Lift Up Your Hearts!

Weathermakers to the World:  The Story of a Company.  The Standard of an Industry  by Eric B. Schultz (Carrier, 2012)

When my daughter's family gave this book to me last Christmas, my son-in-law included this explanation:  Because everyone should have a complete Eric Schultz collection.  Two years earlier they had given me King Philip's War, Eric's first book.  (Which I apparently have not yet reviewed, or that link would be mine, instead of Amazon's.)  Do you think I should tell them about his latest, Food Foolish?¹

I finished reading Weathermakers to the World last night, just in time to review it for today, the 113th anniversary of Willis Carrier's great invention²  (You can read several excerpts from the book by following that link.)  Air conditioning, it turns out, is about a lot more than helping one through a July heat wave—though it does that admirably, for which I'm grateful.

On July 17, 1902, a young research engineer initialed a set of mechanical drawings designed to solve a production problem at the Sackett & Wilhelms Lithography and Printing Company in Brooklyn, New York. ... This new design was different—so novel, in fact, that it would not only help to solve a problem that had long plagued printers, but would one day launch a company and create an entire industry essential to global productivity and personal comfort.

Weathermakers to the World was written for Carrier, the corporation, and doesn't pretend to be unbiased.  You won't find here the complaints of disgruntled employees, or any suggestion that Carrier's work is anything other than an unmitigated blessing.   What you will find is an advanced coffee table book crafted by a historian with a true love for his subject.  Actually, it's not so much a book as a portable museum exhibit.  If I occasionally wished for a higher word to picture ratio, well, I do that in museums, too.  But I love museums, and am usually as attracted to the design of the exhibit as to its content.

I grew up an air conditioning snob.  I lived in the northeast, and there A/C was for wimps.  Rich wimps.  The two weeks out of the year where it didn't cool down enough to make the day bearable?  They build character!  My thoughts on that subject are for another post, but I'll just say that what Florida didn't teach me about the value of climate control, Weathermakers to the World did.

Air conditioning wasn't invented to make people comfortable, but to control humidity in a printing plant, thereby greatly increasing quality and productivity.  That increase is the real story of Carrier and his invention.  (Or rather inventions, plural, because the history of the company is also a history of adaptation and improvement.)  I vaguely knew that air conditioning made possible the growth of the American South, but I had no idea what a difference climate control made to the economy everywhere.  How it changed everything from movie theaters to chocolate making to deep mining to precision manufacturing.  How during World War II large stores such as Macy's and Sears donated their air conditioning systems to companies producing necessary war materials, boosting both the quantity and the quality of their output, quite possibly shortening the length of the war.  That "clean" was at first as much a feature of air conditioned systems as "cool":  the first train cars to benefit from A/C were dining cars, and passengers were delighted not only by the comfort but that flecks of soot no longer decorated their food.  That Carrier's invention revolutionized museums, allowing them to conserve art and artifacts while keeping them accessible to the public.  That hospital patients would benefit almost as much from a more comfortable environment as from their treatment.

Even in hospitals, however, the personal benefits of air conditioning were surprisingly slow to come.  Three quarters of a century after Willis Carrier initialed those drawings, the hospital where I worked still lacked climate control in many of its wings.  The only reason we had the benefit of A/C—and that from inadequate and persnickety units—was that our computers would not work without it.  Carrier himself realized the comfort potential early on, but how slow businesses were to realize that people, as well as machines, are more productive under comfortable working conditions!  Not that I can fault them:  it took me a long time to shed my own A/C snobbery.

Finally, too, I understand why The Occasional CEO (the author's personal blog) occasionally complains about people who think innovation is coming up with a new iPhone app.  Willis Carrier was an inventor, an innovator, an entrepreneur who created a product useful in almost every human endeavor, and built a still-successful company and an entire industry around it.  Now that's the kind of innovation we need more of.  And lest our daughters, in their faithful and sometimes frustrating careers at home, miss the importance of their work in nurturing such innovation, here's what Willis Carrier had to say (thanks, Eric, for including this story):

"One day my mother started to question me regarding fractions, which we were then taking up and working according to rule.  She found that my idea of fractions was one number written over another, with a line between.  In other words, I had no perception of the concrete significance of the fraction; in fact, I have seen college men who didn't have it either.  She then proceeded at once, and with much skill, as I now realize, to demonstrate the principles of fractions with an apple, divided in various ways.  As a result, my whole idea of numbers was illuminated and fractions became a very interesting game or puzzle."

This lesson, Carrier would later say, was "the most important thing that ever happened to me."  It taught him that solving problems by rules and rote contributed little to genuine understanding. ... In later years, when asked how he had solved problems that had stumped so many others, Dr. Carrier was apt to smile and say, "I just reduce them to a pot of apples."

Reading Weathermakers to the World is like taking a leisurely walk through a museum of technology.  My kind of museum, that is:  one with an eye-catching design, and more words than push-buttons.  If you can't read the book yourself, you can see some good excerpts, as well as a short video, at WillisCarrier.com.

And I note that The Occasional CEO has published a post in honor of this day.  I forced myself to write this review before reading it, but you can find some additional interesting links there.

Tremendous Trifles  by G. K. Chesterton (Sheed and Ward, 1909)

This was a Christmas gift back in 2013.  (Thanks, DSTB!)  Despite my love of Chesterton's writings, it fell into the black hole that is my over-stuffed bookshelf, the bookshelf that takes up most of the back wall of my office, the bookshelf that inspired 95 by 65 goal #63, "Read 26 existing but as yet unread books from my bookshelves."  Thanks to that goal, Tremendous Trifles re-emerged.

This series of essays from the very early years of the 20th century were the result of Chesterton's brilliant mind looking in unusual, sometimes bizarre, ways at things and events that most people would ignore—if they noticed them at all.  The writings are somewhat dated, but I notice it primarily in missing out on some of the jokes; the ideas are still fresh, fascinating, and yes, sometimes bizarre.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this real, physical, odor-of-old-libraries book, but if you wish, you can read Tremendous Trifles for free, at Project Gutenberg.  (Most of Chesterton's works are now in the public domain.)  Here are a few quotations to whet your appetite.

[A]nyone else may do it better, if anyone else will only try.

Applied by Chesterton to his own writings, this statement is absurd:  his mind and his skills were incredible.  But still it speaks an important truth, that very often things could be done better, but those who are more able are not the ones making the effort.

The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.

One of the wise and awful truths which this brown-paper art reveals, is this, that white is a colour.  It is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black.  When, so to speak, your pencil grows red-hot, it draws roses; when it grows white-hot, it draws stars.  And one of the two or three defiant verities of the best religious morality, of real Christianity, for example, is exactly this same thing; the chief assertion of religious morality is that white is a colour.  Virtue is not the absence of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate thing, like pain or a particular smell.  Mercy does not mean not being cruel or sparing people revenge or punishment; it means a plain and positive thing like the sun, which one has either seen or not seen.  Chastity does not mean abstention from sexual wrong; it means something flaming, like Joan of Arc.  In a word, God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.

If there is one thing worse than the modern weakening of major morals it is the modern strengthening of minor morals.

Now, it is a terrible business to mark a man out for the vengeance of men. But it is a thing to which a man can grow accustomed, as he can to other terrible things; he can even grow accustomed to the sun. And the horrible thing about all legal officials, even the best, about all judges, magistrates, barristers, detectives, and policemen, is not that they are wicked (some of them are good), not that they are stupid (several of them are quite intelligent), it is simply that they have got used to it.

Strictly they do not see the prisoner in the dock; all they see is the usual man in the usual place. They do not see the awful court of judgment; they only see their own workshop. Therefore, the instinct of Christian civilisation has most wisely declared that into their judgments there shall upon every occasion be infused fresh blood and fresh thoughts from the streets. Men shall come in who can see the court and the crowd, and coarse faces of the policemen and the professional criminals, the wasted faces of the wastrels, the unreal faces of the gesticulating counsel, and see it all as one sees a new picture or a ballet hitherto unvisited.

Our civilisation has decided, and very justly decided, that determining the guilt or innocence of men is a thing too important to be trusted to trained men. It wishes for light upon that awful matter, it asks men who know no more law than I know, but who can feel the things that I felt in the jury box. When it wants a library catalogued, or the solar system discovered, or any trifle of that kind it uses up its specialists. But when it wishes anything done which is really serious, it collects twelve of the ordinary men standing round. The same thing was done, if I remember right, by the Founder of Christianity.

I find that there really are human beings who think fairy tales bad for children. ... [A] lady has written me an earnest letter saying that fairy tales ought not to be taught to children even if they are true. She says that it is cruel to tell children fairy tales, because it frightens them. You might just as well say that it is cruel to give girls sentimental novels because it makes them cry. All this kind of talk is based on that complete forgetting of what a child is like which has been the firm foundation of so many educational schemes. [emphasis mine] If you keep bogies and goblins away from children they would make them up for themselves. One small child in the dark can invent more hells than Swedenborg. One small child can imagine monsters too big and black to get into any picture, and give them names too unearthly and cacophonous to have occurred in the cries of any lunatic. ... The fear does not come from fairy tales; the fear comes from the universe of the soul.

The timidity of the child or the savage is entirely reasonable; they are alarmed at this world, because this world is a very alarming place. ... Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.

Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies, that these strong enemies of man have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear....

At the four corners of a child's bed stand Perseus and Roland, Sigurd and St. George. If you withdraw the guard of heroes you are not making him rational; you are only leaving him to fight the devils alone.

There is only one reason why all grown-up people do not play with toys; and it is a fair reason. The reason is that playing with toys takes so very much more time and trouble than anything else. Playing as children mean playing is the most serious thing in the world; and as soon as we have small duties or small sorrows we have to abandon to some extent so enormous and ambitious a plan of life. We have enough strength for politics and commerce and art and philosophy; we have not enough strength for play. This is a truth which everyone will recognize who, as a child, has ever played with anything at all: anyone who has played with bricks, anyone who has played with dolls, anyone who has played with tin soldiers. My journalistic work, which earns money, is not pursued with such awful persistency as that work which earned nothing.

Brave men are all vertebrates; they have their softness on the surface and their toughness in the middle.  But these modern cowards are all crustaceans; their hardness is all on the cover and their softness is inside.

And finally, I present a story, one that makes up almost the entirety of one essay, aptly entitled "A Somewhat Improbable Story." It's as madcap as most of Chesterton's stories, and a serious essay as well.

You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half-hour's vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one's leisure is the most unbusiness-like of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotised by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man—it is called a watch-chain.

Now, among these there entered and sat down opposite to me a man who almost immediately opened an uninterrupted monologue. He was like all the other men in dress, yet he was startlingly opposite to them in all manner. He wore a high shiny hat and a long frock coat, but he wore them as such solemn things were meant to be worn; he wore the silk hat as if it were a mitre, and the frock coat as if it were the ephod of a high priest. He not only hung his hat up on the peg, but he seemed (such was his stateliness) almost to ask permission of the hat for doing so, and to apologise to the peg for making use of it. When he had sat down on a wooden chair with the air of one considering its feelings and given a sort of slight stoop or bow to the wooden table itself, as if it were an altar, I could not help some comment springing to my lips. For the man was a big, sanguine-faced, prosperous-looking man, and yet he treated everything with a care that almost amounted to nervousness.

For the sake of saying something to express my interest I said, "This furniture is fairly solid; but, of course, people do treat it much too carelessly."

As I looked up doubtfully my eye caught his, and was fixed as his was fixed in an apocalyptic stare. I had thought him ordinary as he entered, save for his strange, cautious manner; but if the other people had seen him then they would have screamed and emptied the room. They did not see him, and they went on making a clatter with their forks, and a murmur with their conversation. But the man's face was the face of a maniac.

"Did you mean anything particular by that remark?" he asked at last, and the blood crawled back slowly into his face.

"Nothing whatever," I answered. "One does not mean anything here; it spoils people's digestions."

He limped back and wiped his broad forehead with a big handkerchief; and yet there seemed to be a sort of regret in his relief.

"I thought perhaps," he said in a low voice, "that another of them had gone wrong."

"If you mean another digestion gone wrong," I said, "I never heard of one here that went right. This is the heart of the Empire, and the other organs are in an equally bad way."

"No, I mean another street gone wrong," and he said heavily and quietly, "but as I suppose that doesn't explain much to you, I think I shall have to tell you the story. I do so with all the less responsibility, because I know you won't believe it. For forty years of my life I invariably left my office, which is in Leadenhall Street, at half-past five in the afternoon, taking with me an umbrella in the right hand and a bag in the left hand. For forty years two months and four days I passed out of the side office door, walked down the street on the left-hand side, took the first turning to the left and the third to the right, from where I bought an evening paper, followed the road on the right-hand side round two obtuse angles, and came out just outside a Metropolitan station, where I took a train home. For forty years two months and four days I fulfilled this course by accumulated habit: it was not a long street that I traversed, and it took me about four and a half minutes to do it. After forty years two months and four days, on the fifth day I went out in the same manner, with my umbrella in the right hand and my bag in the left, and I began to notice that walking along the familiar street tired me somewhat more than usual; and when I turned it I was convinced that I had turned down the wrong one. For now the street shot up quite a steep slant, such as one only sees in the hilly parts of London, and in this part there were no hills at all. Yet it was not the wrong street; the name written on it was the same; the shuttered shops were the same; the lamp-posts and the whole look of the perspective was the same; only it was tilted upwards like a lid. Forgetting any trouble about breathlessness or fatigue I ran furiously forward, and reached the second of my accustomed turnings, which ought to bring me almost within sight of the station. And as I turned that corner I nearly fell on the pavement. For now the street went up straight in front of my face like a steep staircase or the side of a pyramid. There was not for miles round that place so much as a slope like that of Ludgate Hill. And this was a slope like that of the Matterhorn. The whole street had lifted itself like a single wave, and yet every speck and detail of it was the same, and I saw in the high distance, as at the top of an Alpine pass, picked out in pink letters the name over my paper shop.

"I ran on and on blindly now, passing all the shops and coming to a part of the road where there was a long grey row of private houses. I had, I know not why, an irrational feeling that I was a long iron bridge in empty space. An impulse seized me, and I pulled up the iron trap of a coal-hole. Looking down through it I saw empty space and the stairs.

"When I looked up again a man was standing in his front garden, having apparently come out of his house; he was leaning over the railings and gazing at me. We were all alone on that nightmare road; his face was in shadow; his dress was dark and ordinary; but when I saw him standing so perfectly still I knew somehow that he was not of this world. And the stars behind his head were larger and fiercer than ought to be endured by the eyes of men.

"'If you are a kind angel,' I said, 'or a wise devil, or have anything in common with mankind, tell me what is this street possessed of devils.'

"After a long silence he said, 'What do you say that it is?'

"'It is Bumpton Street, of course,' I snapped. 'It goes to Oldgate Station.'

"'Yes,' he admitted gravely; 'it goes there sometimes. Just now, however, it is going to heaven.'

"'To heaven?' I said. 'Why?'

"'It is going to heaven for justice,' he replied. 'You must have treated it badly. Remember always that there is one thing that cannot be endured by anybody or anything. That one unendurable thing is to be overworked and also neglected. For instance, you can overwork women—everybody does. But you can't neglect women—I defy you to. At the same time, you can neglect tramps and gypsies and all the apparent refuse of the State so long as you do not overwork it. But no beast of the field, no horse, no dog can endure long to be asked to do more than his work and yet have less than his honour. It is the same with streets. You have worked this street to death, and yet you have never remembered its existence. If you had a healthy democracy, even of pagans, they would have hung this street with garlands and given it the name of a god. Then it would have gone quietly. But at last the street has grown tired of your tireless insolence; and it is bucking and rearing its head to heaven. Have you never sat on a bucking horse?'

"I looked at the long grey street, and for a moment it seemed to me to be exactly like the long grey neck of a horse flung up to heaven. But in a moment my sanity returned, and I said, 'But this is all nonsense. Streets go to the place they have to go. A street must always go to its end.'

"'Why do you think so of a street?' he asked, standing very still.

"'Because I have always seen it do the same thing,' I replied, in reasonable anger. 'Day after day, year after year, it has always gone to Oldgate Station; day after...'

"I stopped, for he had flung up his head with the fury of the road in revolt.

"'And you?' he cried terribly. 'What do you think the road thinks of you? Does the road think you are alive? Are you alive? Day after day, year after year, you have gone to Oldgate Station....' Since then I have respected the things called inanimate."

And bowing slightly to the mustard-pot, the man in the restaurant withdrew.

I'm still pleased with the progress I'm making toward my 95 by 65 goals, though what remains to be done in two years is intimidating.  I've completed 14 goals in the first six months, an average of 2.3/month, which is behind the needed average of 3.17/month.  I console myself that I've made significant progress toward several other goals, but with the sobering reminder that many of the more time-consuming and difficult goals have not yet been touched.

I still love the 95 by 65 idea, or 101 Things in 1001 Days (which was my inspiration), or any form of setting goals over time.  It helps me keep track of what I've done, it helps me organize what I do, and it helps me focus my efforts.  It also shows me where other people are "on my team," and gives me a much-needed boost in directions I might otherwise neglect.  I feel somewhat ridiculous about the last:  I shouldn't need encouragement to respond with enthusiasm when my husband suggests we try a new restaurant, or when friends from out of state (or country) invite us to visit them.  But it turns out that for me, "it's on the list" has enormous power to counteract the nagging voices of "it's too expensive," "I don't have time for that," "it's too much work," and "there are more urgent tasks that demand my attention."  Maybe all of those naysaying voices are correct—one reason it's important to populate one's list with care—but I love that the list liberates me to enjoy the activities, enthusiastically and without feeling guilty.

Completed  In Progress

To Live

1. Create 95 by 65 list—Completed 1/24/15
2. Create the Leon Project—Completed 1/12/15
3. Create/tweak/finalize/codify 60 family recipes
4. Develop and sustain a system for making bread regularly
5. Develop and sustain a system for making yoghurt regularly
6. Experiment with making kefir
7. Finish Janet's birthday 2009 recipe book
8. Go through all recipe books, digitizing what looks good, getting rid of all but essentials/favorites
9. Complete a biking challenge (details to come)
10. Complete a swimming challenge (details to come)
11. Complete a walking challenge (details to come)
12. Design 5 Life Playground stations
13. Develop a stretching plan and execute at least 3x/week for a month
14. Execute 50 pushups nonstop on the higher bar at the park—I've been stuck at 10 for quite a while due to injury
15. Find a GPS distance tracker that works for me
16. Practice deliberate relaxation twice a day for a month—Completed 5/16/15.  This is worth keeping.  I lost the habit during my month in Switzerland, but don't anticipate any problems picking it up again, now that I feel the value of it.
17. Reach my desired weight goal
18. Run nonstop 3 times around the park trail then participate in a 5K race (any speed)—I'm making good progress here, having reached the 3 times around interim goal on 5/30/15.  But I'm not quite ready for the 5K, not only because the park circuit is not quite a mile, but because I need to build back up after scaling back (but not eliminating!) while I was in Switzerland.
19. Declutter and organize phone
20. Declutter blog template files
21. Declutter computer
22. Declutter garage
23. Declutter marked items in Janet's room
24. Declutter my office
25. Declutter our filing cabinets (with Porter)
26. Declutter sewing supplies
27. Develop a quick system for travel prep and packing
28. Recycle collected ink cartridges—I know this looks easy, but I'm trying to do it in a way that I use the credit I get for recycling them.  I miss the easy 1 cartridge = 1 ream of paper days!
29. Research and purchase food processor—Completed 1/30/15.  I need to use it more, but I like it.  Very nice for making pie crust, as I learned from Heather.
    
30. Set up identification system for files to grab in an emergency
31. Create another goal-oriented project for when this one is over
32. Create an herb garden
33. Get a working back porch sink

To Love

34. Attend 15 live performances (e.g. music, drama, lectures)—60% done
    
35. Convert our Christmas card system to postal + e-mail
36. Refrain from negative speech for 1 day. Do this 30 times. (Since sometimes negative things must be said, this will include recasting negative things in a neutral or positive tone.)
37. Share at least 20 meals with others (home or restaurant, but not counting multi-day visits or shared meals already in place)—65% done
    
38. Try at least 5 new restaurants—Completed 4/10/15.  Clearly I set this goal 'way too low, since I'm up to 9 so far and anticipate many more.
39. Visit Universal/IoA four times—Completed 5/15/15.  Dr. Doom's Fear Fall, fish & chips and butterbeer! No need to renew the annual passes anytime soon, but it was fun while they lasted.
    
40. Watch NCIS LA from the beginning—We're up to Season 4 (2012)
41. Watch Unbroken—Completed 4/24/15.  Worth watching, though it doesn't do justice to the book.
    
42. Join in the choir trip to Austria
43. Visit a country I've never been to
44. Visit a state I've never been to—Completed 4/9/15.  Missouri (St. Louis).  Great visit with NM&B.  New museums, new restaurants, and a genealogy breakthrough.
    
45. Visit with all immediate family members at least once per year (I changed "visit" to "visit with"; it doesn't have to be at their homes)—I've completed all but 4 so far for 2015, including the international visit.
46. Visit Arizona
47. Visit either Costa Rica or the Gambia
48. Visit King Arthur Flour—Completed 2/12/15
49. Keep up a 10 posts/month blogging schedule for 20 months (not necessarily consecutive)—Modified from "two posts/week" to make record keeping easier.  30% done
    
50. Send at least 4 care packages to each of our freshman nephews
51. Write an encouraging note each month to someone other than family—6/6 so far.  This turns out to be one of the more challenging goals, not because it's hard to write the notes, but because I have to remember before the end of each month.  I didn't give myself any leeway with this one.
    
52. Write at least 10 letters to political officeholders—Only one so far...I need to get on this.
53. Write at least 5 notes of encouragement to each nephew
54. Write at least 75 physical letters to children/grandchildren—10 so far
55. Join Google+—I have an invitation; I just need to do it...
56. Join Twitter—Completed 2/9/15.  I don't use it much, but enjoy checking the feed now and then, and even used it to send one of the encouraging notes (goal #51).

To Learn

57. Finish chronological Bible reading plan—Almost there; 94% done.
58. Start and complete other daily Bible reading plans
59. Achieve 40,000 duolingo points (average 1,000/month, split between French and German)—I'm 'way ahead of schedule on this one, 64% complete
60. Listen to all of Pimsleur German I—Completed 5/30/15.  I recently acquired German II, so I'll move on to that when I get it converted to a form I can listen to on my phone.
61. Complete George MacDonald reading plan (50 books, 14 completed in 2014)—52% done
62. Read 130 books (new or old, print or audio, any level)—29% done
63. Read 26 existing but as yet unread books from my bookshevles—12% done.  This is so much harder than you'd think, because there are so many new, interesting books that come to my attention.
64. Read The History of the Renaissance World
65. Read the Koran—Completed 4/14/15
66. Complete 100 Great Courses lectures (Measured by lecture rather than course because some courses are longer than others, and so I can count free lectures they sometimes offer.)—46% done
67. Experience all 37 of Shakespeare's plays (attend, watch, and/or read)—16% done
68. Learn sufficient Javascript and/or jquery to know if it will work for creating my GTC website
69. Make 30 museum visits—23% done
70. Set and attain BrainHQ goal
71. Set and attain Khan Academy goal
72. Set and attain Memrise goal
73. Set and attain Sporcle goal

To Leave a Legacy

74. Copy LPs to CDs
75. Copy tapes to CDs—Porter is working on this
76. Convert WRL memorial PPT to video
77. Complete conversion of bits PPTs to videos
78. Create 20 new GTC shows
79. Create a form of GTC independent of YouTube and useable offline
80. Create scent bits
81. Make new family bits (was just "for Heather," but now Janet needs some, too)
82. Print bit back labels for Heather
83. Clean up, expand, and document the lines I currently have in my tree
84. Enter unentered genealogy data
85. Publish revised editions of Honor Enough volumes 1-4
86. Rocket boost genealogy work by end of January 2015 (40 hours of work in segments of 1 or more hours, over 2 weeks)—Completed 2/1/15.  Unfortunately, I haven't done much since....
87. Update Phoebe's Quilt and print in "final" form
88. Create one photo album with Picaboo
89. Digitize photos
90. Digitize slides
91. Organize photos 2007-2011 (subgroups 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010)
92. Organize photos 2012-2016 (subgroups 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015)
93. Research and purchase scanner suitable for prints and slides
94. Rocket boost photo work (40 hours of work in segments of 1 or more hours, over 2 weeks)
95. Make (at least) 2 baby blankets—Completed 5/14/15.  Two grandbabies!  Hooray!
    

(photo credit Stephan Stücklin; click image to enlarge)

Eleonora Margaret Stücklin
Born Sunday, June 21, 2015, 11:01 p.m.
Weight: 8 pounds, 1 ounce
Length: 20 inches

There are five syllables in her first name; think Italian.  Our you could do what her family does, and call her Ellie.  Janet has posted Ellie's birth story on her own blog, and you can find more details there.  I'll add here a few from my point of view.

This was the first time we'd only planned a four-week stay for my visit; previously we'd allowed two weeks before and four weeks after the due date.  So I was getting rather nervous as my final week approached.  But I think it all worked out well, and don't regret having had three weeks before the birth, as I believe it helped Janet get some much-needed preparatory rest; she was exhausted when I arrived, and doing much better when the day finally came.  It was also great to have the time to be part of the family and focus on the older kids, who will remember my visit a lot more than Ellie will.

I hardly know how to classify Janet's labor for Ellie.  Was it long?  I don't even know when it started, as she went through a few days of "this may be it, no, yes, no, maybe."  Was it short?  All I know is that the end came very quickly.

My duties were easy, as the kids—my primary responsibility—were sound asleep by the time the midwife arrived.  In the interest of keeping the crowd down, however, I mostly stayed out of the bedroom, but kept my ears on the alert, and occasionally peeked in through the doorway.  Suddenly I heard the kind of moaning that means labor is getting serious, followed only minutes later by the sound of pushing!  I was through the door in a trice, in time to see the bursting of the amniotic sac and a firehose gush of fluid flying straight at the midwife.  Then Ellie's head appeared, followed swiftly by the rest of her.  A beautiful baby!  A baby girl!  And then came the most amazing placenta I've ever seen.  (I've been present for the birth of 12.  This was a two-pound hunk of meat with not a hint of the calcifications that indicate the placenta is aging.  Despite coming a week after her purported due date, Ellie was not late.)

Even more amazing was the reaction of Ellie's brothers and sister the next day.  From the beginning, the three of them—who have themselves an incredible, "best friend" sibling relationship—have doted on their new sister, competing for the privilege of holding her, covering her with kisses and hugs, professing their love, showing their concern.  Long may their joy remain!

Welcome, Eleonora!

What a great Father's Day present for both Daddy and Dad-o!

My photo editing experiences are 'way below novice, having made do with Windows (Office) Photo Editor, Picasa, Irfanview, and Paint all these years. However, most of the 90s decade of my 95 by 65 project involves photo work, so it's about time I upgraded to some good photo editing software.  In particular, I want to be able to work with my photos without losing data:  Picasa, for example, does some nice things, but degrades the image every time I use it.

I am finding the Adobe Photoshop CC (Photoshop/Lightroom) subscription attractive at $10/month.  I'm sure I don't need all the fancy stuff, and the cost would really add up over a matter of years, but for getting my feet wet it seems reasonable—and it would be several months before reaching the cost of Photoshop Elements.

I've read reviews of several other programs, but am not convinced they are worth the cost.  Except for GIMP, of course, which is always an option, though when I tried it years ago I found it not as user-friendly as I had hoped—i.e. I didn't get anywhere with it.  Adobe still seems to be the gold standard.

What do you think, Faithful Readers?

I was out of the country for 30 days, and so much changed while I was gone that I sometimes wonder what country I returned to.  I'm grateful for days like today, for small towns like Geneva, Florida, and for people like the members of the Greater Geneval Grande Award Marching Band (GGGAMB), which assembles once a year for the town's Independence Day parade.  I am so sick of (and sickened by) the strident, angry voices that exacerbate and exaggerate our differences, and refuse to see the humanity of anyone who disagrees.  But this is the America I know and love:  where diversity enriches rather than divides, and our widely differing political and social views in no way hinder our friendship, our celebration, or our working together in common cause.

For a month my diet consisted largely of as much as I wanted of the following:  bread, cheese, butter, jam, pasta, potatoes, pastries, and chocolate.  If you've ever eaten Swiss bread, you know why that tops the list.  And maybe it wasn't quite as much as I wanted in the pastry department, but that was largely a matter of timing, i.e. getting to the store before the best choices ran out.  Sure, we ate a few other things, but bread and cheese really is a Swiss staple, and when I'm in town I never waste the opportunity.

While I was there, my exercise regimen was reduced from three times per week to three times per month.

I came home five pounds lighter than when I left.

I am so over the anti-carbohydrate hype.

 Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes: Cultural Studies in the Gospels  by Kenneth E. Bailey (IVP Academic, 2008)

I cannot remember where I learned about this book—though it seems like the kind of book Peter V. might have recommended—but its description intrigued me enough to put it in my Amazon cart.  The order arrived with other, more attractive books, however, so it went on a bookshelf instead of being read immediately.  And there it stayed for five years, almost to the day.

This year, however, the title popped up again, on my son-in-law's Amazon wish list.  What better way to work on 95 by 65 item #63 (Read 26 existing but as yet unread books from my bookshelves), than to read it myself, bring it to Switzerland with me, and give it to him for his approaching birthday.  It was a bit of a challenge to complete the 443 pages in time, even with a transatlantic flight, but I did complete it (though not this review) before making the return trip.

Was it worth the time?  Yes, even though most of the reading came at the cost of much-needed sleep, life with three (and then four) grandchildren under the age of five leaving few free moments for sustained attention to anything else.  The grandchildren, naturally, were more rewarding, but that's not the book's fault.

Was it all I had hoped for?  Not close, I'm afraid.  Don't get me wrong:  there's a lot of value there.  The book starts off with a splash of great promise in the author's argument, based on his knowledge of present and historical Middle Eastern culture, that Jesus was not born in a barn, or even a cave, behind an overflowing inn—despite each location having long tradition behind it—but in a private home, where the traditional guest quarters were already filled.  A baby born in the home's main room could have been conveniently laid in the mangers that served the livestock housed in the lower-level end of the room.

The author's cultural knowledge also brings new light to several New Testament stories, such as Zacchaeus' repentance speech:

The moment comes ... when Zacchaeus, who has been reclining with Jesus and the other guests, stands to give his formal response.  In traditional Middle Eastern style, he exaggerates in order to demonstrate his sincerity and pledges to give away 50 percent of his assets.  Then he says he will pay back fourfold anyone he has cheated.  If all the money he has ever collected unjustly from the community over the years amounts to 13 percent of his remaining assets, he cannot fulfill this pledge  No one expects him to do so....  In good village fashion...Zacchaeus affirms his sincerity by exaggeration.  If he does not exaggerate, the crowd will think he means the opposite.

Math may not be the author's strong point, but you get the idea.  And here's the backstory of the miraculous catch of fish in Luke 5:

The Sea of Galilee drops off into deep water close to the shore, and in most areas is too dangerous for swimming.  Casting can be done standing in the water or from a boat.  Drag fishing, with a long net and two boats, was also practiced....  These two types of fishing can be done during the day.  But all fishermen working Gennesaret know that most successful fishing takes place at night and primarily near the shore where fresh water feeds into the lake....  The very idea that a landlubber from the highlands of Nazareth, who has never wet a line, should presume to tell a seasoned fishing captain what to do is preposterous.  The fish can see and avoid the nets during the day, but they feed at night.  The order to launch into the deeps in broad daylight is ridiculous.

And of Jesus' conversation with the woman at the well in John 4:

He breaks the social taboo against talking to a woman, particularly in an uninhabited place with no witnesses.  Throughout forty years of life in the Middle East I have never crossed this social boundary line.  In village society, a strange man does not even make eye contact with a woman in a public place.

If the whole book were like this, I'd be sorry I promised to give it away.  But despite repeatedly, and correctly, pressing the point that our 21st century viewpoints distort what we see in these 1st century stories, it's clear that the author allows his own opinions to influence his interpretations.  He's also so very convinced that his interpretations are the correct ones, and too often speaks this assurance over what clearly are speculations.

While it's good to know how radically Jesus departed from the customs of his time in his interactions with women, I'm not convinced that promoting gender equality was Jesus' primary purpose in these encounters, though that seems to be the author's view.

Bailey's opinions intrude frequently, unnecessarily, and at times offensively.

History is replete with examples of one ethnic community displacing another.  To accomplish such a goal the aggressors usually feel the need to demean those they are brutalizing.  Words such as savages, vermin, and now terrorists ring down the centuries.

His apparent problem with labelling those who commit organized acts of terror as "terrorists" is gratuitously offensive.  The provocation distracts from his point while adding nothing to it.  So too with his bias against the modern state of Israel, which crops up now and then.

Although my next complaint is admittedly petty, it's like fingernails on a blackboard to me when Bailey uses outdated slang, such as "head trip,"  and overused phrases meant to sound Biblical which aren't, like "speaking truth to power."

For all that, Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes is worth reading.  In addition to giving cultural insights, Bailey unlocks the rhetorical style and structure of many of the Biblical stories.  I'm not sure how much this actually adds to understanding, but it's interesting, and not at all obvious to the casual, English-speaking reader.

The ... challenge is to realize the historical nature of the Word of God.  The Bible for Christians is not just the Word of God.  Rather, it is the Word of God spoken through people in history.  Those people and that history cannot be ignored without missing the speaker or writer's intentions and creating our own substitutes for them.  Historical interpretation is the key to unlocking the vault that contains the gold of theological meaning....  It is helpful to note that this is true of all significant literature.

There were Sandra Boynton books around when our children were young, but they were new, and we mostly missed them.  When our nephews later introduced them to us, I wasn't all that impressed.  Very few books directed at children impress me.  But in the last month I have become a fan.

Specifically, of Blue Hat, Green Hat and But Not the Hippopotamus.  Daniel (22 months) wants them read over and over and over and over and over ... but I've yet to grow weary of them.  It helps that they're short, but it's mostly his enthusiasm that keeps me going.  He can very nearly read them to himself, thanks to the repetition within the books as well as the repeated readings.  He gleefully fills in "Oops!" and "Hippopotamus" in the appropriate places, and tonight, after I refused to read any more, I heard him "reading" several pages of the latter book to himself.  "Should stay?  Should go?" and with the greatest expression.  Such fun.

So, a very belated thank you, Ms. Boynton!

Joseph wanted to go to the grocery store, and made his own shopping list.  (Click to enlarge.)

He did not have enough money to make the purchases, especially in the quantities he wanted, but I told him I'd gladly pay for one package of butter, so we went off eagerly to the store.  Grandmotherly hearts—and appealing grandchild eyes—being what they are, the plan escalated a bit.

While Janet and the others did their own shopping, Joseph and I started filling his little cart.  He found at least one of everything on his list (milk, pizza, oranges, bread, butter, orange juice, apple juice, peanut butter, and water), and I added several other items of interest to me (e.g. Swiss chocolate half off).

At checkout, he put his items on the belt, and got out his purse.  He handed the lady his widow's mite—all he had.  I slipped her a 50-franc bill; she smiled, and handed the change to Joseph.  His eyes opened wide, as the change was a bit over six francs, about twice the sum he had started with, and monumental compared with his weekly allowance.

One hundred percent return on investment, and a cart full of food, too.  Even I might learn to like shopping under those circumstances.

Grandparents sometimes have luxuries unavailable to parents, the greatest of which may be time.  Not that I've ever felt free from the pressure of too much I want to do and not enough time in which to do it, but both time and the lack thereof are relative.

Vivienne wanted to go for a walk with Grandma, and she particularly likes it when I let her take the lead.  We started out along familiar paths, stopping for a while at a favorite playground.  But there was a somewhat aggressive boy there, so exploration soon became more attractive again.

We hiked past a mall and the local equivalent of Wal-Mart.  (I hope I don't offend anyone with that comparison, but it's a large store that carries a great variety of items at comparatively reasonable prices.)  As we passed, she expressed her regret that the stores were all closed.  Here most businesses are closed on Sundays, a practice widespread when I was young but now limited at home primarily to Chick-fil-A restaurants.  While I admit to doing my share of business on Sundays, part of me misses those times and the natural respite from day-to-day consumerism and busy-ness.

End of digression.  Vivienne was content enough to window-shop in the garden center, which was visible from the sidewalk.  Moving on, we crossed the street to an intriguing path that spiraled down towards a tunnel.  Where would it lead?  It was dark and lonely, seemingly abandoned:  the underground part of a parking garage, empty because the stores were closed.  A little scary, too, so we happily returned to the sun-lit lands, up a set of stairs and on our way.

On our way where?  We found ourselves in a neighborhood of apartment buildings, complete with tempting playgrounds.  Tempting, but in the end resistible—the intrepid walker pressed on.  At last we came to the only intersection where Vivienne asked me to decide if we should go left or right.  Less adventuresome, knowing that going out requires an eventual return, and cognizant of approaching suppertime, I chose to "close the loop."

a rough sketch of our approximately 1.75-mile journey

Vivienne had other ideas, however, immediately executing a hairpin turn and heading off towards the ... train station!  Through the tunnel, under the tracks, and up to the platform.  We looked around for a while, but no trains came.  Go back as we had come?  Certainly not!  We had to find another way across the tracks.  Which we did, going still further on before we could turn around.

After that the return was fairly straightforward, with just one foray into a business center that I would have avoided had I been the leader.  That was the point at which I first blessed having no need to hurry: at worst we would have to call home to say we'd be late for supper.  For it was then that Vivienne decided she had had enough walking and wanted to be carried.  I wasn't surprised—we'd been walking quite a while, and she is not that much past her third birthday.  Nevertheless, I reminded her that we'd discussed a couple of times the importance of not going so far that we'd run out of energy for the return trip.  So I waited, and Vivienne sat on the ground until she had recovered enough energy to walk, which she did when she was ready, without fuss or complaint.

We were almost within eyeshot of home when she sat down again, and took off both her socks and shoes.  She did not ask to be carried, but apparently her feet needed some air.  I completely understand.  After about 15 minutes—and a few smiles and nods from passersby—she calmly put her socks and shoes back on, stood up, and we continued on our way.

Not, alas, as quickly as I—tired myself and still mindful of supper time—would have wished.  It took a long time to cross the bridge.  It's only over a road, but that was fascinating enough to Vivienne, and she careened as many times as possible between the side of the walkway with the precipitous drop and the side right next to the bus lane.  The guard rails are sturdy and sufficient, but I was notably happier when we finally reached the end of the bridge.  The rest of the trip was uneventful, though by no means speedy, as we stopped to smell at least 50 roses in the home stretch.

We had had a great adventure together, and still made it home for supper.

My airplane dinner was very good, as airplane dinners go, so I don't mean to complain.  But I couldn't help noticing that the first ingredient on a wedge of cheese labeled "Swiss cheese" was cheddar.  Swiss cheese was there, too, several items later—after water.  What's particularly odd is that of all the amazing cheeses readily available here in Switzerland, chedder is not one of them.

And then there was this bottle of Alpine Spring water, "bottled at the source"...

... in Tennessee.

As I sit here, typing away at the edge of the Alps themselves, I can assure you beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are nowhere near Tennessee.

If our laws concerning product labelling allow this, why should I trust any label at all?

It's summer, and I'm living at a latitude approximately that of the northern tip of Maine.  Which is why it's easy to lose track of time completely:  how can it be quarter to ten at night and still light enough outside to read easily?  For the same reason, I guess, that the birds greet the day with song when the little hand is still pointing to the four.  Strange experiences for a Florida girl.

So, it's "quiet time" here with the Swiss contingent.  Vivienne and Daniel have worn themselves out and are now asleep.  Joseph spent the first half hour reading out loud from the Bible:  New International Version, starting in Ruth, ending in Revelation, and skipping all around in between.  Now he has a spray bottle and a cloth and is cleaning up streaks on the glass doors to the balcony.  Janet has followed the lead of the younger ones, but I'm enjoying the sun, the cool breeze, and a moment of quiet (maugre the barking dog, the nearby airfield, and the heavy contruction noise).

Side notes:

• The time stamp should now be right for my posts.  I hadn't bothered to change the time zone in LifeType, but finally decided it seemed too silly to write about the afternoon with an early morning timestamp.
• I can't decide whether to be pleased or annoyed that Google thinks it's smarter than I am.  It looks at my IP address and decides to deal with me in German....

Over the years I have been astonished at the technical prowess of our grandchildren.  Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised:  advancing technology has made it clear that it's physical coordination more than mental ability that has in the past held children back.

In 2006: Jonathan, who just turned three, met me on the stairs with a blue cable in his hand. As I passed, I remarked, "That looks like a Cat 5 cable." "No it's not," he responded, "It's a USB cord." (He was right.)

And in 2010:  One day Heather discovered two-year-old Faith sitting at the computer, typing away in their Open Office word processing program.  She assumed Jon had set it up for her, but that was not the case.  No one knows how Faith did it.  This is no consumer-friendly iPhone, nor even Windows, but a Linux-based system only a geek could love.

There were many more examples I did not record, but I thought of these the other day, when it happened again.

Joseph, just shy of his fifth birthday, had been using his mother's GMail program to compose and send me a letter.  He then told me he wanted to make a copy.  I wasn't sure what he meant, so I showed him how to click on the Sent folder to see the e-mail again.  That wasn't what he wanted, but his sister required some immediate assistance, so I said I'd help him when I returned.

Just a couple of minutes later I came back, and he was in the process of removing a page from the printer.  He then shut the printer down and put the tray back into its folded position.  When he handed the printout to me, I asked him how he knew what to do.  "I clicked on the print button," he replied.

I don't use GMail to compose or read my mail, but I logged on to see see if the process was really that simple.  It's not.  First of all, the print icon is small (though I'll admit his eyes are quite a bit younger than mine, so maybe that doesn't matter much), and once you click on it you have at least one more step before the print actually happens.

Technology is not strange, nor frightening, to those who grow up with it as ubiquitous as air.