Lift Up Your Hearts!

You'd think that being freed from the 9 - 5 routine, Mondays wouldn't bother me.  (What's with 9 - 5 anyway?  When I was employed I never worked that few hours in a day!)  And normally that's true.  This week was another story.

It began when the alarm went off at 4:30...a.m.  That's when I took Porter to the airport for a week out of town on business.  Still, that was only bad in hindsight; normally getting an early start imbues the day with productivity, and I was looking forward to digging right into my many awaiting projects.  I returned home, drove into the garage, walked through the door, entered my office, and turned on my computer.  Which promptly turned itself off.  Further attempts disclosed the unsettling warning, "Fan error."

So there I was, husband-cum-resident computer expert winging his way to New York City, and my computer on strike.  My barely two-year-old computer.  That is to say, the computer that was just seven weeks out of its two-year warranty.  Might as well take out the garbage.  Which I did.  And ate breakfast.  And started a wash.  Amazingly, what I did not do was panic, which was either the grace of God or denial or both.

I next began the process of setting myself up as a user on Porter's "home machine."  It's old and has very limited disk space, but I was able to get access to mail and Internet, which quelled my feelings of isolation.  I sent out e-mails warning family members that the telephone would be the best means of communication for a while.

Then the phone stopped working.

Then I went to get the laundry out of the dryer and found it still wet.  And the dryer cold.

Then I heard from Porter:  His computer had also failed.  Should I have been paying more attention to the dangers of a potential EMP attack?

Eventually cooler heads prevailed, and I concluded that, unlike all other disasters natural and man-made, this was not George W. Bush's fault.  The phone I fixed by rebooting the base.  I couldn't reboot the dryer, but we do have an excellent, honest, and dependable repairman, who worked his magic the next day, replacing the heater.  (In the meantime, I relied on my good old Japanese dryer.)  My computer had to wait till Friday, when Porter installed the new fan he had ordered during the week.  (I had earlier, with much fear and trembling, managed to take the computer apart sufficiently to blow the dust out, but that had made no difference.)  Porter's a do-it-yourself kind of guy, but this was his first attempt at laptop repair, and it was a rousing success.  He is much better than I am at not being intimidated by all the "do not attempt this repair yourself" warnings.¹  It's a good thing, too, because his next repair project will follow close on the heels of this one.  He managed to get his own (work) computer functional again, but it has been determined to have sufficient problems that he'll be getting a new "shell" into which he must transfer certain parts of his current machine.

Now we are poised to welcome another Monday, and I am once again looking forward to a productive week of work.  My projects are many and varied, but nearly all require the computer in one way or another, and so a lot of work ground to an abrupt halt at the beginning of this week.  If I'd known my computer fast would only last four days, I'd have enjoyed it a lot more.²

Sometimes the difference between a useless tool and a helpful one, or a good tool and a great one, is merely a matter of imagination.

I dislike decorative trinkets, and most especially if they must be dusted.  My mother-in-law, however, loved them, and we received many gifts that were more in line with her preferences than mine.  Thus I wasn't entirely pleased when she proudly presented me with a Charleston, South Carolina sweetgrass basket, beautiful as it was.  But inspiration hit, and instead of hanging it as a wall decoration, I put the basket on a desk in our entranceway.  Not only does it look lovely, but in an instant I solved my perennial "where are my keys?" problem!  Because the basket gets continual use, it never needs dusting, and its presence must have saved me, over the years, hours of searching time.  The right tool in the right place.

Clothes dryers are rare in Europe, Japan, and no doubt most other places in the world.  It was a bit of a shock to me, I'll admit, to find myself relying on clotheslines while visiting such highly advanced countries as Japan and Switzerland.  Growing up, my family did not get a dryer until after my brother was born — about the same time we purchased a television set — but I was seven and it didn't have much effect on me.  My mother, I'm certain, felt differently.  True, I love clotheslines and the smell of sun- and wind-dried clothing (and sheets!), and when we lived in Rochester and Boston I used them whenever I could, i.e. on warm, sunny days.  (My initial efforts in Florida were miserable failures because the high humidity made the clothes musty, and the lack of wind made them stiff.)  However, I consider the clothes dryer one of the blessings of civilization, and if you doubt me, I have just two things to say:  wet winter clothes, and diapers.

Still, somehow the very civilized Europeans and Japanese are managing without them, for which I respect them a lot, unless "managing" includes relying on paper diapers.  I suspect their laundry detergents must have fabric softeners blended into them, as the clothes, hung indoors with nary a bit of sun or breeze, are not the stiff boards I experienced here on still days.  I don't like fabric softeners, but nonetheless found inspiration to take another look at the possibilities.  Also inspiring was this very cool Japanese "clothesline" that we brought back with us after visiting the country. (Remember that clicking on the picture will show the full version.)

Initially we hung the nifty device on the back porch.  It was handy for hanging bathing suits and swim towels, but not much else, and didn't get much use.  But at one point — I forget the occasion — I moved it into our laundry room, aka garage, where I discovered that newly-laundered clothes hung there avoid the mustiness I encountered when trying to dry our laundry outside.  (Some of you may be wondering why the hot Florida does not dry clothes instantly.  It may, for all I know, but our back yard doesn't get much sun at all, and the neighbors would have something to say about a clothesline in the front.  I'm happy they're not objecting to our vegetable garden.) And the stiffness?  A few minutes tumbling in the dryer, with no heat, takes care of that.  I don't use the Japanese dryer for large loads, but running clothes need to be washed immediately, and not left to stew until we've accumulated a full load, so I was doing many small washes, which are inefficient (and expensive) to dry in the electric dryer.  For these, the Japanese dryer is the perfect solution — and now a formerly underutilized tool is a great asset.  The right tool in the right place.

So, one of those handy hook-and-clip devices is very useful — but how about two?  From our daughter and son-in-law we received a little one in the form of an octopus, very cute but too light to replace the one which I had recently moved from the back porch.  It hung around for a few months as a mere decoration until inspiration hit again.

I love to use plastic, zip-lock bags, but hate to throw them in the trash, so for years I have been washing and reusing them.  Drying was always a problem, however, and though I tried several solutions I was not completely satisfied with any of them.  Until now.  Look how perfectly the octopus hangs above the dish drainer, holding the bags in a position for maximum drainage and contact with the drying air!  Most definitely, the right tool in the right place!

In these examples I have found the right tool in something that we already had, but were not using to its best advantage.   I'm convinced, however, that there's a wider lesson here.  I'm generally a "make do," and "good enough" kind of person, which can be a good thing, but I'm learning that not only my productivity but also my enjoyment can improve greatly if I will make the effort and take the time to find the right tool.  Even if that means jettisoning something I have in favor of buying something that will work better.  But — Don Aslett's excellent advice to the contrary — maybe we shouldn't jettison things irretrievably right away.  We may have the right tool in the wrong place.

Is there a word, in any language, for "my daughter's husband's cousin's husband"?  That's what Kevin Michael Johnson is, and I'm proud to claim the family relationship, however distant and awkwardly-phrased.  Kevin is an actor, living in New York City with his lovely singer-songwriter wife, Steph Shaw.  One of his recent triumphs was in the show Wild Black Yonder, which a number of members of our family (but, alas, not I) were privileged to see at "The Kate" in Old Saybrook, Connecticut.

Kevin's latest venture is The Raid, a documentary about the tremendously popular online game, World of Warcraft.  Everything I know about WOW I learned form the Foxtrot comic strip...at least until I watched Kevin's promotional video.  The embedded video below is from YouTube, but the link will take you to a video on the official, more informative site, where you can also get involved in the project if it excites you.  You can also check them out on Facebook.

Ah, a glass of red wine, bruschetta (made with homemade bread), and a Porter-made salad with spring greens, scallions, artichoke hearts, kalamata olives, and rosemary and sea salt focaccia sticks with sun-dried tomato spread, dressed with a dressing concocted from balsamic vinegar and a marvellous lemon-olive oil from Italy that was a gift from Stephan's parents.

A perfect accompaniment to Shakespeare.

Having waited at home for an expected delivery, it was late when I was finally free to take my accustomed walk.  By the time I was on the homeward stretch, but little of the lingering twilight illumined the trail.  What's more, I usually walk with my glasses off to rest my eyes, so when a small animal scooted across the trail in front of me I was not immediately certain of its identity.  I thought "cat," but when it turned around and came back, it moved more like a rabbit.  Except that rabbits don't move toward people; they scurry away.  I was sure it would be gone by the time I fumbled my glasses out of my belt pack, but it was still hopping around; definitely a rabbit:  small, and as cute as a rabbit can get—and in my mind, rabbits go rather far in that direction.

Then the game began.

After watching him run back and forth a bit, I continued on my walk.  He followed.  He more than followed:  he'd come from behind me, then dart in front of my feet so close I'd stop for fear of stepping on him.  When I resumed walking, he'd loop around back and do it all over again.  We must have repeated this a dozen times when I tired of the game and decided it was time to do some running.

Silly me.  Have you ever tried to outrun a rabbit?  My ancestors may have been able to run down dinner, but I've eaten too many good dinners to run down anything I couldn't serve to a vegetarian.  The rabbit positively exulted in this new version of the game, in which I looked even goofier slamming on the brakes from a run than I had when walking.

Finally, as we neared the place where the trail crosses a major road, I said to him, "You're going to have to give this up soon, because you don't want to get too close to that street."  At that moment he vanished, and I saw him no more.

When my forebears saw animals behaving in an unnatural manner, they attributed the aberration to witchcraft.  (When they weren't being accused of witchcraft themselves, that is.)  Tonight I proved that I am not so far removed from them as I would like to believe, because I couldn't shake the question, "Do rabbits get rabies? What's wrong with this bunny?"  But he never attacked me, never touched me; he only acted like an adolescent boy who attempts to trip up his friend as they walk along—and he looked for all the world as if he were laughing.

The good news is, there's a new orchestra in town:  The Orlando Baroque Orchestra.  Some area musicians observed Central Florida's lack of concerts featuring baroque music and stepped up to remedy the situation.  We attended the third area performance of their first concert.

The venue was a small church, and we sat in the third pew.  The experience of music in such an inimate setting is worlds different from that in a large concert hall, and to my mind significantly more enjoyable.  It is not as much fun as making music yourself in a group, but comes closer.  For this reason, I thoroughly enjoyed the concert, despite having numerous complaints, most of which had to do with disappointed expectations.  But when your experience of baroque orchestras is Boston's Handel and Haydn Society; of lutists is Paul O'Dette; of harpsichordists is Kristian Bezuidenhout; and of oboists is, well, a whole host of marvellous performers; it's difficult not to set yourself up for a fall.

The Program
Handel - Arminio Overture
Bach - Suite No. 2 in b minor
Bach - Italian Concerto
Marcello - Oboe Concerto in c minor
Intermission
Bach - Air on G String
Reymann - Fantasia & Variatio triplae
Vivaldi - Violin Concerto Op. 3 No. 3

The ensemble included four violins, two violas, cello, bass, and harpsichord, and sometimes oboe, recorder, and/or lute.

It took half of the first offering for me to overcome the disappointment of my expectations for the instrumentation.  From a baroque orchestra I was expecting baroque instruments.  However, even though the orchestra's website states, "Wherever possible we use authentic period instruments...," apparently "possible" does not yet include most of the instruments in the ensemble.  In particular, all the bowed strings were modern, with the result that it was difficult if not impossible to hear the lute and the recorder.  The cello and bass managed to tone themselves down somewhat by playing very near or often on the fingerboard.  The upper strings appeared to be trying to do that now and then, but often forgetting.  Violins are the sopranos of the orchestra, and the music is so often "all about them":  they soar, they stand out, and—especially in Orlando's difficult Bob Carr Auditorium—they often need to work to be heard.  So I can't blame them for playing with all their hearts, and if they'd had period instruments it would have been fine.

The music itself was fun, particularly since I was familiar with much of it.  I was greatly looking forward to hearing the Marcello oboe concerto performed on a baroque oboe!  So my heart sank when the performer came out with a modern oboe in her hands.  She did a creditable job, particularly on the third movement; it was my hope for the baroque oboe that caused the disappointment.

In sum, I wish the Orlando Baroque Orchestra all the best; they are a welcome addition to the Central Florida music scene.  I expect that as they gain more experience they will iron out the sound balance problems.  And I encourage them to expand their use of baroque instruments.  I wouldn't, at this point, call it a baroque orchestra.  But it is an orchestra that plays baroque music, to which I say, "Hear, hear!"

Now if we could only get more Renaissance and medieval music here!

If you haven't received a call from us lately, it's not only because I don't like to use the telephone.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, our previously excellent phone service started giving us trouble.  Callers could hear us fine, but what we heard from them was distorted.  Back in the good ol' days of monopoly telephone service (black, rented phones and impossibly expensive long distance), if something went wrong, you knew who to blame, and they knew it, too.  Now I can call Switzerland for three cents a minute, but problems invite an endless circle of finger-pointing.  Especially when the problems are intermittent.  Before—possible points of failure = 1:  the telephone company.  After—possible points of failure = many:  the cable Internet provider, the VoIP provider, the VoiP phone, the modem, the router, or some combination.

As the trouble began right before I left town, I decided not to worry about it.  When I came back, it was a bit better—I could live with it.  Then it got worse again, and I spent a small amount of time trying to diagnose it, but a labor-intensive Christmas present demanded more of my attention, so I resorted to using the cell phone when possible, even though the per-minute cost was worse than in the Ma Bell days.  Then we were out of town again and I was able to forget the problem for a few weeks.

We came home.  Two things were different:  (1) the phone situation was worse, and consistently so, and (2) Porter was home, and he's much less likely than I am to "make do."  We began collecting data in earnest, and convinced ourselves that the problem, or at least a major part of it, rested with BrightHouse, our cable Internet provider.  The difficulty was in convincing them, and Porter spent a long and frustrating time on the phone.  It does not build confidence in a company when you get the feeling you know more about the product than the customer service representatives do.  Finally, they condescended to send out a repairman, with the threat that we would probably be charged for the service call because it was clearly our problem, not theirs.

Fast-forward to Monday night, after a weekend of becoming still more convinced that the problem was not ours.  The technician arrived, and in about 30 minutes found not one but two problems (one apparently caused by a previous repairman), which he proceeded to fix.  Voilá!  The phone was crystal clear, and what's more, our Internet speed had increased by nearly an order of magnitude.  We had been living with inferior service for years, and didn't know it could be fixed.  If BrightHouse had believed how close we were to switching away from their service, they'd not have been so slow to send out the friendly and more than usually competent repairman.

I wonder how many other areas of life could be vastly better if only we believed that they could be, were willing to work on them, and found the right combination of knowledge, tools, and technicians?

Apparently Florida has been having its longest streak of cold weather ever, worse than that in the mid-1980s, which (along with predatory developers) killed off the Central Florida citrus industry.  I was unaware of the records being set, as we returned after the cold spell was well underway, having spent nearly a month in the Northeast, where we experienced single-digit temperatures, played hockey on a local pond, and shovelled 2.5 feet of snow.

The neighbor who picked me up at the bus stop had kindly warned me that it was cold, but with a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, my warm Westtown sweatshirt, and a heavy coat (with hat, gloves, and scarf if necessary), I figured I was prepared for anything Florida had to offer.  And I was.

Except when it came time to sleep.  I had turned up the thermostat, which we had left at the lowest setting while away, and the house temperature—by which I mean the temperature next to the thermostat—had crawled up ten degrees to 58 F, which should have been fine for sleeping, except that I had not taken into account the excellent insulating properties of the blankets on our bed.  It takes a long time to fall asleep between 50 degree sheets.

By Wednesday we should see more moderate temperatures (that would be "hot" to those of you who've reported below-zero readings recently), but a hard freeze is expected once again tonight, so once again we've covered the worms and turned on the light we've placed under their dwelling place, and once again we've turned on the sprinklers that are attempting to protect our patient grapefruit tree and little garden.  I think we've lost the tomatoes and it may take the Thai basil some time to come back, but otherwise things seem to be surviving.  And Heather's roses are bravely blooming, weather or no.

(Click on the pictures for the full view.  Don't miss our Winter Wonderland Ice Garden.)

For the record, as bedwarmers go, it's really hard to beat that handiest and most versatile invention, the husband.

New Year's resolutions are, I guess, a secular version of Lent, though without Easter to look forward to.  I've never given much attention to this observance, but I like Lent, and I like new beginnings, so coming up with a few resolutions might be fun.

To those who know what a bookworm I am, resolving to read more books in 2010 will appear about as useful and as difficult as resolving to eat more chocolate or drink more tea.  However, despite being an unemployed "empty nester," I've discovered to my shock that I'm now reading fewer books than ever before.  I listen to audio books in the car as I run errands; I read blogs, articles, and news stories online;  I skim magazines.  I read books in five-minute gulps as I can throughout the day—on visits to the "reading room," while eating, while falling asleep at night.  But I hardly ever read, i.e. concentrate on a single book for an extended period of time, which is the only way to absorb a book of any substance.  I write much more than I used to, and I spend a whole lot of time researching, but to my shock it will apparently take a deliberate determination to once again be able to call myself a reader.

Adopting the management maxim, "What gets measured gets done," and stealing my sister-in-law's idea, I'm creating a page on which to document the books I read this year—see "Books Read" under Links/Personal, in the panel to the right.  If I also write about them, I'll include a link to the review as well.  And maybe a rating, if I'm feeling ambitious.

UPDATE:  The Second Edition of Phoebe's Quilt, corrected and expanded, is now available.

My sister-in-law found it in a trunk: an old, handmade quilt. Each block was inscribed with a name, often a city, and sometimes a Bible verse. The cities and many of the surnames were familiar, but no name was identifiable as that of someone in the family. Who were these people? Whose quilt was it, and when was it made? And how did it end up in Prudence's trunk?

Far be it from me to resist a genealogical puzzle, especially when it can be turned into a Christmas present:  I would use my genealogical resources to decipher the quilt, and turn my research into a book to put under the tree.  Little did I know how much of my life this little project would consume; I'm certain the quilt itself was completed in less time.

Did I say completed?  I doubt I've ever used that word in a genealogical context unless accompanied by "not" or "never."  But Christmas will come whether or not we are ready, and thus I was saved from my perfectionist tendencies.  The project is as done as it is going to get, barring a second edition.

The owner of the quilt was Phoebe L. Scovil, the daughter of Sylvester and Phoebe (Burr) Scovil, who later married Horace Andrew Bonfoey.  It was made in Haddam, Connecticut, in approximately 1849.  The signers, with their full names—even if they married after the quilt was made—were (maiden names in parentheses):  Laura Jane (Prior) Baldwin, Eliza (Burr) Bonfoey, Susan Clarke Bonfoey, Anna Brainard, Clarissa (Thomas) Brainard, Aaron Burr, Amelia M. (Bonfoey) Burr, Elizabeth (Brainerd) Burr, Flora Betsey (Burr) Burr, Rebecca (Bulkley) Burr, Sarah (Johnson) Burr, Willoughby F. Burr, Hannah A. Cory, Louisa (Bailey) Dewey, Adeline F. (Cory) Elliot, Susan M. Flagg, Ann T. (Wright) Gardner, Amelia Bullock (Abrahams) Gay, William Gay, Nancy Smith (Brainerd) Guy, Clarissa (Loveland) Harris, Abba E. Holmes, Almira T. (Hubbard) Hubbard, Lucretia Hubbard, Thankful Hubbard, Mary Ann Hyde, Mary S. (Wright) Hyde, Elizabeth G. (Hyde) Kelsey, Esther Maria (Scovil) Leete, Jane W. Miller, Julia Miller, Phebe A. (Harris) Newton, Cynthia (----) Priest, Joanna Lane (Burr) Prior, Charlotte (Spencer) Redfield, Elnora F. (Bidwell) Roberts, Adalaide (Holmes) Robinson, Cynthia Scovil, Esther Maria (Burr) Scovil, Frances Louisa (Bonfoey) Scovil, Phoebe (Burr) Scovil, Phoebe (Spencer) Scovil, Sarah A. Scovil, Eliza Ann (Smith) Smith, Jane A. (Tryon) Smith, Susan Virginia (Scovil) Stone, Sarah (Burr) Thomas, Albertie Tryon, and Sarah Maria (Wilcox) Wilcox.

Genealogical discoveries are meant to be shared, so for all interested family members, and also because there may be others researching the people represented here, I've attached a pdf of the book:  Phoebe's Quilt.  I would be grateful to hear from anyone who knows more about the quilt signers, and would also be glad to hear from those who catch the mistakes which I know must have escaped our proofreading.  There's always that second edition....

You read it here first:  Steven Perezluha, who this summer rode his bicycle from Florida to Alaska and back, has blown away the record for climbing the University of Pittsburgh's Cathedral of Learning.  His uncle, Danny Chew, had held the record at 101 times; that was broken earlier this month by triathlete Diana Marongiu-Lutz.  I hope to have more details (and perhaps a link to a news story) later.

Steven's record-setting climb:  132 times!

UPDATE December 31, 2009

 

Nothing yet from the Pittsburgh papers, but Danny Chew's website has more details than you want to know and some pictures.  Several other people joined them for the climb; too bad the former record holder wasn't there to defend her title.

Steven and Danny began their climb at 6:00 a.m. on December 26, and finished 23 hours and 52 minutes later at 5:52 a.m. December 27.  Danny broke his own record by ascending 112 times.  Steven's record-obliterating climb was a Double Everest:  twice the distance from sea levelto the top of Mount Everest.

Not all sports photos show athletes looking their best.  But I think I'd look this bad after being awake for 24 hours—never mind climbing Mt. Everest twice.

 

Photo credit: The Perezluha Family

The trouble with being a reasonably regular poster is that people start to worry when you get too busy to write.  When someone in Europe asks your daughter if everything's okay because she hasn't seen you on Facebook lately...you have to start thinking maybe your online life has been a little too active.  Be that as it may, herewith a few highlights.  Recently we have:

• Awakened to a Winter Wonderland.
• Shovelled two and a half feet of snow.^*
• Zoomed down a hill on fast sleds.
• Enjoyed hot cocoa and a toasty fire.
• Played games.  Lots of games.
• Celebrated a nephew's first college acceptance letter.
• Finished (although that's a relative term) a huge genealogical Christmas present project.  (To be posted here eventually.)
• Enjoyed cello, clarinet, and guitar music (though not enough).
• Listened to Bartholomew's Passage.
• Made dream cookies.
• Ate dream cookies.  And kringle.  And M&Ms.
• Watched A Charlie Brown Christmas.
• Stayed up too late.
• Had a wonderful time visiting friends and family.
• Sneezed.  (Some of the friends and family had cats.)
• Played at the Connecticut Science Center.
• Enjoyed a few presents and a whole lot of presence.

And it's not even Christmas yet!

First, our daughter turns 30.  Then over Thanksgiving I had the privilege of taking my first nephew-driven car ride (and a great job he did, too).  And if that weren't enough, today another nephew received his first college acceptance letter!

Next thing you know, our grandson will be losing his first tooth.  Oh, wait, that already happened....

The Franklin Insitute, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

I don't remember my first visit to the Franklin Institute; I believe it must have been on some visit to Philadelphia when I was very young; all I remember was walking through the heart.  Later, however, we moved to the Philadelphia area, and were regular visitors.  For two summers I worked in the Franklin Institute Research Labs in the building next door, and even more important to me than my paycheck was the ID badge that allowed me to take the tunnel between the buildings and spend most of my lunch hours in the museum.

After he retired, my dad became a Franklin Institute volunteer, and it was natural for him to take his grandchildren there when they came to visit.  By that time, the museum had grown an addition, with new exhibits that made it look like any modern science museum, but the kids' favorite, and my own, was the old building, with its greater educational content and more detailed, written information with each exhibit.  Now Dad's grandchildren have children of their own, and on our recent visit to Philadelphia we all looked forward to watching them delight in our old favorites.

The great-grandkids were happy enough, but the rest of us were somewhat disappointed.  To our delight, the heart is still there, as is the train that Dad used to drive as one of his docent duties (it's easier to keep a 350-ton locomotive than to get rid of one) but the "new building" style has now infected the old building, too.  Many of our favorite exhibits are gone, replaced by displays designed for shorter attention spans and lesser literacy.  The math room that had kept our kids entranced for hours was nowhere to be found, and when I finally asked a docent, "Excuse me, it's been a long time since I was here last, and I can't find the math room," he replied, "It has been a long time since you've visited; they took that out years ago."

It took a bit of effort, but we did find Newton's Dream, the kinetic sculpture that so entranced Heather as a child.  It's in a different place now, and has been cut down in size, but that didn't stop the children from following it with the same fascination.  Also riveting was Der Lauf der Dinge, a Swiss-made movie of a 30-minute Rube Goldberg setup with lots of pyrotechnics and impressive chemical reactions.  Thanks to the magic of YouTube, you, too, can see this amazing performance, albeit broken into three segments.  (Here are the links as well, since I note that embedded videos don't always show up in feedreaders:  Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Lest I be seen as a totally hopeless conservative who never likes anything new, the museum's newest exhibit, Amazing Machine, is also excellent, and we could have spent much longer playing with its cams, gears, pulley, and linkages had we not been nearing the end of our visit.  (Heather:  That's what I want for Christmas.  You can turn a mechanical engineer into a joyful homemaker, but the engineer is still there.)

 

The American Museum of Natural History, New York, New York

On my first visit to the American Museum of Natural History I was probably about as young as when I first encountered the Franklin Institute, but in this case nearly half a century elapsed between visits.  The AMNA, however, shows more respect for its old exhibits, and the wonderful dioramas that are all I remember from my first visit are still featured, with all their high information content and long descriptions to read.  I could easily have spent the entire day among them.  Porter found one, the African buffalo, that was sponsored by George Eastman, and remarked, "He sponsored the Buffalo because there is no animal named Rochester, but he should have sponsored the Kodiak bear."  Yes, we're still married; I happen to like that kind of humor.

The museum has several new exhibits as well as the old, most of which were quite good.  There was a bit of a "politically correct" feel in a few places, but it was not unbearable, and in general the educational value and written descriptions were sufficient.  Despite my primary concern for material to read, I am also particularly sensitive to the layout of displays—color, font, background, use and placement of images and other media—and this, too, the AMNH exhibits did well.

One disappointment was the Hall of Minerals, chiefly because whoever is responsible for lighting must have been on vacation.  For several months.  It was dark.  At first I thought the gloom was meant to provide contrast to the brilliance of the minerals and gems, but many of the lights that should have been highlighting the rocks were also out.  We very nearly missed the famous Star of India because it was in the dark.

In addition to the old favorites, we signed up for several special exhibits and shows.  Traveling the Silk Road was disappointing, but only because I had expected the most from it.  It was well done, but crowded, with not as much information as I had hoped and not enough time in the crowd to do justice to what was there.   The best part was the section on silk making and sericulture.

I believe Journey to the Stars was a better-than-average planetarium show (more information, less mindless entertainment), but unfortunately I responded the way I always do when faced with a movie or movie-like substance in a dark room, awakening only at the end.

The Butterfly Conservatory was interesting, though I think I've seen more fluttering in the butterfly garden at our own Leu Gardens.

Frogs:  A Chorus of Colors was great; Heather would have loved it.  Except the part where we learned about the devastation being wrought by the chytrid fungus.

Where Bd [Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis] thrives, generally in moist cool habitats, 50% of amphibian species and 80% of individuals can be expected to disappear within one year.... Currently it cannot be stopped in the wild and a minority of species seem able to survive with a Bd infection as larvae or as adults and these animals likely serve as a reservoir and vectors for future outbreaks. Notable among resistant species are worldwide invasive pest species including marine toads, American bullfrogs and African clawed frogs.

The American Museum of Natural History is well worth visiting more often than every 50 years.  The dioramas alone are a homeschooler's paradise.

This morning, the mp3 player that powers the perpetually random assortment of music emanating from our stereo system struck up Stacey Lynn Regan's, I Offer My Isaac.  Seven years after our firstborn's firstborn made his grand entrance and agonizing departure from the stage of this world, Stacey's song still has the power to stop me mid-anything and tap into deep wells of sorrow.  So do In Christ Alone, which our church programs into the service with alarming frequency, heedless of the fact that one choir member can never make it all the way through the song (breaking down at "from life's first cry to final breath" if not before), and also There Were Roses, a powerful song made all the more poignant because I first heard it, around the time of Isaac's death, in the Green Linnet version—where the name of one of the protagonists is Isaac.

Music has such strange power.  These songs call forth deep sobs of agonizing grief, but it is not a miserable sorrow.  There may be wounds that time cannot heal, but the lively presence of Isaac's subsequent siblings is a powerful healing agent, as is the certainty that Isaac is safe in God's keeping and we will be reunited at the right time.

Without any justification for such images, other than that he was born blond, I have a definite picture of Isaac in my mind:  a cross between C. S. Lewis's Prince Caspian (from the books, not the movie) and George MacDonald's Sir Gibbie; of no particular age, blond, blue-eyed, and almost always laughing.

Here's to our firstborn grandchild, with joyful sorrow, on his birthday.