We celebrated our first Thanksgiving in the Gnu-house with all the 'usual' fix-ins. We even had two kinds of cranberries, relish and sauce. That's high livin' if you ask me. After finishing all the leftovers, we followed my brother, Charles' tradition of serving Chili. Charles always teased us by saying it was a 3 or 4 alarm; but there was an off chance that he was actually serious, and we had to wait for the tasting to be certain.
We are still unpacking boxes. I'm not doing any of the work, I'm leaving that to others. I'm sitting poolside while the weather is so lovely and either knit or read my nook. The nook was a present from my daughter, her husband and my son when my kindle stopped working. I had to go to Barns & Noble and take a class to learn how the nook works and I'm still getting the hang of it. There are lots of aps on it that I have to learn. I like getting library books at any hour and any day.
I finally got my old phone number back. After cancelling the Comcast TV service, and going with another TV service, AT&T had to give us temporary numbers until Comcast relinquished our old numbers, (the ones we had for years and years). I suppose it was because of all the data gathering that goes on now. Between all the data gathering and the constant advertising and touting of businesses, I long for the old days of life without digital progress. Maybe we should get back to teaching cursive? Maybe I would have to hold a real book to read a novel.... Are those days gone forever?
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Living in Gnu-House
We are adjusting to new experiences and routines. I haven't established a daily routine yet. The weather has been so delightful that sometimes I have breakfast in the patio and watch the three swirling rings of water that push the floating objects around the pool. Its very restful; like watching fish swim in an aquarium.
The other morning we had a small rescue drama. We noticed a tiny tree frog, about the size of my thumbnail, desperately trying to climb onto the disk that floats around the pool sending information to the satellite, which in turn sends information back to the pool monitor letting us know when and which chemicals to put in the pool, the green packet or the red one. The top of the disk was an inch too high for the tree frog to reach, but he kept trying. When we realized the little thing was not going to make it, we fished him out of water with a net. When we poured him out of the net onto the cement sidewalk circling the pool, he sat for a second, then totally collapsed into a flat speck on the cement.
We thought he had died. We just sat there processing the event and suddenly, the tree frog sat up and took a couple of hops. It didn't have the strength to hop again. After another moment or two, the little thing took another couple of hops toward the grassy area. It had to stop several times between hops before getting off the sidewalk, but eventually made it.
We surmised that the little tree frog had accidently fallen into the pool trying to catch a dragonfly.
The other morning we had a small rescue drama. We noticed a tiny tree frog, about the size of my thumbnail, desperately trying to climb onto the disk that floats around the pool sending information to the satellite, which in turn sends information back to the pool monitor letting us know when and which chemicals to put in the pool, the green packet or the red one. The top of the disk was an inch too high for the tree frog to reach, but he kept trying. When we realized the little thing was not going to make it, we fished him out of water with a net. When we poured him out of the net onto the cement sidewalk circling the pool, he sat for a second, then totally collapsed into a flat speck on the cement.
We thought he had died. We just sat there processing the event and suddenly, the tree frog sat up and took a couple of hops. It didn't have the strength to hop again. After another moment or two, the little thing took another couple of hops toward the grassy area. It had to stop several times between hops before getting off the sidewalk, but eventually made it.
We surmised that the little tree frog had accidently fallen into the pool trying to catch a dragonfly.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Monday, November 13, 2017
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Changes
A la Billie Holiday... There's been a change in the weather, and there's been a change for me. I've changed my place of livin' and things are new to me. All my routines are changin'; nothin's gonna be the same. The only thing I'm keepin' is my same old name.
I've moved from my city apartment into a country house my son bought recently. It's not deep 'country' but far enough for me. It has been many years since we've shared a living space and I'm looking forward to this arrangement. I have one wing of the house all to myself and he enjoys the rest. There is a lovely swimming pool and I enjoy having morning coffee in the patio pool side. One of the neighbors, on the far right corner of the back yard, has a horse that puts his head over the high fence and watches us as we chat over morning coffee.
I'm still settling in, but it won't be long before I start new projects and write about them. Keep tuned in.
I've moved from my city apartment into a country house my son bought recently. It's not deep 'country' but far enough for me. It has been many years since we've shared a living space and I'm looking forward to this arrangement. I have one wing of the house all to myself and he enjoys the rest. There is a lovely swimming pool and I enjoy having morning coffee in the patio pool side. One of the neighbors, on the far right corner of the back yard, has a horse that puts his head over the high fence and watches us as we chat over morning coffee.
I'm still settling in, but it won't be long before I start new projects and write about them. Keep tuned in.
Monday, November 06, 2017
Monday, October 30, 2017
Monday, October 23, 2017
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Wontons
Many years ago, a young Chinese student from Taiwan, studying at Stanford, taught me a recipe. It was how to make wontons and cook them in boiling water. I was surprised that a young man would know how to do this. It was a simple, ezpz recipe and I made it often.
Time passed; life presented turns and twists obscuring recipes and the wonton recipe was forgotten, until all these years later. Today, when I checked Chef John's latest recipe, I was reminded of the wontons. Scrolling thru the internet, I found numerous YouTube variations of the young man's recipe, Wonton Soup. Many of the recipes show how to flavor the boiling water, but many web sites prefer just plain boiling water, which is the way I learned this recipe.
The basic filling for the wonton wrappers consists of
ground pork
chopped prawns
chopped green onions
chopped cabbage
chopped chestnuts
minced garlic
grated ginger
sesame oil
soy sauce
drop filled wontons into boiling water and cook for several minutes.
The wontons can be eaten with any of the sauce recipes found on the web, or served in a bowl of hot chicken broth.
I often made this recipe with just ground meat, chopped green onion and minced garlic in a wonton wrap, boiled in water and served only with a little soy sauce.
Time passed; life presented turns and twists obscuring recipes and the wonton recipe was forgotten, until all these years later. Today, when I checked Chef John's latest recipe, I was reminded of the wontons. Scrolling thru the internet, I found numerous YouTube variations of the young man's recipe, Wonton Soup. Many of the recipes show how to flavor the boiling water, but many web sites prefer just plain boiling water, which is the way I learned this recipe.
The basic filling for the wonton wrappers consists of
ground pork
chopped prawns
chopped green onions
chopped cabbage
chopped chestnuts
minced garlic
grated ginger
sesame oil
soy sauce
drop filled wontons into boiling water and cook for several minutes.
The wontons can be eaten with any of the sauce recipes found on the web, or served in a bowl of hot chicken broth.
I often made this recipe with just ground meat, chopped green onion and minced garlic in a wonton wrap, boiled in water and served only with a little soy sauce.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
How Does Your Garden Grow?
KimB
How Does My Garden Grow? A Failure
This year, like many, I planted a garden. March rolled around and the smell of damp earth and the slightly warmer days indicated the beginning of The Pilgrimages to the Garden Centers was at hand.
Like other years, I planned and schemed how to grow a garden, even though my garden is now reduced to a dozen containers, and coaxing them to yield something akin to the images of the vegetables on the seed packets is still the prime directive.
Unlike other years, of varied results of both success and failures, this year was a doozy.
One popular online tech mag uses the acronym TITSUP (Total Inability To Support Usual Performance) to describe the myriad failures of modern technology which are only getting more frequent as the quality of software and hardware plummet.
My garden went TITSUP: a complete failure to grow anything at all.
First off, after a brief success getting the tomatoes planted and some bush beans and the never ending attempt to grow potatoes (I'd have starved long ago if I had to live on what potatoes I grow), my back yard irrigation pipe broke.
Actually, the line had been leaking for some time and I paid numerous people to come to find the break and fix it but gosh, not a one would get out a shovel and dig along the pipe line to look for the leak 'cause that's what you have to do to find it: dig along the pipe line.
Finally, I just had to do what everyone has to do when help (paid for or not) is not forth coming: Do It Myself.
So... with great care, as I was recovering from a back injury, I started The Hunt. Ever so S L O W L Y I started at the last known puddle and carefully removed the dirt in the area and LUCK was with me: I found the broken riser on the first go. It had broken at the base and I started down a new educational pathway of learning about PVC Pipes, Risers and their Assorted Accessories.
Having successfully replaced the riser I looked at the others in the garden and decided to replace them too and install new drip top caps.
You know about tech upgrades? You know when you get that message:
Well... yeppers, TITSUP went the irrigation.
The drip top caps I selected for the top of the risers had several options and never in a minute thinking that anyone would be able to displace them, I set up 2 drip lines for every tree in my back yard. It worked great. Trees were happy. No water flowing places it shouldn't. All looked just hunky dory.
Until, my gardeners made their twice a year foray into the back yard to trim the trees. Heavy duty waffle stompers make short work of cheap plastic parts. My irrigation upgrades were toast. Back to the garden center I went, selecting a completely different sort of cap and installed those.
With the water back ON things looked OK, just before the next TITSUP event: SUMMER.
It was HOT. I mean, HOT. Not HOT as is cool or kewl but HOT as in scorching.
But I figured I had my water timers working and the new lines were working so.. I'm good!
Oh SO WRONG.
My backyard exterior water timer had gone: TITSUP.
And I didn't realize if for a L O N G time. Of course that's the one that ran the water to the garden area.
So... now I had a BIG problem. I'd never dealt with a water timer. You know that thing that the landscape folks install that turns on and off the sprinklers? I've had to set the date and time occasionally but the gardeners generally do all the "programming": A B C programs, Stations 1 2 3 4 5 6, Frequency (we have water restriction days), and other gardener lingo options. My gardeners also have an extreme reluctance to replace anything they didn't install themselves even when I pay them for it. I expect it's because they never know that that OTHER GUY did or didn't do during the original installation and cans of worms being the result. It also impacts the 10 minutes of Mow and Blow scheduling they allot my tiny front yard.
So given the complete indifference of my gardeners to the plight of my newly discovered wilting plants, I made Pilgrimage to the Garden Center to learn about water timers. I had nightmare visions of complicated wires and plugs with E L E C T R I C I T Y (yikes!) but forced myself to face the onslaught of gardener lingo to preserve my poor wilting tomatoes.
Complicated it was. Hard to figure out it wasn't. For once technology was helpful: A big LED screen that had D I R E C T I O N S.
It wasn't long before I had it all sorted and was kicking myself for ever paying anyone to install one of these things again. You still need the pipes run and the valves installed and the base wires pulled near an outlet but the actually water timer is A SNAP. I spent more time trying to attach it to the exterior stucco wall than actually setting up the timer.
I was so impressed by the ease of setting up this timer I went back and bought another one designed to attach to the water spigot so I could run temporary water lines to some flower pots on the patio. No more dragging a hose or hauling a watering can to water the flowers which made my back VERY HAPPY!
So... with all this new water happiness how did the garden go TITSUP?
A power failure.
Nods. Technologies most fundamental flaw: it needs juice. No juice, no tech. Batteries only last so long and then: D E A D.
Without power a PC cannot turn on to log in to the support desk and a dead battery on a smartphone makes it just as bricked as a borked upgrade and a power failure causes water timers to reset to NOTHING and no water happens.
By the time I realized that the timer had crashed, with all that scorching heat, there was nothing left. The promising bush beans had vaporized. Not a green leaf to be seen in the potato pot. The sight of tomato vines draped over the edge of the pot in a laced lattice work of desiccated green lines was just pitiful.
Looking at the desolation of climate change, I had no recourse but to abandon any attempt at garden CPR. I didn't go to the garden area for a longish time. There was nothing there to check. Nothing survived the lack of water and the heat.
Or so I thought.
But you know, life is resilient. It never gives up. Plants have survived droughts and heat and cold for longer than we have. They are rather amazing.
I took a peek at the garden and was stunned.
There were 2 tomato vines struggling along. The plants were still trying. There won't be tomatoes for me but the plants don't know that. They only know to keep trying.
Next to the tomatoes was an eggplant. I thought it had long ago vaporized in the heat. The pot had certainly appeared lifeless but there it was ....
Life lessons: Life is more resilient than technology.
We put one foot in front of the other. We keep trying. We don't always succeed but when we do, when we exceed our own expectations, when we overcome self doubts, when we explore new options and take a chance on new opportunities, when we cast off fear of the unknown then we are rewarded in the most beautiful and unexpected ways.
How Does My Garden Grow? A Failure
This year, like many, I planted a garden. March rolled around and the smell of damp earth and the slightly warmer days indicated the beginning of The Pilgrimages to the Garden Centers was at hand.
Like other years, I planned and schemed how to grow a garden, even though my garden is now reduced to a dozen containers, and coaxing them to yield something akin to the images of the vegetables on the seed packets is still the prime directive.
Unlike other years, of varied results of both success and failures, this year was a doozy.
One popular online tech mag uses the acronym TITSUP (Total Inability To Support Usual Performance) to describe the myriad failures of modern technology which are only getting more frequent as the quality of software and hardware plummet.
My garden went TITSUP: a complete failure to grow anything at all.
First off, after a brief success getting the tomatoes planted and some bush beans and the never ending attempt to grow potatoes (I'd have starved long ago if I had to live on what potatoes I grow), my back yard irrigation pipe broke.
Actually, the line had been leaking for some time and I paid numerous people to come to find the break and fix it but gosh, not a one would get out a shovel and dig along the pipe line to look for the leak 'cause that's what you have to do to find it: dig along the pipe line.
Finally, I just had to do what everyone has to do when help (paid for or not) is not forth coming: Do It Myself.
So... with great care, as I was recovering from a back injury, I started The Hunt. Ever so S L O W L Y I started at the last known puddle and carefully removed the dirt in the area and LUCK was with me: I found the broken riser on the first go. It had broken at the base and I started down a new educational pathway of learning about PVC Pipes, Risers and their Assorted Accessories.
Having successfully replaced the riser I looked at the others in the garden and decided to replace them too and install new drip top caps.
You know about tech upgrades? You know when you get that message:
There's a new version available.and there's no way to say "NO!!!!"? Then your PC goes TITSUP and you cannot login to the Support Desk Website ('cause the manufacturer doesn't have phone support) or your not so smart smartphone goes TITSUP and becomes an expensive brick and you no longer qualify for a repair or replacement?
Upgrade your software.
Install Now?
Well... yeppers, TITSUP went the irrigation.
The drip top caps I selected for the top of the risers had several options and never in a minute thinking that anyone would be able to displace them, I set up 2 drip lines for every tree in my back yard. It worked great. Trees were happy. No water flowing places it shouldn't. All looked just hunky dory.
Until, my gardeners made their twice a year foray into the back yard to trim the trees. Heavy duty waffle stompers make short work of cheap plastic parts. My irrigation upgrades were toast. Back to the garden center I went, selecting a completely different sort of cap and installed those.
With the water back ON things looked OK, just before the next TITSUP event: SUMMER.
It was HOT. I mean, HOT. Not HOT as is cool or kewl but HOT as in scorching.
But I figured I had my water timers working and the new lines were working so.. I'm good!
Oh SO WRONG.
My backyard exterior water timer had gone: TITSUP.
And I didn't realize if for a L O N G time. Of course that's the one that ran the water to the garden area.
So... now I had a BIG problem. I'd never dealt with a water timer. You know that thing that the landscape folks install that turns on and off the sprinklers? I've had to set the date and time occasionally but the gardeners generally do all the "programming": A B C programs, Stations 1 2 3 4 5 6, Frequency (we have water restriction days), and other gardener lingo options. My gardeners also have an extreme reluctance to replace anything they didn't install themselves even when I pay them for it. I expect it's because they never know that that OTHER GUY did or didn't do during the original installation and cans of worms being the result. It also impacts the 10 minutes of Mow and Blow scheduling they allot my tiny front yard.
So given the complete indifference of my gardeners to the plight of my newly discovered wilting plants, I made Pilgrimage to the Garden Center to learn about water timers. I had nightmare visions of complicated wires and plugs with E L E C T R I C I T Y (yikes!) but forced myself to face the onslaught of gardener lingo to preserve my poor wilting tomatoes.
Complicated it was. Hard to figure out it wasn't. For once technology was helpful: A big LED screen that had D I R E C T I O N S.
It wasn't long before I had it all sorted and was kicking myself for ever paying anyone to install one of these things again. You still need the pipes run and the valves installed and the base wires pulled near an outlet but the actually water timer is A SNAP. I spent more time trying to attach it to the exterior stucco wall than actually setting up the timer.
I was so impressed by the ease of setting up this timer I went back and bought another one designed to attach to the water spigot so I could run temporary water lines to some flower pots on the patio. No more dragging a hose or hauling a watering can to water the flowers which made my back VERY HAPPY!
So... with all this new water happiness how did the garden go TITSUP?
A power failure.
Nods. Technologies most fundamental flaw: it needs juice. No juice, no tech. Batteries only last so long and then: D E A D.
Without power a PC cannot turn on to log in to the support desk and a dead battery on a smartphone makes it just as bricked as a borked upgrade and a power failure causes water timers to reset to NOTHING and no water happens.
By the time I realized that the timer had crashed, with all that scorching heat, there was nothing left. The promising bush beans had vaporized. Not a green leaf to be seen in the potato pot. The sight of tomato vines draped over the edge of the pot in a laced lattice work of desiccated green lines was just pitiful.
Looking at the desolation of climate change, I had no recourse but to abandon any attempt at garden CPR. I didn't go to the garden area for a longish time. There was nothing there to check. Nothing survived the lack of water and the heat.
Or so I thought.
But you know, life is resilient. It never gives up. Plants have survived droughts and heat and cold for longer than we have. They are rather amazing.
I took a peek at the garden and was stunned.
There were 2 tomato vines struggling along. The plants were still trying. There won't be tomatoes for me but the plants don't know that. They only know to keep trying.
Next to the tomatoes was an eggplant. I thought it had long ago vaporized in the heat. The pot had certainly appeared lifeless but there it was ....
a beautiful eggplant
with flowers
Life lessons: Life is more resilient than technology.
We put one foot in front of the other. We keep trying. We don't always succeed but when we do, when we exceed our own expectations, when we overcome self doubts, when we explore new options and take a chance on new opportunities, when we cast off fear of the unknown then we are rewarded in the most beautiful and unexpected ways.
 |
| Kim's Garden 10 2017 Eggplant Flower |
Monday, October 16, 2017
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Wild Fires
My beautiful California is fighting terrible wild fires. Television news about loss of life and destruction of homes is difficult to watch. I no longer live in California, but I'm well acquainted with both northern and southern parts of the state, having lived there and traveled it many, many times.
My first glimpse of California came as I traveled by train from the east coast to California during WWII. When we reached southern California, the train passed thru miles and miles of orange groves. The train windows were down and for some reason the train had slowed. We passengers could reach out and touch tree branches as we passed. The fragrance of orange blossoms was enchanting. It was like being in an exotic fairy land.
It was early morning when we reached Oakland and had to take a ferry across the bay to San Francisco. I had never ridden a ferry before and found it rather exciting. As the ferry crossed, I could see strands of fog wrapping the hills of San Francisco while sunlight shone on the tops. That view has never left my mind and is part of the reason San Francisco is still my most 'favorite' city.
I've lived in San Francisco and the peninsula as well as in the Los Angeles area. During those long ago years, family members, grandparents, aunts uncles and cousins lived in various parts of the state. When we meet these many years later, and tell stories about happenings in such and such a place, we know exactly the place talked about.
As I write this, desert winds are spreading the fires and the destruction grows. As a distant bystander, watching TV news about the fires, I can only hope those fighting them can soon gain control of this terrible wild fire.
My first glimpse of California came as I traveled by train from the east coast to California during WWII. When we reached southern California, the train passed thru miles and miles of orange groves. The train windows were down and for some reason the train had slowed. We passengers could reach out and touch tree branches as we passed. The fragrance of orange blossoms was enchanting. It was like being in an exotic fairy land.
It was early morning when we reached Oakland and had to take a ferry across the bay to San Francisco. I had never ridden a ferry before and found it rather exciting. As the ferry crossed, I could see strands of fog wrapping the hills of San Francisco while sunlight shone on the tops. That view has never left my mind and is part of the reason San Francisco is still my most 'favorite' city.
I've lived in San Francisco and the peninsula as well as in the Los Angeles area. During those long ago years, family members, grandparents, aunts uncles and cousins lived in various parts of the state. When we meet these many years later, and tell stories about happenings in such and such a place, we know exactly the place talked about.
As I write this, desert winds are spreading the fires and the destruction grows. As a distant bystander, watching TV news about the fires, I can only hope those fighting them can soon gain control of this terrible wild fire.
700 Post Milestone!
[Note: Editor's Post]
MrsB's Family Stories has hit another major milestone: 700+ posts!!
I don't think anyone imagined when we started MrsB's Family Stories that it would grow to become a favorite stopping off spot with so many people from around the world. People from all over visit here to read about our family and to share in our lives and adventures.
The repository of our family news and history has grown so much from those early days. While some voices have been lost, their memories and contributions remain. Every post and story reminds us of their wisdom and humor.
Take a stroll down memory lane and revisit some of their stories, try out a favorite recipe, laugh at their conundrums and revel in their insights.
Real memories are what you make. Real laughs and real tears too.
Hush Puppies, Cows Ears, Hot Peppers, Apple Butter, Learning to Crochet and a whole lot more are there to enjoy. Reminders that we are all pretty much going along the same path; so why not walk a fair piece of it with us?
KimB Editor (post 713)
April 2014 was our 500 Post Milestone
MrsB's Family Stories has hit another major milestone: 700+ posts!!
I don't think anyone imagined when we started MrsB's Family Stories that it would grow to become a favorite stopping off spot with so many people from around the world. People from all over visit here to read about our family and to share in our lives and adventures.
The repository of our family news and history has grown so much from those early days. While some voices have been lost, their memories and contributions remain. Every post and story reminds us of their wisdom and humor.
Take a stroll down memory lane and revisit some of their stories, try out a favorite recipe, laugh at their conundrums and revel in their insights.
Real memories are what you make. Real laughs and real tears too.
Hush Puppies, Cows Ears, Hot Peppers, Apple Butter, Learning to Crochet and a whole lot more are there to enjoy. Reminders that we are all pretty much going along the same path; so why not walk a fair piece of it with us?
KimB Editor (post 713)
April 2014 was our 500 Post Milestone
There are hundreds of paths up the mountain,
all leading in the same direction,
so it doesn’t matter which path you take.
The only one wasting time is the one
who runs around and around the mountain,
telling everyone that his or her path is wrong.
Hindu teaching
Monday, October 09, 2017
Wednesday, October 04, 2017
Country Music
When it was reported that the music concert shattered by gun fire was a Country Music Concert, I thought of my sister Adeline. She is no longer with us, but she was an avid fan of country music and performers. She followed their careers and subscribed to magazines with articles and photos of them. Adeline and I, and of course my brothers and other sister, grew up with country music. We heard the songs on the radio and sang them.
In those years, there was a radio program on Saturday nights the family often listened to. It was a live broadcast of a stage performance in Des Moines, Iowa, called The Barn Dance Frolic. It was an evening of country music, much like those held in Nashville, Tennessee at the times. As a young adult, I once attended a performance and remember how much I enjoyed seeing the performers on stage that I had heard on the radio.
I often think about the preferences my family had for music. Mom loved listening to piano music. One of my brothers loved Opera and another brother collected country music records. I enjoy the sound of violin, but listened to orchestral records of Mozart when I painted. My son likes Blue Grass. Adeline liked all kinds of music. When her children were young she checked out library music records by the arm load,; much of it, Broadway musicals. In later years when she visited me, she liked listening to one of the three famous tenors. Even so- she never gave up her love of country music.
In those years, there was a radio program on Saturday nights the family often listened to. It was a live broadcast of a stage performance in Des Moines, Iowa, called The Barn Dance Frolic. It was an evening of country music, much like those held in Nashville, Tennessee at the times. As a young adult, I once attended a performance and remember how much I enjoyed seeing the performers on stage that I had heard on the radio.
I often think about the preferences my family had for music. Mom loved listening to piano music. One of my brothers loved Opera and another brother collected country music records. I enjoy the sound of violin, but listened to orchestral records of Mozart when I painted. My son likes Blue Grass. Adeline liked all kinds of music. When her children were young she checked out library music records by the arm load,; much of it, Broadway musicals. In later years when she visited me, she liked listening to one of the three famous tenors. Even so- she never gave up her love of country music.
Monday, October 02, 2017
Saturday, September 30, 2017
Puerto Rico
E Gads! People are arguing over helping the Puerto Ricans recover from total destruction of their island! Doctors are pleading for medicines. Getting food and water to people and getting the communication system up and running again are things Puerto Ricans need. They certainly don't need criticism from persons enjoying the pleasure of playing golf as reported on TV.
Monday, September 25, 2017
Monday, September 18, 2017
Monday, September 11, 2017
Sunday, September 10, 2017
Monday, September 04, 2017
Friday, September 01, 2017
Hurricane Stress
I have to take breaks from watching the24/7 coverage of the disaster caused by Harvey. Having narrowly escaped the rising waters twice this week, I'm really counting my blessings! To watch the rescues and evacuations of hospitals, and hearing about the loss of drinking water in areas, plus the news of another hurricane heading this way, really adds to the stress of trying to grasp the enormity of this hurricane aftermath.
One almost forgets there are TV channels not covering the flood waters, but I did remember last night and turned the dial. So what did I watch? ICE ROAD TRUCKERS.
One almost forgets there are TV channels not covering the flood waters, but I did remember last night and turned the dial. So what did I watch? ICE ROAD TRUCKERS.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Tuesday afternoon weather report
Rain stopped, crickets chirp
That's my version of Haiku
Late this afternoon, around 7pm the sun came out! Harvey is moving on but still causing havoc.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Harvey
The lightening flashed
And rain poured down
The wind was blowing
When hurricane
Harvey came to town
As Harvey churned
The Gulf coast waters
Creeks and bayous started to rise
As rain kept coming
Rivers reached new highs
Reservoirs and bayous overflowed
Creating new rivers
Where there were roads
Rains kept coming
And the waters rose
When will it end? No one knows
And rain poured down
The wind was blowing
When hurricane
Harvey came to town
As Harvey churned
The Gulf coast waters
Creeks and bayous started to rise
As rain kept coming
Rivers reached new highs
Reservoirs and bayous overflowed
Creating new rivers
Where there were roads
Rains kept coming
And the waters rose
When will it end? No one knows
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Rain, Rain and more Rain
I have a river flowing by my front door. There has been rain from the outer bands of Harvey, a cat 4 hurricane, before it even reached land. I watched the TV reports of the damage and flooding as the hurricane progressed, but my area was relatively free from the heavy wind and rain for a day or so.
Family and friends telephoned frequently to check on the weather where I live and to make certain I was not in danger. I responded to one and all that I had enough food and water to outlast any hurricane and I assured family members that all was fine. We discussed the predictions of flooded streets, but never having been discombobulated during past storms, I felt that in a few days Harvey would be history.
Weather reports warned of serious flooding and tornadoes, but it wasn't' until late Saturday evening that my area began having tornado warnings every 5 to 10 minutes, and that Houston would be hard hit around 9:00 pm. At 9:30pm, the street in front of my apartment building had become a fast flowing river. It was running so fast I could hardly believe my eyes. I had once seen water like that outside Tucson Arizona when I witnessed the Pantana running in a flash flood.
I'm writing this at noon Sunday and the river is still running. It has reached the top step of the landing to the entrance of an apartment foyer, but since the water hasn't gotten higher, I'll keep my fingers crossed. The sky is so dark with blinding rain I have to have lights on to walk around the rooms. The river is not running so fast now that is has become more of a lake. I think It's time for some COMFORT FOOD..
Family and friends telephoned frequently to check on the weather where I live and to make certain I was not in danger. I responded to one and all that I had enough food and water to outlast any hurricane and I assured family members that all was fine. We discussed the predictions of flooded streets, but never having been discombobulated during past storms, I felt that in a few days Harvey would be history.
Weather reports warned of serious flooding and tornadoes, but it wasn't' until late Saturday evening that my area began having tornado warnings every 5 to 10 minutes, and that Houston would be hard hit around 9:00 pm. At 9:30pm, the street in front of my apartment building had become a fast flowing river. It was running so fast I could hardly believe my eyes. I had once seen water like that outside Tucson Arizona when I witnessed the Pantana running in a flash flood.
I'm writing this at noon Sunday and the river is still running. It has reached the top step of the landing to the entrance of an apartment foyer, but since the water hasn't gotten higher, I'll keep my fingers crossed. The sky is so dark with blinding rain I have to have lights on to walk around the rooms. The river is not running so fast now that is has become more of a lake. I think It's time for some COMFORT FOOD..
Monday, August 21, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Equality
This nation is the only one in history founded on the moral principle that all men are created equal. Our founding fathers proclaimed to the world with the Declaration of Independence that all men are created equal with rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness..
A great civil war was fought and won, reaffirming the moral principle of this nation. The rights of men to life and liberty was won on the field of battle and these rights are ensured by our Constitution.
A great civil war was fought and won, reaffirming the moral principle of this nation. The rights of men to life and liberty was won on the field of battle and these rights are ensured by our Constitution.
Monday, August 14, 2017
Words to live by
Gettysburg Address
--------Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Declaration of Independence
---------We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
--------Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Declaration of Independence
---------We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Monday, August 07, 2017
Eagle Huntress
I recently watched a spellbinding documentary filmed in2016 called Eagle Huntress. Its the true story of Aisholpan, the thirteen year old daughter of a Kazakh nomadic Mongolian family. Her family spend summers , living in a yurt in the Altai mountains, and spending winters living in a house in town. Her father is an eagle hunter and this 13 year old wanted to become an eagle hunter too. Its traditionally a male event, but with her father' help she learns to train Golden Eagles.
Her father also helps her capture her own Golden Eagle to train. Her father also supports her when she wants to enter and participate in the annual Golden Eagle festival where men show off their eagles in the many ways they have been trained to provide both food and furs.
Facing both disbelief and strong opposition from the men, she competes and ends up winning the competition. Her eagle even breaks a speed record in one of the events. After the festival, she must complete another stage in the bird's training in order to be known as an eagle hunter. She travels with her father during the winter into the mountains to hunt for foxes. After several misses, her eagle successfully kills its first fox.
This 13 year old girl becomes the first female eagle hunter in 12 generations of her Kazakh family.
Her father also helps her capture her own Golden Eagle to train. Her father also supports her when she wants to enter and participate in the annual Golden Eagle festival where men show off their eagles in the many ways they have been trained to provide both food and furs.
Facing both disbelief and strong opposition from the men, she competes and ends up winning the competition. Her eagle even breaks a speed record in one of the events. After the festival, she must complete another stage in the bird's training in order to be known as an eagle hunter. She travels with her father during the winter into the mountains to hunt for foxes. After several misses, her eagle successfully kills its first fox.
This 13 year old girl becomes the first female eagle hunter in 12 generations of her Kazakh family.
Tuesday, August 01, 2017
Electrical outage
We had a power outage last night. It was different from precious outages. Not all the outlets in the apt went out at the same time. Around 8:45pm everything went pitch black and silent. The TV, the oscillating fans and the AC all stopped working. I managed to feel my way to the bedside table where I keep an emergency light.. It had been 95 degrees that day so I had to fish around for my tiny handheld fan.
I discovered that the oven light and the microwave were still working as was the outdoor light on a neighbor's garage. The shops on the other side of the street from my apartment complex had lights, but otherwise the whole neighborhood was dark. The garage light was quite a distance away, but the light shone thru my bedroom window. It was very dim but enough to let me see the objects in the room. I rolled up the venetian blind to let the light shine in while I sat in the dark room and contemplated the situation. What to do Percy? What to do?
I had watched a movie on TV the day before about a legendary escape of Marines during the Korean War. A group of Marines were completely surrounded by Chinese soldiers near the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea. A Marine officer decided to lead his men, single file over the mountains, in the dead of night where they couldn't even see their hands, during a blinding snow storm with temperature far below freezing. The details of that struggle are mind boggling, and as I sat in the dark, I thought of those men tying to make their way to freedom.
The day had been 95 degrees and I was unsure how long the battery in my tiny fan would last, so I waited as long as I could before turning it on.. When I thought of turning it on, I'd count to a hundred 2 or 3 times, then use the fan for a couple of seconds. As I counted my blessing and thought about the Marines as distraction, then counting thru the hundreds before using the fan, I managed to spend most of the evening sitting in a chair. When my watch said 10 o'clock, I went to bed. I knew the electrical workers were busy trying to rectify the situation, but having lived thru Ike, the hurricane when we were without power for 8 days, I didn't know what to expect. Happily the power came on while I was sleeping.
I discovered that the oven light and the microwave were still working as was the outdoor light on a neighbor's garage. The shops on the other side of the street from my apartment complex had lights, but otherwise the whole neighborhood was dark. The garage light was quite a distance away, but the light shone thru my bedroom window. It was very dim but enough to let me see the objects in the room. I rolled up the venetian blind to let the light shine in while I sat in the dark room and contemplated the situation. What to do Percy? What to do?
I had watched a movie on TV the day before about a legendary escape of Marines during the Korean War. A group of Marines were completely surrounded by Chinese soldiers near the Chosin Reservoir in North Korea. A Marine officer decided to lead his men, single file over the mountains, in the dead of night where they couldn't even see their hands, during a blinding snow storm with temperature far below freezing. The details of that struggle are mind boggling, and as I sat in the dark, I thought of those men tying to make their way to freedom.
The day had been 95 degrees and I was unsure how long the battery in my tiny fan would last, so I waited as long as I could before turning it on.. When I thought of turning it on, I'd count to a hundred 2 or 3 times, then use the fan for a couple of seconds. As I counted my blessing and thought about the Marines as distraction, then counting thru the hundreds before using the fan, I managed to spend most of the evening sitting in a chair. When my watch said 10 o'clock, I went to bed. I knew the electrical workers were busy trying to rectify the situation, but having lived thru Ike, the hurricane when we were without power for 8 days, I didn't know what to expect. Happily the power came on while I was sleeping.
Monday, July 31, 2017
Monday, July 24, 2017
Saturday, July 22, 2017
A Moment in Time
This morning I experienced a moment in time that diverted my attention away from my computer screen. I was watching a chess tournament with some of the world's best chess players. There were six boards showing the moves as each game progressed. Each of the boards showed games at a different level of the game and it was interesting to anticipate the moves of players as they took turns in moving knights and bishops this way and that.
As I followed the moves of each player, I happened to glance out the window and noticed a single strand of spider silk glinting in the sun. It stretched from a hanging plant at the edge of the window, across the width of the window and disappeared in the plants below the window sill. A barely discernible breeze moved the strand of silk in and out of the sunlight. It shimmered in the sun for only a moment before it was lost to view. It was so lovely I waited for it appear again, then I noticed a tiny flying insect, possibly a mosquito, flitting around the hanging plant. It was very tiny, but the sun shone thru the wings and I could watch it hover over the plant leaves. I didn't land, just hovered as if looking for nectar or moisture.
As the bug flitted around the plant, I became mesmerized watching and waiting to see if it would become caught in the spider web. I knew it was inevitable that the insect would land on the web strand when out of view, or when glinting in the sun, but as minutes went by, the little thing kept flitting in its random up, down and all around, over and under the strand of silk.
I lost all interest in the chess games as I watched this mini game of cat and mouse between the spider web and insect. I wish I could tell you how this moment in time came out, but I had to answer the door. When I came back to the computer room, the sun had moved, and I couldn't see the spider web strand or the insect, I don't know if the insect fell victim to the spider web, or if the little thing flew off to another plant. The chess games lost their appeal so I turned off the computer and will learn the outcome of the tournament tomorrow.
As I followed the moves of each player, I happened to glance out the window and noticed a single strand of spider silk glinting in the sun. It stretched from a hanging plant at the edge of the window, across the width of the window and disappeared in the plants below the window sill. A barely discernible breeze moved the strand of silk in and out of the sunlight. It shimmered in the sun for only a moment before it was lost to view. It was so lovely I waited for it appear again, then I noticed a tiny flying insect, possibly a mosquito, flitting around the hanging plant. It was very tiny, but the sun shone thru the wings and I could watch it hover over the plant leaves. I didn't land, just hovered as if looking for nectar or moisture.
As the bug flitted around the plant, I became mesmerized watching and waiting to see if it would become caught in the spider web. I knew it was inevitable that the insect would land on the web strand when out of view, or when glinting in the sun, but as minutes went by, the little thing kept flitting in its random up, down and all around, over and under the strand of silk.
I lost all interest in the chess games as I watched this mini game of cat and mouse between the spider web and insect. I wish I could tell you how this moment in time came out, but I had to answer the door. When I came back to the computer room, the sun had moved, and I couldn't see the spider web strand or the insect, I don't know if the insect fell victim to the spider web, or if the little thing flew off to another plant. The chess games lost their appeal so I turned off the computer and will learn the outcome of the tournament tomorrow.
Monday, July 17, 2017
Monday, July 10, 2017
Monday, July 03, 2017
Monday, June 26, 2017
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Plant update
I had to replace my two little Venus Fly Traps. I thought I was following the right care regime, but they died. Probably one reason for their demise was hunger. I had them sitting in a tray of water like they were in the shop, not realizing those in the shop were only temporarily sitting in water, then removed.
These two plants are not in the house. they are outside near the vegetable garden. They seemed to be thriving but they weren't eating any bugs. My son thought of putting a crumb of chocolate candy near by and that attracted a lot of ants, but they didn't crawl on the plant where they could have been trapped. Then my son put a tiny piece of fresh peach near the plants. That did the trick. Little fruit flies were attracted and now all the traps are closed. The plants are finally eating. I don't know how long it will be before they will want another meal. I have a lot to learn about these new pets.
These two plants are not in the house. they are outside near the vegetable garden. They seemed to be thriving but they weren't eating any bugs. My son thought of putting a crumb of chocolate candy near by and that attracted a lot of ants, but they didn't crawl on the plant where they could have been trapped. Then my son put a tiny piece of fresh peach near the plants. That did the trick. Little fruit flies were attracted and now all the traps are closed. The plants are finally eating. I don't know how long it will be before they will want another meal. I have a lot to learn about these new pets.
Monday, June 19, 2017
Friday, June 16, 2017
Temari project
I've been busy with my temari project. It's slow going. One would think embroidering some geometric shapes onto a Styrofoam ball with bright colored embroidery floss would be rather simple. I can't speak for others, but I'm finding the learning curve more complex than I had assumed when I first saw pictures of them on the internet.
The folk art of making temari thread balls originated in China and was introduced to Japan in the 7th century. Remnants of old kimonos were wadded into a ball shape and wrapped with strips of kimono fabric. The stitching became more decorative, displaying intricate embroidery. Women of the Japanese upper classes and aristocracy competed in creating beautiful temari, turning the craft into an art form.
It only takes a moment to understand the 'how to' instruction on making them, but executing is another matter. Following instructions on wrapping and laying fiberfill batting around a Styrofoam ball, then winding sewing thread around and around the ball for a sewing foundation was easy. I wrapped five Styrofoam balls while I watched TV one evening , thinking I'd start decorating them the next day.
Little did I realize my wrapping was going to be a problem. After dividing one ball into a simple eight division with thread to use as guide lines, I precisely placed pins at the north and south poles and at equal distances around the equator. After threading my needle with bright floss, I started to decorate a diamond shape. That's when I discovered the wrapping problem. I should have used more thread in wrapping which would have made it easier to use the needle. It also dawned on that it would have been prudent to have wrapped only one ball instead of five.
While I was embroidering, I thought of my sister, Esther. She was a genius with a needle. She did needlepoint, crewel, counted cross stitch, all manner of embroidery as well as numerous hand sewn quilts. Anything requiring the use of a needle was an easy task for her. She designed dresses for her three daughters and sewed them on the machine. She even made western shirts for her husband. I wish she was still with us so I could tell her again how much I envied her talent.
Esther would have shown me how to do the types of stitches traditionally used on temari, but now I have to study how to do them. I was tempted to stop working on the ball when my stiches lacked fineness and looked so amateurish, but I decided to finish it because we all know how to get to Carnegie Hall. Practice, Practice, Practice.
The folk art of making temari thread balls originated in China and was introduced to Japan in the 7th century. Remnants of old kimonos were wadded into a ball shape and wrapped with strips of kimono fabric. The stitching became more decorative, displaying intricate embroidery. Women of the Japanese upper classes and aristocracy competed in creating beautiful temari, turning the craft into an art form.
It only takes a moment to understand the 'how to' instruction on making them, but executing is another matter. Following instructions on wrapping and laying fiberfill batting around a Styrofoam ball, then winding sewing thread around and around the ball for a sewing foundation was easy. I wrapped five Styrofoam balls while I watched TV one evening , thinking I'd start decorating them the next day.
Little did I realize my wrapping was going to be a problem. After dividing one ball into a simple eight division with thread to use as guide lines, I precisely placed pins at the north and south poles and at equal distances around the equator. After threading my needle with bright floss, I started to decorate a diamond shape. That's when I discovered the wrapping problem. I should have used more thread in wrapping which would have made it easier to use the needle. It also dawned on that it would have been prudent to have wrapped only one ball instead of five.
While I was embroidering, I thought of my sister, Esther. She was a genius with a needle. She did needlepoint, crewel, counted cross stitch, all manner of embroidery as well as numerous hand sewn quilts. Anything requiring the use of a needle was an easy task for her. She designed dresses for her three daughters and sewed them on the machine. She even made western shirts for her husband. I wish she was still with us so I could tell her again how much I envied her talent.
Esther would have shown me how to do the types of stitches traditionally used on temari, but now I have to study how to do them. I was tempted to stop working on the ball when my stiches lacked fineness and looked so amateurish, but I decided to finish it because we all know how to get to Carnegie Hall. Practice, Practice, Practice.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Ripples 21 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
UPDATE 10/2018:
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The noise of the outside world ended as the doors closed behind her. The soft swoosh separated the outside and from the inside.
Inside the light was different. The colors and hues a monotone. She looked behind her through the dark glass panes designed to change bright into dim and hot into cool.
Turning she passed down the hallway into a cavernous room. Bright lights and cold air redefined the outside and nullified it.
She was still welcome here. Just.
Tables and chairs, a few scattered couches, their cushions sagging from use, kiosks with pamphlets and row upon row upon row of the most valuable thing on the planet. More valuable than all the physical wealth of the world, yet only a small fraction of what had ever been.
There was so much and yet there was so little. What seemed like endless rows ended. Shelves that might go forever halted. Spaces. Empty Spaces. Places where things ought to be; yet were not.
There were those who believed that the most valuable thing on the planet was theirs and theirs alone. Theirs to do with what they wanted. Theirs to constrain. Theirs to control. Theirs to obscure. Theirs to obliterate.
There was a hunger there. A gnawing hunger. A covetous hunger.
The building devoured the rows. An empty shelf, the carcass of its latest feastings. The building ground its way through the rows and shelves granting wishes to those who believed it all belonged to them.
But of course it didn't.
The digested leavings, a compost of nothing, were what was then offered. A goulash without content or context. The texture, substance and weight removed. The aromas of spices and nuances of flavor sanitized into a dreary gruel. Visible only under the proper circumstances.
Teased, tempted and threatened, the custodians yielded up what was Everyone's. Abdicating the rights of the world to those few who claimed it. Permissions granted by physical possession; then jettisoned. A deliberate action of abandonment.
The most valuable thing on the planet lay chained to a future of instability. The engorgement lasting the span of months or at best years and then lost. Some would be lost forever.
A civilization burning its heritage. No need for flames this time. The building would devour all and there were many who would help it do so.
Foolish hubris.
Yet what was lost, might be found again. The most valuable thing on the planet was still there.
She made her way towards a desk to seek answers from what remained.
UPDATE 10/2018:
I am invoking the No Guarantee to Finish option
I've not run out of ideas but there is a definite lack of incentive to continue.
Such is the end of all serials.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
There will be a break in publication
until the author writes new episodes.
21 Leaves on Leaves
Mild. Warm. Hot.
Cool. Cold. Frigid.
Dark. Dim. Bright.
Silent. Silent. Silent.
The noise of the outside world ended as the doors closed behind her. The soft swoosh separated the outside and from the inside.
Inside the light was different. The colors and hues a monotone. She looked behind her through the dark glass panes designed to change bright into dim and hot into cool.
Turning she passed down the hallway into a cavernous room. Bright lights and cold air redefined the outside and nullified it.
She was still welcome here. Just.
Tables and chairs, a few scattered couches, their cushions sagging from use, kiosks with pamphlets and row upon row upon row of the most valuable thing on the planet. More valuable than all the physical wealth of the world, yet only a small fraction of what had ever been.
There was so much and yet there was so little. What seemed like endless rows ended. Shelves that might go forever halted. Spaces. Empty Spaces. Places where things ought to be; yet were not.
There were those who believed that the most valuable thing on the planet was theirs and theirs alone. Theirs to do with what they wanted. Theirs to constrain. Theirs to control. Theirs to obscure. Theirs to obliterate.
There was a hunger there. A gnawing hunger. A covetous hunger.
When they claimed it was More. They provided Less.
When they claimed it was Better. They offered Lesser.
When they claimed it for All. They gave only Few.
It was Nothing. It was Petty. It was a Lie.
The building devoured the rows. An empty shelf, the carcass of its latest feastings. The building ground its way through the rows and shelves granting wishes to those who believed it all belonged to them.
But of course it didn't.
The digested leavings, a compost of nothing, were what was then offered. A goulash without content or context. The texture, substance and weight removed. The aromas of spices and nuances of flavor sanitized into a dreary gruel. Visible only under the proper circumstances.
Teased, tempted and threatened, the custodians yielded up what was Everyone's. Abdicating the rights of the world to those few who claimed it. Permissions granted by physical possession; then jettisoned. A deliberate action of abandonment.
The most valuable thing on the planet lay chained to a future of instability. The engorgement lasting the span of months or at best years and then lost. Some would be lost forever.
A civilization burning its heritage. No need for flames this time. The building would devour all and there were many who would help it do so.
Foolish hubris.
Yet what was lost, might be found again. The most valuable thing on the planet was still there.
She made her way towards a desk to seek answers from what remained.
Monday, June 12, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Othello and the Blue Blanket by KimB
MrsB always has a project or two or three or four or a dozen, at any one time. One of her many projects is knitting. Currently her focus is on baby blankets or small shoulder throws that ward off a chilly draft.
While she always plans to sell them, many of them end up as presents for birthdays, holidays, Christmas, New Years, and as Monday Morning Post Office surprises.
Every one is unique, like MrsB herself. She gets an idea and branches into a hundred directions at the same time. Her mind overflows with ideas and patterns. She works and works and rips and rips and works again and again until it matches her imagination. As soon as one is done, another is being started: another pattern, color, style to be turned into something practical and a unique piece of her.
Because only she can make these, don't you see.
Otherwise they wouldn't be a MrsB Baby Blanket. In a time of robotic automation, she works by hand. In a time of mass duplication, she makes one. In a time of orchestrated sameness, hers are extraordinary.
They are wonderful to look at and soft to the touch. They hold just the right amount of warmth when you want a nap and provide perfect comfort when getting over the sniffles.
I guard them jealously. I am careful about how I use them.
I am also en-garde against the cats ... and ... their claws.
Recently, I let Allen use one of my favorites: a Blue Blanket. It is soft to the touch, a wonderful shade of blue and the pattern of waves is like lace. After his nap, he folded it up neatly and left it on the dresser for me to put away.
He wasn't the only one watching though.
Othello, who rarely gets on the dressers, preferring instead the overstuffed padding of a leather recliner, noticed the blanket on the dresser. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way to the dresser. His eyes riveted on the blanket.
Quietly we watched him. He was so intent he didn't realize we had spotted him heading for the blanket. I was ready to dash in to rescue the blanket but Allen indicated we should wait and see what Othello would do. After all the Blue Blanket was folded into a small square and Othello is a very big cat.
Very carefully Othello looked and sniffed at the folded blanket and ever so gently, started to unfold it by pushing his head and nose into different seams. He carefully pushed this way and that, until he had it "Othello Size" and then cuddled up for a nice snooze hugging part of it as a pillow.
While she always plans to sell them, many of them end up as presents for birthdays, holidays, Christmas, New Years, and as Monday Morning Post Office surprises.
Every one is unique, like MrsB herself. She gets an idea and branches into a hundred directions at the same time. Her mind overflows with ideas and patterns. She works and works and rips and rips and works again and again until it matches her imagination. As soon as one is done, another is being started: another pattern, color, style to be turned into something practical and a unique piece of her.
Because only she can make these, don't you see.
Otherwise they wouldn't be a MrsB Baby Blanket. In a time of robotic automation, she works by hand. In a time of mass duplication, she makes one. In a time of orchestrated sameness, hers are extraordinary.
They are wonderful to look at and soft to the touch. They hold just the right amount of warmth when you want a nap and provide perfect comfort when getting over the sniffles.
I guard them jealously. I am careful about how I use them.
I am also en-garde against the cats ... and ... their claws.
Recently, I let Allen use one of my favorites: a Blue Blanket. It is soft to the touch, a wonderful shade of blue and the pattern of waves is like lace. After his nap, he folded it up neatly and left it on the dresser for me to put away.
He wasn't the only one watching though.
Othello, who rarely gets on the dressers, preferring instead the overstuffed padding of a leather recliner, noticed the blanket on the dresser. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way to the dresser. His eyes riveted on the blanket.
 |
| Othello unfolding the blanket |
Very carefully Othello looked and sniffed at the folded blanket and ever so gently, started to unfold it by pushing his head and nose into different seams. He carefully pushed this way and that, until he had it "Othello Size" and then cuddled up for a nice snooze hugging part of it as a pillow.
 |
| Othello and the Blue Blanket |
Friday, June 09, 2017
Fallin' In Among 'Em by KimB
MrsB will be 95 soon. It's an amazing milestone. Hers is an amazing life.
Nearly 65 years ago I "fell in among 'em". At least that's what MrsB (my Mom) always said about family: you just "fell in among 'em". There were times that "being among 'em" was a trial but there were more times that "being among 'em" was more fun than anyone can imagine.
MrsB (aka my Mom) always had a knack for taking what some might call "bad" and turning it around to something "fun and good". We could make up the most imaginative games with all sorts of arcane rules and just have a go at making the best of things. Whenever anyone was glum or down in the dumps, she had a fix: a card game tournament, a guessing game, a look-it-up game (way before internet when you actually had to look things up in B O O K S), or doing art projects like: drawings, watercolors or papier-mâché.
Those who stop here to read her stories or see her art work, know she is very special lady. Not just to the family but to everyone that meets her. She makes everyone feel like they "fell in among 'em" and that they are right at home.
Our stories still make us laugh:
MrsB has so many talents it's hard to grasp all the things she does. She rarely has time to "just do nothing". She works on a myriad of projects: finishing one and starting another. There is no time like "now".
There is something about everything she touches or does. It's hard to describe but there is a quality to her works the defies the plasticized, repetitive, stamped, sameness that flows around our modern lives; this sameness that we accept with few questions. The demands of oligarchs, mega-corporations and the self-centered-wealthy to: buy-this, use-that, do-this or else risk "not being IN".
Everything about her is unique. Everything she does is unique. Everything she does comes from an inner self that she pours into anything she touches: her family, her friends, her art works.
It's nearly 65 years now that I've "been among 'em". There were "good times" and "times made good". There were "better times" and "times made even better". MrsB and her life stories, the lives and stories of all our family and those of our friends both close and far are samples of "good times" and "good times made better".
I think it's a darn good thing I "fell in among 'em".
Happy Birthday Mom
Nearly 65 years ago I "fell in among 'em". At least that's what MrsB (my Mom) always said about family: you just "fell in among 'em". There were times that "being among 'em" was a trial but there were more times that "being among 'em" was more fun than anyone can imagine.
MrsB (aka my Mom) always had a knack for taking what some might call "bad" and turning it around to something "fun and good". We could make up the most imaginative games with all sorts of arcane rules and just have a go at making the best of things. Whenever anyone was glum or down in the dumps, she had a fix: a card game tournament, a guessing game, a look-it-up game (way before internet when you actually had to look things up in B O O K S), or doing art projects like: drawings, watercolors or papier-mâché.
Those who stop here to read her stories or see her art work, know she is very special lady. Not just to the family but to everyone that meets her. She makes everyone feel like they "fell in among 'em" and that they are right at home.
Our stories still make us laugh:
- The weekend at the beach when the park service decided that under an austerity program they would no longer buy minimal waxy toilet paper for the outhouse and supplied rolls of TP that had splinters in it.
- The time in Mexico when she found someone in the Mercado (open air market) selling peanuts and ordered 1 kilo of them.
(You have no idea how many peanuts make up a kilo and we ate them for several years.) - The time I came home with a wild opossum as a pet.
(Which got turned loose in an orchard and at least avoided the stew pot a while longer.) - The time my uncle pulled out a rifle and threatened to shoot her.
- The times she stood up to be counted and was noticed. The small Southern Town in the 1960s where she was noticed driving past a gathering near the local jail to see what was happening for herself. Our friends got a warning that a burning cross was going to be on their lawn if they didn't get "That Yankee Lady" out of town.
- The times she would not back down. Not for anyone. She did not tolerate discrimination, racism or sexism. She didn't tolerate those that took advantage of others.
- The time I applied for my first "big cook job" and was turned down because I was a woman and they didn't hire women for those positions. She made me to go back and DEMAND that job.
I did. I got the job. - The amazing dinners and family gatherings. Like the time we gave 7UP to Grandmother and told her it was champagne and she got all woozy-drunk.
MrsB has so many talents it's hard to grasp all the things she does. She rarely has time to "just do nothing". She works on a myriad of projects: finishing one and starting another. There is no time like "now".
There is something about everything she touches or does. It's hard to describe but there is a quality to her works the defies the plasticized, repetitive, stamped, sameness that flows around our modern lives; this sameness that we accept with few questions. The demands of oligarchs, mega-corporations and the self-centered-wealthy to: buy-this, use-that, do-this or else risk "not being IN".
Everything about her is unique. Everything she does is unique. Everything she does comes from an inner self that she pours into anything she touches: her family, her friends, her art works.
It's nearly 65 years now that I've "been among 'em". There were "good times" and "times made good". There were "better times" and "times made even better". MrsB and her life stories, the lives and stories of all our family and those of our friends both close and far are samples of "good times" and "good times made better".
I think it's a darn good thing I "fell in among 'em".
Happy Birthday Mom
Wednesday, June 07, 2017
Ripples 20 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The tall trees swayed with the air currents, their ballet inscribed on the grass. Free to all.
No one watched.
Well, almost no one, she thought. I am watching. I am one. One is All.
She watched the shadow play and admired the tall trees striving for sunlight.
The trees moved in their own rhythms, seemingly unaware of their admirer. Survival when surrounded by concrete was difficult, sometimes impossible. Their daily struggle never ceasing. Their wind dancing an infinite expression of life.
A visible manifestation of: I AM.
She understood.
With some regret, she turned towards the building centered on a concrete base with its attending pools of asphalt, ringed by the dance of life.
She wondered, did the building ever watch? Did it feel the cool of the shade? Did it notice the leaves when they fell or when they swirled around the doors? Did the building sense the life around it?
So many modern buildings had been imbued with technology and sensors. They could tell time and weather. They could heat or cool themselves. They could open doors or lock them. They could summon assistance as needed. They could count what was inside. They knew those who entered and tracked them until they left. They had eyes to see and memories too.
Did the building notice the sky dance?
Perhaps.
But what did it make of the graceful arcs and swirls, the swaying in the sun and the cool grass beneath, the smell of damp earth and the fragrance of pine, the feel of soft leaves or the crunch of dried ones? It lived in a different way. It had no need of air or nourishment or love.
She thought it might be resentful.
She entered the building. Looking for answers. She knew inside there would be many answers. Many answers to many questions.
But would there be answers for her questions?
She would have to ask.
The doors closed behind her.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
20 Paper Only
Shadows dancing.The tall trees swayed with the air currents, their ballet inscribed on the grass. Free to all.
No one watched.
Well, almost no one, she thought. I am watching. I am one. One is All.
She watched the shadow play and admired the tall trees striving for sunlight.
The trees moved in their own rhythms, seemingly unaware of their admirer. Survival when surrounded by concrete was difficult, sometimes impossible. Their daily struggle never ceasing. Their wind dancing an infinite expression of life.
A visible manifestation of: I AM.
She understood.
With some regret, she turned towards the building centered on a concrete base with its attending pools of asphalt, ringed by the dance of life.
She wondered, did the building ever watch? Did it feel the cool of the shade? Did it notice the leaves when they fell or when they swirled around the doors? Did the building sense the life around it?
So many modern buildings had been imbued with technology and sensors. They could tell time and weather. They could heat or cool themselves. They could open doors or lock them. They could summon assistance as needed. They could count what was inside. They knew those who entered and tracked them until they left. They had eyes to see and memories too.
Did the building notice the sky dance?
Perhaps.
But what did it make of the graceful arcs and swirls, the swaying in the sun and the cool grass beneath, the smell of damp earth and the fragrance of pine, the feel of soft leaves or the crunch of dried ones? It lived in a different way. It had no need of air or nourishment or love.
She thought it might be resentful.
She entered the building. Looking for answers. She knew inside there would be many answers. Many answers to many questions.
But would there be answers for her questions?
She would have to ask.
The doors closed behind her.
Monday, June 05, 2017
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Ripples 19 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
Infinite arrivals, limited service: M/D/1
Along with the many others, she waited her turn in the in The System. Nothing new had changed. The M/D/1 queue, defined in the 1900s, worked the same way then and the same way now. The math might look intimidating but the essence was simple:
The Wait gave everyone a chance to zone out. Sometimes when the TV functioned, it would display vapid programs as dull and senseless as the colors selected for the walls. Its only function: distraction and perhaps a chance to sleep under a roof, however temporary.
She looked around the room. Rather she stared.
She smiled to herself at the admonitions against staring.
The was something to be said about staring. It all depended on the context. "Because I said SO!" wasn't very helpful. Staring is more complicated and often dangerous.
She stared anyway. So much to see.
People tried to hide or pretend but if you looked, you could see. It was there on their faces. The way they talked or didn't. The way they stood and moved.
Stripped until you became a ghost. No longer a person. No longer a citizen. Like an orca stolen from their family pod, recognizing the calls of relatives but no longer acknowledged as a member.
You might still have a paper declaiming your citizenship and birthright, but its value declined with fortune. You might try to exert your claims but no others will tolerate you. You become less and less of a citizen, a person, a life, a being until you are nothing: an untouchable.
Along the downward passage was fear.
They were so close;
A prick and done.
It took less time to traverse the corridors on the way out, or at least it seemed that way.
A curious function of memory-time.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
19 Zoning
M/D/1Infinite arrivals, limited service: M/D/1
Along with the many others, she waited her turn in the in The System. Nothing new had changed. The M/D/1 queue, defined in the 1900s, worked the same way then and the same way now. The math might look intimidating but the essence was simple:
The milkmaid can only milk one cow at a time.
The Wait gave everyone a chance to zone out. Sometimes when the TV functioned, it would display vapid programs as dull and senseless as the colors selected for the walls. Its only function: distraction and perhaps a chance to sleep under a roof, however temporary.
She looked around the room. Rather she stared.
She smiled to herself at the admonitions against staring.
Don't stare! It's impolite.
But if I don't stare, how will I notice anything?Don't ask questions!Why not?Because I said SO!!
The was something to be said about staring. It all depended on the context. "Because I said SO!" wasn't very helpful. Staring is more complicated and often dangerous.
Staring at a lion is like inviting it to lunch ...
on you, as the hors-d'oeuvre.
She stared anyway. So much to see.
People tried to hide or pretend but if you looked, you could see. It was there on their faces. The way they talked or didn't. The way they stood and moved.
The slow slide into invisibility
Stripped until you became a ghost. No longer a person. No longer a citizen. Like an orca stolen from their family pod, recognizing the calls of relatives but no longer acknowledged as a member.
You might still have a paper declaiming your citizenship and birthright, but its value declined with fortune. You might try to exert your claims but no others will tolerate you. You become less and less of a citizen, a person, a life, a being until you are nothing: an untouchable.
Money made it. Money defined it. Money removed it.
Along the downward passage was fear.
- They might be like you
- They could be like you
- They will be like you
They were so close;
she was so close;she could taste the fear.
A prick and done.
It took less time to traverse the corridors on the way out, or at least it seemed that way.
A curious function of memory-time.
|
Such as thou art, sometime was I. Such as I am, such shalt thou be. Epitaph of the Black Prince |
|---|
Monday, May 29, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Ripples 18 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The blue tag placed in the window, a public statement of plight. Set so anyone could determine if The Queen for a Day was a righteous queen.
The cold winds swirled as she made her way towards a building constructed of monotone concrete slabs. Dreary-Grey, forbidding and ugly. Some esthetic's idea for combining permanence with healing. A tribute only to the ignorance of the architect, builders and worse, those that commissioned it.
The building oriented to catch every gust of wind: sheering cold and rains in season; heat and dust on the change. A concrete sarcophagus confronting nature, oblivious to those that sought sanctuary away from the elements. She grimaced with a cold chill as the wind sliced through her coat and hurried towards the glass doors marking the entrance. The doors slid open. The inside appeared even bleaker although the exterior warned there would be no welcome.
Poorly painted walls with attempted splashes of subdued colors surgically selected to dull the senses. Smells. Old smells. Stale smells. A nasal cacophony of decay. She wrinkled her nose as she made her way through the halls and corridors.
She passed others traversing the corridors, like ants meandering to some destination known only to themselves. The currents here were erratic, turning people this way and that almost on a whim, rip tides flowing in opposite directions. Whirlpools collecting the unwary, in an unceasing vortex of wrong directions.
She came at last to her destination.... many others here before her.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting is what one did.
Especially if you were Queen for a Day.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
18 Cold Front
The car parked, she gathered her important items.The blue tag placed in the window, a public statement of plight. Set so anyone could determine if The Queen for a Day was a righteous queen.
The cold winds swirled as she made her way towards a building constructed of monotone concrete slabs. Dreary-Grey, forbidding and ugly. Some esthetic's idea for combining permanence with healing. A tribute only to the ignorance of the architect, builders and worse, those that commissioned it.
The building oriented to catch every gust of wind: sheering cold and rains in season; heat and dust on the change. A concrete sarcophagus confronting nature, oblivious to those that sought sanctuary away from the elements. She grimaced with a cold chill as the wind sliced through her coat and hurried towards the glass doors marking the entrance. The doors slid open. The inside appeared even bleaker although the exterior warned there would be no welcome.
Poorly painted walls with attempted splashes of subdued colors surgically selected to dull the senses. Smells. Old smells. Stale smells. A nasal cacophony of decay. She wrinkled her nose as she made her way through the halls and corridors.
She passed others traversing the corridors, like ants meandering to some destination known only to themselves. The currents here were erratic, turning people this way and that almost on a whim, rip tides flowing in opposite directions. Whirlpools collecting the unwary, in an unceasing vortex of wrong directions.
She came at last to her destination.... many others here before her.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting is what one did.
Especially if you were Queen for a Day.
Monday, May 22, 2017
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Ripples 17 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
She glared at the empty folder, the crease fully ripped, the contents now patterned the floor. Her sorting useless.
One by one, she collected the pages and placed them on the table. The torn folder sheets, doubled up, now served as a poor man's clipboard, sans the clip. Like many things, in her life, sans was more often the case.
She shuffled the recovered pages into a slightly tidier pile, the new top page drawing her interest. She tabbed through the new pile selecting like pages. Reading each page, adding to her notes. Reviewing the earlier pages.
Back and forth she went.
The pages she carried away from the Fruit Stand Store, their shiny surface reflecting the poor lighting, declaimed many things. Then they declaimed the opposite.
Like the jetsam she picked up on the beach, phones were also thrown away. While recycling was often touted, recycling often meant "sending it to a dump in China". The majority of phones ended up in drawers. Some got resold. Some donated.
The news that even old phones could be harnessed against their previous owners, extracting old contact lists, old photos, music/videos, stored messages and emails made them gold mines to those so interested.
The phoront separated from its human host could no longer pretend to protect the host's interest, and regurgitated it's contents readily. Subjected to indignities, lies, and mistreatment, the phone had little chance to survive intact. Or rather, survival was re‑determined by the extent of the compromised chips that allowed the phone to function.
The unique identifier that every phone carried could be turned off by the telecom carrier, blacklisting the phone, but depending on the circumstances of how the phone got separated, this often didn't happen or it didn't matter. Much of what the phoront did or didn't, was independent of having an active connection.
Smartphones, she reflected, were a lot like James James Morrison's Mother:
Because it mattered very much
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
17 Pereō ante Perdō
A waterfall of papers, notes floating like mist, swirled to the floor.She glared at the empty folder, the crease fully ripped, the contents now patterned the floor. Her sorting useless.
One by one, she collected the pages and placed them on the table. The torn folder sheets, doubled up, now served as a poor man's clipboard, sans the clip. Like many things, in her life, sans was more often the case.
She shuffled the recovered pages into a slightly tidier pile, the new top page drawing her interest. She tabbed through the new pile selecting like pages. Reading each page, adding to her notes. Reviewing the earlier pages.
Back and forth she went.
The pages she carried away from the Fruit Stand Store, their shiny surface reflecting the poor lighting, declaimed many things. Then they declaimed the opposite.
Lost is not Lost.
Found is not Found.
Theft is not Theft.
Or maybe it is...
Like the jetsam she picked up on the beach, phones were also thrown away. While recycling was often touted, recycling often meant "sending it to a dump in China". The majority of phones ended up in drawers. Some got resold. Some donated.
The news that even old phones could be harnessed against their previous owners, extracting old contact lists, old photos, music/videos, stored messages and emails made them gold mines to those so interested.
The phoront separated from its human host could no longer pretend to protect the host's interest, and regurgitated it's contents readily. Subjected to indignities, lies, and mistreatment, the phone had little chance to survive intact. Or rather, survival was re‑determined by the extent of the compromised chips that allowed the phone to function.
The unique identifier that every phone carried could be turned off by the telecom carrier, blacklisting the phone, but depending on the circumstances of how the phone got separated, this often didn't happen or it didn't matter. Much of what the phoront did or didn't, was independent of having an active connection.
Smartphones, she reflected, were a lot like James James Morrison's Mother:
LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
JAMES JAMES MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
Because it mattered very much
"how she got down to the end of the town".
Monday, May 15, 2017
Saturday, May 13, 2017
My new pet
Its the first of its kind that I've acquired, and I have to learn how to care for it. Its a persnickety thing and very demanding. Its quite self sufficient if left to thrive on its own, but when taken in by a person and treated like a pet, it can require special treatment.
I had been wanting a pet for some time, but wanted one that be more fun to look at than one to walk and play with. I thought about getting a fish. Guppies are fun to watch when they have babies. At one time I had a gold fish I named George that I gave away when I moved out of state, but I wasn't really in the mood for a fish pet.
It wasn't until I watched a PBS nature program that helped me make up my mind. The program featured plants from around the world. Their diversity is amazing as is the ingenious ways plants have of propagating themselves. As the program went from displaying air plants to those living in swampy bog like conditions, I saw what I thought might be the perfect pet. Voila!
My new pet is a Venus Flytrap. In fact I have two. They are in tiny 2inch pots; each having numerous little traps or lips as they are called. I will take them outside with me when I sit out in the cool part of the day. If they don't feed themselves while they are outside, I will have to buy bugs from the pet store for them. In the meantime, the little pots are sitting in a tray of distilled water while I do more research to learn more about Venus Flytraps and other carnivorous plants.
[Editor's update 05/29/2017:
We finally got them to stand still long enough for a photo...]
I had been wanting a pet for some time, but wanted one that be more fun to look at than one to walk and play with. I thought about getting a fish. Guppies are fun to watch when they have babies. At one time I had a gold fish I named George that I gave away when I moved out of state, but I wasn't really in the mood for a fish pet.
It wasn't until I watched a PBS nature program that helped me make up my mind. The program featured plants from around the world. Their diversity is amazing as is the ingenious ways plants have of propagating themselves. As the program went from displaying air plants to those living in swampy bog like conditions, I saw what I thought might be the perfect pet. Voila!
My new pet is a Venus Flytrap. In fact I have two. They are in tiny 2inch pots; each having numerous little traps or lips as they are called. I will take them outside with me when I sit out in the cool part of the day. If they don't feed themselves while they are outside, I will have to buy bugs from the pet store for them. In the meantime, the little pots are sitting in a tray of distilled water while I do more research to learn more about Venus Flytraps and other carnivorous plants.
[Editor's update 05/29/2017:
We finally got them to stand still long enough for a photo...]
 |
| Venus Flytrap Pets |
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Ripples 16 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
She peered over the documents, comparing notes to pages; pages to notes. The Fruit Fone certainly could do a lot of things.
She liked puzzles and games but this wasn't an ordinary puzzle. Or perhaps is was. Just a more complicated one, with lots of waffle in play.
The Fruit Fone had loads of gizmos inside that could detect and tell what was happening to it. It had a gizmo that could tell compass direction. It had a gizmo that could tell how fast the phone was moving. It could tell if the phone was being held in a hand waving it around or if it was moving in a car across town. It could tell up from down, right from left and flipped from flopped.
There was a gizmo that could tell exactly where you are on the planet. Or rather, exactly where the phone was on the planet. This gizmo worked by connecting signals from a host of satellites orbiting the planet.
The idea of so many satellites flying around space was just an accepted part of life. That the number of man made objects being rocketed into orbit just grew and grew over time. She remembered when there was only one satellite: the moon. Now hundreds crowded the area above the Earth creating massive space jams; not without a few collisions, as one satellite might kilter into the course of another.
The Fruit Fone could do just about everything except move on its own. It needed a human to move it. What horses and oxen did for humans, now humans did for robots: a new symbiotic relationship.
The human belief in supremacy, effectively marshaled by robots, assured cooperation. The new human hosts were easily trained to carry the robots to destinations indicated by pixels on a screen. The hum-droid, dutifully hauled the robot, believing that the relationship was of sole benefit to the host: the human.
Of course, that is what all parasites need to accomplish: convincing the host to carry them without complaining too much. By enticing the human into thinking the relationship was beneficial, that they were
Hum-drafts hauling billions of silicon robots in their pockets.
7 Billion and counting.
Nearing the equal of the 7.5 billion global human population; with 2 billion more every year.
But the robots were vulnerable, with a life cycle of just two years, maintaining the herds of hum-ports was essential. A phone could not survive without its human ... not even a Fruit Fone.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
16 Slight of Hand
Too much information, not enough answers: Life.She peered over the documents, comparing notes to pages; pages to notes. The Fruit Fone certainly could do a lot of things.
She liked puzzles and games but this wasn't an ordinary puzzle. Or perhaps is was. Just a more complicated one, with lots of waffle in play.
The Fruit Fone had loads of gizmos inside that could detect and tell what was happening to it. It had a gizmo that could tell compass direction. It had a gizmo that could tell how fast the phone was moving. It could tell if the phone was being held in a hand waving it around or if it was moving in a car across town. It could tell up from down, right from left and flipped from flopped.
There was a gizmo that could tell exactly where you are on the planet. Or rather, exactly where the phone was on the planet. This gizmo worked by connecting signals from a host of satellites orbiting the planet.
The idea of so many satellites flying around space was just an accepted part of life. That the number of man made objects being rocketed into orbit just grew and grew over time. She remembered when there was only one satellite: the moon. Now hundreds crowded the area above the Earth creating massive space jams; not without a few collisions, as one satellite might kilter into the course of another.
There was no one sweeping up the debris.
It all fell to Earth.
Eventually.
The Fruit Fone could do just about everything except move on its own. It needed a human to move it. What horses and oxen did for humans, now humans did for robots: a new symbiotic relationship.
The human belief in supremacy, effectively marshaled by robots, assured cooperation. The new human hosts were easily trained to carry the robots to destinations indicated by pixels on a screen. The hum-droid, dutifully hauled the robot, believing that the relationship was of sole benefit to the host: the human.
Of course, that is what all parasites need to accomplish: convincing the host to carry them without complaining too much. By enticing the human into thinking the relationship was beneficial, that they were
eating at the same tableor even at
a table for oneguaranteed the robot phoront, would be mechanically transported by its host without issue.
Hum-drafts hauling billions of silicon robots in their pockets.
Billions and Billions
7 Billion and counting.
Nearing the equal of the 7.5 billion global human population; with 2 billion more every year.
But the robots were vulnerable, with a life cycle of just two years, maintaining the herds of hum-ports was essential. A phone could not survive without its human ... not even a Fruit Fone.
Rule 1: Don't let the Humans know.
Monday, May 08, 2017
Wednesday, May 03, 2017
Ripples 15 by KimB
[Editor's Note: Ripples is a serial story.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
The old pad of paper was filled with notes, the stubby pencil resting along side.
She rested her eyes. Thinking.
So much. So little. Too much. Not enough.
Thoughts spinning and weaving: the magic of neurons.
Cataracts of images, concepts, ideas, spinning, turning, foaming, battling, plunging and merging. The magic of the mind. Unlimited space for thoughts. Limited only by the self.
She let the wilding currents flow, following the ideas as they bucked and plunged into dead ends, tight corners and then converging into a calmer river. Myriad streams coalescing into new understandings, new visions, new pathways.
There were some answers but not the ones she expected.
While it was true a Fruit Fone could find it's owner, it was true only in a limited sense. Too many restrictions. Too many options. Everything had to happen "just so". If even the smallest detail was missed, a lost Fruit Fone was just that: lost.
To start: the battery cannot be dead.
There were lots of reasons why the battery might fail. A bad battery. The battery may not have been charged in a long time or had a full charge. The Fruit Fone may have been in use, doing what Fruit Fones do, the battery draining away. The battery might be damaged along with the entire phone by water, like falling in the ocean.
She considered this last part. Thinking back how she had found the phone on the beach.
The author makes no guarantees as to completing the serial.
Publication dates are located in the left side menu.]
15 Ring Tones
The empty dinner dishes, a summary of her life.The old pad of paper was filled with notes, the stubby pencil resting along side.
She rested her eyes. Thinking.
So much. So little. Too much. Not enough.
Thoughts spinning and weaving: the magic of neurons.
Cataracts of images, concepts, ideas, spinning, turning, foaming, battling, plunging and merging. The magic of the mind. Unlimited space for thoughts. Limited only by the self.
She let the wilding currents flow, following the ideas as they bucked and plunged into dead ends, tight corners and then converging into a calmer river. Myriad streams coalescing into new understandings, new visions, new pathways.
There were some answers but not the ones she expected.
While it was true a Fruit Fone could find it's owner, it was true only in a limited sense. Too many restrictions. Too many options. Everything had to happen "just so". If even the smallest detail was missed, a lost Fruit Fone was just that: lost.
To start: the battery cannot be dead.
There were lots of reasons why the battery might fail. A bad battery. The battery may not have been charged in a long time or had a full charge. The Fruit Fone may have been in use, doing what Fruit Fones do, the battery draining away. The battery might be damaged along with the entire phone by water, like falling in the ocean.
She considered this last part. Thinking back how she had found the phone on the beach.
- She had picked up a driftwood branch.
- She had seen the phone in the sand.
- She had picked it up.
- She remembered brushing some sand from the phone.
- The sand was damp but drying.
The phone had not been wet.
The phone had not been in the water.
The phone had not come from the ocean.
Monday, May 01, 2017
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
