Tag Archives: Random Randomness

Ouch.

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On Friday I got the second shingles shot. That evening I felt fine, aside from the usual “stick needle in arm muscle” soreness. That night I slept poorly, in part because the arm hurt, in part because I felt over warm. Come the morning, I was sore and stiff, and had to stretch and work more kinks out of the joints and muscles than usual. So I decided the best defense was a good offense, and did battle with weeds, dead rose canes, and so on. I made myself use both arms. It helped, although I was still sore and stiff. The hot shower after the work felt wonderful. Even so, eighty percent was the most I was going to reach.

By the time to go to brunch came around, my brain was as foggy as a London Particular. Food helped, but I dragged through the rest of the day, feeling warm. Then in the evening, I had to put on a fleece jacket, because I was suddenly cold.

Guess who had a very active immune response to the second shot? Yo. Guess who probably should have gone a wee bit easier in the morning? I’m not saying I was working hard, but my pulse stayed up for most of the hour, and despite wearing a light shirt and unlined canvas jacket at 36 F, I was nice and warm, almost sweating, after only about twenty minutes.

Once again, we see the triumph of determination and enthusiasm over good sense. Later, after returning triumphant from a trip to the native plant greenhouse, I carried buckets of water around the house and watered roses as well as other things.

They followed me home. I guess I have to keep them – rosemary, dianthus, salvia. Pinstemon will follow in a few weeks.
Iris art shot.

The rose was not supposed to grow into the maiden’s bower. Neither one read the garden book. You wouldn’t know that I took out half of the maiden’s bower two weeks ago.

Ouch.

On Sunday morning, the cat marched in, hopped up onto the bed, and stepped right on the sorest place on my arm. Then meowed in my ear. No, he did not get a flying lesson, but I contemplated it.

Just Call Me Loris …

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because I’m slow.

I was moving large totes of stuff out of the storage unit to the house, sorting things, and then returning the “keeper” stuff to the storage unit. The boxes varied between 15 and 50 lbs. I carried each one from the unit to the truck, then the truck to the house. Some were “just awkward.” Others were heavy. Once they were repacked, they weighed even more (less stuff, but fewer boxes).

Moving them from the house to the truck to the storage unit … seemed a bit daunting.

Then I remembered the rolling dolly. We’d used it once to move things, but it had no steering mechanism, and when boxes were stocked a few feet tall, it proved almost impossible to steer easily and caused more frustration than benefit. It was easier just to carry the boxes, so the dolly got tucked into a corner.

However, when you put one large tub or box on the dolly, and take advantage of a little slope on the outside of the wing of the storage unit to hop the doorsill, the dolly worked great. It saved my back and the rest of me a lot of wear and frustration. I couldn’t use it at the house, but the distance was shorter and I had someone to open the outside door for me. Not so at the storage unit.

Yes, I can be very, very s-l-o-w when it comes to making my own life easier.

I Watch It For The Flowers: Thoughts on Golf and Topography

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I finally took time to sit down and watch the end of the Masters Tournament this past weekend. I glanced up and saw the 12-14th holes, where all the azaleas are … SIGH. All they need is water, and cool temps, and acid soil, and water. And the golf was pretty good, too. I know enough to appreciate the skill required to play Augusta National and similar courses. MomRed likes Augusta, but really loves the British Open, especially if the weather is not great. The golfers are battling sand traps that need ladders to get in and out of, horizontal misty rain, and rough that eats caddies as well as balls.

Golf developed in Scotland, which is probably why it uses land even the sheep couldn’t do much with. If you look at the oldest Scottish and English courses, they are on glacial moraines. You flatten a few spots, trim some of the grass (the “greens”), and scrape other grass off the local soil (sand traps) and behold, a golf course! Things have changed over the years, but the same combo of rises and falls, shaggy and clipped grass, sandy holes (or water, or both), and meandering paths remains a standard for most courses. Oh, and trees, where trees actually grow.

The house in Omaha backed up to a golf course and creek (in a ravine), so I had a view of the sward. A hole in the fence allowed access in winter, when we neighborhood kids would go sledding on a little corner of the course. I assume the owners knew we were there, and since we didn’t hurt anything or get hurt ourselves (this was the days before lawsuits), they ignored us. Who was going to use the course with two-three feet of snow on the ground? Come the thaw, we retreated to the gully and stayed off the course. Sledding hills are no fun in June.

None of my family played golf, but we watched it on TV sometimes, mostly for the scenery, and because some of the players were really nice guys. Arnold Palmer, Lee Trevino, Payne Stewart of the magnificent plus-four trousers, they set a standard for behavior and charity that my family approved of. And some courses are lovely. Others have fun stuff like the occasional alligator to add moments of mild interest.

The topography of golf never occasioned much thought until I was reading one of John McPhee’s books about landscape, and the geologist he was with pointed out how moraines became golf courses. Having seen that part of Scotland in person, it makes excellent sense. Now, the part about chasing a little ball with a bent stick, and trying to get said little ball into the hole in as few “thwacks” as possible … Well, golf was popularized by Calvinists, which explains a great deal. 😉

Brain Drained, Come Back Tomorrow

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Between the material I taught, all the administrative work I had to do*, and household things, the blog had to wait. For those filing tax returns and making payments (US tax day for those not doing quarterlies or on a different schedule), I have felt your pain. Few non-profit** groups deposit checks as promptly as does the US government.

*Why an international group based in the US can’t allow you to consolidate three pages of paying for things into one page I do not understand. Everywhere else allows you to say, “I’m paying for this, and this thing, and these fees,” all at once. But no, not this group.

**”Non-profit?” When was the last time the US government earned more than it spent? I rest my case.

Pretty much This …

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I’m not a foliage fan.

I do eat it, sometimes of my own free will, usually with a lot of other stuff to hide the leafy greens. Some days are too stinkin’ hot to mess with cooking, so making a salad with cheese, boiled eggs (kept on hand for this kind of thing), bacon bits or canned chicken, and so on is called for.

But I prefer animal protein, legumes, dairy, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, and almost anything else over … lettuce. The “wedge salad” of 1/4 Iceberg lettuce, with ranch dressing … The horror, the horror.

Leafy greens are good for me. Darker greens are good for me. I don’t have to like them.

Penned In, Sort of

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I was thinking back to last December, and my visit to Downtown Dallas. It reminded me why I prefer people-scale places. Humans build up when out is not an option, for what ever reason. It might be the need to shelter within city walls. It might be because taxes are based on the square footage of the ground floor, so people stack spaces (and hang the next floor a wee bit over the ground floor, and again, and again …). In other cases, people want to stay where their ancestors were, and if the ancestors’ remains are under the floor, and the family grows, well, you add an additional level. If the topography and climate require, the ground floor is sacrificial storage because of floods, and the upper floors are for business, then living, then servants’ quarters and then storage of valuable stuff. Downtown Dallas went up because you could get more office and store space in the sky than on the ground (hemmed in already).

The result of the post WWII explosive growth of the city’s business community was … depressing after a certain period of time. Everything is closed by ten PM, or earlier, aside from a few restaurants and bars. Loud vehicles and loud voices echo, hollow and inhuman, vaguely threatening in the night. The older, attractive buildings are concealed by metal, glass, stone, and cement towers that loom, windows dark, facades blank and empty of the human touch. The people out on the streets either hurry to reach their destination of elsewhere, or prowl the night seeking something that might be prey, or might be a way out of the mental world they inhabit (alcohol or other chemicals). A few have already sent their minds out of this reality for the evening, and call, sing, shout, and spook passers by. The people working in the area move briskly intent on avoiding trouble while collecting the trash or returning from parking a car or two. Cold wind swirled bits of paper and dust, chasing south-bound cars and pedestrians.

I felt hemmed in. Even if I wanted to go out and roam a little, see if I could find the famous old landmark buildings in downtown Dallas, I could not have seen them. They hid in the forest of facades. I didn’t know the territory, had no map, and dared not be distracted from keeping track of the other people moving in the night. I stayed put, penned in even though nothing tied me to the hotel. This wasn’t my place. I”m not a city mouse, can’t read the hazards enough to know who belonged and who did not. Besides me, that was. I did not fit there.

The scale of modern downtowns is superhuman to the point of masking humanity. Steel, glass, stone reflect sound and light, bouncing them back and forth hundreds of feet into the air. Everything imposes on the spirit rather than celebrating it, or so it feels. The point is to look out, or down, not meet eye to eye, so to speak. Towers without the gracious details of art deco or the prairie style of the early 20th century discourage looking and loitering. They are for business, and if you don’t know what that business is, or have a role in it, the place is not for you. When night comes, they empty and loom, silent and dark, lairs of … Who can tell?

Fire codes, cost of real estate, reducing places for vandalism, the problem of keeping shops and grocery stores and schools in downtown areas so that residential and business mix, they all play roles. Americans never got used to living at their work, and having a house with a yard was an ideal that many people could attain in the 1900s. So city centers became business-focused, not blended like some stayed in Europe and Britain. With hight came prestige, so sky-scrapers went up, and up, and up, where the local geology and technology permitted. The result over time? “Concrete canyons,” and a place that feels less and less people-oriented.

It’s Not Stealing, It’s Inspiration

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I’d sung it but not in German. Which made absolutely no sense, because I’ve never done Brahms in English. Except …

OK, to back up, rewind, and so on. One of the groups I sing with was working on the first movement of the Brahms German Requiem. It is not a true Roman Catholic requiem, but was inspired by the ideas and sense of the Roman Catholic Mass setting. So the first movement begins with (in German), “Blessed are those who mourn.” The second movement begins with “All flesh is as grass and our days are cut off as flowers of the field,” but becomes more lively and cheerful as it describes how the mourners will be comforted, until they come with rejoicing to the blessed place (which is described in the fourth movement). The ending is a fugue, a fancy round, focusing on the words “come with rejoicing,” or “kommen mit Jauchtzen.” It dances and bounces back and forth among the voices before resolving into a big Brahmsian chord. Start at 9:45.

As I’m studying the music, and listening to two other voice parts “woodshedding” the section, I kept thinking, “I’ve sung this, in English.” Except I have only done this composition in German. What was I hearing in my head? Something about dancing, and coming into the presence of the-

Ah hah! Randall Thompson’s Peaceable Kingdom, the end of the final movement. “As when one goeth with a pipe/ to come before the mountain of the Lord.” It is a close parallel, not stolen but inspired by, using a slightly different text, and a capella.

And the Thompson, at 3:10.

Thompson borrowed from Brahms, Renaissance motets, and perhaps others. Just like other composers borrowed themes, or chord patterns, or “put fugue here,” and still do. After all, when you have eight notes, plus sharps/flats, well, there’s going to be overlap.

Pajamas, Turn Signals, and A Little Too Casual?

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Since 2020, drivers seem to be less careful about red lights, lane changes, using the left turn lane for passing, and occasionally assuming that the red light doesn’t apply to them. Also since 2020, I see more people wearing pajamas, or “pajama-print” clothing out and about. Not just dropping kids off at school, but going to lunch, in the grocery store in late afternoon, at the bank. Is there a cultural connection? Not directly, but I wonder if life has gotten a little too casual, or the broader culture has.

Formality is fading. The local symphony has stopped wearing white-tie, and choruses have dropped black tie, because the last tux rental place in town closed, and most people around here don’t own a tuxedo or white-tie and tails. “Casual Friday” is no longer exceptional, although people are still arguing over what is too casual. Dressing up to travel faded out in the 1990s, and really declined after 2000, to the point that airlines have returned to having dress codes for safety and to reduce problems with passenger behavior. Clothes are less tailored, and language feels less formal as well. Granted, this is not always a good thing when clarity is lost along with “rigidity,” but the older forms of speech and writing seem to be vanishing.

Casual has a pejorative sense, or used to, when talking about someone who was hired for a day and probably not reliable. The original Latin implies that something is by chance, not deliberate, which fits some forms of clothing (and driving). “I just threw it on,” can be self-depricating, or a little too accurate. A casual attitude is still seen as less-than-ideal when applied to driving a car, or other safety-related matters.

Too comfortable can also suggest a lack of consideration for others. Granted, “Don’t worry about what other people think, be yourself,” has a place, especially for kids trying to sort out who they are, and those of us on the odd an variable end of the skill spectrum. However, when we are too comfortable, and too interested in what makes us happy or gets us where we want to be, it means that others come second, or last. I wonder if sloppy-in-public and careless driving are linked in that they both suggest that other people don’t matter. I can wear pajamas to a nice business or restaurant because my comfort matters more than the experience of the people around me. I can jump the light, or run the red, or pass in the turn lane, because my errand and my schedule is more important than other people’s needs.

I’m sure there are a lot of other things going on, and people are analyzing the heck out of everything already. The coincidence of overly-informal dress and chronically poor driving makes me wonder a little, though.

Happy Mathematically-Named Dessert Day!

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Yes, it is …

Oops … https://frances.menu/apple-pie-squares/
That’s more like it! 3.1415 … https://lotsalittlelambs.com/perfect-apple-pie-filling/

Pi Day. March fourteenth, after the first three digits of Pi.

Cream pi! https://www.walmart.com/ip/Banana-Cream-Pie-Pi-Day-Math-Geek-Student-Funny-Men-Women-Short-Sleeve-Graphic-T-Shirt/19661056120

Let’s face it, Pi day is more fun than Mole Day. Unless you are a chemist.

To Whom Do You Bow?

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A cowboy once replied to an English visitor, “That man ain’t been born yet!” when ordered to fetch his master (employer). “Only to my god,” has also been used, most recently when a martial arts dojo in Sweden was accused of discrimination when it required all students to bow at the start and end of class. Some parents argued that their religion requires students to bow only to their deity and none others. The dojos I’m familiar with all required bowing, no matter the specific discipline, to show respect for the instructors and for the traditions of that particular martial art.

Bowing, in all its forms, has a very, very long history. It shows respect and subordination. The person bowing lowers himself relative to the person, symbol, or image being honored. It is almost as universal as having an empty weapons hand. Bows can be very elaborate, such as the famous pageant bow done in San Antonio and a few other places (head almost touches floor and combines a curtsy and bow) or the “nine bows and prostrations” owed to the emperor of China. Or they can be a simple lowering of the upper body, as is done in Japan, and was done in parts of Europe. Not all ranks bowed at all times, and emergencies or military need could do away with bowing (salute, or just a “sir!”). When the world is ordered by rank and station, knowing who bows to whom, when, and how could keep a head on shoulders, or at least prevent a beating. Or it could be a deliberate insult, with predictable results.

In modern times, aside from Japan, and stage performers, people don’t bow. It is “old fashioned,” or too subordinate and demeaning, or implies formality that younger people (and some older people) prefer to do without. Martial arts dojos and schools are some of the few places that require bowing, often to the national flag, and to the sensei. Before and after a match, students bow to each other. It has nothing to do with religion, and everything to do with mutual respect, and honoring the people who impart knowledge.

Me? I bow to my deity (and/or genuflect as appropriate). When I perform on stage, if it is appropriate for the venue and event. Choirs generally don’t bow like soloists do. Occasionally, often slightly tongue in cheek, to someone I respect and who has a sense of humor. Them I might exaggerate, adding a salam to a curtsy or bow.