A NEAT IDEA FOR THE KITCHEN

This is probably old hat but it was new to me.
Every once in awhile I see something that is clever and simple and I think, “I wish I had thought of that”

This is a plastic, 4-cup measuring cup, with a slanted side so there's no need to bend over or lift it up to see the exact amount in the cup.

It’s made by OXO and you can see the details here.

Okay, so it doesn’t exactly rank with the invention of the wheel, but it's a pretty good idea.

WHAT MY GRANDFATHER TAUGHT ME

Whenever I read or hear of a person being described as kind or gentle, I think of my grandfather. He probably was one of the most soft-spoken human beings to ever grace this earth.
His name was Bernadotte Chisholm, though my grandmother always called him Bernard. He was my mother's father.
Grandpa Chisholm was a watchmaker by trade and I, as a boy, often observed him bent over his workstation, peering through a magnifier and using small tweezers to correct a problem on someone's watch. His bench, complete with a small watchmaker's lathe, was in the dining room of their apartment, in the days when they had an apartment.
In the 1930's the whole country was deep in a depression and my grandfather had been working at the Standard Time Company, makers of clocks for schools and businesses but, like millions of others, he lost his job. Inasmuch as there were no jobs and hence, no income for my grandparents, arrangements were made for them to move in with us. My father was a police officer with a generous heart and a steady income, so he fixed up the attic of our house to be a livable place and my grandparents moved in, along with an uncle who had also lost his job at the same time.
It so happened that our house was adjacent to an empty lot, so my grandfather met with the lot’s owner and obtained permission to plant a vegetable garden there. The lot was fifty by one hundred feet and the lot’s owner was delighted to have someone see that it didn't become an eyesore.
Grandpa started to till the soil. There were no plows available so it was all painstakingly done with a spade, by hand. When it was about time to start the planting, the subject of fertilizer arose.
In those days garbage trucks came to our neighborhood and collected garbage. There were also trash trucks but they were on a different schedule and food-type garbage was kept separate from trash. After the garbage was collected each day, the truck would transport it to a pig farm out of town. There it was dumped as pig food.
My father knew the pig farmer and somehow managed to get a full truckload of pig manure delivered to the lot next door. It takes very little imagination to understand that the whole atmosphere in the neighborhood changed in a major way.
It didn't faze Grandpa who started to patiently work the pig manure into the soil and then plant the vegetable seeds. Eventually the odor went away and eventually plants began to appear. Each seedling that popped up received Grandpa's special attention and the garden thrived.
Every once in awhile a plant appeared that had not knowingly been planted. Most of the time no one had any idea what it was. But Grandpa gave the same loving care to these orphaned plants as he did to his own.
Finally, the plants began to mature and this often started a search to find out what vegetable it was. For example, no one in our family was familiar with the Acorn Squash, which they called Table Queen Squash. After it was determined to be edible, my mother set out to find out ways to cook it. The same held true for zucchini squash. That year we had all kinds of melons, peppers and varieties of tomatoes we had never seen before. There were yellow tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, Italian tomatoes as well as several varieties of regular round tomatoes. Vegetable-wise, it was an exciting summer.
As these vegetables were harvested and put to use, the seeds were carefully saved for the next planting.
Long after the depression had ended and my grandparents had their own housing again, we still were eating delicious vegetables that were the offspring of those original, uninvited, vegetables that grew from the pig manure.
It seems to me that at least one of life's lessons might be hidden in there somewhere. Perhaps it's something like the realization that from something as inherently ugly as pig manure, it's possible to get something beautiful and good if you exercise patience and kindness.
My Grandpa Chisholm did just that in all facets of his life.

FIGURES DON'T LIE, BUT LIARS CAN FIGURE

In 1966 I purchased an electronic calculator for my school. It was a marvelous machine. It sat on my desk and was about the size of a small portable typewriter. Not only did it do addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division – it did square roots! The best part was it cost just under $1500.
At first I used to play with it a lot. For example, I calculated how long it would take to walk to the moon. At that time it was impossible to walk to the moon but I was intrigued by President Kennedy’s comment that, “In 10 years we will have a man walk to the moon.”
I found out it’s approximately 230,000 miles to the moon depending on which side you’re going to. But for my purposes I took my marvelous calculator and fed in the numbers to convert that to feet and then calculate and average walking time and found out it would take 6.5 years of continues walking, with no breaks, to get to the moon. I didn’t even need the square root function.
I was going to write to President Kennedy and explain that it shouldn’t take 10 years, as he had said, but only 6.5 years. Maybe 7 if the walker took time to look at the scenery.
Then I learned he had actually said, “walk on the moon”, not "to the moon" which, of course, changed the whole thing.
But nonetheless, I had a lot of fun doing it and where else can you get that kind of calculating power for only $1500. And, if anyone ever casually says, "I wonder how long would it take to walk to the moon.” I can come right back with "Oh, I'd guess about six and a half years." Since 1996 no one has done that but they might someday.

Keep wogging!

MY SON, THE ROCK SINGER

Here is a little thing I wrote in 1982. As you can see, I call it:
MY SON, THE ROCK SINGER

There's no business like show business
My son is a rock singer. He always wanted to be a rock singer. The odds against achieving great success in that field are overwhelming - - - but he did it. He is the lead singer with a group known as August Redmoon.
There's no business I know
Most importantly, he did it on his own. As his father, I have absolutely no knowledge of this type of work. In fact, I was against the whole idea. “It was well and good to have an interest in music, but first you get a job.” If I said it once, I must have said it a thousand times.
Everything about is appealing
Mike always loved music. To be able to work at an enjoyable activity is a goal to be longed for; desired by many; attained by few. What better way of life could exist than spending endless hours working towards improving and perfecting a love relationship? Not to mention the satisfaction gained by bringing so much pleasure and happiness to a world so sadly in need.
Everything the traffic will allow
Mike had pleaded with me for months to see him and his band perform. I declined the many invitations for the simple reason that rock music was not my thing and I was sure I would neither enjoy nor appreciate it. Finally, feeling pangs of parental guilt, I conceded and we went to see a concert. The long drive through Los Angeles to get to an affair, which was bound to be unpleasant, did not get the evening off to a rousing start. Once committed, however, we did go through with the deal.
Nowhere could you get that happy feeling
It was at a small club in Reseda, California, called The Country Club. I now understand it is a well-known center of rock music, but I didn't know that at the time. It probably wouldn't have meant much if I did know. It was an impressive structure as far as the exterior went. A huge, brightly lit marquee announced the appearance of AUGUST REDMOON. I felt something was crawling on the back of my neck.
Yesterday they told you, you would not go far
Mike, with his wireless microphone, took off into the audience. He was singing and dancing though the audience when I heard him yell, "My Dad's here somewhere. Where's my Dad?" He found me and came to our table and threw his arms around me, announcing to all assembled, "This is my Dad?' I pumped my fist skyward and yelled, "Yah. yah!" in tempo. Something got in my eye about then and somehow that affected my ability to breath easily
That night you opened and there you are
Somehow the music wasn't loud anymore. I was watching a great performance. People were at the edge of the stage trying to reach up and touch my kid. It was fantastic! More flashing lights, more fog, a drum solo and the show was over. The lights went down and they left the stage. So soon? The fans would have none of it. They wanted more. Much cheering and whistling brought them back for one more number. To say I was impressed would be, at least, an understatement.
Next day on your dressing room they hung a star
We went backstage to the dressing room. After passing a guard and going up a small flight of stairs, we saw the band. They were all sitting quietly, perspiring and, not surprisingly, tired. I hadn't realized that a show was such an athletic undertaking. I too was exhausted, but proud and extremely happy to have been there. I feel the words I spoke to them at the time were inadequate to express my true feelings.
I know this much, perhaps the industry has not yet acclaimed Mike as a star, but Webster says, "Star(n.) a person who excels or performs brilliantly in a given activity."
In our house, he's a star!
We left and went to the car. Looking back I saw the marquee with the big, now even bigger, letters "AUGUST REDMOON”.
That darned bug was back on my neck again
Let's go on with the show.
August 29. 1982
Yorba Linda. CA
+++++++++++++++++++
The band, August Redmoon, eventually dissolved and my son, Michael Henry, who was the lead singer, formed a new group called ARMED FORCES. They were well on their way to success when a rare bone cancer overtook Michael and he died in 1998 at the age of 37. His music lives on and I see that his final CD called “Take On The Nation” is still available at Amazon.com.
Fortunately, the music Michael composed and sang will live on, as will the positive impression he made on all who were privileged to meet him.
I couldn’t have asked for a better son – only one who stayed longer.

Let's go on with the show.

A SUNDAY MORNING RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE

This is Sunday morning.
I am wogging (half walk/half jog) as usual at the high school track.
There is no one else here.
I wonder why.
Perhaps, because it’s Sunday, many are attending church services this morning.
As I continue, mindlessly, around the track it occurs to me that attending church services regularly and wogging at the track regularly have many things in common.
For one thing, it's is very difficult to make up one’s mind to go at all. There are dozens of logical reason why you should not go this time, but once you overcome these and get started it’s not so bad.
Once you arrive at the church you must go through with it; there’s no turning back.
It’s the same way at the track.
Then, as you continue on it seems all right at first but then begins to get boring but you fight the temptation to quit and do continue on.
It’s the same way at the track.
When, at last, it’s finished you are elated that it’s over, but also relieved knowing that you did something that, in some way, is good.
It’s the same way at the track.
Just what it is that’s so good isn’t readily apparent at that time but you have faith that somewhere, sometime, you will find out that you did something good.
As you head for home, you actually feel some euphoria knowing this is done and you can relax and not think about it until next time.
It’s the same way at the track.
And you did something that’s good.
Perhaps wogging could be called a "religious experience".

THE MOST UNFORGETTABLE PERSON I EVER KNEW

It seems as though it was a long time ago--in fact it was. More than fifty years or so I had the dubious privilege of meeting a "Most Unforgettable Person I Ever Knew"--Stanley Tabor, though I have taken the liberty of changing his name.
Stan was an incredibly skillful toolmaker as well as being a truly amazing person; shrewd, devious and often cruel.
He seemed to have an insatiable appetite for reading, which, strangely enough, was his biggest failing. I think Stan read too fast or something. In conversation he knew exactly what he meant to say, but it always seemed to come out jumbled or twisted and often in remarkable form.
Stan was the Shop Superintendent when I met him. I had resigned a teaching position to pursue a career in industry and became the Shop Foreman. As I was working directly under Stan I came to know him quite well. The first time I heard a ’Stanism’ I wasn't sure if it was intended to be humorous or not. I laughed once-- only once--it was not intended to be humorous.
It developed that Stan had been on a trip to Chicago for the company. "Had a great time," he said "but it sure erupts your morals". It seems as though he had met a girl who worked as a "short hand cook" and even though he thought she was a "lease bean", they did have a good time.
The supervisors meetings were events which everyone looked forward to. Stan chaired them and many people would listen intently, so as to not miss one of his jewels. For my part I followed instructions to "get a notebook with pages in it and write things down".
A typical meeting would go like this. "We are going to propagate 500 dollars for small tools". It seemed that the budget rumors, which had spread "like wildflowers" were just a "force alarm", Stan assured us that we could "exorb" the expense. He wasn't going to "quiver" over a few dollars. If necessary we could "decrease the costs down" in other areas, because profits "had made a gain downward" last month.
Further following instructions, I often spoke frankly to Stan. After all he had said to me "confine in me and don’t keep secrets". Expressing the feeling that perhaps leaving teaching was not the smartest thing I ever did prompted Stan to suggest that perhaps I was "just boring from the heat". Further opinion, based on recent experience with a customer from Sweden, led him to suggest that my college experience would no doubt qualify me for a job as an "interpertator".
The one time I really looked forward to was our "annual meeting, once a month". At this time all of the "big wheels" went out to lunch for an hour or so. I don't know who ran the shop during that time. In fact I’m not sure who ran it when we were there. Stan’s performance was totally predictable. First, at the top of his voice, "GARSO” followed by an aside, "That means waiter in French--they hate it". As if after months of this I didn't know that garso meant waiter in French. An interpertator like moi? Next came the order for "a glass of burgundy with an ice cube in it", followed by the main course "a plate of scalps with a toss up salad." It was always the same.
Stan was by no means all work and no play. He had a family. In fact had just purchased a new television set, "a Magnetbox -- the best kind". Even though he felt that his son, who had just started "kiddie garden", dressed like "Little Lord Faunt Royal", he did take him fishing. They caught several of Stan’s version of pickerel --"pickelers".
His views of the political scene were interesting. He took a firm stand opposing farm subsidies. He personally knew a farmer who had "20 asylums full of corn" which the government had paid far. Even a knowledge of Industrial Psychology popped out one day when Stan explained "the foreman’s outview should consign with that of the worker." Whew! Luckily I did attend college. That's pretty heavy stuff.
We manufactured a power saw that involved assembling some pistons using a tool known as a spanner wrench. One day as Stan was busy demonstrating the use of the "spaniel wrench" for the installation of the "pistings" to a bewildered customer someone came in and said that he thought he knew Stan from somewhere. Stan was sure "he didn't know him from Adam and Eve".

Oh yes, unforgettable he was. Mean, vicious? -- That too. However, that’s another story.

THE MEANING OF LIFE

Some people spend a lifetime searching for the meaning of life.
It really isn’t that difficult.
Just click here.

JUST TO SAY "HELLO"

My Internet provider is a cable company called Comcast.
Recently they introduced a new service they call Video Mail.
It's possible for a user to record 45 seconds of a video and audio message.
This can be sent as a plain message or in the form of a greeting card or as a narrator for a series of still photos.
As I understand it, the recording is stored at Comcast for 30 days and the recipient can pick it up any time.
It also provides a link to use for connecting the video to a web page or, as in this case, a blog.
If you are curious, click below to see the real unvarnished me talking.
You DO NOT need to download any special video mail progam to see and hear this 10 second greeting, though it may take a little time if you have a slow dial-up connection.
Just Click here.

LITTLE LESSONS THAT LAST

I think I will always remember my Junior High School English teacher, Miss Batchelder. I sometimes try to think of things I learned in school and still consider valuable. I can’t think of many. On the other hand Miss Batchelder did teach us all something which was valuable and has helped me my entire life. Well, not my entire life. As the old joke goes: I haven't lived that yet. But, for as long as I have been around, I can still see and hear Miss Batchelder greeting the class every single day. There was none of the traditional, "Good morning, class." Instead, each day the class filed in, took seats and Miss Batchelder stood in front of the class in silence. When she had everyone's attention, she spoke. One firm statement: "R-E-C-E; receive." Every single day, "R-E-C-E; receive." And then the class would begin with no further mention of “receive”. I will never forget how to spell "receive”. Her approach sure beat the hell out of "I before E, except after C."

I don't remember anything else learned in that class, but I did come out with a lifelong ability to spell receive. My own innate intelligence led me to develop skill in handling "deceive" and "beleive", plus a few other assorted words.

So now, when someone asks me, as they surely must someday, “What did you learn in school?” I can shoot back, really fast, “R-E-C-E, receive.” No one has asked me yet, however.

By the way, I really do know how to spell “believe” correctly and even if I didn’t, my spelling checker, which I have nicknamed Miss Batchelder, would nag me.

A LITTLE THING

When I first met Love of My Life I was 50 pounds heavier than I am now. She is a dietician so, she and I cured that overweight condition in about 3 or 4 months.

When a person loses that much weight there’s a lot of extra skin left over with nothing to do. I think this might not happen so much in younger people but older skin seems to lack elasticity and doesn’t spring back readily. Or, as in my case, perhaps it had been stretched beyond its elastic limit. Whatever the reason, it just hangs there hoping all the residents of some small town might need a donor for skin grafts.

One of the prominent places it hangs is under the chin. I’ve actually had people (one waitress, actually) grab that skin and shake it and say, “That’s so cute.” The waitress had small children so she still lives.

One morning LOML was still in bed and I was standing bedside her. She looked up and said, “I think that little thing that hangs down is getting smaller.”
I explained, “That ‘thing that hangs down’ on a turkey is called a wattle. I don’t know what it’s called on a human but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around telling everyone “my little thing that hangs down is getting smaller.”