A Most Interesting Man (June 2014)

A Most Interesting ManIn general, I don’t meet new people. The reason is simple: I am not a social person. I guess it makes sense that I met my newest friend in our local bookstore.

We were both in the science section: I for something new; he for the math. Don’t get me wrong; I love math to a point. I actually enjoy algebra. I even like tolerate geometry. I despise calculus with every fiber of my being. I suppose my hatred stems from high school, where I literally had to teach myself calculus (yes, for a grade, and yes, it hurt my GPA). He, on the other hand, is a math fiend who loves adores worships calculus. Not the basics for a friendship, but we both speak German, so there’s that.

He’s probably not the type with whom most people strike up a conversation: small, shortsighted, large nose, slightly misshapen – stereotypical nerd. Continuing the stereotype, he’s done relatively well for himself.

A published author, he’s had the opportunity to debate argue with meet some of the biggest names in the scientific world. (Unlike him, I won’t name drop. After all, I didn’t meet them). Knowledgeable in biology, ethics, geology, history, law, linguistics, medicine, philology, philosophy, physics, politics, probability theory, psychology, technology, and theology, one might accurately call him a Renaissance Man.

Despite his obvious intellect, his character leaves something to be desired. On occasion he’ll complain about money, but it’s obvious he’s well off. At least, he’s better off than most. He tends to be ruthless, but claims it’s the nature of his field. I know for a fact that he has altered some of his work ex post facto, which has (naturally) placed him in poor standing with his peers.

His biggest flaw is his temper, at times appearing to revel in argument. He continues to hold a grudge against a colleague who accused him of stealing work, despite vindication from the scientific and academic community. He also has a tendency to take an argument reductio ad absurdum and will continue to argue his point even while cognizant of the illogical, irrational and sometime contradictory nature of his claims.

Despite these flaws, they appear to extend only to his professional life; in person, many find him well-mannered and charming, possessed of wit, humor, and imagination. Without exaggeration, he’s the life of the party (just don’t start an argument with him).

If you’d like to meet him, I can introduce you: his name is Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, whom I first met in The Clockwork Universe. I trust you find him just as interesting.

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Sorry, Sheldon, I’m a Leibniz man.

This post is being published as part of Writing 101. Challenge 6: Who’s the most interesting person (or people) you’ve met this year? Turn your post into a character study.

Undelivered Mail

ReturnToSender

In the gutter, an envelope, sodden.

In the envelope, a confession, concealed:

I’m sorry

The author, pained for some evil:

superbia, avaritia, luxuria, invidia, gula, ira, acedia.*

The finder, empathetic:

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

The address, desolate:

a cemetery.

Kyrie eleison.**

Translations

*The seven deadly sins: pride, avarice, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth.

**Lord, have mercy

A Note from the Author

This is my first work of fiction of any length. It was inspired by the following prompt from Writing 101:

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

Thoughts, comments, and especially constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.

Things in Glass Cases (Part 1): Radio

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“Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.”

– J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

I suppose it’s human nature to resist change. We find habits and routines comforting, even if our custom is to never plan anything. I am one of those people who need to plan spontaneity. So I really don’t like it when schedules change, even if others consider them no big deal.

That said, I’ve become increasingly upset with NPR over the last year.

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We have a love-hate relationship.
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My Original Inspiration

It started last summer when they cancelled Talk of the Nation. Although I only caught the last half of the show due to my work schedule, it was a comforting way to wind down the day before my daily run. In fact, I would credit Talk of the Nation with the creation of this very blog since many of the ideas Neal Conan discussed became the things I thought about while running. It was Talk of the Nation’s coverage of the Boston Marathon Bombings that inspired my very first post. I don’t pretend to know all the reasons for cancelling the program, but NPR’s official stance was that there were too many call-in shows already in production. However, I personally suspect that budget concerns played a major role as well. While many of the topics debated were divisive (as they were designed to be) I found the majority of the program to be well balanced. With the notable exception, of course, of the time I called in response to their appeal for educated, conservative Christians and was told that my views didn’t fit with their program. I still wonder if I intimidated them. On top of the atrocity of cancelling my then-favorite news show, the executives at NPR had the gall to replace it with Here and Now, a fine production in its own way, but definitely lacking in the comfort and intellectual stimulus I found in Talk of the Nation.

At least they kept Science Friday (for now).

I’d just about recovered from losing Talk of the Nation when I heard that Carl Kassel was retiring from Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me!. I realize that this isn’t NPR’s fault per se; after all, the man has been involved in radio for over sixty years. But, much like your first Doctor (David Tennant), you never forget your first show presenter. Although other men have filled the roles, I can’t imagine Wheel of Fortune without Pat Sajak, Jeopardy! without Alex Trebek, or Mystery Science Theater 3000 without Michael J. Nelson (sorry, Joel, but Michael was better. Also, CROOOOOW!) Even though Mr. Kassel’s departure hasn’t ended Wait Wait, I feel as if it isn’t the same. Who’s Carl This Time? is no more.

If Peter Sagal ever leaves WWDTM, I think I’ll have an existential crisis. If Garrison Keillor ever retires from Prairie Home Companion, I know I will.

Sagal and Keillor
You guys keep me sane!

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If there’s a silver lining to this, it’s that in my search to fill the void I’ve discovered new podcasts on iTunes. Stuff You Should Know is great, but almost killed me with their April Fool’s Day episode when they announced one of the hosts (Josh? Chuck? I think it was Chuck) had left unexpectedly and wouldn’t be returning. Through them, I also found Stuff You Missed In History Class (most of which I didn’t miss, thanks to several wonderful history teachers and professors). I also discovered another NPR game show, Ask Me Another, which has helped me tremendously when it comes to Buffalo Wild Wings Team Trivia night.

 

 

Despite these positive replacements, I still don’t like change, unless it means Paula Poundstone wins on Wait Wait.

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#Winning!

This post is being published as part of Writing 101. Challenge 4: Write about a loss: something (or someone) that was part of your life, and isn’t any more. Make today’s post the first in a three-post series.

 

Three Selections from My Life in Music

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“Music” by Melintelinas via DeviantArt

I often find it difficult to explain why I value certain pieces of music. Rarely will the same pieces move others in the same way they move me, yet that does not diminish their importance. Rather, in a way, I find I develop a unique relationship with the piece, a kind of camaraderie only it and I share. Take, for example, the following compositions:

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Courtesy WikiMedia Commons

First, “The Moldau”, composed by Bedřich Smetana, is considered by many to be one of the best examples of the symphonic poem. I first encountered this masterpiece during senior year of college while taking Art Appreciation to fill out my electives. Although I had enjoyed classical music since the seventh grade, I consider “The Moldau” to be the first classical piece I ever truly appreciated. I can’t say exactly what moved me that night in my dorm room as I snacked on black coffee and tortilla chips, listening to a selection of CDs rented from the music library to fulfill my outside listening requirement. I remember experiencing a sense of place, (as wine aficionados might say, terrior) and feeling the movement of the river. Even today, “The Moldau” generally moves me to tears, and I haven’t even been to the Czech Republic.

burning leavesSecond is Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” The obvious connection is that I’m a social studies teacher, and the song does an excellent job at conveying major events over thirty years of world history. It was also the first rock/pop song I can recall learning. However, there’s a much more personal importance to the song. It’s one of the few things that brought my sister and me together. As most siblings do, we disagreed on almost everything throughout most of my childhood (she’s eight years older than I am). However, there are two songs I remember us singing to: Garth Brooks’ “Ireland” and Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” In fact, my sister is the one who introduced me to the song and helped me learn the lyrics. She and I and her then boyfriend listened to it over and over and over again one summer at the Wayne County Fair. It’s one of my fondest memories.

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“Jurassic Park Logo” by Camusaltamirano via DeviantArt

Finally, there’s “Theme from Jurassic Park” composed by John Williams. Jurassic Park was the first movie I was ever allowed to stay up late and watch on TV. I loved it. I still consider it tied for first on my all-time favorite movies list (the first is the Godfather trilogy). This score is the theme of my childhood. It captures the grandeur and majesty and wonder and curiosity of all things new. I often hear it in my head when inspiration strikes or when something momentous occurs. It is, in my mind, the best score ever composed for a movie. Yes, even better than the haunting trombone opening to Godfather or the terror-inducing bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum of Jaws.

Music moves us in ways nothing else can. Which pieces move you?

 

 

This post is being published as part of Writing 101. Challenge 3: Using the free writing technique, describe three pieces of music important to you; publish the result without editing. No editing has been done; photos and links were added later.

A House Remembered

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A red house sits on a knoll at the bottom of the first big hill between Tyler Hill and Damascus. Passing aging dairy farms on either side, the entire scene comes into view: red wooden outbuilding, average back yard containing one two rhubarb patches, cast iron kettle housing seasonal plants, white wooden sign with black letters proclaiming “The Eldreds”.

Park against the knoll and pull up; cows cross the road most evenings. Two entries might pose a quandary; general rules dictate family enters through the garage, everyone else through the kitchen.

Pass through the driveway cut into the hill and flanked on either side with stacked field stone. Family stories tell of blizzards that filled in the gap. When my father and uncle cut tunnels without my grandfather’s knowledge, he discovered them the hard way.

Pull open the door to the basement. Like the driveway, the foundation is field stone. The air is cool and damp, but not unpleasant. Even on hot days, especially on hot days, the basement provides welcome relief. Turn left at the workbench. My father and grandfather and his father – and, I suspect, his father – used these tools. I never knew the older men. A photo with Grandpa John; faint, half-imagined memories of sitting on his lap some Sunday afternoon; the familiar scent of pipe tobacco – these are all I have of him. My great-grandfather’s sixteen pound bowling ball collects dust; I haven’t been bowling in years.

Continue walking to the large, white Westinghouse freezer. Inside are frozen meats, vegetables, and Mrs. Smith pies. Odd for a woman who made her living making deserts for the sale yard lunch counter. Turn left. Turn right for the water softener (well water started calcifying) and root cellar, its shelves a veritable cornucopia of canned fruits and vegetables and bags of potatoes. If possible, the room is even colder than the basement. Instead of right, turn left for the stairs.

Climb the stairs, treads covered in worn green carpet and vacuumed biweekly with the handheld DirtDevil. Knock on the door to announce your presence. Trust me, you want to knock.

Enter the kitchen. Wallpaper more blue than white covers the walls, its pattern (kettles? jars? flowers? memory fails me) reminiscent of chinaware. Appliances: refrigerator, stove, toaster oven, washing machine. On the washer, a blue cookie jar stores a choice of chocolate or vanilla. Counters and cupboards appear small yet prove adequate for any meal. They also house secrets like the Flako pie crust Grandma used. My mother and I make ours from scratch. The sink overlooks the font yard/hill/road. Focal point: the kitchen table. Devotions and newspapers read here. Newspaper articles typed on the white and blue Royal typewriter. How hard it was to purchase ribbon and carbon paper in those later years! Games of Scrabble won and lost, played on the deluxe revolving model redeemed (I believe) with Sears and Roebuck stamps. Suppers eaten: Tombstone personal pizzas, Progresso chicken noodle soup, or homemade chef salad – hold the onion if there’s basketball practice – followed by chocolate pudding mixed with the trusty hand mixer. On the wall, a rack displays a teacup for milestones in my grandparent’s marriage. On one, gold leaf indicates fifty years of marriage.

Go into the living room. The bluish-green shag carpet smells comfortingly of must or dust or something. How many times after school did I lay on this carpet, finishing my homework before watching Spongebob SqaurePants, the World News with Peter Jennings, Wheel of Fortune, and Jeopardy!? The furniture is pristine, protected most of the time by plastic or furniture coverings. The recliner is Grandma’s throne. From it, she watches her “programs” all afternoon: The Young and the Restless, The Bold and the Beautiful, Days of our Lives. She brooks no interruption during this time. A shadowbox on the wall displays small trinkets and gives the narrow room more depth. A combination record/tape/8-track/radio disguised as a dresser sits against one wall. Despite my efforts, I never heard it play. A door leads to the outside, but I don’t recall anyone ever using it. A drunk did come pounding on it late one night, though.

Down a narrow hall and past a china cabinet is the bathroom, the porcelain scrubbed clean and smelling faintly of Shaklee products. The hot water will scald you, so be careful. Water pressure has always been off, so the sink takes forever to drain. No worries, though. Grandma’s bedroom is down the hall, too, but I rarely go there. I only remember a bed and late 50s early 60s dresser.

Back to the kitchen and into the spare room – what was once my Grandfather’s bedroom. Two windows, bed, dresser, mirror, radio, and a potted plant make up the room. A plaque on the wall shows a ship and the words “Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me.” A door leads to the attic; as a child I feared someone or something coming down the stairs to get me. The settling and creaking of the house did nothing to allay these fears. I didn’t much like the windows, either.

Clamber up the steep steps to the attic, built-in bookshelves on the right-hand side. I come here to retrieve something stored, my father and uncle slept here as boys. I loved it as a secluded retreat.

Back down the stairs, through the side room, and out the kitchen door to the porch. A birdfeeder perched on a metal pole to the left, its back shot out by Grandma protecting her birdseed from a marauding opossum. The clothesline attached to a post terminates at a tree in the yard. A large star is permanently displayed on the porch roof. At Christmastime, blue lights illuminate the decoration.

Descend the steps to the front yard, which terminates shortly in a steep decline. Several large trees dominate the landscape, but two small blue pine shrubs add some color. Head towards the back yard and the woodshed with its dull, red paint beginning to peel. Smelling of must and gasoline, crates, barrels, and an old, cage-style four-crib nursery holds yard sale items brought out every year in the hopes that some passing motorist will stop and buy them. More often than not, they are put back into storage at the end of the summer.

Back outside and into the back yard where two rhubarb patches provide their tart goodness. My father now grows cuttings from these patches. Here also is the cinder block stove and a burn pile, places for burning fallen limbs and the autumn leaves. Ah, the smell of burning, smoldering autumn leaves.

Now we’re back to the front yard with the white sign and cast iron pot. My father has the kettle; I don’t know what happened to the sign.

Grandma’s been gone for nine years now. Thomas Wolfe was right: you can’t go home again.

This post is being published as part of Writing 101. Challenge 2: Describe a place while telling the backstory and organizing the post around the description of the setting. Since this is to be a journey through the mind’s eye, I have not included any photographs.

Twenty Minute Rabbit Trail

Down the Rabbit Trail

What have I gotten myself into? Upon returning from my hiatus, I caught up on my reading and stumbled on the Blogging 101 series. Sorry that I missed it, I decided to sign up for Writing 101. After all, what harm could it do to sign up for a course that will challenge my writing? So here I am on Day 1 with my first writing challenge: a twenty minute stream of consciousness followed by the publish button. I worry about people reading articles I’ve spent a week writing, and now you want me to publish an unedited document that I wrote in twenty minutes? Thanks a lot, WordPress.

Summer has officially begun for this teacher, and that means three things (for me):

  • Working on next year’s courses (I’m expanding Geography, again)
  • Making a dent on my “to read” list (find me on Goodreads)
  • Binge-watching TV-on-dvd (right now it’s NCIS)

I’ll also be working on home improvements, picking up some odd jobs here and there, and enjoying some summer cultural opportunities. Last night I caught the free North Carolina Symphony concert at Tryon Palace. The symphony performed Aaron Copland’s “An Outdoor Overture”, Mizeslo’s “Selections from Pinehurst”, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67. With the exception of extremely annoying children trying to catch fireflies in über-crunchy leaves, I enjoyed it immensely. However, I must admit that I was tempted to break out my crotchety-old-man routine.

Back to that book list, though. I just finished reading The Big Bang Theory and Philosophy and am currently working on The Physics of Superheroes (combining business and pleasure FTW!) and House of Cards. My good friend Amanda Cale has just published her first novel, Riddle, and I’m looking forward to reading that as well (probably in hardback). I also want to read An Onslaught of Spears, but am having a difficult time tracking down an affordable copy (you’ve failed me, EBay, Amazon, and AbeBooks!)

To go along with my reading I have some delicious German coffee, brought to me from Europe by one of my graduating seniors. She also found me some salted caramel chocolate, my second-favorite chocolate in the whole world (my favorite is Kinder Schokolade).

The beginning of summer also means more home cooking. Breakfast will still be a bagel and coffee, but since I will no longer receive school lunches, my wife and I will cook more at home and save the leftovers for other meals. To be fair, we do this when eating out, too. Rarely will we order something we can’t get two (or more) meals out of.

There’s two places I really like to eat at: Buffalo Wild Wings for wings half Thai Curry sauce and half Lemon Pepper rub and 37th Street (a local Italian-American restaurant) for a 10-inch calzone with pepperoni, green peppers, and mushrooms. This in one of the few times I get mushrooms since Krystal doesn’t like them at all. They also make the most amazing house ranch I’ve ever had, and they sell it by the jar. I don’t think I’ve bought store ranch in two years. The only way it could get better is if they offered bacon, which they don’t.

Well, I just ran out of coffee and my timer hasn’t yet gone off. Curses. I have to go shopping anyway, Smokey needs food. Wait, strike that. I have a bag of Dunkin Dark and half a bag of filters. Salvation! (The German coffee is to be enjoyed only while reading).

My alarm just informed me that my twenty minutes is up. See you tomorrow.

This post is being published as part of Writing 101. Challenge 1: Write stream-of-consciousness for twenty minutes and then publish it. The writing has not been altered for grammar, spelling, or formatting. Only the links and images were added post-production.

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