31 October 2009
Soggy
I'll admit, my memory has become somewhat short of an impeachable source, but I don't think it ever rained on Halloween — not when I was a kid. So I couldn't help but feel bad when the weather failed to clear up as the afternoon progressed. I mean, Halloween has got to be just below Christmas in the hierarchy of Important Kid Holidays, and it should be crisp and slightly cool — not pouring rain.
25 October 2009
Stray
Stray Kitty could be ornery. That's why she stayed with us, why we never tried to find another home for her — because we knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to adopt out a cat who was likely to strike out at anyone who got too close to her, even someone she knew and (ostensibly) had come to trust. She was one of the never-ending series of stray cats we encountered when we rented an apartment in Jersey City. We never knew for sure, but we always wondered, based on that temperament — and her beautiful markings — if she had some Bengal in her bloodline.
She never got along with any of the other cats in the house, either. She preferred solitude, and I think she was happiest when we bought a house, and there was plenty of opportunity to be left alone. Toward the end of her life, she kept to the Master Bathroom upstairs — she liked to sit in the sun, on a shelf beneath a skylight. She would occasionally wander out into the bedroom, even into the hall, but she never needed to go too far, as food and water and everything she needed was in that small room.
It was years before Stray would demonstrate any real affection. And even then, if she got too excited, she'd swat at the hand that was stroking her (though in her later years, without using her claws). But that was simply who she was, and I understood the nature of our relationship. I'll always remember a Christmas day when she curled herself up on my lap and went to sleep, in front of the fireplace.
And she was the only cat I've ever known who sort of chattered at me, when spoken to. (It often sounded as though she was muttering at me, when scolded.)
She died not too long ago. It wasn't unexpected, she was old, and her health was obviously failing. I could have, perhaps I should have, brought her to the Vet, but the experience would only have been traumatic for her. She had grown weak in her final days — I could see the end was coming, and I hoped it would be swift.
Hours before she died, as she lay uncomfortably in her basket, she cried out — while stroking her head to try to comfort her, I wondered if she was calling for attention, or because of pain or discomfort. I'm haunted by that cry.
She never got along with any of the other cats in the house, either. She preferred solitude, and I think she was happiest when we bought a house, and there was plenty of opportunity to be left alone. Toward the end of her life, she kept to the Master Bathroom upstairs — she liked to sit in the sun, on a shelf beneath a skylight. She would occasionally wander out into the bedroom, even into the hall, but she never needed to go too far, as food and water and everything she needed was in that small room.
It was years before Stray would demonstrate any real affection. And even then, if she got too excited, she'd swat at the hand that was stroking her (though in her later years, without using her claws). But that was simply who she was, and I understood the nature of our relationship. I'll always remember a Christmas day when she curled herself up on my lap and went to sleep, in front of the fireplace.
And she was the only cat I've ever known who sort of chattered at me, when spoken to. (It often sounded as though she was muttering at me, when scolded.)
She died not too long ago. It wasn't unexpected, she was old, and her health was obviously failing. I could have, perhaps I should have, brought her to the Vet, but the experience would only have been traumatic for her. She had grown weak in her final days — I could see the end was coming, and I hoped it would be swift.
Hours before she died, as she lay uncomfortably in her basket, she cried out — while stroking her head to try to comfort her, I wondered if she was calling for attention, or because of pain or discomfort. I'm haunted by that cry.
24 October 2009
Nook
I'm inching ever-closer to eBooks. By which, I should say, I'm probably not that much closer, really, but I do find myself more attracted to the simplicity of Barnes and Noble's new Nook device than I ever was to the Kindle, which has always struck me as inelegant. I think it's the promise of the virtual keyboard that makes all the difference here, for me. By hiding all but the most essential controls, it all seems so much less — distracting.
That said, however, I still love my books, my real books. I can't imagine having any real use for an eBook reader until, say, the time comes that books can be lent from a digital library (perhaps as a subscription) rather than sold on a per-book basis.
That said, however, I still love my books, my real books. I can't imagine having any real use for an eBook reader until, say, the time comes that books can be lent from a digital library (perhaps as a subscription) rather than sold on a per-book basis.
22 October 2009
Sketches: Stronger Than Spinach
Every so often, a project comes along for which I will find myself possessed with a clear-minded sense of purpose and determination. I know exactly what I want to do, and I can't wait to get to it.
The problem with a book about Popeye, particularly one being written and published without the cooperation of King Features, is that it can be difficult to find good art for a cover. The Author and I just about gave in to that conceit at the beginning of the process, and when he suggested "a can of spinach," I thought that was an idea that might be made to work — even better, I thought it might be made to work by photographing a real can and real spinach.
So I did a series of thumbnail sketches to work out how everything might fit together. (I did about twice as many as seen here, but this will give you the general idea.) At that point I didn't have the final title for the book, so I sort of made that up as I went along.
The Author and I agreed that the idea showed promise, so a week or so later (on a sunny day), I set up a small area to do some photography. This took place, believe it or not, in the Master Bathroom — there's a skylight, just above a sort of recessed shelf, which allows for lots of light. I had a roll of white paper that I put up to diffuse the light and to act as a backdrop.
I bought a few different cans (I wasn't sure which size would work best), a new can opener (that required an unanticipated return trip to the grocery store), and a large quantity of fresh spinach — much much more than I needed. (Yeah, I know, fresh spinach looks nothing like what you'd find in a can — but fresh spinach is easier to handle and much more photogenic. I'm not sure you can even buy spinach in a can these days. Can you?) So I set everything up, carefully selecting and placing the spinach leaves — then tore it all down and started all over again. And then I was ready.
This was the result. I'm sure it doesn't look all that promising, but it was exactly what I wanted.
One full rich working day later, I had cleaned and brightened the spinach (removing anything unsightly), removed the spinach at the bottom right (it didn't work as well as I had expected), put that spinach into the can, and added a label with the title of the book. (It might have taken less time, but I get incredibly fussy with projects like this in Photoshop.) And the result was something like this.
It's usually difficult to accomodate a book title this long, but it all came together quite nicely, don't you think? (I even found use for two fonts that were based on the sort of hand-lettered titles that often appeared in the Popeye cartoons.) I'm anxious to see it in print.
(And as a result of all this, my son has acquired a fondness for spinach, which can't be all bad.)
The problem with a book about Popeye, particularly one being written and published without the cooperation of King Features, is that it can be difficult to find good art for a cover. The Author and I just about gave in to that conceit at the beginning of the process, and when he suggested "a can of spinach," I thought that was an idea that might be made to work — even better, I thought it might be made to work by photographing a real can and real spinach.
So I did a series of thumbnail sketches to work out how everything might fit together. (I did about twice as many as seen here, but this will give you the general idea.) At that point I didn't have the final title for the book, so I sort of made that up as I went along.The Author and I agreed that the idea showed promise, so a week or so later (on a sunny day), I set up a small area to do some photography. This took place, believe it or not, in the Master Bathroom — there's a skylight, just above a sort of recessed shelf, which allows for lots of light. I had a roll of white paper that I put up to diffuse the light and to act as a backdrop.
I bought a few different cans (I wasn't sure which size would work best), a new can opener (that required an unanticipated return trip to the grocery store), and a large quantity of fresh spinach — much much more than I needed. (Yeah, I know, fresh spinach looks nothing like what you'd find in a can — but fresh spinach is easier to handle and much more photogenic. I'm not sure you can even buy spinach in a can these days. Can you?) So I set everything up, carefully selecting and placing the spinach leaves — then tore it all down and started all over again. And then I was ready.
This was the result. I'm sure it doesn't look all that promising, but it was exactly what I wanted.One full rich working day later, I had cleaned and brightened the spinach (removing anything unsightly), removed the spinach at the bottom right (it didn't work as well as I had expected), put that spinach into the can, and added a label with the title of the book. (It might have taken less time, but I get incredibly fussy with projects like this in Photoshop.) And the result was something like this.
It's usually difficult to accomodate a book title this long, but it all came together quite nicely, don't you think? (I even found use for two fonts that were based on the sort of hand-lettered titles that often appeared in the Popeye cartoons.) I'm anxious to see it in print.(And as a result of all this, my son has acquired a fondness for spinach, which can't be all bad.)
17 October 2009
Encyclopedia
One of my favorite possessions that I almost never seem to find any real use for is my set of the Encyclopedia Americana from 1912. "A Universal Reference Library" it says, "comprising the arts and sciences, literature, history, biography, geography, commerce, etc., of the world." (It actually says etc., too.) They're beautiful books — leather-bound, gilded edges, tissue paper delicately bound against the color plates, and an odd sort of intricate design on the endpapers I can't quite make out. And they're in remarkably good condition, for books that are almost a hundred years old — they don't seem the least bit fragile.
They were on a bookshelf, behind glass doors, in my grandmother's attic when I discovered them almost 20 years ago. I don't think she ever understood why I was so eager to have them.
I love these books because they're a snapshot of the state of the world, and all that we knew about it, so long ago. Some of it we would now know to be inaccurate, of course, but there's a wonderful breadth of detail that has long since been lost, or at least crowded out. There's an entire page on "condensed milk." And three pages — three pages! — on "clay-working machinery," with illustrations.
And had you ever heard of the "Cock Lane Ghost"? That was "a famous hoax by which many people of London were deceived in 1762, arising from certain knockings heard in the house of a Mr. Parsons, in Cock Lane. Dr. Johnson was among those who believed in the supernatural character of the manifestations; but it was found out that the knockings were produced by a girl employed by Parsons."
And, of course, the use of language was so wonderfully different. We would commonly think of a commissary as, say, a sort of restaurant. In 1912, it was "an officer of a bishop who exercises spiritual jurisdiction in remote parts of a diocese, or one entrusted with the performance of duties in the bishop's absence."
And there are pages-long entries on major cities like Baltimore and Cleveland, with beautiful photos and maps of the era.
You can read entries from the 1851 edition of the Encyclopedia Americana on the web — but that will never have to same appeal to me as wandering through the yellowed pages of musty old books.
They were on a bookshelf, behind glass doors, in my grandmother's attic when I discovered them almost 20 years ago. I don't think she ever understood why I was so eager to have them.
I love these books because they're a snapshot of the state of the world, and all that we knew about it, so long ago. Some of it we would now know to be inaccurate, of course, but there's a wonderful breadth of detail that has long since been lost, or at least crowded out. There's an entire page on "condensed milk." And three pages — three pages! — on "clay-working machinery," with illustrations.
And had you ever heard of the "Cock Lane Ghost"? That was "a famous hoax by which many people of London were deceived in 1762, arising from certain knockings heard in the house of a Mr. Parsons, in Cock Lane. Dr. Johnson was among those who believed in the supernatural character of the manifestations; but it was found out that the knockings were produced by a girl employed by Parsons."
And, of course, the use of language was so wonderfully different. We would commonly think of a commissary as, say, a sort of restaurant. In 1912, it was "an officer of a bishop who exercises spiritual jurisdiction in remote parts of a diocese, or one entrusted with the performance of duties in the bishop's absence."
And there are pages-long entries on major cities like Baltimore and Cleveland, with beautiful photos and maps of the era.
You can read entries from the 1851 edition of the Encyclopedia Americana on the web — but that will never have to same appeal to me as wandering through the yellowed pages of musty old books.
13 October 2009
Lost
My seven-year-old and I were lost in the woods — sort of. We knew where we were, more or less, but had wandered off a marked trail, and we didn't make any real effort to find it again, thinking we were headed in a direction that would take us home (or at least, to where the car was parked). By the time we realized we weren't where I thought we were it had been a long day, and my son was losing steam, so we decided to head toward the road and call for a ride home.
But it was a grand adventure. We found the remains of the granite quarry that last operated on the site over fifty years ago, large blocks of stone, abandoned buildings (or what was left of them), and rusted machinery. And we wandered aimlessly, which was the most fun of all.
But it was a grand adventure. We found the remains of the granite quarry that last operated on the site over fifty years ago, large blocks of stone, abandoned buildings (or what was left of them), and rusted machinery. And we wandered aimlessly, which was the most fun of all.
Bottle
I came across this during a walk in the woods — a very old bottle, left forgotten on the floor of the forest, perhaps for decades. It's survived the change in temperature from the change in seasons intact, and has somehow accumulated a small amount of soil. (I can't imagine how. Could it have been washed in with rainwater, or melting snow?) Inside I found growing a small fern.I'm fighting the temptation to go back and find this again and bring it home. But that seems wrong, somehow, not to leave it. It was never a part of nature, though it seems to have become a part of it.
Out, About
I've finally added new photos to my other blog, In The Back of Beyond, after just over a month. Between my back injury and the great deal of work to be done, I just hadn't had the chance to get out and have an adventure. (More on that particular adventure shortly.)
06 October 2009
Pennies
I was too busy to get to the bank this afternoon, so I had to find one hundred pennies. (My seven-year-old will be learning about "taxation" this week in school.) We have an enormous glass bottle (it used to be filled with spring water) that most spare change is tossed into, sooner or later. I've been doing so for about ten years now, and the jar is just under half full.
(We had another that served the same purpose for many years — before we moved, we emptied it out and brought a bucket full of coins to a Coinstar machine that amounted to just over $400!)
As I was counting the pennies, I was struck by how insubstantial they felt between my fingers, as though I were counting some sort of unfamiliar foreign currency. It isn't as though I don't come across pennies from day-to-day — or, perhaps I don't, really. Or if I do, I don't take notice of them.
(We had another that served the same purpose for many years — before we moved, we emptied it out and brought a bucket full of coins to a Coinstar machine that amounted to just over $400!)
As I was counting the pennies, I was struck by how insubstantial they felt between my fingers, as though I were counting some sort of unfamiliar foreign currency. It isn't as though I don't come across pennies from day-to-day — or, perhaps I don't, really. Or if I do, I don't take notice of them.
Estranged
I don't have a particularly close relationship with my mother, or with my mother's family — I haven't seen or spoken to them in many, many years. ("Estranged" is a good way to describe it.) I'd rather not get into the details (I'm not sure I'd even know where to begin), but suffice it to say there was no specific moment or incident that prompted this. There was never any anger or pain. And it's a conscious decision, one I am completely at peace with.
But I don't know what to tell my seven-year-old. Sooner or later, he's going to ask about my mother, and I've no idea what I'm going to say. I don't like to lie to him — he's bright and inquisitive, so I try to stumble through even the most complex of explanations to help him understand. He deserves that. But I couldn't possibly explain this to him.
But I don't know what to tell my seven-year-old. Sooner or later, he's going to ask about my mother, and I've no idea what I'm going to say. I don't like to lie to him — he's bright and inquisitive, so I try to stumble through even the most complex of explanations to help him understand. He deserves that. But I couldn't possibly explain this to him.
03 October 2009
GloFish
I know what kind of fish I'm keen to add to the aquarium, though, as soon as it's established — these are GloFish. I understand these are genetically modified zebrafish (or rather these are descendants of the original genetically modified fish), developed with the intention of indicating the presence of toxins in water. They are literally florescent, and glow under black light. They look really nifty under ordinary light, too.Many years ago, my wife was talked into buying some transparent Glass Catfish with beautiful streaks of vivid color — only to learn, to her horror, that the fish had been injected with a small amount of dye to create that effect. Since then, we've been careful to avoid those kinds of fish, no matter how beautiful they appear.
(Thankfully, GloFish are born to brilliant color.)
The Life Aquatic
I've set up the aquarium this week, for the first time in two, perhaps three years. (There was some problem or other, back in the day, that caused all of the fish to die, and for whatever reason it's taken this long for me to take everything down, clean it thoroughly, and put it back together again.)
(Actually, I do know what the reason was — it's a lot of work!)
The last time I had to do this, which must have been ten or eleven years ago (not too long after we moved into the house), we set everything up, added a small number of fish, and hoped for the best. In the years since, with the accumulated wisdom of the Internet now available, I can go about this slightly better informed. (I had Internet access ten or eleven years ago, of course, but I don't recall thinking of it as a resource where I would expect to have any question answered. And I probably hadn't discovered Google yet.)
Now, for example, I know about the very necessary step of "cycling" a new aquarium, the process of establishing the biological colony that keeps the water healthy for aquatic life. I had read that I could encourage that along by the use of an additive — though I had also read that the results were often hit-and-miss, and it didn't seem to do much for the small (very small) number of fish I tried adding yesterday.
So now I'm trying again. I've discovered what I somehow missed in my research from the beginning of the week, and wish that I had known — a process popularly referred to as "fishless cycling" that seems to have caught on over the past several years. Without getting into too much detail, rather than slowly stocking a new tank with fish and hoping they survive long enough to encourage the growth of beneficial bacteria, you use small amounts of ammonia (to simulate fish waste) that will (if done with a certain amount of care) accelerate that process.
Part of this involves carefully monitoring the water quality, testing for levels of various compounds that indicate that the process is working as it should. This part appeals very much to the scientist in me — I have to fill these little glass vials with aquarium water, add several drops of various chemicals and compare the color of the results to a chart. So that's fun. (I only need to do this twice a day, but I've already done it twice in three hours.) I've been having my seven-year-old help me with this, adding the drops, shaking the vials, et cetera. He has a basic understanding of why we're doing this, but no idea what it all means. (Perhaps I'll set up a chart and set a goal to try and emphasize the scientific process for him.)
If only I had known, I would have started this process last week. (And I wouldn't have bought any fish, either.)
(Actually, I do know what the reason was — it's a lot of work!)
The last time I had to do this, which must have been ten or eleven years ago (not too long after we moved into the house), we set everything up, added a small number of fish, and hoped for the best. In the years since, with the accumulated wisdom of the Internet now available, I can go about this slightly better informed. (I had Internet access ten or eleven years ago, of course, but I don't recall thinking of it as a resource where I would expect to have any question answered. And I probably hadn't discovered Google yet.)
Now, for example, I know about the very necessary step of "cycling" a new aquarium, the process of establishing the biological colony that keeps the water healthy for aquatic life. I had read that I could encourage that along by the use of an additive — though I had also read that the results were often hit-and-miss, and it didn't seem to do much for the small (very small) number of fish I tried adding yesterday.
So now I'm trying again. I've discovered what I somehow missed in my research from the beginning of the week, and wish that I had known — a process popularly referred to as "fishless cycling" that seems to have caught on over the past several years. Without getting into too much detail, rather than slowly stocking a new tank with fish and hoping they survive long enough to encourage the growth of beneficial bacteria, you use small amounts of ammonia (to simulate fish waste) that will (if done with a certain amount of care) accelerate that process.
Part of this involves carefully monitoring the water quality, testing for levels of various compounds that indicate that the process is working as it should. This part appeals very much to the scientist in me — I have to fill these little glass vials with aquarium water, add several drops of various chemicals and compare the color of the results to a chart. So that's fun. (I only need to do this twice a day, but I've already done it twice in three hours.) I've been having my seven-year-old help me with this, adding the drops, shaking the vials, et cetera. He has a basic understanding of why we're doing this, but no idea what it all means. (Perhaps I'll set up a chart and set a goal to try and emphasize the scientific process for him.)
If only I had known, I would have started this process last week. (And I wouldn't have bought any fish, either.)
01 October 2009
Yale
Yale University Press is abandoning its' distinctive logo, which was designed by the legendary Paul Rand. Most people probably won't recognize his name, but you probably see his work almost any day — Rand designed the logos for IBM, Westinghouse, ABC, and the UPS logo that was used for almost forty years. And many, many others too numerous to list here.
I'm not sure what it is I like about this logo (I'll bet only a designer of Rand's stature could have gotten away with it), but it certainly shows more imagination and distinction than just setting the word "Yale" in type.