Lift Up Your Hearts!

There is no way I'm going to write this without sounding corny or superficial, but I'm doing it anyway.  I caught a glimpse of God's love (and sense of humor) today.

Let me begin by noting that the event itself was, on God's scale of things, and even on the human scale, absolutely trivial.  But any human lover knows how much love can be expressed through trivia.  More disturbingly, I've experienced having trivial victories followed quickly by tragic defeats.  But it is what it is, and worth reporting.

To simplify the story, there's a store at which we get what can amount to a very significant discount by using a particular credit card.  The catch is that we never know what the discount will be until the purchase has been made.  I've seen discounts of greater than 50%, and yet on some items it may be only a few percent, or nothing at all.  Shopping at this store is my substitute for playing the state lottery:  it's a thrill to "win big," but there's no point in buying something that you wouldn't pay full price for, because you might have to.  Of course, you can always cancel the transaction, but I hate asking the checkout clerks to do that.

So here's what happened today.  There's an item I wanted to buy, but there's no way I could justify paying full price.  Still, I wanted it badly enough to grit my teeth and face cancelling the transaction just to learn what the discount would be.  So this morning, on my way from the church where I had a commitment to sing, to the church where I had a commitment to get a flu shot, I stopped at the store.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that I was fretting, getting tense over the idea that there might be little or no discount on this item that I really wanted, and worse, over the potential embarrassment of having to tell the clerk that despite having wasted his time and that of those behind be in line, I didn't want to make the purchase after all.  The morning's excellent sermon on worry, however, was not entirely lost on me.  The featured text, Philippians 4:4-8 ("Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God") is one of my favorite Bible passages.  So, thankful for the opportunity, I made my requests and relaxed.  I know, I know.  It's trivia.  And most of you will have no idea why the thought of returning a purchase is so stressful for me.  But it is, and I know some of my readers will nod their heads with understanding.

I never did find out what the discount would have been.  But not because I wimped out at the last minute.

Having found the correct department, I pulled out my notes to ascertain the correct model number.  To my dismay I realized that I had neglected to write down that crucial piece of information.  Ah, not to worry; I was pretty sure I could figure it out.  Sure enough, I picked out what looked to be the right model, and if I'd had any doubts, they were removed when I noticed that this model, out of all the models and manufacturers on display, was the only one on sale, and the cost was just thirty percent of the regular price.  A seventy percent discount!  Our credit card at its best is never that good.  I stood there in awe for a few minutes; when I came back to earth, I bought two!

No, it wasn't anything earth-shattering, or even important.  But it was the unmistakable touch of a lover's hand that says, "I am here"; the completely unexpected, simple gift that proclaims, "I love you."  And maybe, perhaps, "You can trust me through the dark and doubtful times, also."

Our grocery budget has been taking a hit in the last several months, partly because of a significant general price increase at the stores, and partly because food costs a lot less when half the household has half his meals covered by an expense account, which hasn't happened for a while.  (That's not to say it's a bad trade-off for the privilege of working from home.)  So it's a very good thing that yesterday was in September, and today in October:  I've been having fun.

Yesterday I checked out the new grocery store in town:  GFS Marketplace.  When they offer you a coupon that takes $10 off a $50 purchase, it would be rude to ignore them.

I had already spent $50 at my regular grocery store this week, but was certain I would have no trouble finding another $50 worth.  What I didn't realize until stepping into the store is that GFS is a restaurant supplier.  The quantities and sizes would be attractive to a large family, or a large party, but not for everyday wear for a household of two.  But I decided to check out the whole store, anyway, and as you might guess my coupon did not go to waste.  My first big find was something new and irresistible:  three pounds of frozen Alaskan wild-caught salmon burgers for $18.  Then five pounds of frozen whole raspberries for $21.50.  In my regular store I can find large packages of frozen strawberries and blueberries, but raspberries are only sold in small, expensive packages.  And we love smoothies in this household! (More)

For the past week I have been reliving elementary school.

My inspiration was this TED lecture from Salmon Khan of Khan Academy.

As a concept, Khan's idea is at once important, brilliant and frightening.

Important—because he is part of a growing movement to put education within reach of everyone. Well, everyone with access to an Internet connection, anyway.

Brilliant—because he turns school upside down.  The teacher does not introduce the material; that's done via an online lecture, assigned for homework.  Class time, then, becomes available for what is traditionally thought of as homework—working problems, writing essays—and discussion.  Thus anyone who is confused or needs help has immediately at hand both the teacher and his fellow students.  The teacher's time is allocated more efficiently, being spent on those who need help rather than those who don't.  The time of the struggling student is also used more efficiently, because he can get problems cleared up on Exercise 1 rather than struggling uselessly through 2 - 20 or just giving up.  Potentially, this system also helps other students, who find the work easy, to advance quickly to work that challenges them.  Although experience has taught me that the last is not high amongst most schools' priorities, this system might make them more amenable to the idea.

Brilliant, also, is his insistence that everyone should be expected to master the material.  I never did understand why any grade less than A is considered passing.  In almost no subject in which I received an A did I feel I had mastered the material—how much worse is it for someone who earns a C?  Perhaps in some subjects it doesn't matter much, but if you "pass" a child with a C in reading, or in math, you handicap him for life.

Frightening—because the system Khan has developed, at least when applied to the classroom, strips the student of privacy in yet one more area of his already over-exposed life.  The teacher knows what videos he watches, what online exercises he has worked on, how he is spending his time, and where he is apparently struggling.  All with good intent, of course, but the potential for abuse is there.

But back to my elementary school revisit.

Khan Academy has videos available on subjects wide and varied, but practice exercises are currently limited to mathematics.  So just for fun I decided to try them out.  (Yeah, I know.  I have a weird idea of fun.)  Here's what I discovered.  Remember, I have done the exercises but not watched the videos, so this is not a fair review of the whole process.

1. The exercises are pretty good, but do not exhibit much variety, and favor people with good test-taking skills.  The program is cluttered with annoying "rewards" of the sticker-and-gold star type, which shouldn't be attractive to anyone over eight and which can have a negative long-term impact on learning.  Nonetheless, I found the exercises very helpful for reviewing old concepts and drilling in my areas of weakness.  Which brings me to
2. Now I remember why I hated math until eighth grade, when I finally discovered algebra.  Elementary school math is replete with the kind of exercises I loathe, such as multiplying and dividing large numbers with lots of decimal places, in which my propensity for understanding the concept but making careless errors is my undoing.  Addition mistakes, transposed numbers, and sloppy handwriting are disastrous when you must get 10 correct answers in a row before moving on to the next lesson.  I can't tell you how many times I completed nine problems correctly only to be reset to zero through a careless error on the tenth.  However, I have more tenacity and patience than I did 50 years ago, or even at college, when I would trudge through the snow on a midwinter's night to have access to the Wang calculators available in the physics department, rather than do my lab calculations by hand.  I made it through, not only the exercises that were supposed to show I could do such calculations, but the ones that anyone in his right mind would have used a calculator for, such as, An alien spaceship travels at 490,000,000 inches per second.  How many miles does it travel in one hour?  I did it, and my brain is better for it—but I have new sympathy for my grandson, who is currently finding math tedious.
   
   Arithmetic : mathematics :: practicing scales : playing a Bach concerto.

I plow on.  The exercises continue through the very beginnings of calculus.  I find doing a few math exercises (even arithmetic exercises) to be a mind-refreshing break when other work gets frustrating.  (See weirdness, above.)

And I love the idea of a mild-mannered nerd who leverages tutoring his cousins into changing the world.

Now that I have permission to use names (see Part 1), here's a photo (credit Joe Welby) of the wonderful Ashley Locheed (on the right) performing with Englebert Humperdinck at the Colorado State Fair. (click for larger view)

And here's a sample of Ashley's work not with Englebert Humperdinck.  :)  That's Chris Rottmayer on the piano.  Sorry, I don't know the other guys.

London, 1969:  I was lost, though I didn't know it yet.  For reasons I no longer remember, some friends and I had become separated from the rest of our group.  Certain that we were in the right place, and expecting them to show up at any moment, we sat and waited.  And waited, and stared at the wall-sized poster of a man, a singer.  It was emblazoned, "Englebert Humperdinck." 

The only Englebert Humperdinck I'd heard of was a composer.  Said composer being long dead, I suppose the up-and-coming singer thought the cool name was up for grabs.

I would have thought that by now the name was again available for recycling, but Englebert Humperdink, the singer, is alive and singing.  How do I know, and why do I particularly care?  Not for his music, for sure (I still prefer the dead composer), but because our friend AL is booked to sing three shows with him!  How cool is that!

(P.S.  After some negotiation of the British telephone system, we left the 1969 Humperdink behind and were reunited with our friends.)

My e-mail and blog activity will be curtailed, either somewhat or a lot, until we get a handle on some serious computer problems.  Let me just say this about that:  Computers ought to last at least long enough for them to become obsolete, which even in this fast-moving culture is more than 2 - 4 years.  And laptops should last longer than their batteries.

All that to say, if you need to reach me, e-mail might not be the best medium for a while.

I used to love shopping at Sears, insofar as someone who loathes shopping can, that is.  But today my frustration meter pegged.

I'm rather picky about my clothes.  Not in a fashion sense, but I want them to be comfortable, modest, and reasonably-priced.  That's a combination much harder to find than it should be.

After much trial and error, I found shoes, shorts, and bras that I really like, all at Sears, and I greatly enjoyed being able to order them online without dealing with travel, crowds, and (above all) dressing rooms.

Until now.

Now Sears does not carry my clothes.  Any of them.  Not my bras, not my shorts, not my shoes.  Now I must venture back out into the world of physical, retail stores and (ugh) Try. On. Clothes.  That might not be so bad if I had any confidence that what I want will be there to find.  Online searches have thus far revealed nothing equivalent.

Except, maybe, at K-Mart.

It appears that when Sears bought out K-Mart, they transferred the kind of clothes I like to the lower-class store.  I wouldn't mind so much, but there's no K-Mart nearby.  I'm guessing it may be worth the drive just to check it out, though.

Years ago, I volunteered at our local middle school.  From what I learned there, I knew it was not a place I wanted our kids to attend.  Most of the reasons were academic, but burnt into my brain still is the comment of one of the teachers to her class, in reference to someone I no longer remember:  She was the kind of girl who buys her clothes at K-Mart.

Having bought many a clothing item at said store, back when there was one nearby, I knew we wouldn't fit in—nor want to.

Still, it galls—that my taste in clothing isn't good enough for Sears!

My sister-in-law, ever the teacher, saw some children catching blue crabs from our bridge.  Walking over, she engaged them in conversation and taught them a bit about the crabs, in particular how to tell the males from the females.  One of the children, a ten-year-old from the District of Columbia, caught on right away:

Oh!  One is the Monument and the other the Capitol!

Brilliant.  Absolutely brilliant.

(Photo credit Hackensack Riverkeeper)

Welcome home, Atlantis.  A moment of silence, please, to mark the end of an era.

No more will we step out our front door to marvel at the soaring arc of light as a space shuttle climbs into orbit.  No more will our whole bodies thrill to the iconic double sonic boom as it returns to earth.  I'm glad that this morning we were able to hear the boom-boom one final time.

Listening to the prepared statements and commentary on the television reminded me of a funeral—or worse, of the kind of laudatory speeches you hear from organizations when a long-term, once-valued employee retires or takes another job and everyone tries to pretend that his departure was voluntary.

What would John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, and Nikita Kruschev think to know that for an American to get to the International Space Station he must now be transported there by the Russians?

I like to hope that the drive, energy, enthusiasm, sacrifice, daring, and sense of adventure that powered America's space program still exists, flowing into other, less visible but perhaps even more productive, channels.  I look around and am not convinced, but I'd be glad to hear of examples, especially from the young people who are almost always the beating heart of such endeavors.  Not that a full-range of age and experience is not also necessary—and I'm still eager to hear more of this hopeful story of a 95-year-old visionary from the Occasional CEO.

Where I see such dedication and enthusiasm these days has a decidedly non-technological bent, even though the science-and-engineering types are well represented.  I see it in homeschoolers, homebirthers, midwives, alternative medicine, radical homemakers, large families, family farms, local and sustainable agriculture, heritage breeders, small businesses—in short, among the outliers, rather than mainstream America.  But perhaps that's due to my own skewed persepective.

Where do you see life, drive, commitment, and energy these days?

From every room of our house we knew it was 5:45 in the afternoon, when my father’s fire radio announced the time as part of its daily test.  The radio was an exciting addition to our lives, because now we were not solely dependent on discerning the fire station’s loud siren to call my father to his duties as a volunteer fireman.  Even better, we could listen in on some of the activity.

For most if not all of the years we lived in the district, my father was a member (and usually an officer) of the Beukendaal Volunteer Fire Department in Scotia, New York.  It was a good time and place to be a fireman, as in our rural area there were few buildings more than two stories high, and most of the calls, while important, did not involve anything gruesome.

The whole family became involved, from making sure he heard the alarm (“Dad!  Dad!  The siren’s blowing!”), to pouring him hot coffee after an icy 3 a.m. call, to stuffing envelopes for the department newsletter he edited, to (my personal favorite) helping with the weekly fire engine inspections.

 The officers of the Beukendaal Fire Department, sometime between 1961 and 1967.  My father, Warren Langdon, is at the top left, with the mustache.  Unfortunately, I can’t identify the other men, but perhaps someone will see this post and be able to help.  Some possibilities (culled from old newspapers, alternate name forms in parentheses) are:  James Christopher, Lee Darby, Armond Dorazio, Wayne Duval, Bernie Fertal, Ernest Hitchcock, Ken Hitchcock, Kenneth Holden, William Lewis, Stanley Marynowski, Joseph Morette (Morrette), Charles Mowers, Barney (Bernard, Barnard) Revelia, James Ortoleva, Robert Revelia, William Riddle, Douglas Rifenburg, Phillip Schell, Paul Shatley, Charles Silva, William Spencer, Donald Stavely, John Thomas, Jay Woods, Milton Flansburg, Floyd Lewis, Robert Remus, James MacCracken, Gordon Streeter, Allen Tyler, Jeffrey Noonan, Kenneth Hitchcock, Roderick Rowledge, Willard Bailey, John Brennan.  If I had to guess, I’d say the person in the middle of the front row was Armond Dorazio, and the person to his left (right in the picture) Phillip Schell—but most of my readers know how face-and-name disabled I am.

It was a happy time.  Dad enjoyed the company of his fellow firemen, although the department didn’t, as far as I can tell, have the social functions it does now.  Or maybe Dad just preferred to do his duty and leave most of the socializing for family events.

In light of this, I am extraordinarily pleased and proud that our son-in-law has become a volunteer fireman.

Times have changed, of course.  Fire calls come via a tiny pager-radio, and instead of gathering around a crackling speaker, his family can follow the action on the Internet.  But the work is still important, and I’m thrilled to have a fireman in the family once again.

There's nothing like a small-town Independence Day parade, and when we're not attending weddings or births or other such out-of-town occasions, the Geneva (Florida) parade is where we like to be.  That's because we're privileged to march with the Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band, the parade's star attraction.  (Well, we think so.  Some of the other participants may disagree.)

I've written about the band and the parade before; this year we actually had a whole article about us in a real newspaper, albeit one i'd never heard of until the photographer introduced himself to ask my name.  No, the paper did not choose to run the photo of me, no matter how crazed I must have looked crashing the cymbals.  Instead they very appropriately featured Geneva's own Richard Simonton:  good man, good friend, and the one who makes the band happen (and gets us our free hot dogs). (More)

If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all.

At no time was that old advice more pertinent than in this age of instant communication.

Not once, but twice in the past couple of months I have inadvertently sent an e-mail to the wrong person.  I rely too much on the auto-complete function of my mail program, and certain keyboard shortcuts, and don't always double-check.

In both cases, the unintended recipient was our daughter's mother-in-law; as near as I can figure out, some common typo for one of my other correspondents must auto-complete to her address.  The first e-mail would simply have confused her, but the second could have been a disaster, as I had written quite a bit about her and her family in an e-mail that was supposed to go to my sister.

Fortunately, I only said good things -- she's the kind of person about whom it's hard to find something bad to say.  But I can think of contexts in which I could have gotten myself in very hot water indeed.

When our kids were little, we had a record of children's songs (yes, vinyl -- I'm that old), one of which had verses that began, "Be careful, little eyes, what you see," "Be careful, little ears, what you hear," and "Be careful, little hands, what you do." 

Be careful, little fingers, what you type.

Just after midnight today, Steven Perezluha reached Annapolis, Maryland as the ninth bicyclist in his division to complete the Race Across AMerica.  With the 41-minute credit he received for a tornado-caused delay in Kansas, his official finish was at 11:34 last night.  Steven raced from the Pacific to the Atlantic in an even ten days and eight hours.

Congratulations to Steven!

And because no one, least of all a major athlete, succeeds without a great deal of help:

Congratulations to his sponsors, his incredible support crew, and his parents!

The Race Across AMerica may be the craziest bike race ever.  From the Pacific to the Atlantic, from Oceanside, California to Annapolis, Maryland (this year's route).  The record for the solo men's division is a little over eight days.

Steven Perezluha, the friend of whom I've written before (biking to Alaska, and racing up Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning), is making his RAAM debut, his substantial crew led by his uncle, Danny Chew, himself a two-time RAAM winner.  From today's VeloNews article:

The youngest rider in the field is 20-year-old Steven Perezluha, nephew of 2-time RAAM winner Danny Chew. “My goal is to finish, hopefully in ten days as the top American finisher,” the youngster declared in Oceanside, “I’m going to try to be conservative at the beginning and not blow up,” he added. Yet it was Perezluha who was first to Time Station 1, 50 miles into the race at Lake Henshaw. In the next 20 miles he was passed by Strasser before reaching the “Glass Elevator,” a fast and winding descent down to the desert floor where temperatures approaching 100 degrees awaited the riders. While it is unknown whether Perezluha did indeed “blow up,” what is certain is that he’s slowed considerably, dropping from being the early leader down to 19th overnight.

Taking it easy, if somewhat oxymoronic to say about such a race, will be the smart thing for Steven to do:  there's no percentage in abusing his still-developing body when he has so many more years to hit his peak.  But he's such a competitor ... who knows what he might accomplish?

Here are some links if you want to follow his progress:

Steven's profile

Steven's progress

(added 6/17) Very cool page with animated map and stats, great for following the athletes' progress

Leaderboard

Live stream (I include this because it has the potential to be interesting, at least for us, although at the time of writing the stops and starts of video and audio make it too painful to listen to for long.)

Steven's website (hosted by Lime Daley!)

Go, Steven!  Finish the race!  Do well, but don't overdo it!

No, this is not the next installment in the tale of our Hawaiian vacation, although it will help explain why that wasn't published yesterday.

Our refrigerator was well over 10 years old.  It was bought used in 2001, and I have no idea of its history.  It wasn’t in very great shape then, though somehow it worked quite well for us.  For years Porter would periodically grumble that it was an energy hog, reminding me that it couldn’t last forever, and wouldn’t it be better not to have to replace it on an emergency basis? 

During the Memorial Day Weekend sales, we finally took the plunge.

Actually, we had tried to do so once before, several years ago, picking out an exciting model with French doors, a bottom freezer, water filter, ice maker, and other attractive features.  The feature we didn’t expect was its inability to fit through the largest door in our house.  Since when did they start making appliances that don’t fit through standard-sized doors?  Crushed, we put off the purchase for another few years, although we did indulge in occasional peeks at what was available when we happened to be in a store that sold appliances.

Porter, as usual, was the one who made it happen.  He researched the models, and narrowed the possibilities down to a handful.  Then together we made the final decision:  a rather ordinary, Energy Star-compliant, General Electric refrigerator with a capacity of 21 cubic feet.  I’m happy with ordinary!  It’s about the same size as the one it replaced, and not as large as the refrigerator we had when the kids were living at home, but it certainly ought to do well for the two of us.  Complaints about size won’t go over well here, anyway, as Janet is sure to point out that it’s 5 to 7 times larger than the refrigerators she’s had in her last three homes.

Click this link to see what it looks like.  No, we didn’t pay the MSRP, but got a much better deal at Lowe’s.

On Monday, Lowe’s called to say that the refrigerator was in, and we arranged for delivery Tuesday between noon and 5 p.m.  Our neighbor came over and helped Porter move the existing fridge into the garage, where we had planned to keep it until July, when our church would take it for their rummage sale.  After all, it still worked, and really was a fine fridge, even if you did have to kick the door to make it close properly.  That quick kick was so much a habit that I often had to explain at other people’s homes why I was abusing their appliances.

All went well, until Porter went out the next morning to get his breakfast drink.  There was a small puddle of water underneath the fridge.  At some point during the night, the compressor had stopped working, and melting ice was dripping from the freezer.  (Glad I was that I had transferred most of the contents of the freezer to our chest freezer, to lighten the fridge for the move.)  The refrigerator compartment was still cool enough that I felt comfortable that the food was safe, so I filled it with jugs of ice, as if it were a giant picnic cooler.  You don’t have half a dozen frozen jugs of water available at a moment’s notice?  Then either you don’t have a handy chest freezer, or you don’t care that June 1 marks the beginning of hurricane season.

At about 8 a.m. the next day, the delivery men called:  Could they deliver the refrigerator in about half an hour?  The thought of grumbling, “What part of ‘between noon and five’ didn’t you understand?” was immediately quashed by the pleasant thought of having  a working refrigerator sooner rather than later.

It was sad to see the old refrigerator taken unceremoniously off for recycling, but if it was going to break, I’m glad it did so before sending it to the rummage sale, and not after.  Perhaps its time had just come, and Porter was better than he knew to insist on getting a new one now.  Perhaps the move, short and gentle as it was, merely jarred something loose.  Whatever the cause, we decided it wasn’t worth attempting a repair, given its age and condition.

Many mammal mothers lick their newborns clean after birth.  I’ve never done that myself, but the instinct must be there:  I can’t use a new appliance until I’ve cleaned it inside and out.  With one thing and another, it took me the rest of the day to get the refrigerator “on board.”  Porter would have cleaned the outside and the ice cube bin and had the food back in in under half an hour.

We’re still working on the best way to use the space.  I love all the extra room in the door shelves—they can hold gallon milk jugs!—and don’t mind that the main shelves are consequently shorter, since it’s hard to get at things in the back of the fridge, anyway.  But some reconsideration of our old habits of arrangement is in order.  But that will be a joyful chore, rather than an urgent one.

And guess what?  We’re heading into summer with an ice maker!