nostalgia

I came to live in this town when I was 18. It was in 1955.

The next year I married sweet Miriam and moved her back to this town. Three of our 4 daughters were born here.

Now, I am back again. But it is 2011 now, 56 years after I first arrived here. My grandfather was born here 125 years ago. His grandfather was an officer in the Union Army and arrived here right after the end of the war between the states.

That was about 1865. Now for 146 years (give or take a few) some part of my family has lived in this town.

The people I knew when I moved her 56 years that were older than me are nearly all gone. Those who were my age are mostly gone too. Only the younger, the ones I did not really know remain, and since I did not know them then, I don’t know them now! It works that way.

So as I wonder around town, which I don’t do very often, I see some of what I used to see, I see a lot of changes and a few reminders of “the old days.”

This is somewhat nostalgic and somewhat unnerving.

It just is.

Someone said you can't go back home.

I went back, but home isn't what it was. I have only been here a couple of days, and I am doing alright, but home isn't the same.

When the house was new it was full of teen aged daughters and their friends, then one by one daughters moved out and on with their lives. Then we moved out to go to the University in Boise and then to a couple of other Universities in Texas.

If that wasn't enough we ended up back in Washington state, in the same town we lived in years before, and live now. But finally we were drawn back to our Idaho home.

Still everything is the same and nothing is the same.

This time I am here alone. I don't mind being alone, in fact I relish alone time, but as I sit here in my recliner (we did not move it!) I remember all of the voices and people who have been in this room. I remember a vibrant Miriam, and that is the point where I stop thinking about it all.

I was born half a mile from where I now sit. I was married, went to grade school, high school a half mile the other direction. It is home, but it isn't the same.

Old guys live their lives in memory, and I guess I am old.

Old machinery as sculpture.

head swim

Living in the RV is comfortable, for the most part.

The bed is queen sized, but on the sides there is only a little space between the bed and the walls, so we climb over the end.

I do that easily, but Miriam has problems with it.

Getting out is OK, she is slow, but she gets it done. She goes in the bathroom (I, of course am awake during all of this) goes, flushes, turns the light on and off and then comes back to bed. The long nightgowns that worked so well for so many years are not easy to climb in, so she gets into bed and then wiggles for several minutes getting everything adjusted. By now I am wide awake. (New night wear is on the way).

She goes back to sleep without a hitch and I am wide awake staring at the ceiling. When I get up, I get back to sleep by not letting my mind take the first spin.

She is nicely asleep, but I am wide awake. My head swimming with too much already. I get up, dress enough to keep warm. I check the email. Daughter 2 send a picture, but she is the only one in the family who uses Windows and I fiddle with opening the file, which opens Picasso which is supposed to be a perfect way to hold all pictures, but is a pain so far.

I'll take a nap later, maybe.

going again

Today I am going back to Idaho for a week or so.

As much as she would like to go I’ll not take Miriam. It would be best for her here with daughter. I have a good deal of work to get done, and alone it goes better. Truthfully I am adjusting to life more and more alone.

Here in the bus I spend a great deal of time sitting and doing what my step father would call “wasting time.” I play computer games, I read, I write, I think, and I take walks, but I don’t do too much real work.

Yesterday I planted Garlic and I tilled up a new garden plot. In Idaho there is no shortage of things to do.

Right now I am planning on spending about a week a month in Idaho at our “lake house.”

I don’t have internet at the house now. I will need to find a WiFi hot spot, so I may not post too much during this time.

One thing I noticed right away is that it is easy to not eat terribly well when there is just one, so I’ll have to work on that one.

Johnny Lingo

Johnny was the most desired bachelor for miles around.

He was the subject of a short movie produced by the predominant church in the west a few decades ago. The setting was a semi primitive village somewhere, maybe in the south pacific. The custom was that a man who wanted to marry would negotiate a dowry with the father. The dowry was in cows. A real good wife might bring 3 or 4 cows and occasionally a particularly desirable young woman went for more.

In time Johnny let it be known that he was seeking a wife and that he had made a decision. He came to the village for the purpose of letting his wishes be known. All the girls were a atwitter.

He sat down with one of the fathers and said the girl he wanted for his wife was Mahana. Now Mahana had always been told how ugly she was and what an embarrassment she was and how useless she was. When strangers visited the village she would hide.

Privately Mahana’s father had said that he would give a cow to get rid of her, but when the negotiations began, on a while whim, he asked for three cows. Johnny said NO. Father dropped his number and the answer was the same. Finally Johnny said he would give TEN cows for Mahana.

No woman had ever, ever been so valuable.

They married and went away to live in Johnny’s village. No one saw there for quite a while. In time a rumor arrived about the incredibly beauty that was Johnny’s wife and the village was stunned. They sent someone to investigate, and the rumor was true, Mahana was stunning.

When asked what had happened, Johnny explained that when a woman knew that she was very valuable, very highly esteemed, very much loved, she would (and did) respond and her true beauty would be seen.

The basic idea of the movie is true, the plot was a bit awful, and we are not pleased with the idea of buying women, but there still was a bit of truth to it.

Still, how we treat people is important. Treat someone with great respect and they will rise to that level. Always? I don’t know. But I have seen it happen.

Miriam’s dad always told her and anyone around that she was like him: “Kinda dumb in books.” She believed him of course, yet after he died she graduated from college, the only one of her family. She was not dumb.

It does make a difference.

Years ago in Texas I saw a show of Lewis Morris's paintings.
They were huge 10 or 12 feet high and yards and yards long.
Raw simple colors. Pored over the canvas and allowed to run and blend.
I was mesmerized. When I told my professor about seeing the show and my delight, he thought a minute and said: "Of course you would like him!"
Sometimes my minimalism is more in my head than in my life. I guess that is how it works sometimes.

the think system

Tonight we watched “The Music Man.” (Public TV -- no commercials, the whole movie uncut!)

I know the story, we have the LP of the sound track and I’ve seen the movie a few times. I still like it.

It is a story of a film flam salesman who set out to take advantage of people by selling band instruments to young boys on the premise of a band. His habit was to get the money and run. That worked until he met the gorgeous unmarried Librarian, and all things changed.

It has good music and a weak plot, I suppose.

But the premise off the fake Professor Harold Hill’s system what he called “The Think System.” You think the notes and out they come. Having played a brass instrument since I was 10, I know it is not that easy.

Still, there is a lot to be said for the premise. If you think evil it affects your head. If you think good it also affects your head and your view of others.

In the final scene, the boys band, boys who have never played an instrument and it was not hard to tell, imagined of themselves as a real band, and it happened, if only in their head.

The wise man said that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. If it was true then it is true now, Professor Harold Hill notwithstanding!

But a band with 76 trombones! That is a lot of brass.

It ran at 25 MHz, had 4 MB of RAM and a 9.5 inch display.
We have come a long way.

RIP

My first Apple computer was a 1994 PowerBook 520.

Purposely I choose the black and white version, mostly because the battery would go longer. The top of the line color version sold for an amazing $4840, plus $1000 for an upgrade of the RAM, but I bought mine used. It was a couple years old. I think I paid $600 for it.

I still have a 540c, the top of the line book of its era. It is way to old to get batteries, but plugged in, it does run at an amazing 25 MHz. In those days hard drives were calibrated in Megabytes, RAM in kilobytes. 1995 was a dozen computer lifetimes ago.

That was my introduction to Apple and by extension to the Steves. (Apple was founded by two Steves in case you forgot). Since then I have owned other PowerBooks, a Quadra or two, settling down finally to a series of iBook and now MacBook notebook computers.

Jobs was just a couple years older than my oldest daughter. That makes me an old guy. But for an old guy with very limited resources, my high tech equipment is fairy extensive and I am reasonably savvy about it!

I use an iPod, a MacBook and an iPhone. I text. I email. Hardly cutting edge, but somewhat unusual for an old guy, I am told.

There are a few true geniuses around. Some have the numbers, but there are so few who have all of the skills and lay them all in a straight line. I have heard it said that at best there is one of them per century.

It may be little early to lay that heavy load on Steve, but at the least he is a candidate.

David Pogue in the New York Times says it well: “What are the odds that that same person will be comfortable enough — or maybe uncomfortable enough — to swim upstream, against the currents of social, economic and technological norms, all in pursuit of an unshakable vision?
Zero. The odds are zero.”

ants

This bus (Newell) that we call home is infected.

Not in the usual sense. Newell are no snakes in the basement (but it live most of it’s life in the warm part of this country) and there are no bees in the vents (yet).

But in the 34 years of its life, since it rolled (or “rattled” since it is powered by a big diesel engine) off the line it has sat empty most of the time.

It did not come from the factory with a bed (only couches), so while someone could easily sleep in it, there is a doubt that anyone until Dave and David, have actually lived in it.

So, along the way, it attracted a few outsiders along the way.

There are some big black wood ants here and there. They are souvenirs of time on the Oregon Coast. Not a lot of them, I dispatch a few now and again, but are there more?

Then there are the little ants that seem to be pretty much everywhere. Dry food has to go into tight fitting bags or canisters, or the little guys will pay a visit. They don’t eat much, and I do not begrudge them that pleasure, but it is a wee bit annoying to see them swimming around in your cereal bowl.

But, like the storage under the bed, one learns how to adapt. Daughter 4 owned a house once that was really full of the little beasties. They would get into any food item that was not seriously sealed. Newell’s little zoo is tame by comparison.

Life is like that sometimes. We adapt.

A fortress?

my music

I am sort of a musician and music lover.

Maybe more of a music flirt. Hmm.

Went to an organ concert the other evening. One of the best organists on a fabulous organ. “Mostly Brahms” the program said. It was good, I enjoyed it.

But mostly I like music to be a background. The fact that I was in church and couldn’t read or watch or do something with my hands made me concentrate on the music, which was wonderful, but largely wasted on my sensibilities.

Now I am as big a music snob as anyone out there. Dead white guy music. That is my thing and I listen to little else. But, I know the names and composer of precious few pieces, considering the multiple decades I have been listening. I know a few of Ludwig’s pieces and here and there are a few of Wolfgang’s efforts I can identify. There is even one by the frenchman Gabriel Faure that I recognize.

Not too much of a list I fear.

We go to hear old time fiddlers every June when we are in Idaho. Pretty pure bluegrass, with a unique twang. Good listening. The music starts about 7 and goes to midnight, but about 9 or 9:30, we are ready to go home (it is a 40 mile drive).

As friend David says: “When all the tunes sound the same it is time to go home.”

I still do enjoy the sound of good music. I admire the skills of good musicians and the incredible dedication to their instrument, and even if I can’t name many tunes, I continue to listen and to occasionally attend real concerts.

Guess I am just a rather lame but ardent appreciator. I can live with that.