Mobile Pix

Sharkey mentioned that it is difficult to post pictures from a mobile device.  I took that as a challenge of course so here's a picture of my four children with four of their cousins Circa 1968.

New Toy

Vanilla is attempting a new approach to writing his blog posts. It works like this. Two weeks ago I purchased a piece of equipment that purports to be a cell phone for less than 20 bucks. I did not purchase any of the minutes for telephone usage but simply adapted the piece of equipment to serving as a handheld computer. I soon discovered that this machine has many amazing features including voice writing. Thus I sit here at my ease and dictate my story to my machine. I am so excited by this that I am hoping to carry this away from home and transmit my messages back to my base computer. Wow this thing is amazing!

Red Brick Roads #T

When I moved to Tipton 45 years ago, there were still several streets in town that were paved with brick.  Eventually they were all removed and paved with modern macadam technique, with the exception of a couple of short less-traveled sections which were simply paved over.  I turned down one of these short stretches on my bicycle and noted that winter ravages, summer storms, increased twenty-first century traffic have dug a hole in the tarmac, exposing brick beneath.

The first brick paving in Tipton was laid along two and one-half blocks of Jefferson Street in 1890.  This brick was common building brick, yet it survived the rigors of traffic for nearly a quarter century before it was replaced in 1914 with vitrified brick.  At that time, twelve miles of Tipton streets were paved with these bricks.  This allowed Tipton to boast the largest number of  "feet per capita" of any city in Indiana.*

I have a few of the brick pavers which were lifted from the streets of Tipton in the 1990s.  These bricks are quite attractive, and imagine if you can the thousands of wheels that rolled across this bit of history.

*Pershing, Marvin W. History of Tipton County, Indiana: Her People, Industries and Institutions, 1914

This is post number 1900 on String Too Short to Tie.  That works out to 26.9 posts per month over the life of the blog, or a post on 90% of the available days.  Conclusion:  This is not quite a daily blog.

Transistor Sister

Had a flashback, a memory of my little sister when she was perhaps twelve years of age.  So I wrote a little note to her.

Dear Ilene,

Having the MusicChoice tuned to classic country, as is my wont, the play cycle brought around Charly McClain’s “She’s Got a Radio Heart.”  And somehow whenever I hear this song, I picture you as a child on South Hackley Street.  It seems to me that at some point in your life you won a “transistor radio” from a local station.  Is this not true? Or is my memory really as faulty as I sometimes fear?  These thoughts, of course, led me through the technological progress of the dissemination of music to the young set of the distaff gender.  The transistor started it all, and it paralleled the “45” in the bedroom.  So time passes, and we have the tape players, and the accompanying “boom boxes” which were truly too bulky and unwieldy for the girls, so soon enough we saw the young males (gasp!) toting them around.

These soon enough, or at least eventually, gave way to the digital reproduction of music and miniaturization.  Voila! the MP3 and its ilk overtook us.  Or took us over.  And now.  And now we have the ubiquitous bastardization of all communications technologies, the “smart phone” with which not only is every young girl equipped, but with which everyone is equipped.  Except me, of course.

So did I dream this? I do know that I just woke up from a dozing eye-closed state.

It’s a noisy world!

Love you,

David

Thinking about this a bit more, I seem to recall that the "project" which won her the radio was to count the number of times the letter "e" appeared in a certain section of the local newspaper.  But again, a long time ago, in a land far away.

Ilene with her newest grandchild, and first granddaughter. ------>

Shortly after posting this, I received this response which indicates that my memory was only half faulty:

I did indeed win a transistor radio for writing Sunshine Bakers as many times as possible on a postcard.  I think the grand prize was something bigger, a record player or some such. But I won the radio with Dad's help. We worked hard on that post card, using a magnifying glass and sharpening the pencil over and over.  I have progressed through the various technological cycles and now have a smart phone. I like it almost as much as did my transistor, but the sentiment is not there. Ah sweet memories!

Much Love,

Ilene  

The Little Birdies Go Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

In keeping with yesterday's footnote, Wiley provides this.  Guess no one wants to be "irrelevant."

I have never...

 

 taken a picture with my telephone.

twittered or tweeted or whatever it’s called.

TM’ed via telephone.

found my way with a GPS.

had an fb account.

used an iPad, iPhone, or iAnything.

owned an iPig. Seriously, I saw one today. What the oink!?

downloaded or listened to music on an mp3.

 

walked through a big-box store with a Blue Tooth gadget in my ear.

ordered a Frappuccino or any other coffeeccino drink.

owned a Chevrolet vehicle. (I used this one once in a game of “I have never...” I was not believed, but it is true.)

sent an email that ends with “Sent from my Blackberry.”

bought anything promoted on an infomercial or a late night “But wait!” advert.

been happier about anything else.

 

What have you never done that "everyone else" seems to be doing?

Computer Repair

Doubting my ability to stay away from the interwebs and simultaneously maintain my sanity, such as remains, I sought out a techie. I found him here in the caboose.

I took the computer in at 8:45 a.m. At eleven ten I got the call advising me that it was ready to pick up. Now how can you beat that?

And what was the matter? you wonder.

Keyboard. He changed out the keyboard. Better that than the wild imaginings going through my head which included such things as loss of pix and music.

So, I'm b-a-c-k!

Preparedness

Surfing the web Monday evening when disaster struck. Suddenly the screen went berserk, and a warning alerted me to the frying of the hard-drive. Yes, it seems to be pretty much gone. What folders are left are empty.

Upset, angry, and disappointed with my fellow-man. Again. Yet to live at peace with myself and with my Maker, I forgive the dolt who perpetrated the wickedness. I forgive him for the act. I cannot forgive him for being an ass, because that is not what he did, it is who he is.

I notified some of my blog friends that I would be "out of business" after the twenty-ninth of February, for that was how deep the queue of posts extended. So how, you might ask, am I dealing with the crisis? Several pals in the blogosphere, Lin, Shelly, Chuck, and Shark, suggested that many communities have public libraries with internet access. True. Before I owned a laptop, one of my first visits in a community where we were encamped was to the public library. I have library cards from several communities in Mississippi and Texas, mostly so I could use the computers.

This town has a fine new library, opened three years ago, and they have a public-use computer room that sports forty-eight computers! It is well-used, too. But it is a four-mile scooter or bicycle ride each way.

So, how did I solve the problem? In addition to the new computer, I tucked the old Toshiba behind the seat and brought it along. I dug it out, updated the protection-ware, and voila! I seem to be in business. I'd cross my fingers, but I find it hard to type in that mode. And I am not superstitious anyway!

Must See TV

 

Technology is truly amazing. And yet I am even more amazed at the people it serves. A case in point, and the cause for the writing of this brief article, is the development of the transmission of transitory pictures which we have come to identify simply as “TV.”

About ninety years ago as radio was being developed as a commercial enterprise, people began to ideate the possibility of transmitting not only sound, but video as well. Early experiments, without going into specific history, produced some small degree of success as early as the late 1930s. But it was not until the 1950s that commercial television began to spread widely across the country. If my memory serves me correctly the small city in which I lived presented its first commercial broadcast to the residents in 1951.

This new medium was to have very little bearing on my life for many more years, although I attended college in a much larger city, and there was a television set in the student lounge on which one might, if he chose to do so, watch a baseball game or something that someone else chose to watch. I mostly avoided all that.

The early “TV sets” had very small oscilloscope-sized screens, some of the larger ones perhaps offering thirty square inches of viewing field. It was not long, though, until larger screens were widely available, and by 1967 when I got my first set, the screen sported a 19-inch diagonal measurement screen. This might have approached 200 square inches of viewing area. By 1973, I actually had a 19" color TV!

Fast forward to recent years. I now have a 46-inch HDTV, and it is quite small compared to those some of my acquaintances have. Some of them provide, I am sure, up to fifteen square FEET of viewing space! (My modest home is not nearly big enough for one of these. Neither are most of the homes in which I have seen them.)

Anyway, what now is the new standard of “TV viewing”? Of course you know the answer to that. It is the somewhat under four square inch screen on your cell phone! We’ve gone full circle. And have you tried to watch an NBA game on one of these? How big is the basketball? Never mind the NHL.

As I said, people are much more amazing than is technology.

What am I really saying here in far too many words? If one hasn't time to sit down and watch TV, he has no need to be watching TV at all. imho.

Rocket Launch, T + _

The echo of the blast rolled around the hills that surrounded the campus. Both youngsters were stunned. Miraculously, neither suffered physical injury beyond the ringing in their ears.

Just as the smoke started to drift away, the grounds keeper came pushing a wheelbarrow up the hill. He had witnessed the spectacle from a mere thirty yards from ground zero. As his path crossed the boys' trek toward the scene of the blast, he said, in a very calm and controlled voice, "I wouldn't do that again if I were you." You think?

At about that moment, the window of the president's office flew up and the glass flew out and fell crashing to the ground. The Man himself poked his head out the window. Ho, boy.

The upshot (so to speak).
It is not known to either of the lads, nor was it ever discussed, how much the fact that the father of one of the boys had been the predecessor to the now sitting president who was prepping for his first academic year in the post had to do with the conclusion to this story. It is not known what discussion took place between the two gentlemen. It is known that the boys were held responsible for replacing the window, notwithstanding that they both ever after believed that they did not cause the breakage, but rather that Tubby the president caused the glass to fall from its frame when he threw the window open with excessive force.

The younger boy's father took the lad and the window frame to Madsen's Paints and Wallpaper on North Tejon Street where the window was repaired at a cost of $5.25, which to the boys was a veritable fortune. And they did have to pay it.

Epilogue
The day following the explosion, the two genii (geniuses?) returned to the scene of the "crime." Isn't that always the case? They observed that in the center of the parking lot there was not a pebble of gravel to be found in a circle approximately sixteen feet in diameter. They searched for some time for fragments of the "rocket" and ultimately found it south of the road and about twenty feet up the side of the hill. The can appeared to be intact! That is, it seemed to be of a piece, but it was completely flattened.

The Lord was watching over those idiots.
[The End]
© 2011 David W. Lacy

Rocket Science, Launch!

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Rocket Science, Stage 3

This is the day! It is another hot and lazy summer day. The boys walked up the road to the parking lot, kicking the gravel as they went. Beautiful! There were no cars in the lot this afternoon. They quickly moved to the very center of the lot, about forty feet south of the storage shed. The boys ever so carefully set the rocket at just exactly the right attitude to achieve maximum flight. The fuse was carefully installed in the engine port and cut to a two-foot length, which they calculated to be just right to allow them to move to the shelter of the shed before launch.

They lit the fuse. It burned an inch, sputtered and went out. They lit it again and headed for the shelter. As they turned to watch, they noted that the sparkling had stopped and the smoke was no longer rising from the string. The younger of the boys (younger by six weeks) cautiously approached the vehicle. It was clear that the fuse was not going to achieve its end, so the lad tilted the rocket carefully and spilled a string of fuel about three feet in length. The rocket was restored to its proper attitude and a match touched to the extreme end of the make-shift fuse. Man! Did that ever burn quickly! As the fire began to puddle around the nozzle of the fuel tank, the perpetrators scientists noted that it began to glow a cherry red. The lad more distant from the contraption yelled, "Run! she's gonna blow!"
[to be continued] © 2011 David W. Lacy

Rocket Science, Stage 2

The boys ambled home. It was late in the afternoon; they were tired. They got the comics book stash from beneath the bed and selected a few titles. As they lay under the cottonwood tree thumbing through the pages of "Buck Rogers in the Twenty-fifth Century" and "Mickey Mouse" and "Plastic Man" they gave very little further thought to the scientific endeavor they had launched this day. Perhaps how little thought will become evident with the dawning of a new day.




Wednesday morning broke, bright and fair. Another lazy summer day. The boys departed their respective homes to meet by the lilac hedge* with the ingredients gathered the previous day, along with a mortar and pestle from the chemistry set and the two near-empty adolescent heads they carried with them everywhere.

The first order of business was to build the rocket. A scavenger hunt was the order of the day. Passing up and down the neighborhood alleys the boys scrounged for necessary parts. They did not know what they were looking for, but they would recognize it when they saw it. Eureka!

Just there, in Mrs. Nordyke's ash pit, was a cylindrical object about nine inches in length and two and one-half inches in diameter! Verily, a rocket! and with so little need of modification, for it was made of steel, completely sealed except for a quarter-inch orifice on one end.

Ailerons and stabilizers? Pffft! it is to scoff, for the launch platform will so perfectly aim it that it cannot fail to go airborne. All that remained was to grind and mix the fuel, and fill the fuel chamber, which, as it turned out, was pretty much the entire interior of the spent bug-bomb, for that was what the can was, an early 1940s aerosol can, one of the very first.

The preparation was much more tedious than this account, if you can imagine that. For they also had to devise an ignition device. This was accomplished by mixing a "secret" ingredient in water, soaking a length of kite string in the solution and allowing it to dry. Overnight. So it is back to the library for more adventures with Mickey, Goofy, Pluto, and perhaps Captain Marvel.
[to be continued, with apologies to Chuck] © 2011 David W. Lacy
*The lilac hedge and Nordyke's are on the map.

Rocket Science, 1948

Above the main building on the west side is the parking lot.* It has a gravel surface. It is the scene of an escapade of two boys who shall remain nameless in the interest of protecting any parties who may be in need of such protection.

The boys conceived the idea of building and launching a rocket. The power source was a matter of serious discussion. Having no access to liquified gasses, and the concept of atomic power just now being mastered by Oppenheimer and others, the boys concluded that a solid fuel propellant was required.

But how to obtain the "solid fuel"? Resourceful as these young minds were, it did not take them long to realize that three substances would suffice to provide sufficient force to propel their rocket into suborbital flight. The reader would do well to realize that the V-2 rocket only three or four years before this tale unfolds had been used to attack the British from the European continent. Also realize that it was yet a matter of more than twenty years before anyone launched an orbital foray from Earth.

Stage set, on with the tale. One of the chemicals required was "in stock" in the boys' chemistry set. Another was readily available with a little work around the dregs of a recent "campfire" in their backyard. The third item, however, was not easily accessible, but a little thought brought them to the realization that every drugstore in town had a supply of this magic ingredient. Thus, it being a lazy summer afternoon and with nothing more productive to do, the boys ambled to town and assayed to purchase the item at Walton's Pharmacy. The druggist questioned the boys as to their need of the material, found their answer unsatisfactory, and refused to sell it to them.

Not discouraged, the boys applied what they had learned as they strolled to another drug store a few blocks away. This gave them time to brainstorm the solution to another interrogation. They formulated a brilliant scheme, probably involving such things as "My mother needs it..."
or, "His dad uses it for..."

So we they entered the store, and actually found a half-pint jar of the substance on an open shelf near the rear of the store. They took it to the lady at the cash register who rang up the purchase and for the sum of twenty-nine cents, our heroes were in business, no questions asked.

[to be continued] © 2011 David W. Lacy

*refer to map here, if you need memory refreshed.

V-2 missile development: http://www.centennialofflight.gov/

Bringing in the Harvest

For the earth bringeth forth fruit of herself; first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear.
But when the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come. --Mark 4:28,29
I love the fall season for many reasons, not the least of which is the bringing in of the harvest. I have lived in an agricultural community for the past fifty-some years, and I am always amazed at the bringing in of the bounty from the fields.

While it is true that "harvest" is much more than the produce grown in this area, it is essentially the corn and the soybeans that capture my attention. They, along with some wheat which is a summer harvest, are the grains grown here.

Tomatoes, yes, we will see many loads of tomatoes on their way to the cannery. Apples are grown in the area, but the orchards are a bit far apart and apples are not a major crop. Well, they are, of course, to the people who have apple orchards.

No longer do we see the "check-rows" in the corn fields, but rather such tightly-woven stands of corn that one wonders how so many plants can thrive in such spaces as are allotted to them. The thrill of seeing the greens disappear from the fields as the plants yellow, then turn beige or brown is enhanced by the knowledge that soon the wagons will be rolling past with their bounty on the way to the terminal.

Truly, the harvest is great.

Descemet's Stripping Automated Endothelial Keratoplasty

About a month ago, I wrote here on STSTT that I would be having a corneal transplant.
Wednesday, a week ago today, Richard drove us to Carmel for the procedure. Since we were told to arrive there at 6:30 a.m., all three of us found ourselves up and on the road well before time to rise from the comfort of our respective beds.

A well-organized facility which had "preregistered" me by telephone the previous day completed the intake process very quickly. Then it is sit in the waiting area until a nurse comes to collect me. During this interval, Beautiful fell into conversation, as she is inclined to do, with a young woman. It turned out that at age 47 she was having cataract surgery. And then she asked my wife, "What is your father here for?"

Now, I could laugh and handle this, even consider that, okay, BBBH does look to be a generation younger than I in spite of her being in her mid-70s. So then as the nurse is taking me to the operating arena, she asks me who is driving me today. "Richard," I say, indicating the gentleman seated to my right. "Is he your son?"

Now wait just a dogbone minute!! Richard is older than I. Maybe more stress and terror showed on my visage than I thought I was feeling in my heart.

Begowned now and lying on the gurney, the anaesthesiologist came in to talk with me about her role and what she was going to do to me. Then the surgeon came in to verify that we all agreed it was the right eye which he was going to cut on. (This was verified numerous times with everyone I encountered, and someone wrote "YES" in indelible letters above my right eyebrow.

So now I am in the OR with the 95 year-old anaesthesiologist and the 17-year old surgeon in whose hands I have placed my life and my eyesight. As she had promised, the little old lady knocked me out while a local was administered to the eye, then awakened me so that I could communicate with the team during the procedure.

At one point, probably an hour or so into the thing, I said, "The left side of my nose itches." Doctor Deitch said, "I'm busy over here with the donor cornea. Can't help you." Which I took to mean, Suck it up; you'll live. Which I did.


So on Thursday, Dick took me to Carmel again. The physician examined his work and pronounced it good. I see him again tomorrow. I am told that the healing process is quite lengthy and not to get my tidy whiteys in a knot.

Meanwhile, the good news is that I can already see with better clarity than I had before the surgery, so I am hopeful that things will be well in the long term.

Thank you, Dr. Deitch and all the team at Midwest Eye Institute!


I am looking forward to reconnecting with my readers, so comment away! I have already been spending some time trying to catch up with my friends on their blogs. It is good to be back.

Retrotech in the Shop: Tools

I am not a handyman. Oh, I have managed to provide some home maintenance over the years. I even worked for a few building contractors from time to time. I learned a few things. But I am grateful that I do not have to put bread on the table today using the skills of carpentry, woodworking, masonry, plumbing or mechanics. I know enough about most of those fields to be a danger to myself and any inattentive bystanders; although I can drive a nail or a screw. I can measure a board and cut a pretty straight line.

My father was a craftsman. He could do more with a pocketknife and a pair of pliers than most guys can do with any tools that might be at their disposal. I let most of my dad's equipment go at auction, but I kept a few handtools, mostly for sentimental reasons. But I still use them from time to time.

I have a crosscut handsaw which may be the first saw I ever used as a child. It is small, easily carried in a handy-man tool kit. The upper ear is missing and has been ever since I can remember. I have a brace and several bits. These virtually never get used. I kept a pair of forceps (dental) which belonged to my maternal grandfather and which my dad used to pull teeth-- mine, from time to time, when I was a child. Squares, wrenches. I regret a little bit that I let all the hand planes go, but I hope someone is giving them the use they deserve.

The most modern of Dad's tools which I have is a 7" electric Skilsaw which I use in preference to my own much newer and very expensive high-end brand name saw.

This article was first published in the blog, Retrotechnocracy. I am trying to ease back into the blogosphere. I hope by Wednesday to be able to file a report .

Typing, Modern Style

Now back to the keyboard.
Using that old "Royal" is an immense pain, given that I am years into the simplicity of the computer keyboard.

The second typrwriter story of the week came up on Monday when I checked into Down the Road. Jimgrey wrote that the computer saved his career as a writer, for had it been necessary to continue with handwriting or typewriting, he would have given it up.

So, I got out Dad's machine, Royal portable, circa 1940. (I wonder if I could study the serial number and search its bona fides?) I typed the above sample, which was a reminder of how much I appreciate modern technology, my Luddite pretenses notwithstanding!

In some earlier postings, I have discussed handwriting and typing.