He Cooks Too!

Way back when ... in November, I wrote about Saint Paul who is the patron saint of those with no mechanical aptitude. At least he is this both to Cuppa and me.

He's been at it again. On Thursday, he who possesses at least two iterations of every tool known to the planet, helped me to:

1. powerwash the front deck;
2. change rotting boards on the back deck.

Of course, when I say that he helped me, I mean that he helped me out. As a matter of fact, I did nothing. He prefers it that way. In fact, he suggests that I can help him best by leaving the county and not returning until sundown. He's right, of course, for I am inept at just about any task that requires the slightest amount of manual dexterity — such as passing a hammer without dropping it.

I like to cook, for example, but there are lots of dropsies and oopsies when I am in the kitchen. Generally speaking, a pack of ravenous, wild wolves could survive longer off my floor than a one, single, solitary, wizened, old granny could survive off what comes out of any typical dozen of my cooking pots.

Beyond that, there lies the sad truth that I am not an artist. My cooking is no more art than is painting by numbers or coloring inside the lines. I simply follow a recipe: on my better days that is, for it is not uncommon for me to miss rather vital steps. Have you had chicken without poultry? How about chili sans beans?

The Saint cooks like Michelangelo painted. Now, I don't mean to suggest that Paul actually cooks on the ceiling (although he has been known to get plastered at times) or on scaffolding suspended under impressive domes. What I mean is that he invents his recipes and perfects them over the years.

Tonight, last night now, he made his secret beans and secret ribs. Absolutely delicious. And get this: he actually remembers what he puts in each recipe. Me? I cook by the numbers, and when somebody quizzes me about the ingredients, I soon start to stammer and mutter and look at Cuppa with pleading, puppy dog eyes. I do that because I am pretty well clueless about what I used and the steps that I took. Oh, they'll seem familiar when I look them up again next time, but the point remains, that look them up I must, for I remember scant little without some prodding. Meanwhile, Cuppa can usually recite the main ingredients even though she was busy reading Oprah's latest insights into living the abundant life while I was fussing and fuming over the stove.

But isn't this what makes life interesting, what builds community? I can read, write, teach, take photos, print photos, do web pages. Not everybody can do all of those things. If we all wanted to spend our time reading and writing, who would build the printing presses, invent the microprocessor, fell the trees to make the paper. And on and on.

So, thanks again, dear Saint, for filling in the gaps. And maybe, just maybe, when you're next on the graveyard shift, you can read my words, which is about all that I can offer in return. Words and thanks.

 

Waves

In the cycles of life, sometimes all sorts of things take it upon themselves to converge on one's bay of tranquility. One day, you are sailing on smooth waters: the next, you are baling and tacking and doing all sorts of desperate manoeuvres to keep from being pulled under.

We have been thrust into a vortex of projects: kitchen renovation, computer reassignments, outside work being done, and web projects requiring full attention. Fortunately (or it is?), the weather has not cooperated long enough to beckon us to our bicycles, so, at least we have been spared that distraction — welcome as it may have been.

Let me pull back the curtains on just one of these windows — the new computer. I blogged about it somewhat proudly the other day, but I didn't tell you the rest of the story at that time. It's just that moving data and programs from one computer to another can be problematic.

One of the problems is caused by this newfangled thing called "software activation." In the good old days, you bought your software and installed and reinstalled it to your heart's content. No so any more. Late last week, after installing Service Pack 2 on my old machine, I was forced to call Adobe to reactivate Photoshop. Supposedly, one can reactivate, painlessly, over the Internet, but this never works for me, and, so, a call is always required.

I say "always" because this is the third time than system changes have rendered Photoshop inactive and in need of re-activation. Meanwhile, my Macromedia software accepts the changes and keeps on running without a hitch.

This was on my old computer. A day later I bought a new one.

That required two more calls to Adobe to install Photoshop on the new machine — one to begin the process and one to end it. They are always nice enough about it and give me no hassles but it takes time. To install my two Macromedia products — Dreamweaver and Fireworks — I had to call about each separately, and would you believe that Macromedia has no 800 number for Canada? Gee whiz guys, you'd think Canada was across the planet, and not just an hour or two away. The good news is that Macromedia is being bought out by Adobe, so they will get an 800 number at some point. The bad news is that Macromedia is being bought out by Adobe, so those products will likely become more sensitive to system changes too and require re-activation more frequently.

Whatever! Not only does Macromedia not have a toll free number for those of us in the nether regions of faraway Canada, but it doesn't talk to you directly either. They just have you punch thirty thousand, thirty digit codes into their system. Then they give you a six million digit code to punch into your computer, and the software is ready to function once again.

Thank goodness for small mercies: both companies complied with my needs without question, but I confess to not enjoying the disruptive and time-consuming process.

Then, just as I suspected I would, I encountered problems with my router. Firefox connected fine, but Internet Explorer didn't. Called the router people, Linksys. They said that it was my computer company's, Toshiba's problem. After a while, Toshiba deduced that it was my ISP's, Sympatico's, problem. Of course you know the rest. Yup. Sympatico sent me back to Linksys.

Actually, it was my problem, but it was the Linksys people who finally figured out how to help me out. Thanks Linksys. In the end, the problem was simple, and the second support technician figured it out in no time flat and told me what to do. Everything is simple when you know how.

That's not the full story but a glimpse through the porthole of one of our frantic paddlings in a sea choppy waters.

It's why I haven't tended to my blog like I should.

 

Pole Conquered Again

Almost one hundred years ago, Robert Peary claimed to have made it to the North Pole by dogsled in thirty-seven days. Many doubted both the time and the method of conveyance.

Almost one hundred years later, a team led by Tom Avery replicated the feat in five hours less. They had a GPS and lots of documentation.

It can't be proved that Peary truly reached the North Pole, but it is now proven that it can be done. In that case, why would we doubt?

You can read more about it at the Ultimate North website.

 

Spiffy New Laptop

Over the past few years, the whole family has converted to laptops or notebook computers, whichever moniker you prefer. It all began a few years ago when I retreated from the daily grind of elucidating the youths of the nation to the glories of the geographical world. You'd think that kids would find the world an interesting place, but I recall one grade nine lass saying to me: "I'm not interested in any place but where I'm living now." I recall thinking to myself that I'd like to visit with her in a few years to get an update, but such was not to be.

Regardless of the digression, my beloved (and, of course, you understand that this is a typical picture) unexpectedly bought me a laptop as a retirement gift. Quite a gift, I'd say. I immediately took to it. To me, there's something more intimate, more fun, more fulfilling about working on a laptop, even though I park it in stationary mode at my desk ninety percent of the time.

Since then, everybody (except The Boy) has converted. Butterfly and Lady Bug each received one as an inheritance gift from grandma's vast estate (just kidding folks — about the vastness part, I mean) after she passed on. Meanwhile, I outgrew my first laptop. Basically it was a piece of junk made by a large company whose name I'll not reveal except to say that its initials are not BMI, or at least not in that order.

That computer got passed on to Cuppa who passed her desktop computer onto a student who didn't have the courtesy to even thank us (and it was a good machine too). The laptop was just what Cuppa needed. With her broken back (sounds dramatic), it was much, much easier for her to sit in a chair with the laptop on her lap than to lift her hands up to a desk. She, too, became mighty attached to it.

However, as I have said, her computer was not well made and is falling apart — literally. We were becoming fearful that it would, quite suddenly, give up the ghost one day without notice and leave her stranded. Even though I was very happy with my computer, there was more than a little pressure put on me to upgrade and pass mine on to her.

It is always done this way. I always get the new computer: not because I'm the alpha male (although that helps), but because my computing needs are greater. I don't just email and blog but work with Photoshop and design web pages (as an amateur, mostly for a hobby).

Here's the thing. You see the two computers side by side in the photo. The one on the left is only a year and a half old, but it cost $500 more than the new one on the right, which has a bigger, brighter screen, a DVD burner, and a faster processor. That's quite a price drop in eighteen months.

Perhaps the old prediction will come true. By that I mean that after I bought my last desktop computer — maybe seven years ago — I read a prediction that almost everyone would switch to laptops within about five years. I didn't really believe it at the time, but now I do. I have a 17" screen on this one and lots or power, at a fairly competitive price. Put it this way: it's the cheapest PC that I have ever bought. Although desktop computers are still cheaper, even more powerful, and certainly more upgrade-able, I think that more and more people will opt for laptops — especially now that the wireless age has dawned, and you can access the Internet from lots of places.

Regardless, I hope we're done with buying computers for a few years. My dwindling bank account needs a rest.

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PostScript

I mentioned that we had all converted except for The Boy. What's his problem you ask? Well, he's a gamer and as such he needs a station from which to do his thing. As such, upgrading video cards and such is of importance to him, and that is still something which requires a desktop computer. Aside from that, he's normal — sort of. Well ...

 

Little Lives

This is a tiny plant commonly called Windflower. It blossoms for a short while in the spring. You could easily miss the Windflowers because they are very small and close to the ground. They don't live very long either. But when you take a close look, you see that this plant is worthwhile, that it contributes to the world in its tiny, little way.

Just like people, some flowers bloom long and conspicuously; others live shorter, less obvious lives. They all, both the long bloomers and the short bloomers, both the prominent flowers and the obscure flowers, impart some beauty to this world ... just like people.

 

Bowed Low

Sometimes the storms of life weigh heavily upon you until you are bowed low under the onslaught.

Eventually the sun comes out and you discover that there are still reasons to smile.

 

How It Is

I have not had much to say recently. Partly, at least, I still feel as though I am in mourning over Ava Marie. Ordinary blogging does not seem to be terribly appropriate to me at the moment, or at least I don't feel up to it.

It may seem rather strange to mourn with people whom I have never met, but I have met them in a way. I have met them through the written word, and there is little more powerful than that.

Life, certainly, must go on: for those of us outside the immediate circle, sooner rather than later. For Karla, Mark, and the grands, it will be much more difficult. That's an understatement, for I can only begin to fathom how bereft and sad they must feel.

However, I sense that I have glimpsed, through Karla's writings, enough of this family to believe that beyond this almost fathomless grief, they will be able to see the sun and smile again. It will take time, maybe a long time. They will never get over this tragedy, but they will get past it in some way at some point in time, for I sense that there is strength and resiliency there.

Because life must go on, I will blog normally again, but whether that will be tomorrow or next week, I am not sure. And, although she can not even begin to contemplate it now, I am hoping that Karla will blog again too — someday. I have said that the written word is powerful, and, when the time is right, it may be one way for Karla to begin to take tiny forward steps although there will always be many wistful backward glances.