Solicitation May Not Mean What You Think It Means.

Today we are getting a new roof.  Right now, I imagine, the pfft-thunk of nail guns is ringing through our neighborhood and the neighbors are breathing sighs of relief that the hobbit house down the street can finally be scratched off the 'eyesore' list.  Our mossy old roof was 'past its prime', by which I mean it had mostly blown off and been run over by the lawnmower, and that was last year.
Not only are we restoring the lustre and durability of our home but we are doing so with the Dave Ramsey-approved method of remaining debt-free.  None of this would be possible without the pity and courage of a lost salesman, a long-forgotten act of God and the ancient brotherhood of those who know how to splice a triple-braid hawser.  Let me explain:

Posted prominently on our front door is a "NO SOLICITATION" sticker which we, and apparently no one else, take very seriously.  When the mouth-breathers who don't know what solicitation means ring our doorbell, we open the front door, sternly and silently point to the sign from behind our locked screen door, then sternly and silently close the front door and forget all about them - unless they are children selling fruit or cookies because we want to encourage that kind of entrepreneurial spirit, at least until they're older and selling textbooks or salvation, then we discourage it again, sternly and silently.

One evening, Tammy answered the doorbell to a man who looked to be a cross between a smarmy mortgage broker and Al Pacino who was conciously ignoring the "NO SOLICITATION" sticker.  Normally, this situation would squeeze the bellows on Tammy's ever-glowing furnace of indignant rage, but providentially for us all, he had the courage to ignore her burning eyes and pinched lips and she, in turn, swallowed her umbrage and listened to his plea.

He was a roofing rep, lost in the neighborhood and was turning around in our cul-de-sac when our mouldering roof transfixed him, much like conversing with someone who has never had dental care. Horrified, he slammed on the brakes, sprang from the car and sprinted to our door like a medic at an accident scene. His eyes very nearly swam with tears as he begged for the opportunity to provide relief for our obvious misery.

Several years before, after a hail storm swept Charlotte, it was all the rage to get an insurance estimate for roof replacement.  We'd joined the fun, had an inspector come out and been humiliated when he laughed at our 'hail-damage', telling us that it was time, not hail, that had damaged our 'roof', if that's what we wanted to call it.  After that, we'd shopped around a little and gotten some breath-takingly discouraging estimates on a new roof. Refusing to go into debt for it we resigned ourselves to years of saving our pennies, crossing our fingers that water damage wouldn't bring the house down around our ears. Therefore, Tammy was justifiably cautious when this man swore that he could get us help from our insurance company.   He seemed so genuinely moved by our plight and so kind in his confidence of  help that despite her reservations she started the paperwork right there on the porch in the gloaming.

Last spring had produced another hail storm and, after inspecting our roof again last week (this time with a representative from the roofing company) our insurance company decided the hail had caused enough damage to justify our claim.  There was, however, the issue of the $2500 deductible.  We had only saved $1000.  If you're not willing to go into debt, being short $1500 or $7500 amounts to the same thing - you're not getting what you want right now.  It hurt.

When the contractor came out to discuss options, Tammy and I were on tenterhooks. We wanted the roof done, he wanted to do the roof  - all that stood in the way was the insurmountable $1500 we didn't have. But we weren't going to tell him that. As the conversation warmed he and I started discussing our backgrounds and it came to light that he had served 6 years in the Navy.  I thanked him for his service and asked what his rate was.  A 'rate', in nautical terms, is a specialty, the job an individual has been trained for.  Not many people outside the nautical tradition know this nomenclature; it's an inside language - a code.  He looked up from his paperwork with an appraising eye and asked if I'd been in the Navy, too.  I shook my head; "Coast Guard, 5 years".   He nodded thoughtfully, scratched some more on his paperwork, squinted at it for a bit then said "I could give the $1500 on this".  We sat mute, not really daring to believe what he'd said.  He noted our blank stares and said "What I mean is, after the insurance payment, I'll waive the extra $1500 and you'll just owe $1000".  I rubbed my chin, pretending to think it over.  It took considerable effort not to kiss him.  "That sounds pretty good", I said calmly, while my heart did cartwheels.

So tonight, when I get home, I'm going to stand in my front yard and gratefully survey our new roof for a while.  Then I'm going to open my front door and carefully peel off that ridiculous "NO SOLICITATION" sticker.

The Game Of Life

My amazing brother came down to Charlotte to visit a few weeks ago. He's probably the smartest person I know.  He has like 8 degrees in an astonishing variety of subjects - if you ask him about anything he knows at least something about it, more often than not a great deal about it.  He travels around the globe teaching people about what may be the driest subject ever devised, Risk Management, but he holds his audiences spellbound because he salts his lectures with pertinent analogies and ties in seemingly unrelated topics, making risk management seem like the most interesting and important thing ever. He told me he studied so hard and learned so much because life is a game and he wants to win. I don't know what that means, but I can't stop thinking about it.

I love video games.  When I play, I like to win.  More than that, I feel a deep, consuming drive to dominate, crush and destroy.  My favorite tactic is to sneak and snipe. As long as I stay hidden and kill from an untouchable distance not only do I win, I win easily and decisively. Full-on, ground-level, chest-to-chest confrontation with an enemy that could kill me seems ridiculous when it's so simple to drop them with a shot from hiding.  I love the challenge of lurking in darkness and lining up an impossibly long shot - it's not a sure win, but the risk is low and the laws of probability are in my favor.  Not so with face-to-face combat, where the odds are 50/50 at best, the risk is poorly managed and worst of all, I might lose.  See, it's not just that I must win - it's that I must not lose.  If I start losing in a video game, I either upgrade my gear, set it to an easier level or simply stop playing, sometimes forever.  The real problem is, this mentality is not unique to my video game play - I feel that way in real life, too. While I'm not convinced life should be considered a game, it sure can feel that way and if everyone else is playing, I can't just sit on the sidelines, can I?.

Life can be a fun exercise if approached with the right mindset. While it's probably healthy to keep a playful attitude, a 'fun exercise' is quite different from a 'game' - games have winners and losers. How can you 'win' life? If 'losing' life is dying, is 'winning' being born?  That's too random and uncontrollable to be the endgame, right?  We call poor, uneducated, unmotivated, unhealthy people 'losers' and their opposites 'winners' but that seems pretty random too, as well as a capricious and diaphanous social construct.  I'm not clear on the rules and if life's a game, it's an exhausting, maddening game to play. Because my heart is rebellious, most days I just want to disengage.

My ripping cognitive dissonance is that while I might not believe life is a game, I'm playing it like a First-Person Shooter.  I skirt the perimeter, hide in the shadows, engage from a safe distance, wishing I could not just win but dominate, crush and destroy without direct confrontation, not really knowing what constitutes winning but driven to believe I must not lose. When it begins to feel like I'm losing, I want to quit playing. There's no easier levels to set. If I'm going to win, I'm going to have to follow my brother's example and go back to school. I'm going to need an upgrade. I may not be able to smash my way to victory, but perhaps I'll be willing to engage more often.  Is that winning?

Busy.

My father is a fount of folksy wisdom; among his repertoire of platitudes is one absolute gem:

WHY busy, not HOW busy is what matters: the bee is praised, the mosquito - swatted."

 
It has global application, can be understood by anyone who's ventured outdoors or watched Animal Planet, is short, memorable and slices straight to the marrow of that most pesky of questions - "What will I do with my life?"  With this pithy little koan you can constantly re-form the question into - "Should I pollinate joy or suck the life out of my surroundings?  I know for my dad, he's tried to emulate the bee.  What others may have misinterpreted as bumbling has, in fact, been a lifelong effort to provide for the hive and pollinate the future.  In part, because of this, I can  bloom.  Thanks, Dad!

Gully Foyle Is A Hard Man To Like

I recently finished The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester, another favorite on many sci-fi lists. Originally published as a Galaxy magazine serial in 1956, it tells the story of Gulliver ("Gully") Foyle, a strong, thick-headed wastrel abandoned to die in the bowels of a stricken transport hulk in deep space.  A sister ship, Vorga, investigates the wreck but passes on, igniting a furious desire for survival and vengeance in Gully.  The book is a darker version of The Count of Monte Cristo set far into the future.  Bester has a  gifted imagination, presciently introducing writable tablets, human performance enhancement and cyberpunk.  It's a quick read; if you can find it for cheap it's worth your time, for the mind-bending blast of Bester's creativity, if nothing else. Also,for the record, if the technology comes around that allows me press on my molar and slow down time like Gully can, I'm first for the dentist's chair!

A Little Bit About Bacon.

Bacon (from the Old High German meaning "buttock") hasn't just been a staple in the American diet for hundreds of years; it's been stapled to our DNA.  Crick and Watson were wrong: it's not a double helix, it's two interwoven slices of soft-cooked bacon.  Guanine. Adenine. Thymine. Cytosine. Porcine.

The simple word "Bacon" salted into a sentence triggers visceral fireworks of desire from our amygdala.  Not so, the USDA definition: "The cured belly of a swine carcass".

There are those odd, unfortunate creatures who, whether from lunacy or delusion, refuse to consider bacon as a comestible.  It's best not to look them in the eye.  It's kinder.

Children, in particular, seem obsessed with bacon.  It forms one of the five basic pediatric food groups, the others being: chicken tenders, macaroni-and-cheese, hot dogs and pizza.

Bacon can be found infusing or forming nearly every imaginable or unimaginable substance and item known to man.  It will quite likely replace the American flag in the near future.   

We can be quite protective of OUR bacon, which makes sense if it's melted into our DNA - we're merely accessing our primal brain's survival instinct.

Ironically, we are moved to a homicidal rage if someone who HAS bacon is selfish with it.

We invent manifold schemes for spiriting away the bacon of such self-absorbed sociopaths, risking our lives in pursuit of our constitutionally protected happiness..

Once obtained, we will eat and eat until our ears ring and we can feel our hearts throb behind our eyes.  Our urine turns cloudy from the discarded sodium and our skin shrivels from the osmotic changes taking place in our bloodstreams.  And we are happy.

The Founding Fathers promised us the pursuit of happiness.  Bacon IS happiness, therefore the Founding Fathers guaranteed our right to the pursuit of bacon. While the cost of bacon continues to soar, we are confident that this fundamentally protected right will soon be subsidized by our tax dollars.  In fact, paying taxes is much more palatable if we infuse it with bacon - think of taxes as a sort-of bacon piggybank! So, flip the lever on your recliner, boot up Netflix and slide your steaming bowl of bacon onto your belly. Close your eyes. Breathe in.  Let deep call to deep. Be happy!

Milton Hershey's Magic

This was a writing assignment from my writing group.  We get a prompt and have 30 minutes to free-associate. This week's prompt was a choice: The best milkshake or Secret handshake with ten bonus points for combining the two. It was magical fun, I hope you enjoy it!

July in Hershey, Pennsylvania is always a hot mess.  Even before the sun comes up, the mist pooling in the valley floor looks like steam in a cauldron.  Low hills rise from the murk, forming a bowl that collects heat all day until your blood reaches the boiling point and you simply melt into a puddle.  It’s hard to imagine why Milton Hershey chose this crack of wet hell to realize his vision of a perfect world.  Hard to imagine, that is, until one day, by pure luck, you discover his secret, kept for one-hundred ten years, handed from worthy to worthy, that makes living in the witch’s brew worth every minute.

                A few years ago, during a low point where I thought visiting the remnants of last century’s industrial giants would teach me leadership skills, I wound up in Hershey at the height of summer.  The oppressive heat kept me cooped in my hotel room gagging down room service until I was bug-eyed and nauseous. I staggered out of my room like a crazed addict, pawing at my face and gibbering.  I was surrounded by the finest sweets produced on earth; every breath in Chocolate-town pulled the essence of decadence and delight into my lungs; here I was killing myself with crusty tuna sandwiches and stale chips.  I needed quality! I needed ambrosia!  I needed a cold, creamy, eye-popping, soul-melting, brain-freezing milkshake made in candy heaven!   I staggered down Chocolate Avenue (yes, it’s real) past the Hershey chocolate factory, my vision swimming in the soupy humidity. Ahead, bracketed by a tourist trinket shop and a post office I saw an awning, fat stripes of red and white with a scalloped bottom edge arcing over the shimmering sidewalk, the universal sign of ice-cream shops and all things good.  I feel certain that St. Peter and the pearly gates are protected from the elements by an enormous candy-cane striped awning.

                Earlier that morning, I had punctured a small hole in my right hand while smacking about for the alarm clock.  Now the heat made it itch so I would periodically scratch it by folding my right middle finger to meet my palm.  Distracted by what I could see through the crystalline windows of the brightly-lit ice-cream shop, I was scratching my palm absent-mindedly as I shook the hand of the smiling server greeting customers at the door. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp red–and-white striped shirt, immaculate white apron and white pants creased like the prow of a battleship.  I wasn’t paying him much attention, gazing over his shoulder with longing through the open shop door and sagging into the blast of conditioned air enveloping us, so I missed his look of surprise and his narrowed gaze of assessment as our hands met.  “It’s a pleasure, sir” he said, leaning closer and whispering in my ear, “What brings you here today, sir?”  Startled by his proximity I straightened up and declared whimsically “I seek nourishment found only from great men!”  If possible, his smile widened even more and he grasped my hand in both of his, “And only great men can find such nourishment!  Welcome, my friend!”  He turned and strode briskly into the shop saying “Please sir, follow me”.  He moved quickly. It took me a moment to gather my wits and force my rubber limbs to match his pace.  I was chagrined to see us passing the magnificent pastel display of ice cream, fragrantly beseeching me from under the sparkling curved glass.  We skirted the wilting line of red-faced customers, stopping briefly for him to lift a section of the counter, holding it open for me.  He led me to a narrow door tucked behind some racks of sugar cones.  Producing a brilliant white key, he clicked open the lock and beckoned me through.

                Magic is magic because it’s unexpected and inexplicable.  Behind that narrow door was magic: majestic, soul-cleansing, thirst-quenching magical nourishment of candy heaven, accessible through a straw.   The process is complex: it involves albino cows, rainbows of cotton candy and vanilla beans fresh from Madigascar, but I can’t tell you more than that - unless you prove worthy!

Our Most Valuable Possession.

This begins my 17th year teaching CPR.  I estimate at least 10,000 people have come through my classes; a few have even told me stories of how they used their skills to save someone's life.  I've tried to get bored with teaching CPR the way I do everything else and I've come close a few times, even selling my equipment once.  I bought it back 6 months later.  There's something about it; I can't help myself, I'm totally addicted to showing people how easy it is to give someone back their most valuable possession.

 I tell each of my classes, and I firmly believe it myself, that there's not an easier, more valuable class they could ever take.  We seem to be hard-wired to value our lives more than anything else.  A raging house fire will cast that fundamental truth into sharp relief - "It could have been worse" we say, "We're destitue and homeless but at least we're alive".  

Our primary need as a human is oxygen.  On average (50 year-old male, room temperature, sea-level), our brains will shut down after about 2 minutes without it, irreversible damage will begin at around 6 minutes and death will occur in the vicinity of 10 minutes.  Usually, we meet the need for oxygen easily and regularly by doing 2 things so simple we don't even think about them: we suck in breaths and our hearts squeeze.  Put (very) simply, our breaths bring in life-giving 21% room-air oxygen which then crosses the membranes in our lungs to bind with the hemoglobin in our blood which is then squirted around our slick arterial pipes by our strong, thick reliable hearts until the oxygen arrives where it's needed and bails off the blood cells.  When our machinery betrays us and the breathing and squeezing stop, the clock begins to tick toward an irreversible outcome.  All CPR does is replace those two vitally important things that the person isn't doing - breathing and sqeezing.

While various organizations feel they've arrived, through study and observation, at the most effective formula for delivering those squeezes and breaths, the numbers they make you memorize can cause people to freeze in panic or worse, abstain from doing anything, afraid they'll mess up the formula.  So I remind my students that no one is standing over them with a clipboard, stopwatch and tape-measure when they're performing real CPR - they just need to remember to breathe gently and squeeze hard and fast in the center of the chest.  If they can overcome their panic, call 911 and start CPR right away when a person collapses, that person has a 50% chance of getting back their most valuable possession.  The realization dawns on the class participants that rather than mentally ticking off flow sheets, ratios and diagrams, they can be heroes really quite simply!

As I watch the students visibly relax and share grins of hope and determination, my addiction grows.

Uneasy in the Big Easy

"After Hurricane Katrina, the crime rate in New Orleans has made international headlines", said my guidebook.  I swallowed hard and peered down Canal street through the mist.  Our hotel was only two blocks away, but my Jason Bourne-level situational awareness told me there were several obstacles between here and there.  There was the cluster of homeless people huddled 100 yards to my right - were they bunching for warmth or doling out their ammo?  There was the construction scaffolding we'd need to pass through - was it narrow for structural integrity or to funnel us into enfilade fire and cut off our retreat?  Behind us a line of taxis idled on the curb.  Were they waiting for fares or for us to get halfway across the street?  Revelers at the trolley stop shouted something indistinguishable that carried through the fog - was it joie de vivre or coded instructions to nefarious companions hiding in dumpsters ahead of us?  "Don't worry guys, I have my knife", whispered Denver, clutching his ornamental silk-screened "Wolves in Moonlight" folding pocketknife. Poor, brave little soul!  What did he know of the desperate, crack-addled zombies that preyed on tourists waddling home after po' boys and gumbo?  Their fingernails were deadlier than his chromed butter-spreader!  We darted in lockstep past the withered clump of vagrants, hunched motionless over their cigarettes.  We entered the tunnel of scaffolding in single file, just as a dark shape bristling with weaponry entered the other end - was it a.... nope, just a shopper carrying purchases. We nodded grimly to each other as we passed, two survivors, grateful to be carrying on the fight.  Past the worst of it now, only 100 yards to the bright neon safety of the Everything Voodoo Market.  Denver's hand was still in his pocket wrapped around the moonlit wolves.  I used the reflection from the puddles to scan the rooftops for silhouetted heads - WHAT'S THAT! AAAAAHGG - THAT'S A.... nope, just a lamp post.  I make a note to remind Jason Bourne that puddles can be deceiving.  We arrive at the brightly lit corner, breaths coming in ragged, rainbow gasps under the garish neon.  The taxis still rumble on the curb, bored drivers texting their wives.  The revelers are celebrating on the trolley, you can see them laughing through the windows as it silently rolls past Magazine street.  There was no danger after all.
Hhmph.  This guidebook must be out of date.

Three Latest Reads

WOOL by Hugh Howey

 I put off purchasing this for months (thrown by the title, I suppose) but it kept popping up on "best of sci-fi" lists, which intrigued me.  It's the first book in a series by Howey about a dystopian future, featuring a girl with a curious mind and uncommon mechanical skill growing up in the "Silo": an enormous, vibrant underground city. In the Silo's culture, capital punishment consists of banishment into the toxic atmosphere above ground.  The accused are given an environmental suit that lasts long enough for them use wool scrubbers to clean the outside camera lenses that feed surface video to those below. Soon after that task is accomplished, the seals of the suit break down and the condemned succumb to the noxious environment.  The protagonist is eventually sentenced to this fate but defiantly refuses to clean the lenses and marches off into the wasteland, with astonishing results.
The book is being made into a movie, which makes sense: it's exciting, fresh and filled with enough twists to make you dizzy.  Worth a look for you Hunger Games fans!

The Martian by Andy Weir

Another book that showed up on everyone's sci-fi lists, and for good reason - this is the best book I've read so far this year!  If you loved Robinson Crusoe or MacGuyver and have enough knowledge of physics and chemistry to be dangerous, you'll enjoy this story.  The main character is left behind on a Mars mission and must use his wits to survive.  This book is also being made into a movie, starring Matt Damon - I can't wait to see it!

Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones

This magical, light-hearted youth fiction was tough to put down, but that's ok, because it only takes a few hours to read.  It has enchantments, curses, witches, wizards, talking scarecrows, kings, falling stars, smart-mouthed fire, a hat-maker, instant-drying powders, animated walking sticks, three sisters, cream cakes, seven-league boots and, of course, a moving castle.  Charming and inventive, this book is The Hobbit of the tweener generation - it's a pop culture must! There is an anime movie of the same name which I've not seen but about which I've been told two Important Facts: it is River's favorite movie, and while it is based on the book it must be very loosely based, as it bears no resemblance whatsoever.  

A Whisper Become Flesh

I work all day with students in a small room crammed with respiratory equipment surrounding a hospital bed that supports a high-fidelity Human Patient Simulator.  Occasionally there are students who have, to be delicate, abandoned their hygiene and decorum.  In such a confined space this situation can be nearly lethal. I remember, while cleaning out the bilges on the crabbing boat or emptying the "Easter Basket" in the waste treatment plant on the ranch, that there are times when odors become living things, trying to snuff out your fragile light. What is intangible becomes tangible, what should be spirit is incarnated to flesh - you can feel it crawling into your pores, saturating your hair, coating your tongue and glazing your eyeballs.  I survived by taking short gasps through my open mouth and completing my task with inhuman alacrity, ignoring the ringing ears and watery vision while aware that my next few meals were ruined.  Such fish-like antics are considered hurtful to the tender makeup of my pupils so I croaked on, feigning ignorance.  But the next day I bought a large fan and appropriated a warm scented-wax device from home.  Now my small lab smells like pears drenched in vanilla.  And I love it.

A Can of Nonchalance

There are a lot of soda drinkers in my office but no recycling program.  So last month I started one.  I drove to the Municiple Waste Management offices, picked up a bound brick of flat boxes, returned to the office and announced our triumphant new initiative to do our part for the environment. I was met with cheers and backslaps - they were thrilled to "go green"!  I painstakingly built the boxes with their unmistakable triangle of rolling green arrows, lined them with bags I had purchased myself, mapped out the most convenient sites and placed them so they were within ten feet of every person in the workspace.  I placed a list in the kitchen of recyclable vs. non-recyclable items. My heart felt valiant and full as I surveyed my work - we cared!
Four weeks have gone by.  Each morning I arrive early and make the rounds, emptying the little boxes into one large box which I take home when full and place in my own recycling bin.  Each morning my heart empties a little, too.  While the supply of sodas in the fridge keeps dwindling, I'm not finding many cans in the bins. What I do find is:
 - Candy wrappers, both foil and plastic (non-recyclable, says the list).
 - Damp lollypop sticks with one discolored end (non-recyclable).
 - Thin, soiled films from microwaveable meals (non-recyclable - specifically mentioned on the list).
 - Red Solo cups (non-recyclable, on the list)
 - Foam coffee cups (non-recyclable)
 - Sticky notes, usually torn to small bits (recyclable!  And a total pain to remove from the bag).
 - Styrofoam food containers with dessicated lunch remains (non-recyclable).
 - Reams of paperwork that clearly violate the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA).  There are dedicated shredding bins for these, for which we pay a service fee, but they're so far away - at least 30 feet!
 - Paper clips (probably recyclable, but definitely reusable).

I was right - we do care. But for convenience, not conservation.  My heart feels worn and saggy.

City Boys Have Pickup Lines, Country Boys Have Pickup Trucks

The idiocracy has a thrilling new hobby!  It's called "Rolling Coal" and it involves modifying a large diesel engine to produce vast clouds of black smoke, preferably while driving in front of environmentally friendly cars such as the Prius.  This is a hilarious "middle finger" to the snobbish folks who "care about the environment".  Ha Ha!  The environment doesn't need caring about!  It takes care of itself!  See how the black smoke magically goes away?

I've seen this whimsical prank in action, and it is impressive - twin vertical smokestacks that look like they came off a cargo ship belching sulferous thunderheads of hell's halitosis obscuring my vision while I swerve frantically through the darkness convinced the apocalypse has arrived.  What saves me is I can just make out the twinkling metal scrotum dangling from their rear hitch, so I know I'm not alone. It's exciting! While I'm grateful to be included in their frivolity I wish they wouldn't do it - it's so hard on their poor engines and they don't have the money to replace them, which means they'll need government assistance when they're fired from the Jiffy Lube for not showing up.  Maybe they'll use their free time to come up with some new, amazing joke like turning windmills into lawnmowers or using solar panels to start forest fires.  It's nice to see bright young minds turned toward civic responsibility.

What If?

When I was young I often wondered if the world was an elaborate hoax just for me.  For example, the news hadn't really happened, it was simply scripted for me.  No one else was watching the news right then, they were busy preparing for my next move, to make the world as I perceived it real and convincing. Scott Meyer's book Off To Be The Wizard is like that, mixed with The Matrix.  

Martin is a 19-year old computer programmer who discovers a hidden file deep in the bowels of an old telecom drive he hacked into.He quickly realizes that this File is actually the code for all life as he knows it, and he learns to manipulate it.  Following a brush with federal agents he flees with his smart phone, on which he's downloaded the File, to medieval England where he means to dazzle the populace into believing he's the greatest wizard in the world.

Meyer is a fresh, inventive writer along the lines of Ernest Cline (Ready Player One, one of my favorite light reads last year).  His story line is intriguing, fast and fun, seemingly targeted to the young adult male crowd.  If you ever imagined what it would be like to take today's technology into the past, this book is a delightful escapist fantasy, a modern Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.  

The More Things Change....

Just finished a gut-wrenching read, David McCullough's (John Adams, Truman, 1776) Johnstown Flood.  In 1889 over 2000 people were killed when an earthen dam gave way above a heavily populated valley in western Pennsylvania.  It was the most lethal natural disaster in America up to that point.  The book tells of the dam's construction to create a lake for the summer resort of wealthy Pittsburgh industrialists, including steel magnate Andrew Carnegie.  Originally sound, over the years the dam was shoddily maintained and loomed as a perpetual threat to the towns downriver.  After years of false alarms the dam became something of a boogeyman to the residents of Johnstown, a pending calamity no one took seriously.  When, after days of heavy rain it finally gave way, the deluge erased the nearby telegraph poles and railroad track, cutting off any possibility of warning the hapless townspeople, mostly laborers in the local steel mill.  The wall of raging water started ten miles up the valley from Johnstown, gathering debris and momentum in epic proportions on its 30-minute grind to the edge of town; ten minutes later it was almost as if the town never existed.

I found it interesting that in the aftermath, popular sentiment was that the carelessness and imperiousness of the wealthy had caused this devastation. Such blame was low-hanging fruit and tapped into an underlying foment that is easily recognizable today.  Johnston writes, "For despite the progress being made everywhere, despite the growing prosperity and the prospect of an even more abundant future, there were in 1889 strong feelings that perhaps all was not right with the Republic.  And if the poor Hungarians of Johnstown were signs of a time to come when a "hunky" could get a job quicker than a "real American", then the gentlemen of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club were signs of something else that was perhaps even worse.  Was it not the likes of them that were bringing in the hunkies, buying legislatures, cutting wages, and getting a great deal richer than was right or good for any man in a free, democratic society?" . (Loc. 3529, Kindle E-book)  Today's Wall Street protesters would immediately identify with this vilification of the 1%, despite its antiquity.  The survivors understandably forgot that their very existence in the valley was to trade their labor for their livelihood by working in the steel mill, owned by the members of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club.  Today if such an event happened we would be able to warn those in harm's way by calling them on our pocket computers designed and manufactured by, you guessed it, the 1%.  I'm not excusing imperiousness in the 1%, but we in the 99% should not forget that we give them the fertilizer for that character flaw to flourish.

The Johnstown Flood was a tragedy, and like all tragedies there is the compulsion to cast blame - blame takes the edge off our pain, gives direction to our rage. I would argue that blame is a false trail, a blasting at phantoms, a spitting into the wind, "a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing". 'Tragedy' is an epithet for a particularly steep nadir in the perilous path of the human condition; it's just as mysterious and inexplicable as winning the lottery or being born beautiful.  Perhaps it would be wiser to philosophize as Job did: "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord".  Acceptance of our fragile possibilities in light of our Creator's omniscience strikes me as more sensible than futile fury against our "mortal coil"  (as I write here in the comfort of my couch, healthy, employed and sheltered).  

The Johnstown Flood is superbly researched, engagingly written and, as you can tell, thought-provoking; it's well worth your time to be reminded that 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'.