Baby Groundhog

Two very adorable baby groundhogs have been wandering around the yard this weekend. From what I gather, these are probably about six weeks old — they're about the size of squirrels, still a bit wobbly on their legs, and seem remarkably unconcerned about people, unless you get too close (they'll begin to chatter a bit to try to scare you off).

This one made itself at home for a time in a corner of the front yard among some fluff from a mouse's nest.

Carousel

The carousel at the Palisades Center Mall will be closing in a few weeks. (The lease isn't being renewed.) I've been taking my son there to ride on it for as long as I can remember ― we'll often go there for no better reason. So this is bittersweet news.

This carousel is just over a hundred years old, having originally been built in 1907 by the Philadelphia Toboggan Company. According to the information on this page, through the years it's been in Akron, Ohio, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Portland, Oregon (though that was only for storage), and Vancouver, British Columbia, among a few other locations. I wish I could say that this is a handsome antique, that it's worn it's history well, but that just isn't so. I suppose it's been as well cared for as a working carousel would allow ― but the horses, and many of the details have been replaced through the years with parts that are beneath so many coats of polyurethane they seem more plastic than wood. Or perhaps the incongruity of the setting takes something away from it's charm.

Plans are, I'm told, for a double-decker carousel of some sort to replace it. (I believe there's one at a nearby mall in Danbury, though I've never seen it.) I expect that will appeal greatly to my six-year-old.

Geekery

I live in what I would consider to be a reasonably small house — but it's large enough that it has become a problem for my wireless network to maintain a strong, durable connection throughout. I'm not entirely sure why this has gotten so much worse over time, though lately I've noticed that the signal seems as though it's being overpowered by interference from others in the immediate neighborhood, even in this rural community. (I was an early adopter, back in the day.)

I tried carefully positioning the router at different angles, which seemed to help (though it really shouldn't have). I tried changing channels. I tried almost everything. I tried moving everything into the garage, but that didn't do much to help this particular problem.

Then along came Apple's (relatively) new dual-band AirPort Extreme, which promised to allow me to maintain a better and faster network and still support the half-dozen devices around the house that rely on an older standard. I like "better" and "faster" (and my older router had been such a source of irritation over the past several years that I was eager to be rid of it), so I bought one.

The initial results were very disappointing — I was having the same problems maintaining a connection, particularly in my office. (What is it about this house?) But here's where I was able to deploy a secret weapon: Apple's companion AirPort Express, a device I could use to extend the range of my network.

That did it. It was a bother to configure the mechanism to extend the network, even with detailed instructions (I just gave up and let the devices do it themselves), but now that it's working, it just works — I get a strong, consistent signal throughout my house. It can even let me know if there is a problem. (That should be a good deal more useful than wondering why I suddenly can't seem to download my email and having to go down to the garage to check if the router is still working, which used to happen from time to time.) It's one less thing for me to think about it (or to be mildly frustrated by).

All is right, with my wireless world, at least.

Resolved

I will try to do less writing after 11:00 PM on a school night.

Painting

I want to paint again. I enjoy it, I really do, but it's just so difficult to find the time to devote to it, with everything else that goes on at any given moment.

I tried painting because I wanted to free myself from the tyranny of the pen. I should explain ― when I was younger, so many years ago, I used to draw. I had a fountain pen with a refillable reservoir that I loved (I'm sure I still have it, somewhere), with a wonderful, fluid quality of line. I felt completely at ease with it. And I felt, not coincidentally, in complete control of it. I would experiment with a brush and ink from time to time, but it never felt as comfortable (and I'd end up with not much more the same sort of line, only applied with a brush). So I kept using that pen.

As time wore on, though, drawing somehow became a constant struggle for control over my work. Everything had to be just so, just right, and a process that should have been organic came to be mechanical. (And it certainly wasn't as much fun.) I gave it up, and drifted toward Graphic Design, which seemed better suited to me ― I could exercise the same creativity, but perhaps there was less ambiguity.

But I wanted to go back, to try again to use a brush, to give in to that lack of control. I'm finding it to be very liberating. I don't have any structured ideas about what I want to achieve, so it becomes an exercise in wandering down a long path with no real destination ― with luck, you just know when you get there.

I had a friend who liked to paint ― she was the person who inspired me to try. (I have discovered, long after our friendship ended, that she had apparently been, in fact, a girlfriend ― but I must have missed that at the time, and anyway, that's a story better told another day.) Her color palette was drab and dull, and her technique seemed to be to thrash about at a canvas with any paint and tools at hand with the hope that something, anything might come of it, a technique I could certainly appreciate ― though nothing ever did seem to come of it. That said, though, I wanted to be supportive. I tried to be supportive. But I was never all that enthusiastic about her paintings, and she took that quite to heart. She would wield that criticism like a weapon when she was insecure about her work (which was, inevitably, always), and use that as the excuse when insecurity consumed any creativity.

Then again, her work always seemed much more about labor than creativity. There was an element of dissociation, a quality of cold. Strip away the endless layers of paint with the hope of discovering an emotion or truth, only to find it never was.

I want to paint again, even if only for myself, to discover aspects of my personality that remain largely unexplored. Perhaps I'll find them within the work.

Ugh.

It has been a long, exhausting, irritatingly unproductive week. The doctor diagnosed me with nothing worse than a persistent cold (albeit much worse than usual), which has been allowed to run its' course — but it has done so slowly and deliberately, leaving me without much motivation or concentration. Ugh. I almost wish it were something worse, something that might be treated — but then, I'm not always comfortable taking antibiotics or strong medications, anyway. (I was offered something for the symptoms, but the treatment seemed extreme for what amounted to discomfort, so I chose to muddle through without it.)

Now you know why I've been watching so many movies.

I'm looking forward to finding my strength again, next week.

Breadfruit

Just finished watching Mutiny on the Bounty. I don't think Clark Gable was ever more attractive, more compelling than he is in this film. That might be because this role lacks the sort of irritating smugness that came with the "charming rogue" parts he was so often cast in. (And I always thought he was most handsome early in his career.) Add to that, he had to shave off his famous moustache for the role of Fletcher Christian, as sailors in the Royal Navy of this era would have had to have been clean-shaven.

I discovered only recently the story was based on an actual event (a fact that I'd somehow missed before now), though this film is based largely on works that tell a fictionalized version of the story.

(You're So Square) Baby, I Don't Care

I'm watching Jailhouse Rock, Elvis Presley's third film. (For some reason, I thought it was his first.) Three minutes into the film, they're already making comments about his hair.

Repair

We had to have the washing machine repaired, which was probably inevitable after ten years (most of those years with a child). This was, as you might expect, a thoroughly exasperating and irritating experience — it seemed to take weeks just to get someone to come out and diagnose the problem, and then the day before the repair was scheduled, we were left a phone message saying the repair would have to be re-scheduled for another date — two weeks away! It took no end of campaigning and complaining to get someone to come in a few days later, instead.

A replacement part was ordered and delivered to us well in advance. It was a large, shallow cardboard box that seemed to weigh quite a bit. The actual part that needed replacing probably weighed no more than a pound (it fit into the area in the foam padding at the top of the photograph, but it was accompanied by this very large (and very heavy) piece of concrete.

At first I couldn't figure out why it had been sent; then I wondered if it was part of some byzantine scheme to charge more for shipping. (No, I'm not sure how that would have worked, either.) Then I discovered it had been sent on purpose — sort of. It's virtually identical to the very large piece of concrete that's currently installed in my washing machine, save for a thin strip of concrete, no more than a half-inch wide (the instructions refer to it as a "bump") on one side. The instructions give information on how to install it, but no clue as to why it might be necessary. (The person who did the repair ignored it completely.)

But at last, after almost a month, the washing machine works again. Which is just as well, as the milk bottle of quarters I had been accumulating over the past several years is just about empty. Now it can be put back on the shelf in my closet and I can slowly fill it again, with the change from my pocket.

(Oh, and after all that? Now the spin cycle doesn't work.)

Pre-Code

As part of my continuing obsession with all things pre-code Hollywood, I rented Universal's Pre-Code Hollywood Collection from Netflix. (Actually, these are all films from Paramount, which ended up under Universal's control through a series of corporate transactions in the 1950s and 1960s.) What a disappointment.

Even The Cheat — in which a compulsive gambler (Tallulah Bankhead) turns to a wealthy businessman to repay her debts, only to be branded (literally!) with the man's mark and declared his property — was never able to find a way to build on the outrageousness of that act. (That said, I recently saw the silent film version of the same story, from about twenty years earlier, and it wasn't all that much more successful.)

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, I suppose. I've rarely seen any other studio put such melodrama, blatant sexuality, and often shocking violence — for that era, anyway — to such thoroughly entertaining use. MGM's films are beautiful to look at, but with rare exception (I've just been watching one of them, The Big House) most seem tame by comparison. These films from Paramount are just dull.

A better bet is any of Turner Classic Movies Forbidden Hollywood Collections. Most are films from Warner Bros., with a few from MGM, with some terrific documentaries included. There are wonderful surprises there, just waiting to be discovered.

4,032 Pages

This is undoubtedly more an exercise in publicity than in publishing, but I still think it's ridiculous. I've always thought the best way to pay tribute to an author would be to encourage their work to be read, actually read, rather than just collected.

Rare Moments of Lucidity

I never used to get sick, not like this, not all-I-want-to-do-is-crawl-into-bed-for-a-few-days sick. Not all that often, anyway. Sure, I'd catch a cold from time to time, sleep buried under several layers of blankets, and feel much better in the morning. These days, though, I seem to be easily laid low by each exotic virus my six-year-old brings home with him.

Ordinarily, I'd be inclined to just lay low for a few days, and hope to feel better — but I've already been doing that for a few days, and I don't seem to feel much better. And I'm tired of staying in bed, and work is piling up, and the house is a shambles, and I'm concerned that my son might catch this — it doesn't seem responsible to wait any longer. Tomorrow morning, I'll see the Doctor.

Soap

Isn't this beautiful? It's a handmade soap. You can't buy one yet, but you'll be able to do so soon.

I think the problem I have with an object this beautiful in soap is that I'd never, ever want to use it — which more or less defeats the purpose, don't you think?

Hermit Crab

I now know more, much more, on the subject of the Hermit Crab than I would have thought possible. My son's first grade class has been studying them for a few months, and as the culmination of that work, he's bringing one home tomorrow. (Or rather, I'm picking one up tomorrow morning before school starts.) I must admit, though, I agreed to this without any real understanding of the depth of the responsibility involved — and the more I read, the more responsibility there seems to be.

But they seem to eat just about anything. That's something.

A small habitat has been set up in the office (setting up the home for a hermit crab — outside of it's shell, that is — can be a surprisingly expensive proposition), and I've promised to buy another to share it with the one that will be coming home from school. (I just hope I have better luck than I did with the Betta.)

Irreplaceable

The first iPod I bought (which was, as it happens, the first iPod) cost (I think) $400. (Or it might have been $500 — I don't remember if I bought the larger model.) When my commuting days ended (and life as a stay-at-home parent began), my wife started using it. Several years later, I bought her an iPod Nano; and in time, I inherited that.

By the time it came my way, it had been scratched up a bit — that model was particularly, irritatingly prone to scratches — and that vexed me, enough that I tried a few different methods of polishing it to remove (or at least reduce) the obvious wear. But nothing ever worked. For a while, I used a case to try to disguise it, but that was more trouble than it was worth, somehow.

I've used this iPod almost every day for as long as I can remember — listening to podcasts, sharing music with my six-year-old, or (when he was younger) or playing something quiet to encourage him to drift off to sleep during a long drive home from wherever we were. I've thought of replacing it, but by now it has far too much history. For me, it represents all those places, all those times.

It fits in my pocket, at times almost unnoticed. Often, these days, with my iPhone (which does have a case), though occasionally with keys, or loose change. It's been dropped once or twice (or more). It creaks a bit if you press hard, the silver paint is wearing off of the "Hold" switch, and it's more scratched up than it ever was. At times, it seems as though it's about to fall apart. But I've given in and learned to embrace the signs of wear. Like the yellowed pages and worn binding of a book, I've come to see them as the sign of an object that has been thoroughly used and appreciated. Even loved.

Chirp!

I told my six-year-old this morning that I had just heard an interesting bird song in the back yard, one I didn't recognize. I described it for him, and without so much as a moment's pause, he knew just what it was — he told me that it was a Wren that was brown with a white face, and that he had heard it in Chirp! on his iPod Touch and he wanted to show me.

He couldn't, because his iPod battery had run out, but I suggested we could look on my iPhone while waiting for the bus.

As it turned out, we didn't have the time (I had let him sleep in this morning), but as soon as he was on the bus, I checked for myself. And he was right — it was a Carolina Wren.

Best $200 I ever spent.

Love

"Daddy, will I fall in love some day?" my six-year-old asked of me.

"Of course you will." I told him. (Several times over, I might have added.)

When I asked what brought the question on, he told me it was the cartoon we were watching with Popeye and Olive Oyl.

Dreaming

I had a dream last night — the details have become sort of vague with distance (isn't that always the way?), but I remember reading a newspaper. The physical sensation of holding it, the smell of the ink, the type on the page. I remember reading several articles, each created from my mind. This rich tapestry of a world, with physical and intellectual stimulation, had been woven entirely within my dream.

Unproductive

It has been a spectacularly unproductive week, despite the endless series of small tasks and appointments and distractions that were attended to, as this has kept me from doing the actual work that needed to be done. And as the week draws to a close, I'm beginning to feel just a bit anxious.

(Perhaps I can redeem myself over the weekend.)

Flu

I haven't been all that concerned about the flu. I suppose I might be if I were still commuting into New York, but even then, I probably still wouldn't think much about it. It's just isn't in my nature to worry over a problem before it becomes a problem. I was discussing this with someone in the medical profession, sharing our frustration with panic and overreaction.

Many years ago, long before this present anxiety over the potential for pandemic, even before fears of bird flu had entered the popular culture, I started reading Flu. It's a terrific book, though I had to put it aside about the time my son was born. (It would be years before I was finally able to finish it.)

It was from this book that I first learned of the 1918 flu pandemic. These days, most people are aware of that event, if only in vague, frightening detail. But as recently as fifteen or twenty years ago, it was as though it had been almost completely forgotten. (I don't even recall it being discussed during the flu panic of the mid-1970s.) It came as a startling revelation to me.

We have this peculiar custom of making our grief public — politicizing it, even celebrating it. In the United States alone, estimates are that a quarter of the population was afflicted by the 1918 pandemic, and 500,000 to 675,000 people died as a result — yet there are no memorials, no days of remembrance. The sole legacy of that event seems to be the "living room" (this came to replace "front parlor," at the suggestion of Ladies Home Journal, as that had been the room where people customarily left the bodies of the dead.) Most people aren't even aware of the origins of that term.

It still seems remarkable to me that such a significant event was so quickly and intentionally forgotten. One explanation suggests the rapid pace of the virus (most of the victims in the United States died within a period of less than nine months); another that significant incidents of disease were not uncommon in that era. (Typhoid, yellow fever, diphtheria, and cholera outbreaks all occurred around that same time.) But it's difficult to imagine such an incident could pass today without being commemorated.

Maybe that's the better way, though. You suffer and you mourn and you grieve, but that passes. And you get on with your life.

Mainstream

My six-year-old is officially being Mainstreamed. We had a meeting this morning at the school to discuss it.

I should explain: since entering public school, my son has been in smaller special education classes, part of a program designed for children with Autism. As this year has progressed, bit by bit, he's been doing more work with a larger (mainstream) 1st Grade class. He's spent the past few weeks with that class for the entire school day ― a change that, quite honestly, seems to have crept up on us, somehow. (It isn't that we weren't consulted, or that we weren't aware, but it all seemed to happen rather unexpectedly.)

He'll continue with that larger class through the end of the year (shadowed by a Teaching Assistant, to provide guidance where necessary), and when he begins 2nd Grade in late August or early September ― I forget which ― it will be with a larger class, from the beginning.

This is good news for so many reasons, news we've been anxious to hear. For a start, this means he'll share the same academic environment as his peers. He's very capable and bright (in some ways, even more so than others his age), but he needs to be engaged and challenged as much as encouraged ― and I think it's important that this happen now, while he's still young. That, and I believe he'll be in a much better position to address the issues that remain ― navigating social interactions with others, for example ― while surrounded by typical kids.

There are times I think I'm the only parent I know with an Autistic child that isn't engaged in an adversarial relationship with their respective school district. Moving to a mainstream class has always been the goal, but I've never — well, almost never ― felt all that impatient about it. I've been confident in the care and attention my son has received, and I've never had any doubts, though part of that, I'm sure, is because he is comparatively mildly affected. (He'll be only the third child to graduate from this program over the course of three or four years.)

May 23, 2003

For Rent

The house at the end of the street had a sign put up this week — it's for rent. It's only a small house, on a tiny plot of land, but it seems familiar and cozy, from the outside, at least. This area was once a vacation community, long ago, where people would spend a few weeks or months during the summer, in small houses near the lake. In time, people came to live here year round, and the small houses were replaced by larger ones, though traces of the original community still remain. Many of these small houses have been purchased and restored over the past several years.

I don't know who had been living there. (I don't know all that much about most of my neighbors, really.) From time to time, I've seen a woman come and go, as I've driven past, and I believe she had a young daughter, perhaps other children. I wonder what's become of them. Where did they go? Were they evicted, because she was unable to pay the rent? Or was there another, more hopeful reason?

Cookies

Are the boxes of Girl Scout Cookies getting smaller? Or am I just eating them too fast?

In case you were wondering (and I'm sure you were, as you can't mention Girl Scout Cookies without the question coming up), I'm partial to Samoas.