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Dane Allred examines the "Abundance" of the universe in his list of "1001 Thanks"
Episodes
Tuesday Apr 06, 2010
Tuesday Apr 06, 2010
Artificial Me
Sitting in the dentist chair for two hours isn’t fun, but I do like having my teeth is good condition. I have the world’s worst teeth, but you may already know this. What amazes me is the incredible techniques that have been developed to help us stay well. I tried to pay attention to what was going on, but I have no idea what all the jargon and technical words meant. I just know they fixed my teeth, and the only thing that hurt the next day was where I had to get shots to numb up my mouth.
I don’t even want to consider what people had to endure just 100 years ago as dentists, doctors and barbers tried to fix people. That’s right. Barbers were an inexpensive doctor back in the day, especially if you needed blood-letting. The red and white barber pole was an advertisement to have your hair cut, or your blood let, which means taking out some of that bad, bad blood which must be making you sick. Many people died of blood-letting in the past. The explanation for the death must have been that not enough blood had been drained. Scary.
George the Second and George Washington both died after substantial blood-lettings. It has been largely discontinued, but recent research shows the iron build-up in blood may result in various diseases. The solution? Blood-letting.
Think about some other technologies I carry around on my own body. I have a bridge in my mouth. Someone in the past thought to themselves about how to cover up that big ugly gap where a tooth is missing. Why not build a dental device which bridges that gap, and attach it to the teeth around the gap? And think about the first patient this was tried on. Bridges in mouths are common today, but the first patient had to be convinced to have two good teeth ground down so the bridge could be attached. I would have loved to hear the dentist explain it. Maybe the first experiments were dentists who needed a bridge. It surprises me how many of the medical advances of the past were tried on the inventor first. Sometimes they experimented on their families.
It is thought Marie Curie may have died from her continued exposure to radium. Her fingertips produced so much radiation that her lab books showed fingerprints when photographic film was placed between the pages. From x-rays to casts to filled cavities in my mouth, the medical advances I’ve used seem commonplace today, and it makes me wonder what parts of me will be replaced in the future.
How much of me has to be replaced before more of me is artificial than real? What happens when scientists can transfer my mind into a computer? Is the computer me, or just me up to that point in my life?
It’s enough to make my poor human brain hurt. But I like to think about what people in the future will think when they find my dried out skull and notice most of the teeth are filled, drilled or fake. Will they even know what a bridge is by then? Think about this. Centuries ago people used to drill holes in people’s heads. We know because we have found skulls with holes drilled in them while the people were alive. I don’t know why they would drill a hole in someone’s head, but there are people who still do this, and let other people do it to them.
As we live in the bridge from our past to today, to whatever the future will bring, I expect there to be an abundance of discovery, adventure and experimentation. I just did a commercial for pain patch which places capsaicin directly on the skin as a patch to help with the pain from shingles. Think what makes peppers hot. Then concentrate it at eight percent. It has to hurt when it is put on, but apparently shingles hurts much, much more.
As we discover more and more about how and why the body works, there will be more and more amazing cures and advances. The amazing pace of change seems to get faster and faster. We may experience a time when something earth-shattering will happen every day. As the amount of information available continues to increase, how can we hope to keep up? Maybe that is your assignment. Invent the next technology which coordinates the light-speed developments so we can connect point A with point B and get the real solutions we need in the future. Sponsor someone who is innovating; contribute to those who are trying to get us to that better tomorrow.
I hope to see you in that brilliant, creative, innovative tomorrow, and maybe I may have some real parts left.
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Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Sunday Apr 04, 2010
This is the complete broadcast from March 28th.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
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Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Double preparation It’s kind of scary when the doctor tells you to get a colonoscopy, not just because of your age, but because he saw a freckle in your eye. That may take some explanation. A regular eye exam showed a spot on my retina. The optician casually mentioned this type of spot might be cancerous. That’s a jolt to hear. I was really worried, and continued to worry until I saw another doctor and he told me it was benign – just a freckle that should be checked every year. Then he casually remarked I needed to get a colonoscopy since this type of spot was associated with colon polyps. I began to worry again. It’s a strange thing to be uncertain. It’s a reminder of our mortality, and most of us aren’t ready to get off the ride. In the second before the doctor says I’m okay I’m exactly the same as the second after. So why do I feel so much better just because the doctor says I’m okay? It’s a strange thing. We put our trust in doctors. We pay them to tell us how we are. We hope they will find a pill to fix what we are feeling, and when they tell us what to do, we usually do it. I’m not sure why we have such faith, but we do. Maybe it’s a placebo effect – we want to feel better, so we get checked out by a doctor, and then we feel better because we did something. Anything. Well, almost anything. There are other professionals we trust. Lawyers, judges, teachers, law enforcement, airline pilots and others are called professionals. What does the word mean? We “profess” we have a skill. Others believe in our “professions”. But we all know some people are better at their jobs than others. I once had a dentist who was not the best. I wound up getting all of the fillings he did replaced by someone else. I’ve been to another dentist who gave me enough laughing gas that I had an out-of-body experience and was floating in the corner of the room watching him work on me. But now I have a dentist I trust. How do we eventually find where we are comfortable? I’ve had opticians I trusted, but when one of them told me I had old eyes, he never saw me again. I was really impressed my current eye doctor found this freckle in my eye when others had missed it. I even kept going to him when he left to start his own practice. And why do they call it practice? I don’t want to be “practiced on”. I want my professionals to have practiced on someone else, and get to me when they have finished practicing and become an expert. We have a strange list of words we use to describe some of this practice. Aseptic – it means clean. A procedure – this usually involves removing a part of me. Prescription – here’s my best guess at what will fix you. Symptoms – another word for problems. Developments – something we didn’t expect to happen. Effects – usually something bad. Abberation – something really bad we didn’t expect to happen. It makes me stop and think about those who consider me a professional at what I do, and it’s a reminder to stop and think if I am doing things which are unprofessional, if I am undercutting the belief of others in what I do. It’s a good check-up for us to do on ourselves every once in a while. So when someone tells you to get ready for a colonoscopy, there are some interesting preparations. You get to be cleaned out, and I won’t go into the details. So I got the phone call and someone said to get ready, I got ready. I showed up at the hospital at the appointed time, and tried to find someone to give me a colonoscopy. It was a Saturday morning and the place was deserted. My wife and I wandered to the front of the hospital to see if anyone knew what was going on. Someone helped us figure out that no colonoscopies were performed on Saturdays, but I was welcome to come back on Monday to get one. Which meant another round of what is affectionately called “colonoscopy prep”. Yep. I had to do it again on Sunday to be ready for Monday. I was extra clean. The colonoscopy found no polyps, but I was told to come back in five years for another checkup. I’ve had the follow-up, and now I don’t have to go back for ten years. It was like a reprieve on a death sentence. If you’ve done a colonoscopy prep, you know what I mean. Especially if you’ve done it twice in a weekend.
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Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Advanced Placement
Sometimes barriers are placed in our way to test our resolve. Obstacles are clearly meant to be overcome, but how we overcome some of the obstructions in our world depends on our own creativity and convictions.
After taking the ASVAB, the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, which tests to see if you know which nut belongs to which bolt and other things, I found out I could be a lawyer. The interest survey included with this test lets students choose the kinds of work they think they would like based on questions about their strengths, hobbies and desires. I think my category told me I was socially oriented, and in that category were teachers, social workers, and lawyers. For no other reason than I wanted to make lots of money and I thought being a lawyer sounded cool, I decided I would be a lawyer. I had no other interest in law before that, and luckily, I ended up as a teacher. I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for all the cash in China. But to get to be a teacher, I had to think I was going to be a lawyer first.
I checked to see what kind of education was necessary for lawyers, and noticed I was not enrolled in the right classes. Tracking is a way schools channel students into various classes, and even though it is technically not supposed to exist, the tracking of students takes place every day. I was a trouble maker in school, so I didn’t really belong in the advanced classes. But to be a lawyer I had to go to college, and I could get college credit while still in high school by taking advanced placement classes. I would have to pass the AP test at the end of the year, but I have always been a good test taker.
Getting into AP history was easy enough, and once I was signed up for one AP class I wanted another. AP English. But I had to take a test to see if I really could be an AP student, when really, it should have been up to me to try and fail on my own. But the entrance test showed I should be able to handle the class, or they just wanted to shut me up, so I was enrolled.
I was a busy senior, acting in plays, doing the morning announcements, even speaking at graduation. But this meant I was not always in class receiving the precious words of wisdom from my teachers, which meant there was no way I would be able to pass the test at the end of the year. Both of my AP teachers told me not to waste my money by taking the test. This only strengthened my resolve.
Think about the benefits of passing the test. If I could get a passing score, I could have 24 college credits on my transcript before my first day at the university. Back then, you didn’t even have to pay to get the college credit; they just added it to your total. Today, most colleges charge what the tuition would have cost for those credits, but at least you don’t have to spend the time. I would get a double free-ride if I passed!
I’m not sure why we discourage people from trying to achieve. Maybe we think the specter of failure will permanently disfigure them. What really happens is most people who are knocked down and get up again gain a valuable lesson. They learn how to get back up again when they are knocked down. It’s really not so bad on the ground, unless that’s where you stay.
I’m sure both of these teachers thought they had my best interests in mind when they told me not to take the tests. But I don’t take that kind of obstruction seriously. Easily overcome, I marched into the tests with my head held high, knowing I was the master of my destiny, and if I failed the tests, I would only be out a hundred dollars or so. But if I passed the tests, I would save myself thousands of dollars and cut time off my degree.
I passed both tests and had 24 credits. After I took some other College Level Examination Program tests, I had tested out of a year of college. I finished a four year degree in three years. If I had listened to the nay-sayers who were sure I wasn’t college material, I would have missed out on all the fun I’ve had since then.
But then again, I was in the work force full-time by the age of twenty-one. Maybe I should have overcome those obstructions at a slower pace. I must really love my work.
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Sunday Apr 04, 2010
Sunday Apr 04, 2010
THE LOTTERY by Shirley Jackson The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock. In some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner. The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. And their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys. And the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters. Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother. The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business. And people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. And when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it. The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another. It had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. And sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there. There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery. At one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year. Some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this. In his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins. Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there." Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through. Two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully: "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival. "Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?" "Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar, Dunbar." Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar," he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?" "Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered. "Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year." "Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?" A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it." "Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?" "Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded. A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?" The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said "Hi Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand. "Allen," Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham." "Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week." "Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said. "Clark.... Delacroix" "There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward. "Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes." "We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper. "Harburt.... Hutchinson." "Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. And the people near her laughed. "Jones." "They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery." Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody." "Some places have already quit lotteries," Mrs. Adams said. "Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools." "Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy." "I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry." "They're almost through," her son said. "You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said. Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner." "Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time." "Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son." "Zanini." After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving, "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it." "Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!" "Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance." "Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said. "Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?" "There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!" "Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently."You know that as well as anyone else." "It wasn't fair," Tessie said. "I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids." "Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?" "Right," Bill Hutchinson said. "How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally. "Three," Bill Hutchinson said. "There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me." "All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?" Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in." "I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that." Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off. "Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her. "Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded. "Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of he little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly. "Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her. "Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it. The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd. "It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be." "All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's." Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank. "It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill." Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd. "All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly." Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up." Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you." The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles. Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him. "It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
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Monday Mar 29, 2010
Monday Mar 29, 2010
Deadline Smedline
I think deadlines are a fiction. I have never met a deadline I couldn’t extend. You may think that impervious deadline is set in stone; I know different. Just when you are sure the line has been drawn in the sand, watch that deadline move.Applying for admission to get a master’s degree is one of my favorite examples. I had decided to get my master’s degree a little late, and after making sure all of my ducks were in a row, I went to register. Some people might do this in another order; get accepted into a program and then see if everything else would work out. Someday the way I view deadlines is going to backfire on me, but this was not the day.
I talked with the registration people about their degree programs, and indicated one I was especially interested in beginning. The woman behind the desk gave me the standard apoplectic stare usually associated with “deadlines”. She informed me I was seriously past the admission deadline, which was months before. I calmly took out my checkbook and asked her, “How much is the late fee?” She calmed down and told me it was ninety dollars.
Ninety dollars later, I was in the program and didn’t even bat an eye. Sometimes paying a late fee prevents serious complications if others things don’t go the way you want. What if I wasn’t approved for a sabbatical to start my masters? I would have been out the admission fee anyway.
This is not a technique for the faint of heart. I understand bus drivers and train engineers have a schedule to keep, but if they miss an appointed deadline for arriving at a certain place, they have to adjust and try to make up time later in the trip. Can this kind of philosophy succeed in today’s world?
I think one of my inspirations for not sweating deadlines comes from the 1980’s movie “The Gods Must Be Crazy”. This convoluted tale about a Coke bottle in an African desert has an interesting statement about aboriginal life in the Kalahari. The narrator says something like this. “In the Kalahari, there is no Monday, or Tuesday, or any other day for that matter. There are no clocks to regulate what happens when on any particular day.” I like that attitude.
All these days, hours and minutes we have created are really just a way to mark time and be able to meet together at pre-arranged times. I’m not sure how the modern world would work without clocks, but remember, somewhere one day someone said, “This is the correct time, this is the day of the week, and this is the number we will use for our years.”
Unconvinced? Go to any encyclopedia and look up Jesus Christ. Even Wikipedia lists his birth year as 4 B.C. Even if you use the phrase Before the Common Era instead of B.C., tell me what is supposed to be the start of the common era? The birth of Christ. B.C. means before Christ, but for political correctness, you can also say before the common era. For those who don’t believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ, this is another was to refer to the Gregorian calendar without invoking the name of Christ. But that’s not the point here. Did you hear the date given for his birth? Four B.C., or four B.C.E for everyone else.
If we are off four years for the birth of Christ, why are we worrying about deadlines? Here’s another reason I’m not too worried about deadlines. I can always tell people I am running my life on the Julian calendar and not the Gregorian. Because the Julian calendar didn’t use leap days, when most of the western world switched to the Gregorian calendar, we had to skip ten days. Seriously. On Thursday, October 4th in 1582, people went to bed and woke up the next day, which was Friday, October 15th. They skipped 10 days overnight to correct the calendar.
I feel sorry for the people who had birthdays on October 5th through 14th in 1582. Did they get to celebrate their birthdays, or were they just lumped into the 15th? Think about people who are born on February 29th; they only get to celebrate their real birthday every four years.
So a deadline is not as solid as you may think. I’m glad I wasn’t alive in 1582. What if the tax man had given you an October 15th deadline, and you went to sleep on the 4th thinking you had ten more days to find the money? The next morning, you wake up and see you are in deep trouble.
This is when you would take out your bag of gold and ask, “How much is the late fee?”
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Monday Mar 29, 2010
Monday Mar 29, 2010
Marry Me
I don’t like things to stand in my way. Obstructions often block the way to things all of us want, and life seems to be one long lesson in finding ways around these road blocks. Some of us are more creative than others, and some people use the difficulties they find in life to create new solutions. Anytime there is a problem, there are probably thousands of ways to solve it.I swore never to be married until I was 25, although I’m not sure why I chose that arbitrary number. Then I got to college and found out most people are trying to get an education, get a job and find a mate. It’s an exciting time of life, and I was caught up in the search. I knew what I wanted to be, and the educational path I was going to follow, but was I going to follow this path alone?
I fell in love with my wife seeing her perform. As a dancer and an actress she won my heart. I knew we would be the perfect couple. We appeared in some stage plays together, and eventually ended up dating. Then came the inevitable day when one of us would get cold feet. Luckily, it wasn’t me. She used the old standard “I think we should date other people” to try to distract me, but I didn’t buy it. She was mainly afraid, and I knew some ways to deal with that.
Usually, when someone says, “I think we should date other people” that means the relationship is basically over, and you are being kept around for giggles. Maybe as a fallback. But just like any other obstacle in my life, I knew there was a couple of ways to make her change her mind. I probably only had one opportunity to get it right.
So here is how I tricked my wife into marrying me. I knew she was scared of what the future might hold, so I decided to give her a little view of one possible future. I said to her I thought if she wanted to date others that would be a good idea. I also asked her if she had a couple of tickets to her upcoming dance concert. I’ll bet you can see where this is going. I didn’t say it would be pretty.
So I got my two tickets and got a date and went to the concert. I made sure I sat down right in the front towards the right. I probably knew that is where my future bride would be dancing, but if not, it was a great guess. She did a great job, and even though I am sure she wanted to shoot me, she simply danced her very best.
Later she told me she was so angry she could hardly see straight. She was really, really mad I had used the free tickets she had given me to bring a date, and then sit down in the front where she would have to look at us. I really didn’t have to say much at this point, because I knew this solution to her objections to getting married only had two outcomes. She would be glad I was moving on, or she would realize she really did care about me, and I might not be around and available forever.
I probably just said something stupid like, “So I guess you don’t want me to date other people?”, but when the movie is made, I want my character to say something classy like, “I guess this means you really do love me.” Slow dissolve fade into the romantic wedding.
I think this may have been my only proposal, because after this we planned on getting married and chose a date. I was in a stage play, and had limited time at night since the show was going to running when we wanted to tie the knot. We had planned on a Saturday just to give us more time, but with impromptu marriages you have to visit the justice of the peace on a day when she is in session. We went to Preston, Idaho on a Friday instead and Justice Ann Davis performed a lovely ceremony.
Our wedding dinner was root beer and onion rings at A&W, and we dashed back to the college for that night’s performance.
I have the world’s best wife. Think about this. I was married Friday afternoon, and on Friday night I was kissing another woman on stage. This other woman wasn’t the best kisser in the world since she had an overbite and this cuts down on suction. But my new bride didn’t have a problem with it. Like I’ve said before, I am one lucky guy. Let’s hope my luck lasts.
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Sunday Mar 28, 2010
Sunday Mar 28, 2010
This is the complete broadcast from March 21st.
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Sunday Mar 28, 2010
Sunday Mar 28, 2010
One
A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners - two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest - a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.
Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground - a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loop holed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators - a single company of infantry in line, at 'parade rest,' the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.
The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good - a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a moustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.
The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his 'unsteadfast footing,' then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!
He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift - all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by - it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each new stroke with impatience and - he knew not why - apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the trust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.
He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance."
As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.
Two
Peyton Fahrquhar was a well to do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with that gallant army which had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in wartime. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in the aid of the South, no adventure to perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.
One evening while Fahrquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Fahrquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front.
"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."
"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Fahrquhar asked.
"About thirty miles."
"Is there no force on this side of the creek?"
"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge."
"Suppose a man - a civilian and student of hanging - should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Fahrquhar, smiling, "what could he accomplish?"
The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tinder."
The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.
Three
As Peyton Fahrquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened - ages later, it seemed to him - by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness - of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river! - the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface - knew it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair."
He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort! - what magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire, his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!
He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf - he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat - all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.
He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.
Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.
A counter-swirl had caught Fahrquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking at the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly - with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquillity in the men - with what accurately measured interval fell those cruel words:
"Company! . . . Attention! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!"
Fahrquhar dived - dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dull thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out.
As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream - nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually.
The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning:
"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!"
An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.
"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me - the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun."
Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round - spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color - that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream - the southern bank - and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of Aeolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his escape - he was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.
A whiz and a rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest.
All that day he travelled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.
By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which - once, twice, and again - he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.
His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue - he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!
Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene - perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have travelled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon - then all is darkness and silence!
Peyton Fahrquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek Bridge.
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Friday Mar 26, 2010
Friday Mar 26, 2010
Cowed
Bridges can sometimes betray us. Just when we think all is safe and it’s time to cross, you end up stuck and walking down a canyon in the dark. And getting scared out of your wits.
I live in a strange place which is a citadel of civilization, yet an hour east or south, and you are in the middle of the old west, complete with dirt trails, cow fences and bridges made of pine poles and long planks. When I used to cut trees in the mountains for fence poles and posts, my dad arranged for me to cut a stand of trees up a long canyon, and then up a long dirt road.
I love using a chainsaw, cutting and trimming trees, and the smell of fresh cut wood, especially pine. I would cut 30 or 40 trees, load them on the truck and call it a day’s work. It was good for me, and I really enjoyed it. In case I got stuck, Dad had told me to just walk down the dirt road and wait on the main road, and he would come pick me up if I didn’t show up at night.
Luckily, I only had to walk out once, but once was enough. I got stuck another time in this same canyon, but a sheepherder saved me. But that’s another story. I would drive an hour on the main road. Then the dirt road was another 45 minutes, going about 20 or 30 miles an hour. So it was probably 5 or 10 miles from the main road to the wooden bridge I needed to cross to get to the trees I was supposed to cut.
At the small bridge, again made of some pine poles and a couple of long pieces of 2 by 6 or 2 by 8 planks. It wasn’t an engineering marvel, but it got you from one side to the other. Sometimes it was a little wet if the water was high, but I had crossed it so many times I didn’t even worry about it anymore.
The back end of the truck slid off to one side, while the front wheels were still on the improvised bridge. I was stumped. I tried to pry the back wheels back up onto the bridge, but it was no use. The work I did that day was to unsuccessfully get the back of the truck back onto the bridge. So as the sun began to set, I decided it might be time to start walking down the dirt road to wait for Dad.
It was incredibly dark, and there was no moon. If you have never been miles and miles away from the city to see the incredible stars, you really need to do it someday. It is an amazing sight, and there seems to be ten times as many stars as you have ever seen.
The dirt road was just a little lighter than the sagebrush next to it. I couldn’t even see if there were rocks or ruts to avoid, so I stumbled a few times. I must have been making quite a racket. Remember, I have already told you there were cow fences, and what that means is every so often there would be a gate to close, or there would be a cow grating. These are metal bridges cows don’t cross, so they stay where they are supposed to.
This also drew other animals to the mountains, including bears, wolves, and coyotes. As I turned a corner and stumbled a bit, something off the side of the road jumped up and crashed through the sagebrush. For all I knew it was crashing toward me, so I ran as fast as I could down a dirt road in the pitch black. After a few moments, I realized nothing was chasing me, and as I slowed up to listen, I could hear the calf I had surprised on the road still running the other way.
Needless to say, I had plenty of energy left to make it to the bottom of the canyon. I sat for a while, and then my Dad pulled up in his truck. I don’t think I told him about how his son had been terrified of a cow in the middle of a dark canyon. We went up the next day and pulled my truck off the bridge. Then I drove across it and went to work while Dad went back to the farm.
What’s the moral to the story? If there is one, I guess it would be not to trust every bridge you see. Maybe the moral is to be careful even when you have crossed the same bridge many times before. Maybe the real moral is not to be afraid of that cow in the dark.
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