Musings

Terry Bisson -- Jekyll and Hyde

2010-12-29T18:21:00.000-08:00

Terry Bisson wrote a number of short stories, some of which were collected into two strikingly contrasting books.

Numbers Never Lie is a delightful romp, an entertaining few hours' worth of reading.
Greetings and Other Stories is depressing, an overall negative use of one's recreational time. The dominant theme is suicide. for starters.

Let's see -- two story collections. The bigger one is a bummer. Subtract Terry Bisson from future reading list -- the odds don't look good.

Christmas 2010 newsletter

2010-12-29T18:10:00.000-08:00

Hey, folks!

I told Gary North about getting my doctorate -- his one-sentence answer was -- blog my experiences!

OK, so let's do just that!

FOR EXAMPLE -- HERE is a link to our newest Christmas newsletter. And, let's start blogging my reading adventures as well.

Easter 2010 Newsletter

2010-06-10T00:47:00.000-07:00

I've e-mailed this link to family and friends who enjoy tracking our progress through the years. So now, it's time to update my personal blog. The essay The Jester Wore His Thorny Crown will amuse my fans. Click HERE to see for yourself!

Here are some of the links you can follow up in the .PDF document, or right here:

Hawk's Nest Cabin
Wheat Valley Lodge
Both vacation properties (my own DreamWeaver site)
Living on a thin line (video, poignant meditation on the loss of England)

Merry Christmas, my friends!

2009-12-24T11:27:00.000-08:00

Here's our Christmas newsletter!

Let me make one thing perfectly clear. The Three Virtues are also the Three Blind Mice, and dearest friends. They wore Farmer's Wife Annual Marathon runner placards on their backs that made the connection:

II Cor. 5:7 (we walk by faith, and not by sight.)
Rom. 8:24 (we hope for that which we do not yet see.)
John 7:24 (we judge with love, not by that which we see.)

Vicky, of course, carried a large plastic knife to the party, and I took a broadcast seeder as my costume.

Alas, Babylon

2009-08-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I find myself re-reading books I'd enjoyed decades ago. Pat Frank's Alas, Babylon is a plausible, but disturbing portrait of two things: the American culture of the late 1950s, and the probable consequences of a nuclear war. I was surprised at how well this book still holds one's interest with believable characters in an unthinkable situation. The cultural motifs reminded me of the world I grew up in -- and of the world I grew up dreading.

In some ways, our nation is far less innocent than it was a half-century ago. Yet we also have been liberated from the realistic fear of instant annihilation. I am praying that a sense of gratitude will eventually begin to bring us to our senses, and incline us to expect even more wonderful things from the God who spared us, despite our national sins.

Soviet Communism is dead, except on university campuses with their speech codes. At this point, two major rivals contend on the global stage with the Christian gospel: Islam, and secular humanism. Still, "the wall came down" so suddenly, and so quietly. Will we see other major societal transformations over the next few decades that will result in a much better world?

__________________________

In other news, today is the first day for traditional public schools. See The Story of Two Buses. I like the last paragraph:

Summer family newsletter

2009-06-25T01:29:00.000-07:00

Good morning, friends. Here's our summer newsletter -- family adventures, book reviews, etc.

Passion's Price -- a short story

2009-02-06T07:23:00.000-08:00

Passion's Price
copyright (c) 2009

The snug alcove behind the bookshelves in Daddy's office had always been a sanctuary. Natalya Schur could look up through the skylight to see the ark segments comprising Rousasdorpt Laager, a steady silver necklace against the moving diamond stars. Peace Park glowed emerald through its transparent roof, almost a kilometer away. She waited.

Vines and fig trees belong together. In the multi-tiered park, each family had its own leafy grape arbor, backstopped by the muscled trunk of the Mediterranean fig. Harsh sunlight diffused through the broad leaves of the companionable plants. Laughing children made aprons for themselves of the fig leaves, while thrifty housewives harvested young grape leaves.

Oldest son Friederich Schur walked to one of the 3 by 5 meter family parks. Georg paused in his work of pruning and shaping the grape vines. Shaggy heads bowed together, bearded jowls assumed matched black scowls. A pool of stillness spread as neighbors assiduously attended every man to his own vine, his own fig tree. As Fred and Georg strode out to the airlock, a buzz of speculation arose behind them.

August Schur, baby of the family, tended his beloved chickens. One by one he moved their cages to fresh plots of sterile lunar aggregate topped with kitchen slops, then released his animated tractors to do their work. A countenance of genial simplicity topped a hulking two-meter frame.

"August." He turned towards the lock, and straightened up from his task.

"Georg, what happened? Something bad?" Georg had always been his favorite brother. Georg was the one who had patiently coached him in the elegant verbal networks of the catechism. When August could finally recite the last answer, Georg had escorted him to his first communion, a child of 16, surrounded by rejoicing 7 year olds, wearing white liturgical robes.

"Family problem, August.” Georg explained. “We need you at home."

"Ivan, you have visitors." Ivan Schur started at the summons and, frowning, turned away from his work station. With the twenty other people in the office, he looked towards the door. Fred, Georg and August stood, awaiting him, with a gravity suiting a major crisis. Ivan suddenly thought of their sister Natalya.

"I'll be back when I can," he told the others in the software development group. "Something's wrong."

In another office, software testers looked up from their endless game of "break the code" as the four brothers eclipsed the doorway. The click of fingers on keyboards tapered off, the muted buzz of conversation faded out.

"Dan Johnson?" Ivan asked, quietly. In a corner of the room the contractor, whose Appalachian heredity showed in a rangy, darkly handsome face, tried to become invisible. Supervisor Jack Maurais pushed his rotund bulk forward.

"You got business here?" he asked.

"Family business, with Dan Johnson," Ivan replied.

Jack scowled. "Dan's got another two years to go on his contract," he said.

"You'll be compensated," Ivan replied. "We'll put it on his tab."

"Georg, what did Dan do to Natty?" August asked. Somehow, the simpleton knew.

"Nothing she didn't ask for!" retorted Dan, putting on a bold front. "Ask her yourself. Or, I can give you times, dates, and lots of juicy details!" He smirked towards the door, then towards his co-workers. The guys he tortured code with, polished off six packs with, had moved millimeters away. Fred and Ivan were crossing the room with grim strides.

"You're not going to let them take me, are you?" Dan asked, stunned. "Hey! I thought we were a team." Caspar and Christaan looked at a point midway between themselves and the quarry. "Can you just hold them off for a minute?" The co-workers' unease soured into disgust. They rotated away in an unrehearsed drill of disdain.

"Don't make this any harder on yourself than need be," Friederich said. "Father said to bring you in alive. He didn't say anything about counting bruises. You want to walk or be carried?"

With a sneer at the room, Dan gracefully unfolded his angular frame and walked towards the door, boxed in by the brethren. Things did not look good for this guest worker from old Earth.

The Schur estate was one of the oldest pillars of Rousasdorpt. Over the generations, the family had linked together six ark segments. The oldest one, the family manor, housed archives, a library, a university, a tithing hall. Chestnut trees lined the winding walk to the inner structure, pruned to tapering heights that teased the eye with forced perspective.

As each air-tight door closed behind him, Dan’s tension grew. Finally, the party entered the salon and stood before the patriarch. Johannes Schur sat behind the heirloom silicate desk, waiting, examining the inset display for the necessary numbers. After a few moments he looked up.

"Mynheer Johnson," he began, formally. "Do you know our customs here? The ones you agreed to abide by when you signed that employment contract? Such as earnest money?"

Dan snorted. "Bride price, you mean," he said. "Hell, why buy the cow when the milk is free? I never had to pay for it before, and I'm not paying for it now."

August snapped a sudden open-handed blow across the side of Dan's face. Red finger marks bloomed towards purple, and blood poured from nose and lips. August whimpered, looked bemused at his stinging hand, then glance towards Georg. "Did that bad man just call Natty a cow?" he asked.

"Easy, boy," Georg said. "We’ll talk later. But you can't leave now. We need you here. Back away now, easy now."

The troubled giant breathed deeply and stepped back from the figure slumped on the floor.

" Jesus H. Christ!" Dan exploded. "What kind of damned cattle are you boors anyways?"

"Boers who love our sister," Georg snapped.

Johannes drummed his fingers on the desk. "Let’s get back to business," he said. "Dan, you have two ounces on reserve. About a month's wages. You still owe 30 ounces on the contract that brought you here. Let's look at the numbers. Fred, get Dan a napkin, please; he's bleeding on the carpet." Ivan helped the guest into the chair, while Fred brought the square of snowy cloth. Cotton. A costly luxury.

Johannes resumed his account. "Let's see. Earnest money is by custom equivalent to two years' wages. Enough to endow the bride with a home of her own. You don't seem to have that. You do seem to owe that. What should we do?"

"Who said anything about marrying?" Dan mumbled around swelling nasal passages.

"No one has, yet," Johannes said. "Let's see. Ernest money for a defiled virgin is 50% higher than customary for undamaged goods. No option of divorce, either. Think you could live with that?"

"Where the hell am I going to come up with that kind of money?" Dan snapped. "I don't even like the little ... snitch that much anyways.

"She loved you," Johannes said. "She gave you something you had no right to take. Did you consider that when you had your little thrill?"

"So what?" Dan asked. "If she thinks I'll mortgage three years' wages just to get welded to her forever, she's as crazy as you are."

A muffled sob broke out of the alcove behind the bookshelves. Natalya walked into the office, and paused before the chair. "You said you loved me," she said. "I thought you knew what that meant." She covered her face and rushed from the room.

"I do not like you, Dan," August said. "You made Natty cry. I do not want you in our house."

Johannes nodded.. "I agree with my son," he said. "Mynheer Johnson, we are selling you, to cover past and present obligations. They say there's plenty of room on Mars. Work hard, save your pennies, and you might have your bills paid in another ten years. You told my daughter that you loved her. Now, you get to buy her a well furnished home. Not that you'll ever see it. You won't be coming back. We don't want you in our family."

Johannes pressed a button on the desk. The door opened, and a bailiff and a buyer walked in. "You made up your minds, yet?" the magistrate asked.

"He knows what he owes," Johannes replied. "Present him with the available contracts, and place the money in our account."

The prisoner staggered out the door, to look an new future in its bleak face. August, Georg, and Johannes clustered around the desk to sort out the tangled emotional residues. Ivan and Fred drifted off together to price the available models and delivery schedules for ark segments. They would do what they could to help their sister rebuild her life. In another few days, they'd have some options for her to consider, a hope chest 150 meters long to prepare for a better day, a better man.

Christmas Newsletter, Page 1

2008-12-25T14:43:00.001-08:00

And here's a clickable link to the article I wrote for a thoughtful Muslim magazine ...

Christmas Newsletter, Page 2

2008-12-25T14:36:00.001-08:00

And, here are clickable links to the web sites mentioned:

Fall newsletter, page 2

2008-11-30T17:55:00.000-08:00

2008-11-30T17:36:00.000-08:00

Everything is Illuminated

2008-11-29T14:51:00.000-08:00

I spent two memorable weeks in Ukraine in June 1992. So, this movie about a Jewish lad seeking his devastated roots reminded me of a memorable landscape and people. Most of the dialogue was in English, with a seasoning of subtitled Russian. It was fun to recognize an occasional word.

The filmmakers effectively used light as a metaphor. Much of the film was hilarious, despite the grim subject matter. The driver feigned blindness, but that wasn't a problem, since he had his demented "Seeing Eye Bitch."

Beautiful people, beautiful country, and a grim legacy that continues to affect the present, with sorrow and with redemption.

Jack MacDevitt -- The Devil's Eye

2008-11-28T14:11:00.000-08:00

The Devil's Eye is constructed as a mystery, and holds the interest of the reader from beginning to end. This retired customs official knows the mindset of bureaucrats who consider their own careers to be of supreme importance, and are criminally indifferent to the consequences of their venal actions. As Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn wrote, the Romans didn't crucify Jesus between two thieves to humiliate him. It just happened to be crucifixion day, and there were only three slots available.
MacDevitt excels, however, in creating believable landscapes and backdrops for his stories. Imagine a planet so far out on the edge of the galaxy that its night sky contains precisely one star ...

(I know, I have a dissertation to organize and launch -- but our library suddenly offered books by my favorite novelists simultaneously -- Orson Card, Jack MacDevitt, Michael Flynn, Gregory Benford -- and even a posthumously published novel by the all-time grand master Arthur C. Clarke.)

Soulless faith

2008-11-25T06:45:00.000-08:00

In Turkish, the -s_z suffix means "without." If you like black coffee, no milk, you ask for "Sütsüz kahve, lütfen." No sugar? That would be şekersiz. Today's thought from İncil is from Yacub (James) 2:26:

Ruhsuz beden nasil ölüyse, eylemsiz iman da ölüdür.

Ruh is, I believe, a cognate with the Hebrew word for spirit. That's what it means, anyhow. As a body (beden) sans spirit is dead, even so faith sans works is dead.

Which means -- for those of us who live in terms of our faith, it is way too easy to slip into a fantasy world. If we are not acting on what we believe, we are amusing ourselves within the playgrounds of our imaginations. You may have seen the movie A Beautiful Mind. The protagonist took vacations into a parallel universe, wherein he was at the center of a global conspiracy, and the world depended on what he did next. He was also schizophrenic.

May God have mercy upon us.
________________________________

And in other news, I just finished Orson Scott Card's Ender in Exile. A reasonably good read -- but the unremitting snarkiness of the dialogue does tend to get old pretty quick. All the characters sound like mouthy brats, alas.

Inappropriate suspician (James 1:6-9)

2008-11-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

Hello again, fans and friends. Sorry to be away so long -- winding up course work while working full time soaked up a considerable amount of attention. Now, thank God, I "only" have a dissertation to complete -- and then, loans to pay off!

I was reading the first chapter of James (Yakub'un mektubu) this morning. Verse 6 (and a few after) especially impressed me:

Yalnız hiç kuşku duymadan, imanla istesin. Çünkü kuşku duyan kisi rüzgarın sürükleyip savurduğu deniz dalgasına benzer. Tüm yaşamında böyle deüişken, karasız olan adam Rab'den bir şey alacaüın, ummasşn.

Key words this morning -- kuşku duyan.

Kuşku -- suspician, doubt.
Kuşkusuz -- doubtlessly, beyond suspician.
Kuşku duymak -- to feel suspicious.

When we approach God in prayer, we must do so in faith. The natural thing, alas, is to feel suspicious of our God's motivations and reasons. After all, the serpent began undermining Eve's faith by questioning God's good intentions, and suggesting that the Almighty was stingy, withholding good things from mankind. How do we know that God has our best interests at heart, and is not just using us as pawns in some cosmic chess game?[1]

That's the adventure of faith -- coming to terms with an invisible, but very present, deity. Asking boldly, assuming, on the basis of what we know, of what has been revealed, that our requests will be heard, and answered in the best possible way.

[1] parenthentically -- this is the cosmology in F. Paul Wilson's Repairman Jack series. Take the God of the Bible out of the picture, stir in an amoral "force" (complete with, or competing with, a dark side!) and you get horror, not hope.

City of Ember -- strongly recommend

2008-11-24T05:21:00.000-08:00

Walden Media, the folks who brought us the Narnia movies, recently released another family movie, City of Ember. The star of the show, other than Bill Murray as the venal villain, was the set -- a convincing portrayal of a deteriorating, claustrophobic and isolated underground city. Biblically-literate folks will be reminded of first-century AD Israel, a culture that had reached its expiration date, and failed to grasp the entire reason for its existence.

Excellent plot, especially for anyone who distrusts pretentious, overweening, and over-reaching human governments. The star mole scenes might be frightening for younger children, but our 10 year old took them in stride.

We'll probably buy the video when it comes available, early January, as a contribution to a firm that is trying to do worthy things in the arts. Christian billionaire Philip Anschluss got tired of listening to complaints about Hollywood, and decided to light a candle, rather than fruitlessly curse the darkness.

(parenthetically -- incandescent bulbs can last nearly forever, if you make the filaments thick enough. They generate less light, however, and that has a brownish "ember" tint ...)

For the Son came not into the world to condemn the world ...

2008-06-02T18:27:00.000-07:00

When a Muslim finishes reading through the Qu'ran, tradition calls for an array of special prayers to mark the occasion. He gives thanks that he lived long enough to complete that task, he prays for the welfare of all the other Muslims in the world.

We learned this from the Turkish couple we adopted, when they heard that I'd just finished reading Incil. This time through, I started on July 18, 2007, at a time when several other big events were in progress. I'd just started working at IBM, and Vicky served notice at her place of employment.

And we do have much to be grateful for. Interesting work, with good people. Sufficient income to keep the family decently. Ongoing educational progress -- I completed my course work at Regent U. with an incredibly stressful, intimidating class in statistical research. The bike touring season is underway, with my sporadic participation. This year, although I signed up for the 100 mile option on the AIDS fundraising ride, it was a warm, windy day and home looked irresistably tempting at the Sedwick Road rest stop, mile 65, a few blocks from a warm shower and soft waterbed.

We spent a vacation week in San Jose, lavishly hosted and feted by Dori and David. We returned the favor in part by videotaping a dear friend of theirs who was doing SCA activities, fencing with all challengers. It's a clean, lovely, and wealthy city. Dori and David can walk to work and school through the golden air of coastal California. The Golden Gate Bridge is spectacular, the cable cars are still truckin' more than a century after their introduction, and Chinatown has an ambiance all its own.

This last Memorial Day weekend, the Smedley family reunion pulled together all but one of the kids, and all but two of the grandkids. Many of us ate too much. The "Triplets of Smedleyville" (Beth, Lara, and Alexis) acted as though only a few days, rather than several years, had intervened since their last congress. John and Katherine provided entertainment for the kids, with a badminton set. Mackinzie, the Alaskan belle, merged easily with the crowd of cousins. At one point, a circle of ten were playing cards. The only non-players were toddler Michael and babe-in-arms Emily.

Well, it's time to call it a day.

Kaybolan oğul benzetmesi (Lost son parable)

2008-05-19T02:52:00.000-07:00

People consecrate scholarly careers to single works of literature. As Ray Bradbury pointed out, the classics have pores. Texture. Depth. You can revisit them time after time, and walk away with fresh insights, fresh perspectives. I'm reading The Tale of Two Cities to Beth and Laura, and noting again the masterful use of foreshadowing Dickens used to pull the story along. Some things you just don't notice the first or second time through.

How much more is this the case with the ultimate work of literature. You can read a familiar story dozens, or hundreds, of times, and still encounter surprises. Especially if you struggle through it in a new, and unfamiliar, language.

We call it "the parable of the prodigal (wasteful) son." My İncil gives it the title of today's post -- the parable of the lost son. Speaking as a first-born son, I'd suggest The parable of the spiteful big brother.

İsa addressed this parable, after all, to the Pharisees who objected to the company he kept. Yes, it tells us of the love of a Father who rejoices when lost children are found. However, it also provides keen insights into the psychology of those who object to redemption.

Today's key phrase: "Bak, bunca yıl senin için köle gibi çalıştım ... "

"Now look, how many years did I work for you like a slave ... "

Do we begin to see where an attitude adjustment is called for? How does a slave work? He focuses on his own job, does what he is told to do, and is indifferent to the big picture. Think "union mentality." Surly to bed, surly to rise. The slave wants to do as little as possible, then knock off for the day.

A son, however, is supposed to see the big picture. He is growing into partnership with a gracious Father who says, "Son, you are ever with me, and all that I have is yours." A son views the Father's realm as his own to care for, cultivate, and protect. Yes, "this is my Father's world." On the other hand, "God so loved the world ..." that He redeems us to care for it.

Well, on to today's reading. It's time to revisit one of our Lord's most enigmatic parables, the Kurnaz kâhya, the crooked manager.

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

2007-09-13T18:13:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2007-07-25T18:24:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-17T01:51:00.000-07:00

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 ...)

2007-07-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-30T00:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-06-24T00:54:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-19T00:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-18T08:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-11T17:40:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-04T19:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

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!

[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

2007-05-21T11:46:00.000-07:00

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:

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.

[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

2007-05-14T08:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-01-29T14:06:00.000-08:00

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.