Doing my Duty

Dish duty, that is.

Coordinates

As I research my family history, I often find myself wishing that I had the exact geographic coordinates of the locations of significant events in the lives of my ancestors. Place names change. Rivers are redirected. Roads disappear. This makes visiting places of historical importance very difficult.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that the Internet (and this blog) will be around in some form a hundred years from now. I’m going to make things easier on you youngbloods. Here’s a list of the coordinates of my life.

My birth: 31.777869,-106.480182

The Blueberry House, some of my earliest memories: 31.737986,-106.293992

The Duplex, while my father attended law school: 41.484695,-87.032174

Thomas Jefferson Elementary, which I happily attended: 41.484213,-87.045489

Grandfather’s Smoky Mountain, where I romped: 35.354244,-83.189985

The home of my childhood: 33.566769,-112.095986

The home of my teenage years: 33.706241,-112.13903

The Mission Office: 42.940763,-87.996499

The Mission Home: 42.94235,-88.020672

Appleton: 44.303551,-88.411942

Baraboo: 43.457592,-89.68106

Stevens Point: 44.522626,-89.575141

Lake Mills: 43.081427,-88.905941

Neenah: 44.183096,-88.456682

Milwaukee: 42.955606,-87.983517

Where I met Rachel: 40.257234,-111.655363

The Proposal: 40.233158,-111.630826

The Temple, where we were wed: 33.412825,-111.819654

Virginia is for Lovers, and us after college: 38.841905,-77.074222

If I am still going strong with this record, I’ll update it accordingly. Happy touring, youngbloods!

Ragtime

Do not play this piece fast
It is never right to play Ragtime fast.
–Scott Joplin

That’s as much of a preface as you get for E. L. Doctorow’s Ragtime, but it’s effective. The novel is one you can breeze through: if you’re not careful, you will exit on the other side with little more than an amusing plot line and a vague reminder of history lessons past. Play it slow–soaking in the rhythmic structure and appreciating the character harmonies–and you’ll come out with an accessible masterpiece. In fact, after reading it, I’m of the opinion that it should be required reading for all American Studies students. The talking points are all there, some obvious, others subtle.

Rather than delving into the American Studies core, I’d like to take a moment to highlight an important feature in Doctorow’s writing. While pondering and researching this novel, I came across several people online who were confused or jarred by the abrupt switches between character plots. The common conclusion was, “I guess it’s fine, because the author ties them all together in the end.” Basically, they write the transitions off as sloppy form, redeemed by a palatable story (thank goodness). I think this train of thought is a mistake. A big one. Here’s why.

From Wikipedia:

The defining characteristic of ragtime music is a specific type of syncopation in which melodic accents occur between metrical beats. This results in a melody that seems to be avoiding some metrical beats of the accompaniment by emphasizing notes that either anticipate or follow the beat (“a rhythmic base of metric affirmation, and a melody of metric denial”). The ultimate (and intended) effect on the listener is actually to accentuate the beat, thereby inducing the listener to move to the music.

If you listen carefully, Doctorow plays a literary ragtime using his characters. He presents–for your entertainment–a handful of interesting figures with intriguing stories and leaves it to the reader to determine which plots belong to the melody and which belong to the metrical beat. This realization begs the question–who is what?

My theory is that the fictitious characters–the family, Coalhouse Walker, Jr., Ashkenazy and his daughter–serve as the melody. The reader is keenly aware of their plot lines arching above all others. Theirs is the climax. They have our attention. Taking a step back, this melody seems a little odd considering the other characters involved–dynamos such as Harry Houdini, Henry Ford, J. P. Morgan, Evelyn Nesbit, Emma Goldman, etc. etc. etc. Surely these bastions of progress and influence would take center stage in whatever stories they crop up. But no, such is not the case in Ragtime. These characters and their appearances form the beat, the comping chord progression, assuming what some readers might consider a background role.

It is important to note here that these characters are no less significant, powerful, or compelling for their being the beat. They’re no less crucial to the music for providing the rhythm. In fact, some (including myself) would argue that the role makes them even more critical to the success of the piece than the melody. They are not so much the background as they are the backbone. They determine the speed and direction of the work; the melody is at the mercy of their whim. They provide the context for the melody. The melody can be stripped, rewritten, replaced, even improvised, but it will ultimately be defined by that rhythm section.

Chords progress and melodies must change, anticipating and following the beat. Ragtime–the book, the music, and the country it represents–moves us, precisely for this reason.

Challenge 2: Zombie Invasion

At this moment, the area you’re in is suddenly ravaged by zombies. With the internet and phone lines cut off, all you have at your disposal are things in your room. What sort of strategies do you use to get out? How do you see things differently now that they can be used for your survival?

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I knew this was coming. Maybe not in the form of zombies, but for the last year or so I’ve had this lingering feeling of vulnerability to some unknown, far-reaching, panic-inducing catastrophe of the future. Of all the TEOTWAWKI scenarios out there, zombies were the most laughable. No realistic prepper really took a zombie threat seriously. Economic collapse, massive electromagnetic pulses, supervolcanos–sure, everyone’s got their pet apocalypse, but zombies were reserved for teenagers who watched too much TV and gamers living in their parents’ basements.

And even those who subscribed to the zombie hype of the early 21st century couldn’t have predicted the way it actually developed. It was a parasite, yes: they got that much right. From what Scott and I read online and on social media before everything went blank, the parasite didn’t induce some physiological craving for human flesh–some comic book cannibalism.  Instead, the parasite initiated severe and simultaneous cases of amnesia, schizophrenia, paranoia, and aggression, combined with a neural anesthetic capable of blocking almost all pain signals. In a matter of minutes, the infected would lose all sense of identity, reason, and control, and attempt to destroy their surroundings regardless of pain.

It spread with lightning speed, which was surprising, considering that the parasite was only transmissible from direct contact. Major city centers overshadowed in mere hours. That was the last Scott and I heard. Really just a couple tweets and articles online. Enough to convince us of the reality of the situation, but not enough to give us fair warning.

We’ve assessed our situation. In the movies, there are always big crowds of people running around in crazed abandon. Cars bumper-to-bumper along the major roads, laying on their horns and trying, in vain, to inch their way around the vehicle in front of them. Our situation is similar. While the traffic is just as horrendous (and worse, a small handful of idiots trying to smash their way through), the drivers actually seem strangely calm, as if the enormity of the catastrophe has yet to sink in. Just sitting in their idling cars, waiting their turn. Scott, me, and most of the boat workers in the building have realized that we’re not getting anywhere by car. Everyone else has left.

At the moment, there are two camps in the building. Some people want to stick around, fortify the boatyard, and wait this thing out. After all, we’re in the nation’s capital; someone is bound to come to our rescue if we just take the proper precautions and sit tight.

The second camp wants to leave. They’re talking about heading to the Potomac, finding a boat, and putting out to water until everything calms down. It’s only a mile away, they argue, and if all else fails they can sail along the coast or up river until they find a safe place to dock.

Either way, the boatmen have invited Scott and I to join with them.

We’ve turned them down. We’ve decided to head south toward the church building on King Street. If we can make it that far, we might be able to rendezvous with other church members and receive further instruction. Hopefully, I can convince some men to mount a search-and-rescue operation to locate and secure family members–including Rachel. If not, I’ll go out alone.

But first things first–we’ve got to get to the church building. We need water and weapons. Food is not so important at this stage. We simply need to move fast. The boatmen are okay with us leaving, but they don’t want us to take any of their stuff if we’re just going to go crazy and die.

That leaves us with…not very much. After all, we work for a tech start-up. I’ve got my backpack, a small bicycle wrench, a Tupperware container of pinto beans, a cheap metal fork, a hand towel, and a bottle of surface cleaner. I’m debating whether to take my laptop or to leave it here. On the one hand, I’d need it if this disaster is short lived. On the other hand, it would have limited practical use to me if we’re thrust back a century by a devastating long-term outbreak.

I’ll take it. My backpack is super light, anyway. Almost empty. Scott doesn’t really have anything more to add to our inventory, just the same sort of stuff. This trip will have to be all about speed. Using the wrench, we were able to unscrew a couple heavy steel legs from our desks–those will be the extent of our protection. I transferred the beans to a plastic grocery bag, and we filled our Tupperware containers with water, tying them shut with headphone cords and power cables. We stash the towel in a pocket, just in case we get injured and need a bandage, and stow the cleaning solution in my pack, as well. No idea if a common alcohol-based disinfectant can stem the parasite, should we come into contact, but it’s better than nothing.

I almost forgot–I have an old urban and wilderness survival book with me! No, I really do. I bought it from a library sale cart for a dime, to keep in the car and to read in the bathroom. Nothing about zombies, but some useful information nonetheless.

I’ve just noticed that the car horns have gone quiet, only to be replaced by shouting. Lots of shouting.

Time to go.

 

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I’ve never really been a zombie fan. The movies are too gory and the stories are too fantastic. By “fantastic,” I mean “removed from reality.” I’m glad I didn’t have to write about an actual encounter with a zombie.

Topic aside, the more I read what I wrote, the less I like it. There’s something about my writing that I don’t like very much, but I just can’t put my finger on what it is. Maybe I’ll open this electronic record to the world so I can get some ideas. But maybe I’ll wait till I get some more content.

 

 

The Sabbath

See? It happened. I missed a day. I was pretty sure it’d happen one of these days.

Yesterday I worked for the better part of the day on my family history, tracing family members through federal and state censuses. I think I found some good stuff, though. My approach to family history work right now is not so much discovering new information as it is confirming old information. I’m grateful for the diligence of my family members in searching out our ancestors; unfortunately, there are precious few sources cited. No sources=unreliable. Sourceless information might fly for the casual genealogist, just looking to do his duty for a merit badge or a Sunday School lesson, but I want to do more. I want to do actual history work. These people were real and they are worth it. I look forward to meeting them in the next life. I understand that some of them struggled through their lives here; I want to ease their pain. I want them to have full access to the Atonement so that they can move forward in their eternal journey. I love them, though I have not met them. I feel for them. Whatever faults they had–they must have done some things right, because I am here, and I have a happy and comfortable life. I want to share that with them. I want to invite them into my home for games and dessert and tell them how much I love them.

In the evening, Rachel and I set up the projector and watched the Diamondbacks play the Dodgers. The Diamondbacks lost, but I enjoyed watching them. Most of the time I can only listen on the radio.

Today’s been a great example of the Sabbath. I woke up feeling very Saturday; I decided to listen to church music while I cleaned the house. The music did a great job bringing the Sabbath into my heart, as did the clean apartment. When Rachel gets home here in a few minutes, we’ll build a cake for a dinner thing we’ve got going on tonight, then I’ll go off home teaching, get home taught, go out with the missionaries, go to church, then off to the dinner thing. I’ve been grateful for the morning though. I love the Sabbath.

Before Rachel gets back, I’m going to include the recipe for the Texas sheet cake. This is one of the few recipes that I liked enough to cook myself before I got married. Don’t worry, it’s probably the only recipe you’ll ever encounter here. I’m mainly including it here because I have only one copy written down, and I don’t want to lose the cake forever if the hard copy gets lost or destroyed. The recipe came from a Texan woman in one of the wards I served in while in Wisconsin. Authenticity, everyone.

Texas Sheet Cake

Cake Instructions	Ingredients
1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees; grease baking pan. 2. Mix butter, water, sugar, cocoa; bring to boil. 3. Blend with flour. 4. Beat eggs, add baking soda. Mix it all. *Make sure to add buttermilk and vanilla. 5. Should be thin; pour in pan. 6. Bake 10 minutes; pour frosting on, continue baking for 5 more minutes.	2 cups flour 2 cups sugar 1 cup butter 1/4 cup cocoa 1 cup water 2 eggs 1/2 cup buttermilk 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon vanilla

Frosting Instructions	Ingredients
1. Melt butter, add cocoa. 2. Add half the milk. 3. Add powdered sugar. Keep warm. 4. Add the rest of the milk.	1 stick butter 1/4 cup cocoa 6 tablespoons buttermilk 1 pound (4 cups) powdered sugar

 

 

Truckaroo

Time to recap an adventure. Earlier this week we were invited to go with a group of friends to TRUCKEROO, D.C.’s premier food truck festival. I had my reservations. With food trucks, you usually pay a lot of money for small quantities of an inferior product. Your eating is mostly done on your feet with one hand. The upside is that the food comes to you. By my train of thought, then, making a trip to a food truck eliminates the upside. Unless you make it an adventure.

We concocted an awesome plan. We’d ride our bikes to the Metro station, where I’d drop Rachel off. She’d Metro into work, as usual, while I biked to my work. After I finished work, I would bike to the venue, meeting Rachel there (she’d Metro). After we were done fooding, I’d bike all the way back to the original Metro station. Rachel would Metro back. We’d collect her bike and ride home (into the sunset). It was a good plan.

We got up excited for our adventure. One street into it, and we realize this journey was not going to work out so well. See, when I drew up our route, I picked a route that would take us on quiet residential streets to avoid the stress of competing with traffic. I thought I had circumvented the hills, which–as it turns out–was not the case. Have you ever climbed K2? We have. In fact, we biked half of it first. Also, I didn’t know K2 was in our neighborhood! Anyway, we walked a lot, and were a few minutes later than normal; nothing horrible, just longer than we were expecting.

I biked over to work and we continued our day as we normally do. Adventure, continued.

I began the ride to the festival making really good time. I had already covered roughly half of the distance in about fifteen minutes. Excellent timing. I took a short water break by Gravelly Point, and continued. Things got stressful after Gravelly Point; I began to encounter pedestrians. Crossing the bridge into D.C., I encountered swarms and swarms of tourists, all here to see the cherry blossoms in peak bloom. I think there were more people than blossoms. There were so many that I was obliged to dismount and walk a good distance. It slowed me down a bit, but that was fine because I had made such good timing on the first leg. I walked past the southwest wharf, and found myself caught in the aroma of Friday fish fries. That’s significant, because I’m really not a huge fan of fish. Eventually, the paths cleared and I mounted my bike and rode the rest of the way to the venue.

There were a lot of choices, but I had done my homework and knew which truck I wanted–the Cajunator. I’d had a hankering for Cajun earlier, and the hankering was intensified by the stroll past the wharf. I got in line thinking I would get a shrimp po’ boy; as I approached the register however I heard my mouth say, “Fried catfish, red beans and rice, please.” I had a craving for fish, strange as it seems. Rachel and I agreed to get a cheesesteak at another truck, too, and we could share as we liked.

The catfish was divine. Very good. Hit the spot. The cheesesteak was also very tasty. The red beans and rice didn’t have a lot of taste, but had a little heat, so they were okay; they were more of a filler anyway. All in all, a success. We had good company, too, which is always a plus.

Then we began our trip home. The sky was threatening rain, so rather than biking to the Metro, I hopped aboard with Rachel and my bicycle, and we rode the Metro back to the Metro. I should probably use their real stop names, but it’s late and I’m tired. Why am I tired, you ask, if I rode the Metro? We still had a two mile trip home from the original Metro. We walked half, rode half, and made it home tired, but happy.

I love Rachel and the good attitude she brings on our adventures. She’s a trooper and I’m blessed to have her.

Tortilla Roller

Every now and then I come up with an awesome idea for an invention. These inventions aren’t pie-in-the-sky contrivances; they’re real ideas with real possibilities and real benefits. I posted last week about my idea for an LDS hymnbook chord app; here’s another one I’ve been working on: a flour tortilla machine.

I love making eating homemade flour tortillas.  They’re simple, quick, cheap, and tasty. There’s one problem–rolling them out is hard work. By the end of a batch, my hands are on fire. “Hey Aaron, why don’t you use a tortilla press? They make those, you know.” Yeah, I know. Those presses, however, are designed for corn tortillas. If you try to use one for flour tortillas, you’re going to be eating your tacos and burritos with a kind of flatbread.

Surely, I thought to myself, there must be some way of rolling these tortillas mechanically. Turns out, there is. A couple days ago we tried rolling out tortillas using a pasta machine. The machine allows you to crank the dough through double rollers set at variable thickness. We set up the machine and whipped up a batch of dough. It worked. Kinda.

When we put the dough through at optimal thickness, we get smalls tears in the dough. The tortillas cook just fine, but if you’ve got juicy filling (or hot sauce or refried beans or whatever), the juices will seep out through the small tears.

Now, it might just be an error with the dough for that particular batch. I’m not super exact when mixing the dough; there’s a lot of playing by ear, as it were. We’ll try it a few more times and see if the tearing persists. If it’s not the dough, I’ve got another theory. As I mentioned before, the pasta machine works on a double-roller crank system, meaning, both rollers turn in on each other when the shaft is cranked. Make one of those rollers free-spinning, I think, and you’ll have a smooth flour tortilla. The dough is no longer subject to two, somewhat conflicting, forces. Oh, and while we’re at it, I’d expand the roller length beyond six inches (the standard length for pasta machines) for larger tortillas.

I’d like to invent this independent double roller crank system when I’ve got the tools, time, and shop. There’s no kitchen gadget out there that does this–totally blue ocean. We’ll make millions. Millions, I say.

Oh, and for those of you thinking of stealing this idea from me–don’t do it. You’ll never get it right. You’ll squander your family’s fortune and good name. You’ll look back on your life with wonder and regret and rue the day that you chose to act Prometheus.

Challenge 1: Location Location Location

Where are you? Your room? A hotel lobby? the top of a burning building? In the finest detail possible, describe everything you possibly can, from the sound to the smell to the temperature. Be extremely specific.

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“I like the name Lloyd.”

There was a pregnant pause (apt, considering the topic), then Cory, Dad, and I looked at each other and erupted in laughter.

“Lloyd? Wait, really?”

“Lloyd–as in, if it were said in Spanish, it’d be pronounced ‘Yoyd’?”

“Hey Yoyd! Yoyd! Come over here, Yoyd!”

The name got funnier the more we said it. We were all in a lighthearted mood as we discussed names for Cory’s firstborn, and Travis’ suggestion shot the conversation to a climax, cementing it as one of those happy memories of days gone by. Good thing, too.

A week later I found myself paying sixty-seven dollars a night for a run-down room at a Days Inn, a couple thousand miles away from the happy basement apartment in Provo. Virginia was beautiful, but I was homeless. I thought of Jesus Christ, when he said in a moment of disclosure, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” I was on a strict hotel budget, and had to find a “where” to lay my head–fast.

This “where” needed to be a special “where”, too. It needed to be free of pests. It needed to be within the limits of our worst-case-scenario-live-off-one-salary budget. It needed to be in a decent area of town. It needed to be close to my job (which didn’t actually have an address) and close to Rachel’s job (which didn’t actually exist yet). To complicate things, there are hundreds of apartment complexes in Northern Virginia.

Still, armed with mighty prayer and my best Han Solo never-tell-me-the-odds attitude, I picked a dozen potential apartments and started my search.

I turned off the highway onto a road called Glebe*. Say it with me, out loud. Glebe. Say it again, three times, sped up. Glebe Glebe Glebe. Now turn the corners of your mouth down in a tight frown, and say it again. glebe glebe glebe glebe glebe. I get a chuckle out of that every time!

Anyway, Glebe led to Valley Dr., which split off to Tennessee Ave., and  there, rising above the treeline, was the first option. The complex consisted of  a series of three-story, boxed, red brick, postwar structures. I pulled into the parking lot and stepped into the office. A nice, younger lady with a hijab and a pleasant face greeted me and took me on a tour of the basic one-bedroom apartment. It had a simple layout. Nothing fancy. Within our budget. The apartment had no washer/dryer. No dishwasher. Tiny closets. Tiny kitchen. No tiny garbage disposal in the tiny kitchen. Window unit A/C. Radiators that looked as if they were forged in the same era as P-51 Mustangs. Gas stove. Wood floors. Beautiful wood floors. New cabinets in the tiny kitchen. Fast Internet. An elementary school next door. Graduate students and police officers as neighbors. Well-kept flowers throughout the grounds. A gurgling, bike-pathed stream just down the road. A charming, expensive neighborhood just up the road. A chapel ten minutes away.

I sat on a bench just outside and looked around, taking in the early summer sun and my surroundings. Could I live here? Could I bring Rachel here? Could we make a home here? As if in answer, a cardinal swooped down from a gently breezing tree and lighted on the rough wood fence in front of me.

I pulled out my phone. “Rachel, I think I found it. Yeah, on the first try–I know, I know–but it’s perfect. I really feel that this is it. The name? Oh, right–it’s called…

…Lloyd Apartments.”

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Going back and reading this, I realize that I didn’t quite follow the prompt. I meant to, but I got sidetracked. I can see how that could be a good thing, and I can see how that could be a bad thing. If it were a classroom assignment, I might not have done so well. But it’s not, and I’m okay with it. Again, this is the first attempt.

*In case you were wondering (as I was), from Wikipedia:

In the American colonies of Great Britain where the Church of England was the established church, glebe land was distributed by the colonial government and was often farmed or rented out by the church rector to cover living expenses. The Reformed Church also provided glebes for the benefit of the pastor. The Reformed Church continued this practice through at least the 1850s. In some cases, like Glebe Road in Arlington County, Virginia, the roads that bear this name once ran past a church glebe property.

The Occasional Prompt

I mentioned waaay back (okay okay, just a few days ago) that one of the purposes of keeping this daily blog was in the hopes that I’d become a better writer. To help me with this, and also to aid me when I can’t think of anything or life is a bit flat (but seriously, folks, when’s that ever going to happen?) I’ll occasionally pull from the prompts on this little site. I’m sure there are plenty of prompt-generators out there, but I’ll just use this one because it popped up when I needed it. Don’t expect me to hold to order, or even to hold too strictly to the prompts (there are some that I don’t approve of). Just looking to develop a bit.

In the meantime, here’s a picture of a wagon.

The Secret Garden

Now that I’m done with it, I’m pretty sure that I’ve read The Secret Garden before. Dang. Oh well, it was a timely choice, considering the season. The book wasn’t on my To Read list, but it’s been a while since a trip to the library and it’s what I had on-hand.

The Secret Garden is a nice book for younger readers looking to get a start in classic literature. The metaphors are fairly simple (the most obvious being growth, life, and regeneration) and the prose is actually quite good. Every now and then I caught a small part of me–a VERY small part of me, VERY deep inside, mind you–wishing, as Mary does, for “a bit of earth.” I found the Yorkshire accents charming and the addition of the Pan-type Dickon is an elegant classical nod.

The character that I found most interesting this time around was that of Archibald Craven, master of Misselthwaite. I wish that Burnett had explored deeper into his character–it could have provided an ancillary complexity much appreciated by more mature readers. The range of emotions that Mr. Craven represents is tremendous. True love. Despair. Madness. Isolation. Recovered joy. The man’s last name is a heavy-handed and perpetual reminder of his fatal flaw: cowardice. The problem with Archibald Craven’s backbone is not that it is hunched or crooked: the problem with Archibald Craven’s backbone is that it is non-existent. He has no spine. Mr. Craven is afraid to face the world without the woman he loves, afraid to experience that same familial love with his son for fear that he might experience that same soul-wrenching grief at Colin’s “inevitable” death. He is not an unloving father; he is simply ruled by fear, and subjection to that master leaves Mr. Craven in a never-ending state of depression.

That is a powerful and familiar tableau.

Additionally, I would like to have seen the redemption of Mr. Archibald Craven. I would have like to see him face his fear in a much more deliberate and methodical way, rather than ambiguously following a “dream” to the garden and unceremoniously stumbling upon the children at play.

I would like to have seen the craven transformed into the king’s son, as in “Opportunity,” by Edward R. Sill:

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle’s edge,
And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel —
That blue blade that the king’s son bears — but this
Blunt thing—!” He snapped and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

In every age, there are great causes to be saved. I believe  the Archibald Cravens of the world have the power to rise up and hew their enemies down in courage and valor.