastic whack, right on the shoulder -- where the face curves around and becomes the side of the drum.
Hit it straight on, perpendicular to the face, not at an angle. The harder you hit it, the better. The drum is built to withstand stronger impacts than a human-powered hammer.
One whack should be enough to break the drum loose. If not, rotate the drum a half turn and hit it again. Do this repeatedly on different areas around the shoulder of the drum. Eventually, you will see the drum pop loose. Then you can wiggle it off. (Works every time. Almost.)
8. If that didn't work, then you can use a spreader bar, a gear puller, or some other tension tool to yank off the drum. Work slowly and carefully if you want to save the drum and reuse it. Working too fast, or using an impact tool to tighten the puller, may ruin the drum. If you don't see any action, leave the drum under tension overnight. That clanging sound you hear at 3:30 a.m. will be the drum finally giving up.
(Thanks to Nathan McCullough and Expert Village (http://www.ehow.com/video_2327529_remove-tires-brake-drum.html) for the hammer tip. That did the trick for me.)
(The discussion at http://forum.doityourself.com/all-trucks-campers-trailers-rvs-motor-homes/301486-brake-drum-removal.html also suggests heating the drum with a torch to break it loose from the hub. Apparently it works very well, but it's not something I'd be willing to try in an enclosed space.)
Our second car, a 1974 Chevy Impala station wagon, had drum brakes on the back, and I think it had disk brakes on the front. I don't remember. But because of my experience with the Satellite, the Chevy's brakes were no big deal.
A succession of minivans and small commuter cars followed, most of them with disks in front and drums in back. (Disk brakes, by the way, are a cinch.)
Today, in an effort to save money, I decided to do all four brakes on our 1990 Geo Prizm myself. Disks up front, both finished in about an hour. Drums in back, a different story. I pried one drum off with two large screwdrivers and some lucky hits from a rubber mallet. The other drum refused to give itself up. It was frozen to the axle, and it wasn't about to move.
I thought I was an expert. Phooey on my expertise.
Herewith, some advice gleaned from personal experience and from the Internet.
1. If it doesn't simply slide off, then try the following steps in the order given.
2. If it's a rear brake, then block the front tires and release the parking brake. (Duh.)
3. Check the lugs for retaining clips. Many new cars and some VWs have retaining clips on two of the lugs, used to hold the drum on during assembly. Remove the clips. Don't worry if you break them; you won't need them again. (Not on my Geo.)
4. Check the face of the drum for small bolts or a Philips head screw. Some cars use these to hold the drum on during assembly and maintenance -- sounds like a good idea. If you remove them, the drum should magically fall off. (Not on my Geo.)
5. Check the face of the drum for two threaded bolt holes. If you find them, you're in luck. Screw in a couple of bolts of the correct length, and as soon as they contact the backing plate, they will gently but firmly push the drum off the axle/hub. This is an elegant solution, as the drum becomes its own extraction tool. (Not on my Geo.)
6. If it's still not coming off, then you really do need to remove the rubber plug from the slot on the backing plate, reach in with two screwdrivers, hold the ratchet up and spin the star wheel all the way closed. (Read the manual; you'll understand.) If the drums are very old and have never been turned, then the shoes may have worn down the drum, leaving a lip on the edge, and the only way to get that lip past the shoes is to back the shoes off, all the way. You want the wheel/drum to spin freely, with absolutely no rubbing. (This applies mostly to old cars, but pretend it applies to your car, too.)
7. Still not coming off? Okay, the next step lets you take out your frustrations on the wheel. WARNING! WEAR GOGGLES OR SAFETY GLASSES WHEN YOU DO THIS! Long sleeves, long pants, closed toe shoes and work gloves might be a good idea, too. But at the very least, PROTECT YOUR EYES.
Apply PB Blaster, WD-40, or some other penetrating oil to the seam between the drum and the axle/hub, and to the lug nuts where they pass through the drum. Do this several times. Wait an hour or more -- be patient. Then, take a regular old metal hammer and give the drum an enthusiastic whack, right on the shoulder -- where the face curves around and becomes the side of the drum.
Hit it straight on, perpendicular to the face, not at an angle. The harder you hit it, the better. The drum is built to withstand stronger impacts than a human-powered hammer.
One whack should be enough to break the drum loose. If not, rotate the drum a half turn and hit it again. Do this repeatedly on different areas around the shoulder of the drum. Eventually, you will see the drum pop loose. Then you can wiggle it off. (Works every time. Almost.)
8. If that didn't work, then you can use a spreader bar, a gear puller, or some other tension tool to yank off the drum. Work slowly and carefully if you want to save the drum and reuse it. Working too fast, or using an impact tool to tighten the puller, may ruin the drum. If you don't see any action, leave the drum under tension overnight. That clanging sound you hear at 3:30 a.m. will be the drum finally giving up.
(Thanks to Nathan McCullough and Expert Village (http://www.ehow.com/video_2327529_remove-tires-brake-drum.html) for the hammer tip. That did the trick for me.)
(The discussion at http://forum.doityourself.com/all-trucks-campers-trailers-rvs-motor-homes/301486-brake-drum-removal.html also suggests heating the drum with a torch to break it loose from the hub. Apparently it works very well, but it's not something I'd be willing to try in an enclosed space.)
Friday, July 31, 2009
Fiction: "Transported"
I wrote this short story in 2007, when I was working at a computer company in Fort Collins. I hope you like it. If you do, vote for it at the end of the story, and forward the link to your friends.
Longs Peak is a 14,256-foot mountain, located on the eastern edge of the Front Range in Northern Colorado. It's a regional landmark, and a popular climbing destination during late summer and early fall. On busy days, the summit trail is an endless, multi-colored pilgrimage of nylon parkas and windbreakers. Now, for the story:
Jeff stood at the window and looked out of the office. This was the fun part of living in Colorado: the Rocky Mountains were always outside your window, just a few miles away. The not-fun part was that he spent 40 hours a week working in an office in the city, wasting the best daylight hours working for The Man, instead of climbing around in the mountains.
It wasn't the best day for looking at the mountains, either. Low, grey clouds hung over the city, which was unusual -- and depressing -- for a summer day. Fortunately, the clouds thinned towards the west, and he could see the summit of Longs Peak in the distance, the snow mostly melted from its flanks. It looked like a good day to be on Longs, except that he was stuck here in the office.
He sipped his coffee and tried to focus on the flanks of the mountain, where he knew the trail wound around. He said to himself, "Boy, what would it be like to be up there right now, instead of here in the office?" He took another sip of his coffee. His heart ached for a moment, longing to be on the mountaintop.
Suddenly, with the cup of coffee still to his lips, the view changed. In an instant, the window had disappeared. The office was now a six-foot granite boulder, and he was perched on top of it. He started coughing on his coffee, as the stuffy indoor air he had been breathing was instantly replaced with cold, dry, mountain air. His shoes slipped as they found purchase on the new surface under his feet, and he looked around him, first with curiosity and then with increasing unbelief and amazement.
He recognized the terrain, and the panoramic view. He was on top of the mountain! Only seconds before, he had been in the office, and somehow he had wished himself here!
He looked at the coffee cup in his hand, and then at the khaki pants and polo shirt he was wearing. He felt a moment of nausea. If this wasn't cognitive dissonance, then nothing was. He shivered as the wind brushed his bare arms and cut through his thin shirt. "Maybe I should have wished for a parka, too."
"Wait a minute, this has to be a hallucination. I'm still in the office." Reaching out with his coffee-free hand, he slowly turned in a circle and tried to feel for the office walls. As he came back around, he noticed two people puffing their way towards him. They were outfitted the way he thought he should have been for this fantasy. Both wore black nylon pants. One had a red North Face windbreaker, and the other had a yellow Columbia parka. They carried backpacks, obviously full of whatever you need to complete the pilgrimage from the parking lot to the summit.
Even behind their mirrored sunglasses, he could tell that they were as confused as he was. As they came to the boulder and dumped their packs on the ground, one of them looked at him and asked, "Dude, how do you get up there?"
"I dunno." What else could he say?
The other asked, "Where's yer coat and yer gear?"
"I don't have any."
"You mean you walked all the way up here, dressed like that, with nothin' but a cup of coffee?"
"No."
"Whaddaya mean, 'no'? Where's your stuff? Seriously, howdja get up here?"
"Honestly, I dunno. I'm an accountant at a computer company in Fort Collins. Two minutes ago I was sipping this coffee in the office and --"
He was interrupted with a wave and a dismissive "Whatever." Both the gesture and the word indicated a combination of bewilderment, disbelief and impatience. North Face and Columbia hunkered down on the lee side of a small rock wall, to get out of the wind and celebrate with Gatorade and granola bars.
Still holding onto his coffee, he scrambled down from the boulder and started walking across the summit. The summit of Longs Peak is a plateau, about the size of a football field, strewn with boulders and broken rocks. Cairns, small piles of rock built up by climbers, mark the spots where trails end at the edge of the summit plateau. He started heading south, towards the cairn that marked the incline known as the Home Stretch.
"Hey!" It was the red North Face. "Where're you goin'?"
"Down," he replied without looking back.
"Waitaminnit! You can't go down like that!"
"Why not?"
The yellow Columbia chimed in, "Yeah, why not? That's how he got up here."
"What time this morning did you start?" That was North Face again.
"I told you, five minutes ago I was in my office in Fort Collins."
North Face muttered an obscene expression of disbelief.
Jeff stopped. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. He was not surprised to find that he had good reception up here. More than once, he had reached the summit of a mountain, only to observe a fellow climber pull out a cellphone, speed-dial someone, and announce, "Hi. Hey, we made it. Yeah, I'm calling from the top." It was the 21st-century climbing ritual. Even Everest climbers did it.
Instead of calling home, he called the office. "Hey, Jackie? It's Jeff. Yeah. Do me a favor, will you? Go into the back and look in my office. See if I'm there. Yeah, I'll wait."
He stopped and looked at the two climbers. He wasn't sure whether to grin or not. Besides, it was cold and he was shivering, and the others were still catching their breath. Jackie was back on the phone.
"Yeah, I'm still here. Not in my office, huh? Hey, did you see me there this morning? That's what I thought. How long ago? Okay, good. Look, would you mind sending me an email saying that you saw me at that time? Yeah, I know it's a weird request. Humor me."
There was a pause, as Jeff's co-worker wrote a note to herself. Then she asked him the question most often asked of people on cellular phones. He chuckled nervously as he formulated his answer.
"Well, I don't know, but it looks like the summit of Longs Peak. No. I have no idea. One minute I was standing at the window, sipping my coffee, and the next thing I know, I'm on top of this mountain."
Three other hikers had climbed over the edge of the summit plateau. The one in the lead had already dumped her pack, and was gasping noisily as she rocked her body slowly back and forth, trying to get more oxygen into her lungs and thence to her muscles. She was close enough to him, and her gasping had quieted down enough, that she had heard this last exchange from Jeff.
"You don't know how you got here?" she asked him.
He held up a finger, begging her to pause while he finished the conversation. "Okay, Jackie, look. I'm gonna take a picture with this phone and send it to you, okay? I'm wearing the same clothes you saw me in this morning, and you should be able to recognize the coffee cup in my hand. I'll see you in a few hours, I guess. Bye."
He pressed the disconnect button, set the cup down, and fumbled with the phone until he got the camera going. To his latest interrogator, he said, "I think I wished myself up here, but I don't know how to wish myself back down."
She looked at the crepe-soled shoes on his feet. "It looks like you forgot your ruby slippers."
If he hadn't been feeling so confused, and she so oxygen-starved, they might have laughed at the joke. As things were, it did get a snort and a couple of smiles.
Jeff asked her and her companions, and North Face and Columbia, to pose with him at the summit boulder. Without a photograph, nobody was going to believe this story. He balanced the phone on another rock, set the self-timer and ran around to get into the picture.
It was a strange photo. It showed the summit boulder, with the USGS benchmark glinting in the morning sun. Seated in front of the rock were five climbers in cold-weather gear, with their packs at their feet. Behind them, the ridges of the Front Range stretched northward. To the northeast, peeking through holes in the low clouds, could be seen the lakes and reservoirs, and some of the streets, of the city of Fort Collins. And seated in the front of the group of climbers was a middle-aged man in tan pants and a green polo shirt, clutching an empty coffee cup, with a confused smile on his face.
Jeff crouched behind a low rock wall, and fumbled with the buttons on the phone to send the photograph to his co-worker. By now, a dozen climbers were on the summit, most of them having started around midnight. It would be another three hours before it got crowded up here, as the 3:00 a.m. pilgrims finally made their way to the top.
He borrowed a fleece vest from one well-equipped climber, and a windbreaker from another, in exchange for his business card and a promise to return the gear if they called him at work and asked for them. His shoes would have to do for footwear. He'd read of someone doing the climb in cowboy boots once. Then he walked over the edge of the summit plateau and started down the Home Stretch, still holding his coffee cup.
The other climbers, hiding from the wind and sunning themselves on the southeast side of a long granite shelf, watched him go.
North Face said, "Dude. I saw a guy playing a French horn up here once. He'd rigged straps to the case, like a backpack. His friends videoed it. I'll bet you can find it on YouTube."
A girl climber one-upped him. "I saw a string quartet up here once. Two girls in long black dresses, two guys in tuxes. One of the guys had a cello. I don't know if they climbed up here or came up on pack mules. But they had a professional video crew with them."
Columbia answered, "Yeah, but I'll bet those people weren't up here at 8:30 in the morning. This dude was by far the freakin' weirdest thing I've ever seen up here."
"Freakin' A," said North Face, as he took a long, slow pull on his Gatorade.
Copyright 2007 Ray Depew. All Rights Reserved.
Longs Peak is a 14,256-foot mountain, located on the eastern edge of the Front Range in Northern Colorado. It's a regional landmark, and a popular climbing destination during late summer and early fall. On busy days, the summit trail is an endless, multi-colored pilgrimage of nylon parkas and windbreakers. Now, for the story:
Jeff stood at the window and looked out of the office. This was the fun part of living in Colorado: the Rocky Mountains were always outside your window, just a few miles away. The not-fun part was that he spent 40 hours a week working in an office in the city, wasting the best daylight hours working for The Man, instead of climbing around in the mountains.
It wasn't the best day for looking at the mountains, either. Low, grey clouds hung over the city, which was unusual -- and depressing -- for a summer day. Fortunately, the clouds thinned towards the west, and he could see the summit of Longs Peak in the distance, the snow mostly melted from its flanks. It looked like a good day to be on Longs, except that he was stuck here in the office.
He sipped his coffee and tried to focus on the flanks of the mountain, where he knew the trail wound around. He said to himself, "Boy, what would it be like to be up there right now, instead of here in the office?" He took another sip of his coffee. His heart ached for a moment, longing to be on the mountaintop.
Suddenly, with the cup of coffee still to his lips, the view changed. In an instant, the window had disappeared. The office was now a six-foot granite boulder, and he was perched on top of it. He started coughing on his coffee, as the stuffy indoor air he had been breathing was instantly replaced with cold, dry, mountain air. His shoes slipped as they found purchase on the new surface under his feet, and he looked around him, first with curiosity and then with increasing unbelief and amazement.
He recognized the terrain, and the panoramic view. He was on top of the mountain! Only seconds before, he had been in the office, and somehow he had wished himself here!
He looked at the coffee cup in his hand, and then at the khaki pants and polo shirt he was wearing. He felt a moment of nausea. If this wasn't cognitive dissonance, then nothing was. He shivered as the wind brushed his bare arms and cut through his thin shirt. "Maybe I should have wished for a parka, too."
"Wait a minute, this has to be a hallucination. I'm still in the office." Reaching out with his coffee-free hand, he slowly turned in a circle and tried to feel for the office walls. As he came back around, he noticed two people puffing their way towards him. They were outfitted the way he thought he should have been for this fantasy. Both wore black nylon pants. One had a red North Face windbreaker, and the other had a yellow Columbia parka. They carried backpacks, obviously full of whatever you need to complete the pilgrimage from the parking lot to the summit.
Even behind their mirrored sunglasses, he could tell that they were as confused as he was. As they came to the boulder and dumped their packs on the ground, one of them looked at him and asked, "Dude, how do you get up there?"
"I dunno." What else could he say?
The other asked, "Where's yer coat and yer gear?"
"I don't have any."
"You mean you walked all the way up here, dressed like that, with nothin' but a cup of coffee?"
"No."
"Whaddaya mean, 'no'? Where's your stuff? Seriously, howdja get up here?"
"Honestly, I dunno. I'm an accountant at a computer company in Fort Collins. Two minutes ago I was sipping this coffee in the office and --"
He was interrupted with a wave and a dismissive "Whatever." Both the gesture and the word indicated a combination of bewilderment, disbelief and impatience. North Face and Columbia hunkered down on the lee side of a small rock wall, to get out of the wind and celebrate with Gatorade and granola bars.
Still holding onto his coffee, he scrambled down from the boulder and started walking across the summit. The summit of Longs Peak is a plateau, about the size of a football field, strewn with boulders and broken rocks. Cairns, small piles of rock built up by climbers, mark the spots where trails end at the edge of the summit plateau. He started heading south, towards the cairn that marked the incline known as the Home Stretch.
"Hey!" It was the red North Face. "Where're you goin'?"
"Down," he replied without looking back.
"Waitaminnit! You can't go down like that!"
"Why not?"
The yellow Columbia chimed in, "Yeah, why not? That's how he got up here."
"What time this morning did you start?" That was North Face again.
"I told you, five minutes ago I was in my office in Fort Collins."
North Face muttered an obscene expression of disbelief.
Jeff stopped. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. He was not surprised to find that he had good reception up here. More than once, he had reached the summit of a mountain, only to observe a fellow climber pull out a cellphone, speed-dial someone, and announce, "Hi. Hey, we made it. Yeah, I'm calling from the top." It was the 21st-century climbing ritual. Even Everest climbers did it.
Instead of calling home, he called the office. "Hey, Jackie? It's Jeff. Yeah. Do me a favor, will you? Go into the back and look in my office. See if I'm there. Yeah, I'll wait."
He stopped and looked at the two climbers. He wasn't sure whether to grin or not. Besides, it was cold and he was shivering, and the others were still catching their breath. Jackie was back on the phone.
"Yeah, I'm still here. Not in my office, huh? Hey, did you see me there this morning? That's what I thought. How long ago? Okay, good. Look, would you mind sending me an email saying that you saw me at that time? Yeah, I know it's a weird request. Humor me."
There was a pause, as Jeff's co-worker wrote a note to herself. Then she asked him the question most often asked of people on cellular phones. He chuckled nervously as he formulated his answer.
"Well, I don't know, but it looks like the summit of Longs Peak. No. I have no idea. One minute I was standing at the window, sipping my coffee, and the next thing I know, I'm on top of this mountain."
Three other hikers had climbed over the edge of the summit plateau. The one in the lead had already dumped her pack, and was gasping noisily as she rocked her body slowly back and forth, trying to get more oxygen into her lungs and thence to her muscles. She was close enough to him, and her gasping had quieted down enough, that she had heard this last exchange from Jeff.
"You don't know how you got here?" she asked him.
He held up a finger, begging her to pause while he finished the conversation. "Okay, Jackie, look. I'm gonna take a picture with this phone and send it to you, okay? I'm wearing the same clothes you saw me in this morning, and you should be able to recognize the coffee cup in my hand. I'll see you in a few hours, I guess. Bye."
He pressed the disconnect button, set the cup down, and fumbled with the phone until he got the camera going. To his latest interrogator, he said, "I think I wished myself up here, but I don't know how to wish myself back down."
She looked at the crepe-soled shoes on his feet. "It looks like you forgot your ruby slippers."
If he hadn't been feeling so confused, and she so oxygen-starved, they might have laughed at the joke. As things were, it did get a snort and a couple of smiles.
Jeff asked her and her companions, and North Face and Columbia, to pose with him at the summit boulder. Without a photograph, nobody was going to believe this story. He balanced the phone on another rock, set the self-timer and ran around to get into the picture.
It was a strange photo. It showed the summit boulder, with the USGS benchmark glinting in the morning sun. Seated in front of the rock were five climbers in cold-weather gear, with their packs at their feet. Behind them, the ridges of the Front Range stretched northward. To the northeast, peeking through holes in the low clouds, could be seen the lakes and reservoirs, and some of the streets, of the city of Fort Collins. And seated in the front of the group of climbers was a middle-aged man in tan pants and a green polo shirt, clutching an empty coffee cup, with a confused smile on his face.
Jeff crouched behind a low rock wall, and fumbled with the buttons on the phone to send the photograph to his co-worker. By now, a dozen climbers were on the summit, most of them having started around midnight. It would be another three hours before it got crowded up here, as the 3:00 a.m. pilgrims finally made their way to the top.
He borrowed a fleece vest from one well-equipped climber, and a windbreaker from another, in exchange for his business card and a promise to return the gear if they called him at work and asked for them. His shoes would have to do for footwear. He'd read of someone doing the climb in cowboy boots once. Then he walked over the edge of the summit plateau and started down the Home Stretch, still holding his coffee cup.
The other climbers, hiding from the wind and sunning themselves on the southeast side of a long granite shelf, watched him go.
North Face said, "Dude. I saw a guy playing a French horn up here once. He'd rigged straps to the case, like a backpack. His friends videoed it. I'll bet you can find it on YouTube."
A girl climber one-upped him. "I saw a string quartet up here once. Two girls in long black dresses, two guys in tuxes. One of the guys had a cello. I don't know if they climbed up here or came up on pack mules. But they had a professional video crew with them."
Columbia answered, "Yeah, but I'll bet those people weren't up here at 8:30 in the morning. This dude was by far the freakin' weirdest thing I've ever seen up here."
"Freakin' A," said North Face, as he took a long, slow pull on his Gatorade.
Copyright 2007 Ray Depew. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Arriba, middle child
Our middle child went out into the world today to seek her fortune.
My sweet wife and I were blessed with five children.
The first, a boy, is protected by the might of the US military. In fact, he is part of the might of the US military. In school, his squadron's motto was "First takes care of its own." The US military does indeed take care of its own, and so we trust that he is both safe and successful. His future is also well in hand, whether in or out of the military.
The second, a girl, is married with two children. She has the luxury in today's world of being a stay-at-home mother. She and her husband have had an adventurous life so far, and their future is secure with a government job and all the associated benefits. They have successfully sold their first house, and will soon move to a new location.
The fourth, also a girl, is in the middle of an 18-month mission, after which she will return to her university studies. God holds her in the hollow of His hand, and angels guard her footsteps until her mission is completed.
The last, a boy, is in his final year of high school. He is on track to fulfill his lifelong ambition of becoming a doctor, an ambition that he is pursuing with the same singlemindedness that has taken his older brother to success in the military.
But the middle child -- ah. Tradition holds that the middle child is the bellwether of the family, and that the success or failure of the family can be judged by the success or failure of the middle child. Our middle child left this morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, to seek her fortune in the world.
She has been preparing for this date, consciously or unconsciously, for 25 years. Her preparations have taken her to Europe, to South America, and all over the United States, have placed her in the spotlight on countless stages, and have made her a Joan of Arc to hundreds -- no, thousands -- of eager youth and young adults. Now, as her preparations come to an end and the Rest of Her Life begins, she goes to make her mark in the world as a middle school teacher.
That doesn't sound like much. In fact, at first, it sounds rather anticlimactic. Believe me, the world won't know what hit it.
She will be taking over and reviving the vocal music and drama programs at a middle school in Colorado Springs. That wasn't her plan: her plan was to teach at a high school in Boston, Seattle, Austin, or someplace else with energy and ambitions to match her own. But, like tardy suitors, Boston, Seattle and Austin made their moves too late. She couldn't wait around for them, and she had already made a commitment to Colorado Springs before the others came calling. Perhaps in the future they will have their turn.
We acknowledge the hand of God in our middle child's life. Everything that has happened to her has happened because of Him. She followed her dreams, and she made her own choices, but the choices and the opportunities were put there by God, as were the challenges and the obstacles.
The financial problems that are afflicting the nation have reached all the way down into our family. As we struggle with our own future, we look with hope and anticipation to our middle child, as we watch her taillights disappear down the road.
And the thought that keeps passing through my mind? It isn't "As the middle child goes, so goes the family." No, it's "Watch out, world. Here she comes."
My sweet wife and I were blessed with five children.
The first, a boy, is protected by the might of the US military. In fact, he is part of the might of the US military. In school, his squadron's motto was "First takes care of its own." The US military does indeed take care of its own, and so we trust that he is both safe and successful. His future is also well in hand, whether in or out of the military.
The second, a girl, is married with two children. She has the luxury in today's world of being a stay-at-home mother. She and her husband have had an adventurous life so far, and their future is secure with a government job and all the associated benefits. They have successfully sold their first house, and will soon move to a new location.
The fourth, also a girl, is in the middle of an 18-month mission, after which she will return to her university studies. God holds her in the hollow of His hand, and angels guard her footsteps until her mission is completed.
The last, a boy, is in his final year of high school. He is on track to fulfill his lifelong ambition of becoming a doctor, an ambition that he is pursuing with the same singlemindedness that has taken his older brother to success in the military.
But the middle child -- ah. Tradition holds that the middle child is the bellwether of the family, and that the success or failure of the family can be judged by the success or failure of the middle child. Our middle child left this morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, to seek her fortune in the world.
She has been preparing for this date, consciously or unconsciously, for 25 years. Her preparations have taken her to Europe, to South America, and all over the United States, have placed her in the spotlight on countless stages, and have made her a Joan of Arc to hundreds -- no, thousands -- of eager youth and young adults. Now, as her preparations come to an end and the Rest of Her Life begins, she goes to make her mark in the world as a middle school teacher.
That doesn't sound like much. In fact, at first, it sounds rather anticlimactic. Believe me, the world won't know what hit it.
She will be taking over and reviving the vocal music and drama programs at a middle school in Colorado Springs. That wasn't her plan: her plan was to teach at a high school in Boston, Seattle, Austin, or someplace else with energy and ambitions to match her own. But, like tardy suitors, Boston, Seattle and Austin made their moves too late. She couldn't wait around for them, and she had already made a commitment to Colorado Springs before the others came calling. Perhaps in the future they will have their turn.
We acknowledge the hand of God in our middle child's life. Everything that has happened to her has happened because of Him. She followed her dreams, and she made her own choices, but the choices and the opportunities were put there by God, as were the challenges and the obstacles.
The financial problems that are afflicting the nation have reached all the way down into our family. As we struggle with our own future, we look with hope and anticipation to our middle child, as we watch her taillights disappear down the road.
And the thought that keeps passing through my mind? It isn't "As the middle child goes, so goes the family." No, it's "Watch out, world. Here she comes."
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