- 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.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Terry Bisson -- Jekyll and Hyde
Christmas 2010 newsletter
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Easter 2010 Newsletter
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)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Merry Christmas, my friends!


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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Alas, Babylon
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:
That’s how it works. Both systems use buses to take the students to school. But the colors are different.
In prison, prisoners sell illegal drugs. Students do the same in school. In prison, the food is terrible. It’s not very good in school – possibly prepared by the same food service company. In prison, there are constant inspections. Guards keep taking roll to make sure everyone is present and accounted for. Teachers do the same in school. In prison, you aren’t allowed to leave without permission. The same is true in school. In prison, bullies run the show. In school, they do, too. But there is a difference. Prison buses are white. School buses are yellow.
This is too extreme. The systems are different. Criminals are convicted in a court of law before they are sent to jail. Students, in contrast, are innocent. Some prisoners can get parole. The average term in prison for murder is under ten years. Students are put into the school system for twelve years. There is no parole.
Be thankful you are not in one of those buses. Either color.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Passion's Price -- a short story
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.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Everything is Illuminated
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.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Jack MacDevitt -- The Devil's Eye
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.)
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Soulless faith
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.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Inappropriate suspician (James 1:6-9)
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.
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
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 ...)
Monday, June 2, 2008
For the Son came not into the world to condemn 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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Kaybolan oğul benzetmesi (Lost son parable)
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
And the two dreams were one ...
"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."





