a while-working, able-to-change, stable disk herder

A lot of the fun of learning any new language is seeing the ways other folks dress up their thoughts. I recently printed out a few chapters from a server service manual in Turkish, as a masochistic exercise in seeing, once, again, how little I’ve been able to learn in several years of study. But, there are compensations. New words to relish.

Such as, Mikroişlemci. Let’s take that one apart. I’m sure you recognize the prefix, Mikro. İşlem is the Turkish word for work, labor. The agent ending, -ci, means someone who works. Put it all together, and you get a teeny worker – a microprocessor.

Güç is a word frequently encountered in the New Testament. It’s what the disciples were endowed with on the day of Pentecost – force. Power. Might. Kaynak is another good NT word. It’s what Jesus sat beside in the Samaritan city. It’s what bubbles up within those who trust in Him – a well, a spring. Put the words together – güç kayağı – and you have something whose output is measured in watts. A power supply.

Let’s take apart one more expression, just for fun – çalışırken değiştirilebilir sabit disk sürücüsü. This will be a somewhat longer voyage, but come along, and you’ll agree the payoff made the trip worth while. The first word, çalışırken combines the root of the verb “to work,” çalışmak , with the “meanwhile” ending, -ırken. Next, değiştirilebilir means “something that is able to be changed. The –ebil-/-abıl- infix conveys the concept of capability. Sabit means fixed or established.

Ok, let’s go to the end of the sentence and work back. Sürücüsü is derived, first of all, from the word for herd or flock, sürü. Next we find the agent ending again, -cü. Someone whose business is flocks. Finally, we have the possessive ending –sü. (The Turks have a really crazy “belts and suspenders” way of conveying possession, since both the thing possessing and the thing possessed have case endings!) A sürücüsü is, obviously, a shepherd, a driver, a director. The word just before is probably the only one you recognized – disk. Put it all together and we have – a “while-working, able to be changed, stable disk herder.” Or, as we would say in English – a hot-swap hard drive.

And the two dreams were one ...

Portrait of the artist as a middle-aged man

"Calvin and Hobbes" fans recall the poignant final Sunday installment of this incredible series. Boy and tiger contemplate a snowscape, and compare it to a blank sheet of paper, full of new possibilities. "Let's go exploring!" I've used this picture as a desktop on several computers where I sat for temporary assignments.

In retrospect, maybe it's not a good idea to start a job by symbolically saying goodbye.

The monitor here has a different desktop background. It's a Norman Rockwell painting of a middle-aged guy standing in an art museum, contemplating one of Jackson Pollack's spatter paintings. Homage? Or sly dig? I'd vote for the latter. Rockwell can do Pollack, you see, but there's no way Pollack can do Rockwell! Representational art takes training, giftedness, discipline, and a heart for the end user. A real artist has something more important to express than himself. Such as, a respect for the created order, and for the audience. A real artist sees fresh aspects of the world around him, and is eager to help his audience also appreciate those details. Once, at an outdoor art show, Vicky pointed out how the portrait artists were cordial, approachable, down-to-earth folks. The "others" were pompous costumed jackasses, totally full of ... themselves.

So, where is "here?" Well, my desk is a refreshing 5.5 mile bike ride from home, in Building 205, on the campus of the company that made the Research Triangle Park come alive by relocating a few thousand folks from its Armonk, NY headquarters. I am in the pink at Big Blue, surrounded by blue collar craftsmen of the pen.
________________


"The more useful your markup is to you, the more it will cost you, and the fewer people will share the costs."

Food for thought can pop up in the most unexpected places. For example, a company slide show on "the promise and reality of XML" had the preceding comment on tradeoffs.

XML, the "eXtended Markup Language," lets you package information more conveniently for people and computers. You tag your text with labels that describe what it is, and what it's for. Your markups can be useful to others. Or, they can be idiosyncratic, quirky, and exuberantly expressive of your own interests and categories.

I'm reminded of a story Dad told from the wall-to-wall Ohio valley townships of a half-century ago. A couple of them hired a consultant to suggest ways to improve downtown business. "You need more parking spaces," he told the assembled leaders of business and city government. "Shop owners should park behind their stores, so that customers have more room to park on the street." "No way!" one retorted. "I want to be able to keep an eye on my car, to make sure nobody's messing with it." A year or two later, the area's first shopping center opened up -- and the downtown shopowners had lots of room to park their cars.

There's a moral in that story somewhere. Something like Martin Luther's comment that "only Satan, and men controlled by Satan, bear fruit for themselves."

Color Coded Conceit

During my senior year at Ferrum College, I took classes in French and New Testament Greek. Played a little with Anglo Saxon. And dipped a timid toe in the ocean of Turkish.
Somewhere in my goods and chattels is a coffee bag from that conceited era, with crudely lettered vocabulary cards in four colors -- green ink for Turkish, red for Old English, black for French, and blue for NT Greek.

The technique is simple. Cut a 3 by 5 card into 3 or 4 pieces. Write the word or phrase in the target language on one side, in your native language on the other. Flip through the deck, and set the words you recognize aside. Concentrate on learning the unrecognized words. A neighbor, Chris Sanford, refined the technique for me recently. If you don't recognize a word, review it, then slide it back into the deck 10 spaces from the front, so you can soon review it again. If you ALMOST recognize a word, slide it in about halfway back in the deck. Known words go all the way to the back. In a kind of "bubble sort" process, the words you really need to work on work their way towards the top.

This morning, a dream I'd nursed for nearly 30 years reached a milestone. More than a year after starting, I made it through the New Testament in Turkish. With, perhaps, 30% comprehension. A lot of words defined in green ink in the margins, sometimes several times on the same page! Entropy remains an ongoing struggle -- can I push vocabulary words into long-term memory faster than they leak out? Can I increase my daily increment, my page count quota, so as to become a fluent reader within the foreseeable future? This "brute force" approach has worked for me in the past, inside the Indo-European family tree of languages. And the adventure is far from over.

Kendi kendine (he himself sez to himself ...)

It’s when you’re peddling uphill that you notice the flowers beside the road, and hear the birds or frogs singing. Amazing what you can see if you just slow down.

Every time you read the New Testament for the first time again, you’ll notice things that went past in a blur on prior readings. Sometimes, the effort of looking up new words and phrases in your bilingual dictionary jogs loose new connotations. Or, sometimes, seeing novel grammatical constructions several times piques your curiosity.

For example, the Turkish construction kendi kendine can be roughly translate “himself, to himself.” This occurs four times in Luke’s gospel, only once, in Matthew’s, and not at all in Mark or John.

Luka 9: ³⁹İsa'yı evine çağırmış olan Ferisi bunu görünce kendi kendine, «Bu adam peygamber olsaydı, kendisine dokunan bu kadının kim ve ne tür bir kadın olduğunu, günahkâr biri olduğunu anlardı» dedi.

The Pharisee who’d invited Jesus into his house says to himself, “If this man (recognize the word adam?) was a prophet, he’d know what kind of woman was touching him.”

Luka 12: ¹⁷Adam kendi kendine, `Ne yapmalıyım? Ürünlerimi koyacak yerim yok' diye düşünmüş.

The parable of the rich fool. “The man himself says to himself, what shall I do? I don’t have room to store this harvest, he reflects.”

Luka 12: . ^45-46Ama o köle kendi kendine, `Efendim gelmekte gecikiyor' derse ve kadın erkek diğer hizmetkârları dövmeye, yiyip içip sarhoş olmaya başlarsa, efendisi, onun beklemediği bir günde, ummadığı bir saatte gelecek, onu şiddetle cezalandıracak ve imansızlarla bir tutacaktır

Matt. 24: ^48-51Ama o köle kötü olur da kendi kendine, `Efendim gecikiyor' der ve yoldaşlarını dövmeye başlarsa, sarhoşlarla birlikte yiyip içerse, efendisi, onun beklemediği bir günde, ummadığı bir saatte gelecek, onu şiddetle cezalandıracak ve ikiyüzlülerle bir tutacak. Orada ağlayış ve diş gıcırtısı olacaktır.

But the evil slave says to himself, “My master delays his coming,” and goes on to mistreat his fellow servants, and eat and drink with the partiers …

Luka 16: ³«Kâhya kendi kendine, `Ne yapacağım ben?' demiş. `Efendim kâhyalığı elimden alıyor. Toprak kazmaya gücüm yetmez, dilenmekten utanırım.

The parable of the crooked manager – one of my favorites, and most enigmatic. “The steward says to himself, ‘What shall I do? My master is taking away my stewardship. To dig I am not able, and to beg I am ashamed.”

Luka 18: ^4-5«Yargıç bir süre ilgisiz kalmış. Ama sonunda kendi kendine, `Ben her ne kadar Tanrı'dan korkmaz, insana saygı duymazsam da, bu dul kadın beni rahatsız ettiği için onun hakkını alacağım. Yoksa tekrar tekrar gelip beni canımdan bezdirecek' demiş.»

The parable of the cynical judge. “At last he says to himself, ‘Even though I do not fear God or respect men, this widow will wear me out with her continuous seeking after justices.”

Luka 18: ¹¹Ferisi ayakta dikilip kendi kendine şöyle dua etmiş: `Tanrım, diğer insanlar gibi soyguncu, hak yiyici ve zina edici olmadığım için, hatta şu vergi görevlisi gibi olmadığım için sana şükrederim.

The parable of the Pharisee and the publication. “The Pharisee stood on his feet, and spoke to himself praying thus, ‘My God, I think you that I am not as other men..’”

It’s strange, but the people who indulge in these interior monologues are the villains of our Lord’s little stories. The supercilious dinner host. The rich fool. The unfaithful overseer. The crooked manager. The cynical judge. The self-congratulating, posturing “worshipper.” So what are we to learn from this? That endless internal monologues and self-promoting soliloquies are bad for your mental and moral health?

Or maybe Luke, with a deeper awareness of Greek culture, tuned into this aspect of our Lord’s story telling?

What do you all think, folks?

Sometimes, the dragon wins

I faced my annual dragon, the Firecracker 100, newly attired from head to foot. Father's Day had brought a cycling cap into my wardrobe, to replace the raffish bandanna previously worn under helmet. A more dramatic break from tradition, Shimano cleats, adorned the once-smooth soles of my seven year old Shimano shoes. I was finally going "clipless."

I thought Trey at Opsware was exaggerating when he asserted that this mod would add 2 mph to my average speed. He wasn't.

Again, in an effort to beat the heat and the crowds, I started riding a half hour ahead of schedule. One hour and 13 miles later, several hundred sleek Spandexed forms slipstreamed past with the ritual cry of "on your left!"

The day began cool, in the low 70s. The fragrance of Mimosa vied with the rarer scent of crepe myrtle along the ride. I passed nobody -- the one drawback to starting early -- but did move ahead in the pack by shortening my rest stops -- just so they could pass me again. The clipless pedals increased the smoothness and efficiency of my power transfer, and my average mph kept going up, reaching a high of 14.5. And staying there until mile 51, when my kevlar-shielded rear inner tube exploded for cantankerous reasons of its own. The spare inner tube had a hole in it, noon o'clock had arrived, and I thought it was a good time to call it a day, and catch a ride on the sag wagon. The dragon won this time.

That may have been a very wise move. My training this year focused more on interval workouts, with fewer long rides. Maintaining my all-time best pace in the face of a persistent headwind, fueled by adrenalin and endorphines, took more out of me than I'd realized.

But, wait 'til next year!

Born on a Blue Day

Just finished this autobiography/memoir by Daniel Tammet, the English savant. The guy who memorized pi to 22,514 places as a publicity stunt for a charity event. Who learned conversational Icelandic in one week for a TV show. The self-described high-functioning autism case, Asperger's syndrome, who experiences numbers as having distinct personalities, textures, colors.

Born on a Blue Day is a fascinating tour of a strange life, constrained by crippling anxieties, unusual enthusiasms, and awkward cluelessness in social situations. It is only as an adult that Daniel is able to appreciate his parents and siblings, to understand how much they loved him as a difficult child, how much they were willing to put up with to help him achieve a measure of success as an independent adult.

Daniel's testimony to his Christianity in the last chapter is especially intriguing. G. K. Chesterton, another savant who experienced life in a strange and vivid way, opened the doors to faith for Daniel. If your empathy faculties are nearly nil, you treat people with kindness and respect because you know, on an intellectual level, that they are made in God's image.

I do have one reservation about this book. Daniel lives with his boyfriend, and that is a cognitive disconnect. Still, this is a fast read, and a fascinating one. As I told my grandmother, "You should read this. It is interesting."

Rewriting a scholarly paper

I'm finally making progress, with a yellow "legal" pad and pen, outlining and organizing the structure of the paper.

And it just occurred to me -- pursuing a degree online is harder work than doing it on site. So folks say ... and I'm beginning to agree.

Still, this is a worth while endeavor. I'm taking moment out to pray for the other students in this class.

As my sig line asserts, "Everything is possible / I can do all things through Him who empowers me!"

I would appreciate your prayers as well, folks. This thing needs to be done by Monday!

Tom
Tutto posso in colui che mi da la forza!

Can entropy be reversed?

Entropy happens. In the press of daily business, family worship is one of those things that can easily slip out of the schedule. Until you take yourself in hand, and remind yourself of your obligations as husband, father, and head of household, to take your family into the Divine Presence on a routine basis. Then, once again, you might hear your youngest pray with innocent faith for your mother's healing.

Entropy happens. Alzheimer's disease is, as you remind your father, a progressive degenerative disease with healing that normally can be anticipated only in the next life.

Then, you take stock of the most recent visit. Mom, to me, Baba to the girls, was far more alert this time. Making more of an effort to be present. To make sense. At one point, when you nod off in the armchair, you awaken to find her putting a blanket on you, a kindly-meant maternal gesture, even if it's a warm summer day.

Entropy happens. And so, too, do those tiny victories over entropy that those "with the faith of a child" rejoice in as tokens of divine mercy.

Over 50 x 2

I gained 10 lbs. at the start of June, and heartily regretted them last Saturday, as I pushed my over-50 overweight carcass over 50 miles for another sponsored ride, for a worthy cause. The Ice Cream Ride for MS research starts and ends at a local pharmaceutical firm. Gotta tell you -- the salty caramel in the Rabbit Track ice cream really tastes great at the end of four hours in the saddle!

Since the ride started 5.9 miles from home, I went there and back on two wheels. About four miles into the ride, nearly 200 of us blasted down Sedwick Road. Since the Herald Sun was still in the yard, I believe my ladies were asleep at the time ... At this point, the groups had pretty well sorted themselves out, and I cranked along barely ahead of the eschewed final spot. The ride included the ferocious upgrade on Yates Store Road, and the fragrance of flowering mimosas. For the last nine miles, I chatted with a new immigrant from Austin, TX, the CFO of a major local semiconductor firm. (yes, I had my business cards with me. Old Boy Scouts try to "be prepared.")

Oh, well. In another 15 days, maybe I can be in better shape for another Firecracker 100.

Easter 2007 newsletter

Here's our Easter 2007 family newsletter. The subject matter is more serious than usual, since Vicky's dad died last January.


Click here,
for the 310 kb .pdf version with graphics.

Click here
for the 10 kb. .html version, if you are on a dial-up connection.

Home again

Umberto Eco made the first hundred pages of his novel The Name of the Rose deliberately stately in pace, laden with tedious detail. His rationale? Visitors to a whole 'nother world should expect to pay some kind of penance as the price of admission.

The week began hopefully, as the Dodge Caliber I'd rented turned into a Grand Caravan for the same price. In the rush to pack, however, I'd forgotten my blood pressure medication. The first few days were bracketed by a constant low-grade headache and ringing ears. When I finally went to the doctor for an emergency refill, the fickle scales said I'd gained 10 pounds.

Consider me penanced.

This class, my last on campus, alas, was a seminar dealing with the heart of the scholar's task, getting published. Folks pursuing tenure are expected to average two published articles per year over the course of seven years. Since it can take more than a year to push an article through the hoops, the wise aspirante (that's Ukrainian for grad student) tries to keep a number of articles in process at a time.

After several years in the program, we've become aware of the difference between a student and a scholar. A student seeks to generate papers of the required length, each designed to please the professor and cite the textbooks. The "see what a good boy am I" motive prevails. The scholar gets excited about some corner of God's universe, eagerly studies it, and seeks to present it to thoughtful peers in the form of a well-written, well-reasoned, well-supported publication.

After several days dealing with the mechanics of creating professional material, we reviewed on another's papers. This was a painful, but encouraging process. My content is good, it seems, but my presentation is too casual, flippant, lightweight.

Bottom line? I'm finally a grownup, and my reflections deserve to be taken seriously. First of all, by me.

Regent U, Day 2

Actually, this was my first day of class. At day's end, as I walked from the library to the parking lot, I saw a rainbow over the Communications Arts building.

The professor, Dr. Steiner, is a live wire and thoroughly professional. He is relentlessly preaching the gospel of excellence and professionalism in our work. Turns out that the work of critics is more significant than you might think. They are charged with keeping the communicators honest. In theory, at least.

I think my presentation went reasonably well. I discussed using a template to simplify the work of creating documents that conform to the APA standards.

It's a bit of a shock, but I only need to get in three classes after this summer to use up my required 44 classroom hours of doctoral study. When you start a project, the time seems to stretch out indefinitely in front of you.

I'm somewhat abashed by the quality of my fellow students. I'm surrounded by people who are actually "doing the stuff," quite a few college professors aiming for tenure track.

I got Yahoo Instant Messenger set up so that Vicky and I can keep in touch during the day. The last time we spent more than a night apart was in 2000, and it's amazing how the bonds of affection can grow over the decades.

Pippin is also having a hard time of it. This is his first night without me in proximity. This morning, he dashed around the house frantically looking and barking for the alpha dog.

Well, I'm caught up on my reading for this class, but have a ways to go for the other class, Course Design for Online Learning.

Stay tuned!

Day one, on site, Regent U

I'm enjoying my new Dell laptop. It runs Windows XP -- in response to the outraged howls of customers who resented the "cop chip" and software bloat of Windows Vista, Dell resumed offering the older, more refined, and less intrusive operating system. On new computers.

An earlier attempt to purchase a reconditioned HP computer with XP came to naught -- both purchases were snapped up by someone who hit the [Submit] button a second or two before I did.

The wide screen format is nice -- I finally got to watch Stalingrad last night, on this laptop. Grueling, grim, and unpleasant film, by the guys who gave us Das Boote. Now the earlier movie permitted one survivor, the story-teller (c.f. Moby Dick -- "And I alone am escaped to tell thee!") Nobody got out of Stalingrad alive. The armies numbered in the millions. German casualties, killed and injured, 600,000+. 91,000 imprisoned and sent to Siberia, of whom 6,000 survivors came home years later.

The movie starts with proud military people, disciplined young men, sharply uniformed, highly trained, exemplars of all that's deemed praiseworthy in the military culture. By the time they reached the end of the largest land battle in recorded history,[1] the polish and nobility were all gone. All that remained was loyalty to fellow soldiers.
________

A suggestion for occasional "road warriors:" before buying the T-Mobile wi-fi hot spot card, check and see if there's a free hot spot already in place. As I learned too late, the free service was already there -- and had a stronger signal than the service I paid for!

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[1] A necessary qualifier. The Bible indicates major global conflicts in the pre-flood (antedeluvian) world, and there are intriguing hints of prehistoric nuclear warfare uncovered by analyzing isotopes in archaeological artifacts.

Balding Biking Blues

The balding cyclist sallied forth upon his aging bike with a balding tire. This trip ended after 100 feet. A “pop” heard behind him was followed by the rotating dopplering “whoosh whoosh whoosh” indicative of a flattening tire. Eight days earlier, that same tire had conveyed him for 104 miles of a very “strange” ride, rife with colorful Metropolitan Community Church jerseys and zealous for that most politically correct of causes, research to treat a totally preventable disease.

And here's today's story:

Since the Raven Rock Ramble hadn't gotten my registration (there are reasons to declutter your living space!) I signed up for a consolation century the day before, May 5. It started at the State Capital grounds on a cool, misty, overcast Saturday morning. In keeping with the theme of the event (AIDS awareness/education/propaganda), it was a good day for this rider to keep quiet. Still, it was weird to hear a guy talking about “my church” and “my boyfriend.”



Gentler pace overall, and best support this side of the Peanut Festival – every 15 miles or less, except for final 19 mile stretch. The route took us through strange streets in Raleigh, North to Creedmoor, a lovely rural city, then through Orange County to northern Durham. After the first thirty miles or so, I was averaging 13.4 mph.[1] Saw a biplane flying over the lake through the mist. The drizzle turned into a gentle rain as I pedaled a long stretch down East Geer Street. Amazing how many churches we passed.

While standing behind the Motricity fountain near the Durham Bulls Stadium 60-some miles into the trip, I joined up with Beth, whose team had deserted her, and Dave, a recumbent rider. Down University Drive, Hope Valley Road, Barbee, 54, Revere, and Sedwick. Vicky and I may have passed each other unawares at that rest stop. Relished role as native guide and actually saw my shadow on Hopson.



Cary was weird. Hilly, and multiple transits of 54.[2] Final stretch thru a bike path that started behind the Museum of Art had some wretched excess ups and downs. Avg. mph dropped from 13.1 to 13.0 during this stretch. “Are you cold?” “Yes!” “Honest answer!” Decided on KPIC tee shirt instead of performance fabric shirt that day. Down Hillsborough St., to the capital, walked onto the grounds, “Hey, your cell phone is ringing.” No hanging around for hot dogs – straight home for shower and Mr. Wok.

My bike now has a kevlar-reinforced rear tire, the better to resist punctures while rolling along under excess load.

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[1] Handy rule of thumb: see how fast you can ride 10 miles, the subtract 2 mph to establish a good pace for a 100 mile ride. As my dear friend and mentor the late Keith Helmink said, "If you can ride one mile, you can ride ten miles. If you can ride 10 miles, you can ride 100 miles."

[2] I just finished reading How Many Hills to Hillsboro?, a forgettable book I’d wanted to read for decades. A New Jersey family decides to see the country on two wheels, during the late '60s. It's interesting to note how much better our equipment is nowadays. In terms of emotional payoff, however, this book is low-octane when compared to Peter Jenkins' delightful A Walk Across America. Although the "Hillsboro" writer was an associate editor for Guideposts magazine, the name of Jesus never came up, and I saw no references to church attendance or any other religious observances. Peter Jenkins was far more forthright about his pilgrimage. When he insisted that his conversion was the highlight of the whole trek, the senior editor at National Geographic ordered that part of the story included.

A Revelation of Oz

A century ago, money issues filled the headlines. Older citizens recalled the way Lincoln’s greenbacks, fiat paper currency printed up to finance the war between the states, had generated a fraudulent illusion of wealth. Although the reappearance of the gold standard had paved a safe highway for business, a bombastic orator known as "the lion of the prairies" crusaded for a bimetallic standard. Silver, he said, would provide the way home to a longed-for era of security.

Even if you don’t know the political trends L. Frank Baum satirized so gleefully, The Wizard of Oz is still a fun book to read. Dorothy’s slippers were silver, you see.

Strange thoughts cross your mind when you worship with an active imagination. As I joined our church in hymns that magnified the One who sits upon the throne to receive worship from humanity, and from all of creation, I thought of another book, a book of the Bible that can be exegeted as a worship service. A book that dealt with political trends of its own day – an arrogant empire, suffering from the political chaos of wars of succession. An apostate people who’d once known God’s favor, but decided instead to throw in their lot with that empire. A desperate remnant, struggling to deal with pressure from pagans and apostates on the outside, and corroding corruption inside its own doors. A mad emperor, named by name in a clever anagram.

You don’t need to know the historical background of the Book of Revelation to enjoy its celebration of the reigning and conquering Messiah. But knowing the context does add depth, richness, and joy to the worshiping saint’s experience.

(for the record -- 90+% of John's Revelation was current events to its first readers, and is ancient history to us now.)

The Chauffer's Tale

As a little purple capsule of happiness pulled onto the I-40 on ramp that rainy Christmas evening, the engine died. Wails emerged from the back seat about how badly the day was turning out, and assurances from the front about how good we really had it, and what a wonderful life we've been given.

Several strenuous weeks later, that testimony is still valid.

On Friday, December 22, we rented a 9 passenger van, and piled seven people (five Smedleys and two Coblentzes), a dog, and a new Dell computer on board. Vicky, she of the uncanny timing, thought this would be a good year to throw a pre-Christmas party for both sides of our family. Three hours of white-knuckle driving later (big van, heavy rain), we pulled into the King driveway, visited, and gave a new computer to a delighted older couple.

A few hours later, we esconced ourselves in the lodge on Daddy's farm. Started a fire. Enjoyed more conversation. Then, the lights went out. Dad found a few candles, we talked for a while longer, the lights came back on around bedtime.

Saturday, the crock pot did its thing with a festive turkey, the ladies laid out the feast, and the rest of us visited and gossipped. Five of the Tom Smedley the Elder's kids showed up with spouses and children. Evine and Betty King came by as well, along with their kids and inlaws. Justin had leave from the USMC, and enjoyed catching up on family news. The weather had miraculously cleared up and cousins played outside. Then, we hit a hard deadline, and headed back home to return the van.

Sunday, Christmas Eve, included routine church attendance and further visiting with the California contingent. Greg, Dave, and Dori joined us at King's Park International Church for carols and goodies that evening. Monday, a "traditional" bacon and pancakes breakfast for all seven of us, the orgy of gift unwrapping (Laura got the lava lamp she asked for!), more visiting in Durham, and an invitation to meet at Greg's pad for a Christmas dinner.

Well, we didn't make it to that meal -- but in retrospect, we still had so little to complain about.

A few days later, a 2:00 a.m. phone call brought the news that Vicky's dad, Evine King, was going to the hospital with chest pains. It was New Year's Day, and Vicky was "manager on duty" at the retirement community. She started that work day early, ended early, and we fumbled our way through complex logistics. Rented a car. Drove it, van, and family to Greg's pad, with a 20 mile detour when I took a wrong turn. Kids parked with Greg and Dori. Vicky and me packed and on our way north.

As the rain poured down, I mercilessly pushed the little rented Caliber up route 220, twisting through narrow roads that were familiar three decades ago. The economy car had a small motor and a sloppy transmission, so the RPMs would skyrocket on upgrades. We successfully negotiated the speedtrap gauntlet of Boone's Mill, and were on our final approach to Roanoke when the cell phone rang. Dori had taken her adoring younger sisters out to Starbucks for cocoa -- and locked the keys inside the van. We got the particulars, and Vicky called GEICO while I continued pushing on through the rain. An hour or so later, we were relieved to learn, a locksmith showed up to rescue our girls.

The next Saturday, a crowded chapel full of friends and family bade farewell to one of the solidest men I've ever known. The church he'd worshipped in for more than half a century provided lunch to the bereaved. We pulled ourselves together and headed for home on Sunday afternoon. At the Orange Market, I learned that the cashier also knew Evine from the days when she'd run a sheltered workshop, and he'd brought components by for her people to assemble.

When the dust settled, I'd made four 300 mile round trips in less than a week, depreciating a rented car for $26/day. Put in 12 hours at work -- but Tek Systems, my contracting agency, gave me 8 hours of "personal day" time, significantly boosting the bottom line on that week's paycheck. We could "be there" for Vicky's family because Dori was on this coast for ours. We'd been able to provide a new toy and a festive reunion for Evine a week before he died. Justin's leave permitted him to be with his family for the event. Of course, we hate to see Evine go. Beth wrote a sentimental poem, and precise, concise Laura pondered, then asked me, "Why do I feel as though a large chunk of my life has just crumbled?" 75 seems so young nowadays.

Still, we are grateful that we were able to help fill the last few weeks of a worthy man's life with delight and family.