Let's face it; we humans crave validation. An 'attaboy' or some similar acknowledgement is always meaningful and welcome. While I blog primarily for my own satisfaction, I am always pleased when someone drops in and makes a positive comment. Last night, it got even better. Martin, of EclecticBlogs (see sidebar), featured my blog on his. What an unexpected treat! Thanks Martin.
That stack of binders that you see in the photo above is my collection of email from mid-1996 to the end of 2001: five years, four binders — really big binders. This is just my half of the correspondence, you understand. It's just the stuff that I wrote and doesn't include incoming correspondence. This archiving has been a fair amount of work because I copied and pasted each last piece of email into my word processor. I would collect a month at a time and make a simple cover page for that month, print it up, and put it in a binder.
After the year 2000, I rethought the process to some degree and have since contented myself with archiving the files onto CDs, thereby saving a lot of ink, paper, and shelf space.
"But why did you do this silly thing at all?" you ask.
Mainly because I have never been very good at keeping a journal. And so it seemed that preserving my emails was as close as I would ever come to maintaining some sort of chronicle. Whether I, or anyone else will ever read it, is of secondary importance.
Email was my first big kick on the Internet, and, in fairness, it is probably still the Internet's killer app. Some people chat; some people message; some people surf; some blog; some, but very few, do all of these things. However, everybody emails.
I really emailed, however. In addition to the normal writing to friends and family, I regularly wrote to pen pals in Singapore, Japan, Israel, England, Australia, Georgia, Ohio, New Hampshire, and British Columbia. There may have been more, but that is all that my dimming brain can dredge up at the moment. Over the years, sadly I suppose, all but one correspondent have fallen by the wayside.
Just last week, however, I obtained a Gmail account. I don't know if I will use it a lot or not, but Gmail archives material differently, and that got me to pondering my own archival habits. I came to the conclusion that because I no longer email as religiously or prodigiously as before, and because I now blog fairly regularly, there remains no compelling reason to continue to preserve and archive my email.
"To every season, there is a time." The time for archiving my email has passed. Enough already!
But I really must start archiving my blogs ... some of them at least.
I am feeling emotional right now.
You see, I bought two pairs of blue jeans today. Pretty common stuff really — for most people.
I am hard-pressed to remember the last pair of jeans that I owned. Was it twenty years ago? More? Less?
For whatever reason, I have it in my head that jeans are to be worn by skinny people. I have not been skinny for almost all of my adult life. Let me be more truthful. I have been fat for all of my adult life — save for a few months here and there during diets and for brief periods afterward.
When I began the battle to regain control of my weight, way back near the beginning of the year, one of my goals was to be able to fit into a pair of denims. And, today, I have succeeded. I may have jumped the gun a bit, for I am not exactly skinny yet, but I needed to buy something to replace the loose, baggy items that my old trousers have become. Off we went to Mark's Work Wearhouse, and home I came with my trophies: two pairs of blue jeans!
I've gone down two pant sizes, four inches, in the last ten months or so and no longer feel too fat to wear denims. So, believe or not, this old fart is sitting here with tears in his eyes as he types this. Silly old fool that he is.
I am very grateful to my beloved. I asked for help on this journey, and she delivered it in spades. Thanks partner.
After passing along my thoughts about a movie in my previous post, I will now attempt to articulate a few thoughts about a book that I have recently finished: Notes from a Big Country, by, you guessed it, Bill Bryson.
We have read or listened to several of Bryson's books now, enjoyed them all, and look forward to reading more. A Walk in the Woods was a journal about his attempt to hike the Appalachian Trail. A Short History of Nearly Everything focused on the earth, the universe, and the science and scientists who have unravelled so many deep mysteries. In a Sunburned Country was another journal: this one of his trip around and through Australia.
Does all that sound dull? Of course, it does! That's Bill's talent in my opinion: to shape any topic into an interesting read rather than a dull screed. Just when you think that he may be hovering on the verge of tedium, he'll reveal something terribly interesting or awfully funny, and you'll be riveted once more.
The man possesses a wonderful sense of humour. He has a talent for describing the ordinary in a way that catches you off guard. Suddenly, I'll find myself giggling uncontrollably at the way that he has put something or other. He sneaks up on the reader so subtly that his humour, sometimes, doesn't hit me until I am in the middle of the next sentence. Then, I'll pause, look back, reread, start to chuckle, and find it hard to stop.
Perhaps it is because it is my most recent read, but I may have liked Notes from a Big Country best of all. The book is a compendium of articles that were originally published in an British newspaper. Bill is an American who spent twenty years living across the pond; he writes this series of articles to the folk in England shortly after returning to his native soil. He describes America to his British friends (and the rest of us), both the positives and negatives. Of course, he can get more humour from highlighting its eccentricities, but he applauds all of the country's positive graces as well.
I recommend the book to Americans. Seeing yourself as others see you can be elucidating.
I recommend the book to non-Americans. Increasing your understanding of America and Americans must surely be a good thing.
Primarily, however, I'm recommending an author more than any of his particular books. If you enjoy being both informed and entertained, you'll enjoy reading Bill Bryson.
At least I think so.
We don’t' get out much, but the other night my Better Half decided that it would be nice to go to the movies. Since it's been a while, it seemed like a good idea to me.
The last few times that we had this same idea, we checked the local scene and found nothing that lured us. This time, we found two likely candidates: Shall We Dance, and Finding Neverland. We read reviews and chose the latter: somewhat against Better-Half's inclinations. She is immediately attracted to movies that involve any sort of dancing. I'm not. In particular, I was unenthused about watching Richard Gere dance. When it was pointed out that I could ogle Jennifer Lopez too, it still wasn't enough to entice me: which probably speaks volumes about my age.
It's not easy to rate movies; I'm glad that I don't have to do it for a living. I think that I can only give this film *** (out of five), however. There is a lot to recommend it, including good acting performances. It is also a flick that will stick in the brain for a while, so that's a positive sign too.
However, when you find yourself saying, "Oh, come on now," or rolling your eyes, or shaking your head over the improbability of certain events or behaviours early on in a supposedly serious drama, then something is not right in the state of … last-century England.
It's supposedly based on the true account of how the play, Peter Pan, came into existence. However, I suspect that it was based rather loosely, indeed.
My bottom-line assessment: if you love going to the movies and get out a lot, and, if you are of semi-mature bent, this film will probably suit you. If you don't get out much and really want to pick 'em right when you do, then wait for the video.
Of course, I could be wrong. I recall sitting through Chicago in mortal agony while the other three in my company were totally entranced: as was the world, apparently — judging by all of the awards and attention that it received.
While some many of my posts may have triggered the nagging suspicion that I am enthralled with cycling, the dear reader is only partly correct. The truth of the matter is that I have somewhat of a love/hate relationship with the two-wheeled beast.
For much of today, hate dominated handily. Let me tell all, but more briefly than usual if I am at all able.
I awoke in somewhat groggy state this morning. In said condition, I should have exercised a modicum of perspicacity and stayed away from the computer and some taxing conundrums that I am facing with regards to web coding. But sagacity was in short supply this morning, and I set myself down to wrestle with the devilish computer. The ensuing frustrations, of course, only served to exacerbate my initial grogginess. I must confess, therefore, that my normally equanimous self morphed into the moody and surly soul which lurks beneath the veneer waiting to seize control — much to the distress of my dearest. Thankfully, said black mood surfaces both infrequently and pithily.
The Lady of the house, therefore, did not choose the most appropriate of times to inform me of the afternoon's priorities. She enumerated a list of about seven items that would consume the rest of the daylight hours. Let me hasten to add that they were all valid tasks that required attention, but I wasn't altogether gleeful to have them thrust upon me all at once: not today of all days. Kind of like hitting a man when the referee has already commenced his standing-eight count.
Let's cut to the chase, and reveal that a two-plus-hour bike ride was on the list. Neither mind nor body jumped gleefully at the prospect. In truth, I often dread riding. But, an even greater truth is that I invariably am reinvigorated by these exertions. Somewhere along the trail, the black cloud lifts. I would say that this is so without exception. When we arrive back home, I feel better in mind, spirit, and body.
Of course I would feel this way, for our minds, bodies, and spirits are inextricably linked. Everybody knows that really. In fact, we have all had this truth revealed to us more than once. But it's rather one of those forgotten-shirt truths. We've all discovered, in our closets or bureaus, shirts (or other items of apparel) that we had forgotten. It's rediscovery really, not discovery, but sometimes the forgetting has been so deep that the items seems fresh and new. Of course, I am now speaking more of life principles rather than shirts, but you take my point, I'm sure.
I think I'm at that stage of my life: the stage where more than learning new things, I am relearning old things ... or being reminded of them. It's part of the human condition. Our focus and attention is drawn far away by the hurlyburly, and we tend to lose track of certain important knowledges.
We need to take care of our bodies, need to exercise them. We don't have to climb rock faces or run marathons, but we must require a minimal amount of physical exertion from ourselves. It's good for our physical well-being, but perhaps more importantly, it also benefits our minds and spirits. For we are interconnected beings: spirit, mind, and body. Each component depends on the health of the other two in order to function well. I know this, and you know it, but now we are both reminded.
This is why I love biking, even when I hate it.
Olds adages aren't always true. Take, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," for example. Of course you can. It may take longer, and there may be more mishaps along the way, but I am here on my soapbox to say that it can be done.
Case in point: I prepared a rather wonderful dinner (even if I do say so myself) for Saint Paul (see previous blog) and his wife the other night. Forthwith, we shall refer to the saint's wife as Minneapolis.
Saint Paul and I both perform the lion's share of cooking in our households. I notice that this is a growing trend. I'm not sure if men are taking to the kitchen as a result of a spiritual urge to nurture or out of desperation to taste cuisine other than toast, crackers, and cereal. I leave that for each dear reader to sort out according to his or her situation.
I am rather a latecomer to the culinary scene, at least on the preparatory side of the equation, although I have been a prodigious and enthusiastic consumer for lo these many years. When life became kind enough to offer me the opportunity to do more of the things that I wanted, I found myself beginning to rifle through cookbooks. It must say something about my age when perusing Julia Child's delicacies appeals to me more than admiring the ample bounty of Miss October's provender, for example.
And so, I prepared my first full course meal for company the other night: perhaps my first full course meal for anyone. I usually content myself with cooking the main dish and letting all of the other consumables fall where they may. But, I laid out the whole enchilada, so to speak, for Minneapolis and Saint Paul the other night: soup as an appetizer, lasagna for the main course, and banana cream pie for dessert. By nature, I am somewhat self-deprecating, but I must concur with my guests that the entire repast was most excellent.
The kicker is that they were all light recipes. If you're willing to try, you will find all sorts of wonderful, light fare these days. But people are strange; they will compliment you on a meal: "That's the best phibberstrum that I ever had." When you tell them that it's light, healthy phibberstrum, their confusion becomes apparent as they can't help but blurt that they don't like low-fat cooking.
"But didn't you just tell me that was the best phibberstrum that you've ever had?"
"Yes, I did, and it was, but I don't like light cooking."
Is it just me ('me' is really supposed to be 'I' you know, but it sounds ever so poncey, and I therefore opt for bad grammar), or does the dear reader also detect the teeniest of brain malfunctions in the above converse?
I did mention earlier (about six pages ago you must be thinking by now) that there are pitfalls (or should I say pratfalls?) that result from the process of endeavouring to teach old canines fresh tricks. The other night, for example, the soup recipe called for a minced clove of garlic. No problem. It then called for a whole clove. No problem. Plop goes a whole clove of garlic into the pot. (You probably, dear reader, spot the difficulty already.)
When it was soup, so to speak, I asked my own dear wife, who prefers not to be named after a city, so we'll call her Louisiana, what to do with the whole clove of garlic. Should I remove it from the mixture before blending, or should I just chuck it in the blender along with all of the other cooked ingredients? Poor Louisiana looked rather perplexed for a while. After some cogitation and poring over the cookbook, my beloved pronounced me mentally deficient and, before my startled eyes, held up a clove. I now know that there are cloves of garlic and there are cloves — period. Happily enough, despite my gaffe, the end product was quite scrumptious.
There also springs to mind one of my earliest attempts in the kitchen. A certain recipe, which time has mercifully erased from my diminishing memory banks, called for six green onions. So, I began to chop ... and I chopped. I chopped while Louisiana got ready to go out somewhere and was still chopping furiously when she reappeared all ready to eat supper before going out. When I say furiously, I admit to having become a trifle testy about the whole ordeal. In fact I was on the edge of rebellion as I surveyed my mountain of onions, vowing: "By gum, I'm taking a stand; I'm going to make do with just five onions. Take that, Julia!"
It was then that Louisiana explained to me the nature of green onions as opposed to cooking onions. Louisiana just loves to tell that story. Over and over to everyone she meets. In fact, she has a lot of good stories featuring this poor sod who is neither state nor city but sometimes feels like the village idiot.
Granted, my feeble attempts at humour might not seem so uproarious by morning light, but I'm actually quite serious about the central tenet: that we can and indeed must always keep striving in this life. That doesn't always entail embracing new hobbies such as breeding kittens, knitting doilies, or enrolling in arcane courses, but it does mean that we need to maintain and expand our interests. Living is a process after all, and we humans harbour an innate need to keep processing our brains in some way. We must go forward because, when we try to stand still, we inevitably slip backwards.
