Path to a Delightful Nowhere

It was mid-October, and one day before a storm was to roll in. I decided that this might be my last good opportunity to capture Fall colors this season, so I made the trek up the local canyon to do some work in the early morning light. I made some satisfying captures at the intended place, and then drove back. I couldn’t help but stop periodically, as I saw scenes worthy of feeding to my camera.

At one stop, I walked around and found a trail that led into a grove of aspens. I hesitated for a moment; I was overly cognizant of the time, and my life is over-sheduled. Casting aside my other responsibilities, I walked down that path for a short while before I saw yet another path branch off to the left. I quickly glanced down that path while walking, and then had to stop and take the unplanned turn. A few feet further, my tripod legs stretched out to meet the ground (seemingly on their own). My lens pretty much aimed itself, too. Three aligned exposures and some software “developing” later, I ended up with this. I could hear no signs of humanity and, except for the little path before me (and some names carved in nearby aspen trunks), I felt delight at having found nowhere.

Needless Guilt

It has been exactly one month since I last wrote a blog entry. I’m feeling guilty because I really didn’t intend to let it go so long between entries, and because I used to write every week for me previous blogs.

In the spirit of looking for excuses, I could hand out the usual — not enough time, too many long hours with work, had a head cold, too busy taking pictures, nothing profound to say or share, etc. In the end, none of these quite explain it. Basically, I just didn’t make it an high enough priority. Since I actually never promised any update frequency, I shouldn’t feel any guilt here, but I had higher expectations than I published.

Comfort Soup

A few days ago, a dear friend showed up at our door with a batch of soup she had just made. That was such a nice thing to do, and it beautifully solved the dilemma of what to do about dinner that night. This afternoon we arrived at the home of my wife’s mother. Earlier in the day, a dear friend of hers showed up with a big batch of soup she felt inspired to make for us, and that fed a large group of us with soup to spare.

The soups were comforting because they provided dinners when needed, but they were also comforting at a deeper level. So many times when a friend or neighbor experiences a death in their family, I have a desire to do something to help, but don’t know quite what to do and often end up doing little or nothing. This week I have learned that it doesn’t matter so much what you do, but that you do something — whether that means bringing soup, or a casserole, or flowers, or a card, or a hug. Just knowing that people care, that they’re aware, that they’re concerned, and that they’re wanting to cry a little with you — that is tremendously comforting. We’ve also received cards, flowers, e-mails, phone calls, and neighbors dropping by to see if there is anything they can do. All of these gestures are greatly appreciated, and serve as a reminder that we are surrounded by friends and loved ones and we will get through this together much better than we ever could alone. That realization is a very soothing comfort soup.

A Tribute to Eric

Eric Millward, in the company of many family members, peacefully passed on from this life on the afternoon of Monday, 15 September, 2008. He was just 44. We sensed that his time to leave was near, but we were surprised by how near it was.

The emotions that accompany such an event tend to come in waves. At times the sadness is overwhelming; at other times, it feels like everything will be okay. Those waves soften in intensity as time goes on, yet the desire to do something helpful and meaningful grows. Other than comforting my wife (who must now say goodbye to a beloved brother) and trying to hold down the fort, I have felt pretty useless. Then, last night, I was struck with an idea: create a web site where friends and family can share thoughts, feelings, and memories of Eric. This I could do, and so I have.

http://ericmillward.blogspot.com has been established as just such a place. I hope it will become a place where people will go to learn more about the father, brother, son, uncle, and friend who has passed from our realm; a place where tears, smiles, and laughs can happen within as little as one sentence; a place where comfort and solace can be given and received. The very first post on that blog sets the stage for loved ones to participate.

Stopped Short of Canceling My Netflix Subscription

For the last several months, I’ve been looking for places in the household budget where we can trim expenses. Considering how little time we normally have to watch movies, I thought of canceling our Netflix subscription. I’ve been sitting on the fence about this issue for a few months, but today I decided to keep it a while longer. Why? Because of movies like “Bella”.

We watched “Bella” this weekend and were so very moved by the story, the writing, the character development, and the acting. It was a great reminder to me of how good cinema can be. Sure, I still enjoy a good action movie now and then, but this is in a different league with a different audience and a different goal. And, my tastes have changed; in the last few years, the movies which have been most impactful and have given us the most valuable experiences have come from somewhere other than Hollywood, and are not typically found at our neighborhood video store.

Over the years that we’ve had Netflix, we’ve struck and mined several veins of gold. As an example, there is a set of Chinese films that were deeply moving: “King of Masks”, “Not One Less”, “To Live”, “The Road Home”, “Together”, and “Shadow Magic” — beautiful stories! We chanced upon one of them, and were led to the others through trailers on that and subsequent movies. Recently we saw “Peck on the Cheek” (to which we also give high marks) which had a trailer for “Bella”.

To be fair, Netlix isn’t the only way to gain access to such movies. There are competing postal-based movie programs, and direct download now is on the rise (and “Bella” is available through iTunes). Right now, the cost and convenience of Netflix is still holding the sweet spot for me, so I think we’ll continue with this program for a while longer.

If you find yourself disenfranchised by what’s coming out of Hollywood and what’s available at your local video rental store, take heart — there’s a lot more out there that’s worth watching.

Rock Flour: Primary Steps in Geology

(This is kind of long, but hopefully worth it.)

It has been many years since I last saw it, so I don’t know if it is still there, but there was a cinder-block wall separating two home properties — 7260 (Jimmy Anderson’s house) and 7266 (my house) on West 90th Street, in the community of Westchester (properly in the city of Los Angeles), California. (If you go there and see it, let me know.)

The top of the wall had a slight crown to it (which we, in parts, rendered nearly flat again). Jimmy and I were about 4 years old at the time. We had other things we liked to do, but this was one thing we did often — much to the chagrin of our parents, who thought there must be something better that we could do with our time.

It was on the workbench of this wall that we learned (and relearned) important lessons in geology — particularly, that some things are harder than other things (rocks mostly, but not entirely).

Now, before I go on to explain this, I know you’re already feeling quite impressed that we were such astute devotées of geology at such a tender age. Yes, it’s true, but it’s not quite as impressive as it may seem initially. Read on.

We had larger rocks (the crushers/grinders — these were prized possessions whose useful life spanned many sessions) and then we had a multitude (seemingly endless supply) of smaller rocks (the crushees/grindees). We were tool-users. We used the larger rocks to smash and crush the smaller rocks (usually, though sometimes our fingers, too — more lessons learned). Sure, there are textbooks full of knowledge in the form of words, numbers, charts, tables, graphs — all describing hardness scales and ranking various substances relative to each other. But where’s the thrill (risk, exhilaration) in that? Sometimes (especially to a 4-year-old), book-learning only goes so far and you just have to get your hands dirty and experience the reality first-hand. I dare say the lessons learned in this mode stayed with us longer. We learned the concept of entropy (the tendency for things to go from a state of order to a state of disorder) well before we learned the word.

We developed a preference for the whiter (almost translucent) rocks as crushees (as I think back at it, I believe these were of some quartz-like composition). There was an uncommon satisfaction that came from the sound, feeling, and appearance of these crushees as we wielded our larger rocks on them. (I wish the English language were rich enough to have onomatopoeia for the sounds we heard. The word “thud” is only the crudest approximation and “Shrempfszzz”, while considerably closer, is not actually a word.) On the first blow, typically, the crushee would break into 2 or 3 pieces, then we would isolate one of these pieces and deliver more focused blows. Eventually, the rocks would be reduced to sand with our primitive banging movements. Not content to leave them in such a state, we would then apply those same crushers (but with greater deft) in a grinding movement (not unlike how we later learned that the Native Americans would grind maize into flour), and really work that dust into finer and finer flour. When we felt like we could make no more discernible difference to the state of these rocks (or would otherwise get bored with the current batch), we would use our hands to brush the rock flour onto either side of the wall, effectively clearing a spot for the processing of the next crushee. And, it was as a result of this last act that I incurred some of the gentle wrath of my father.

You see, the rocks were not uniformly reduced to flour. Some larger bits remained (we weren’t pros at this). And, from our occasional failed attempts at crushing darker rocks (which were often much less yielding to our powerful blows), we had still larger pieces of debris that got brushed off the wall. Brushing onto Jimmy’s side of the wall caused no problems — it was just sand there anyway. Brushing to my side, though, was a different story.

We had a grass lawn that went right up to that wall. Weekly, my Dad would mow that lawn with his power mower. When the mower encountered the debris, the larger pieces were transformed into wicked projectiles, with potential to wreak havoc with the nearby windows, wood fence, plants, and (of course) Dad’s legs. I never saw first-hand the destruction caused by my habit, and I don’t know that it ever materialized, but the potential was effectively communicated to me, and I haven’t forgotten the lesson in all of these years.

Now I have my own lawn, and I have children old enough to do the mowing. There are no rock walls adjoining my property, and no rock flour (coarsely ground or otherwise) in the vicinity. But there are other things (larger rocks, bricks and pieces thereof, and sprinkler heads) which present similar hazards while mowing. The sounds of the a mower blade hitting one of these things has a profoundly strong association for me (again, where’s the onomatopoeia?). I’ve heard it plenty of times, but I still wince whenever I hear it. The immediate “wicked projectile” danger is always near the top of my thoughts when I hear this sound, but the more menacing thought (which lags by only a couple of seconds) is the prospect of having to suffer the cost in time and money to replace a sprinkler head.

We’re often motivated by carrots and sticks. Although the sticks (or stones, as the case may be) have changed somewhat, there remains great motivation to not hear that wince-inducing sound when the lawn gets mowed. Because of the imprinting experience of my childhood, I’ve probably erred too far on the side of caution, and have precluded my children’s opportunity for such profoundly educational experimentations in geology. Somehow, I think they’re compensating in other (yet to be discovered) ways.

The Wisdom of Dropping Classes Early

Back in the day when I was a freshman at college, I did not have nearly the wisdom that I have today. There are many facets to that wisdom, but one particularly timely facet is the wisdom of dropping classes early.

I was living away from home for the first time. I was 700 miles away from any friends and family. I was among the first in my circle of friends, family, and other acquaintances to be in this situation. I was proud and over-confident. I was under-discplined. I was a nearly ideal recipe for scholastic disaster.

I took 19 credit hours (units). Some of those were lab classes, which took much more time than their credit-hour count would indicate. I was treading water for a couple of weeks before I realized I was in over my head. My GPA plummeted to roughly one-third of what I was used to, and those grades were very evenly distributed across all 19 credit hours. I think every class got retaken in subsequent semesters.

There were many mistakes made, but I could have saved a few classes (and enjoyed them and done really well in them) if I had had the wisdom to drop some of the classes early. Instead, I tried to save them all and ended up losing them all. I had the mistaken impression that I had to finish my degree in 4 years. Keeping that heavy load through the end of the semester was done partly because of that mistaken impression. I didn’t finish in 4 years, and I managed to survive the experience quite well. Another mistaken impression was that dropping a class was the worst failure; clearly, I proved to myself that sticking with all my classes to a bitter end was a worse failure.

I once had a boss who would often say, “Bad news ages poorly”. In his context, he wanted to be told early if there was a problem. Applied to my schooling, this saying meant that I needed to tell myself early that the heavy load was not working. I didn’t. Bad things got worse. In somewhat of a gambler’s mentality, I also rationalized that I had put so much effort into a class that it would all be wasted if I dropped the class; that flawed rationale only reinforced itself as I got deeper into the semester.

As a parent, you always hope that your children can learn from your mistakes and not have to make such mistakes for themselves. I had that hope for this facet of wisdom, and it was fulfilled this weekend for one of my children. My daughter, after 4 days of college, realized she was in over her head. She took early and corrective action. I don’t think her choice made the semester easy — there is still a lot of effort that will be required (a good dose of which she put in this weekend) — but it did make it possible. There is no shame or failure here, only a display of wisdom — and far more of it than I had at her age. Already, this is proving to be a great college experience!

Crunch Time in the Software Profession

There was a stint in my career, approximately 5 years ago, when I was working 80-85 hours a week for several months. That wasn’t the only crunch I experienced, but it was about the worst. I’m reminded of it now because I’ve been in a smaller one for the last week or so and it will continue for another week or so. Certainly, this is not the worst of times, but it is an interesting reminder of how things can get when you’re a software developer.

Of course, there is fatigue — it’s hard to get enough quantity and quality of sleep when the stress is this high. And, of course, there is the sense that you’ve unplugged from the rest of your life. This is not unlike keeping a bunch of plates spinning on poles; I’m getting comfortable with letting a few of those plates come crashing down. In fact, I almost feel justified in letting all my other roles and responsibilities suffer for this great cause. Is it such a great cause? Are we changing the world with our product? Are we saving lives or at least bringing great relief from suffering? Is it worth the personal costs — the toll on one’s health, the added burden on the family, the not-being-there at meal times with your family?

Such questions are first-order. They come from the raw emotion of the experience, exacerbated by the lack of sleep (and, commensurately, the reduction of natural inhibitions about even thinking let alone expressing such thoughts). But this higher-order thought remains as a backdrop for all of these efforts and unsustainably narrow focus: this job pays the bills (and then some); it makes possible the roof over head, the food on the table (even if you’re not there 2% of the time to enjoy it with your family), the money for new clothes, birthdays, and family vacations. It also pays for part of your child’s college experience. 98% of the time, this is a fun job, full of opportunity to learn, to teach, and to create and show style. And, the stress from a job that occasionally demands longer hours, while different, is much lower than the stress of not having a job. In this industry, it is often in one of these two extremes that we exist; it is hard to find a gig that is steady, meets the needs, and doesn’t demand a little extra time now and then. They didn’t teach me that in school, but I’ve learned it and relearned it a few times now. I could choose to do something else, but I choose to stay with this.

There is also the tendency in me (and others, I’ve observed) to play the “blame game”. How did we get to this point? Was it someone’s stupidity, inattention to detail, blind ambition? These questions, too, are only superficially pacifying. We want to be angry — to lash out — and it is far easier to be angry at someone else than to be angry at oneself, but I have a choice. I always have a choice.

Dwelling on these questions is a bit like wallowing in sorrow and self-pity. I’m venting here — perhaps collectively for everyone who goes through this — and I do feel better for having expressed my frustration. But, as experience has taught, this, too, shall pass. In a few weeks, the smile will more readily appear. In a few months, the details of the short-term pain will be fuzzy. In a few years, the experience will be safely tucked into the vault of life’s experiences.

For now, I choose to keep a long-range perspective (which is excellent) and will attempt (with the exception of this rant) to handle this experience with grace and humor — just as my new friend and manager is showing through his example.

Tales of Duke's, Part 2 - Onion Rings

Looking back at it, I now realize that this was a test of character. At the time, I was too naïve to recognize it for what it was, and yet I managed to do the right thing anyway. This was also more than a test; it was an experience to increase my awareness and appreciation.

It was my first day on the job. I thought I might cook, wrap sandwiches, operate the cash register — pretty much any of a number of different things — but I did not anticipate my very first duty.

There were two kitchens at Duke’s: the front kitchen (in full view of the customers, and where their food orders were completed) and the back kitchen (which was nearly as capable as the front kitchen, but was used for food preparation). My first day was spent in the back kitchen. I was greeted by 2 (two) 50-lb bags of onions and was told to convert these into onion rings by the end of the day.

This process was fairly simple: peel, slice, separate the slices into rings, dip the rings in a specially prepared batter, and then dip the battered rings into some special collection of crumbs. These were then placed in grey busing trays and stored in the walk-in refrigerator. I was surprised that such an activity could consume an entire work day. I was also surprised to realize how little I had previously understood the various parts of onion anatomy. By the time I was finished, my boss looked at me a little differently than he had before (I guess I had passed the test). I think I looked at him a little differently, too (through teary eyes).

The after-effects of this experience were (1) continued employment, and (2) not-so-sweetly scented hands for the next couple of weeks. I tried many things (soaking in lemon juice, lots of hand-washings, etc.), but I couldn’t really tell that any of these coping mechanisms made much of a difference. I think I just had to molt, replacing the tarnished skin cells with pristine new ones.

I’m really glad I did this. Most of the onion-ring-buying public are not acquainted with the real work to make onion rings; all they see are a few pale rings put into a metal basket, submerged in hot oil for a few minutes, and then served golden brown and piping hot. I think I appreciate them more because of this behind-the-scenes experience.

In the grand scheme of things, making onion rings was a fairly tame and benign experience; not every manufacturing experience leads to a greater appreciation. Take haggis, for example. Some brave, unfortunate souls are burdened with the task of making things that are sometimes better (only?) enjoyed in ignorance of their manufacturing. My closest encounter to making haggis was watching a PBS special on this. I found the process to be profoundly disturbing, and I don’t think I can ever knowingly eat haggis now.

So, seeing a thing made behind-the-scenes is good for some things and bad for others. The key, I suppose, is being able to discern between these two categories ... beforehand.

It Boggles the Mind

Back when I was in college, I was introduced to the game “Boggle” by a good friend and roommate, Ken Welch. That game has been a family favorite ever since, so it was fitting that Melissa should select this game for the family to play together on this evening before she heads down to her dorm and settles into school.

A few days ago I mentioned my “Lamentations of a First-time College Dad”, and it has been happening in slow-motion through the past several days. Tonight it’s official — she’s off to college. It’s hard to believe (boggling, even) and yet she is so ready for this. Now we get to go through our big adjustment.

We thought about taking the leaf out of the dinner table, and one of her brothers wanted to “claim” some things in her room. I think none of those things will be happening. Instead, I’m thinking we could set up a shrine in the house. We could put a framed picture of her and put that at her place-setting at the table — that and candles, which we could light at each meal. We could play Mika and Queen songs throughout the house each evening between dinner and bed time. We could leave “X-Files” DVDs playing in our AV room, 24x7. We could do all of that, but I think we won’t do those things, either.

No, I think we’ll just quietly miss her. We’ll think about her often through each day, we’ll pray for her, we’ll hope for and with her, and we’ll delight in receiving e-mails, phone calls, instant messages, blog postings, and comments on this blog (hint, hint). And, of course, we’ll greatly look forward to the next time we get together. The separation has been and will continue to be gradual, but we’re going to miss more and more of her life as she flies out of this nest and soars on her own.

We love you, Melissa! Go get ‘em!

Notice how I didn’t post any of the obligatory first-day-of-school photos that we kind of did on the driveway tonight — I think I get points for that kind of restraint!

Nerdy Quality Time with My 14-Year-Old Son

The start of the school year has had a very positive influence on at least one of my sons who, taking geometry this year, has had some of his math-oriented gears put into motion.

During dinner this evening, he was telling me his ideas (algorithms) for generating prime numbers. He would describe his scheme and then, feeling (and acting) like he had just sent a tremendous pearl in our direction, wait for his mother and me to shoot holes in it. We did this rather easily at first (finding counter examples to assail his hypotheses), but he analyzed, adapted, and started generating more and more complex schemes. Finally, they got too complex for us to do the math in our heads.

So, after dinner, he and I started programming a test bench in Java to explore and test his prime-number-generating schemes. We started with a very simple scheme, but then graduated through 5 or 6 increasingly more complex schemes, seeing which of the first 100 instances of each scheme were primes. Some of the results were surprising. He got really fired-up about this, wanting to have us try “one more thing”. We finally had to get stern with him and send him to bed as it was well past his bed time. Who knows -- we may have the basis of a science fair project, and one in mathematics and/or computer science would stand out from the others.

Stepping back, I regard this as some really nice “quality time” spent with this son. It’s not quite the same as playing catch in the backyard, working on a pinewood derby car, or any of the million or so other (more traditional) ways for a father and son to spend time together. In fact, this one was down-right nerdy (with all that math). But it was a really nice connection. I beam with pride, recognizing that he has inherited some of my inclination towards the sciences.

Now, if we can just get him to do his homework....

Lamentations of a First-time College Dad

I always thought I would be much older when this happened. It hasn’t even happened yet, and it won’t for a few more days, but already I’m feeling the loss created by sending my first child out the door as she goes to college.

For 18 years and 4 months, we have loved and nurtured our first child and only daughter. I have all kinds of cute, heart-warming, and adorable pictures of our little girl. Some of my favorites (the ones that I most strongly associate with her) show her hair in pig tails. I’m not including those here because this isn’t a wake (well, and the fact that she’d be mighty displeased with me if I did that to her). She’s only going to be 20 miles down the road, but her day-to-day presence will be greatly missed.

I’m happy for her that she is realizing her dreams of attending BYU. I’m happy (and even a little jealous) that she has this great adventure ahead of her. I’m happy with the progress she’s made as she’s grown up from a delightful little girl to a beautiful young lady. As I reflect on my own transition from home to college, there was an awful lot I still had to learn. As we stand on the brink of her transition, I have to wonder if we taught her everything we should have -- if we gave her enough of an head-start on life skills -- so that this transition will go smoothly. If she has demonstrated anything at all in the past few years, it is that she takes on new challenges with gusto, that she adapts, works hard, and uses her noggin. All her life thus far, we’ve been right there with her as she has experienced the trials and the joys of life. Now she’ll keep having those experiences (probably in greater temporal concentration) and we won’t be there to sympathize, empathize, console, cheer, and thrill with her. I think she’ll be fine. I think. No, I know she’ll be fine. It’s us (the rest of us) that are going to have the harder time adjusting.

Does anyone have advice for the first-time college dad -- especially one who is prone to wax sentimental and wishes he could control more of his daughter’s life?

New Perspective on Estonia

Once in a while, I have an experience which causes me to break out of normal (often superficial, at least near-neighborhood) patterns of thinking, and ponder a larger scope that I am not fully capable of reconciling. I had such an experience a couple of weeks ago, and have found myself thinking about it many times since. I’ve been reminded that I’m part of a bigger whole, and that I share some responsibility for the well-being of that bigger whole.

Many months ago, I published a blog entry on “A Tale of Two Tallinns” in which I shared some thoughts on a country divided along a cultural-social border between the native Estonians and the remnants of the occupying (now ex-patriot) Russians. At that time, I was troubled to see forgiveness being applied only in such small circles as a local church congregation. I wished that they could get along despite their diversities. My perspective was limited to the Russian side of the story and my few (superficial) observations of the native Estonians. My perspective was nowhere near complete.

Recently I learned of a documentary film, “The Singing Revolution”, which chronicles the events leading to the regained independence of Estonia. I simply had to see it, and I’m so glad I did. This Estonian side of the story was powerful and moving. If you get a chance to see this film, do it, but be warned — this is not a popcorn movie. I still feel like I don’t understand all there is to understand of the conflict between the Estonians and the Russians, but this second perspective has enabled me to gain some more depth perception.

The wounds run deep among the Estonians. Humans treated other humans without humanity. Families were separated, lives were destroyed, the Estonian cultural identify was suppressed, and suffering with a long half-life came in the wake of the atrocities.

The photograph above depicts part of the great wall of Estonia, enclosing the historic Old Town of Tallinn. This wall is a mighty fortress, built to protect a people from the painful intrusions of neighboring but unneighborly forces. Today that wall has been deliberately breached by the Estonians in multiple places, and the Old Town has become a tourist attraction. But the austere exterior remains, symbolic of the defensive wall around the hearts of many Estonians. Such walls go up slowly, and come down slowly.

After having seen the documentary, my attitude has changed: I used to be critical of both the Estonians and the Russian ex-pats for not trying harder to integrate; now I’m seeing that it’s not that easy. Forgiveness can be a difficult virtue. In fact, it may take multiple generations for forgiveness to be fully realized.

My feelings are mixed and more complex now. What I am witnessing from my geographically, politically, and culturally isolated perch is still a very incomplete slice of the whole story; I’m realizing that more and more. I feel shame at having been so under-informed about the recent struggles in Estonia — they happened during the first few years of my marriage, while I was starting a family, while I was attending college and gaining an obviously too narrow education. I watched the news at night; why didn’t I hear about this then? Perhaps I did hear but did not listen, or perhaps I (and many of us) never heard.

It’s a part of my nature to want to mend the wounds and fix the problems. At the pollyanna end of the spectrum, it would be beautiful if everyone got along and achieved self-actualization on the Maslow tree of needs; at a more practical point in the spectrum, there could be great relief in shedding ourselves of the burdens of distrust, anger, and hatred. In Estonia, the problems are varied and numerous and, despite best intentions, overwhelming for any one person (particularly one who is so separated from the region). I hesitate to step into the vortex of seeking justice, because some of the wrongs cannot be undone through acts of retribution or penance — at least not in this life — and such “justice” would leave us with a profoundly empty feeling. While I don’t want to close the door on healing the wounds, it is possible that the best (or only) thing we can do at this point is attempt to understand and learn from the mistakes so that we don’t repeat them. If this were to be all we could accomplish, it would still be of immense value — even though we would have no way of measuring the loss prevented.

So, if you’ve made it through to this point in the blog entry, then perhaps you’ve gained a new or greater awareness into a set of problems in Estonia. And you may perceive that the problem I’ve put under a magnifying glass looks a lot like other problems that have been (or are now being) played-out in numerous places around our globe — perhaps even in your own backyard. How do we move forward? How do we fix the problems and heal the wounds? How do we really learn the needed lessons so that we don’t repeat such ugly history?

I think these questions are a good way for me to end this opening serve in what I hope becomes a volley of discussion. You may not care about Estonia. Fine — I didn’t until I went there. Maybe the recent military incursion into the nation of Georgia becomes a more actionable rallying cry. Or maybe you see parallels that hit closer to home. The exploration of these questions may help in dealing with other, more local and personal Estonias.

Tales of Duke's, Part 1: Oooh! Yuck! Gross! ... Cool!

It is good for a child to have the experience of working at a "fast food" restaurant; in some respects, every job thereafter will be easier in one way or another.  My daughter did a stint at the local Wendy's (making hamburgers) and my oldest son recently started working at Iceberg Drive In (he grills hamburgers and makes milk shakes).  I'm thrilled that they can count such work in their histories, and I hope all of my children will eventually have such experiences.

My bias here can be traced to my "fast food" work experience.  I worked at "Duke's Charbroiller" and gained a wealth of great experiences and stories.  There are many to tell, but I'll start with just this one....

Theo was a new employee, about 30 years old.  He had just come from Greece, spoke passable English, and was to be a chief cook and have managerial responsibility over us teenage boys who worked there.  Theo was quite short (if memory serves right, just a little over 5 feet tall), so he had several inches of stature to make up for in the eyes of us young bucks.  He did it, though.  To start with, he had incredible muscle tone in his arms.  I remember him flexing his biceps — they were round and hard like apples.  With this muscle tone was great strength — he could out-wrestle any of us, including Big Jim.  He also had a very daring personality, which played well with us easily impressioned youth.  He would dare us to make things (food items, from ingredients in the restaurant) that he could not eat.  Naturally, such a dare provoked a great outpouring of creativity.  We all joined in the fun.  Among the things I made were (1) a hamburger with soft-serve ice cream between the patty and the bun, (2) a barbecue-sauce milk shake, and (3) a hot yellow-mustard sundae.  All of these were easily consumed.  In retrospect, I don't remember anything that we made that proved to be the least bit challenging for him.  It made us wonder what kinds of things he had eaten before we knew him — what kinds of things were so much worse that nothing we could make would cause him to flinch.  We never got a complete answer to that lingering question, but we did get a clue on one very special day.

Theo decided to take us boys down to the pier to do some fishing.  We piled into his large, tricked-out and raised shiny black truck, and the adventure began.  I believe Theo's goal was to catch more, bigger fish (and sooner) than any of the rest of us could do.  I had been salt-water fishing with my Dad since I was five, so this was very familiar territory for me.  And, consequently, I caught the first fish.  From the first "Zzzzz" of my reel as the 15" fighter took my lure and tried to get away, all attention was centered on me, and I rather enjoyed that.  Theo's plans were in jeopardy.  He had to react quickly, and so he did.  As soon as I had the fish reeled in, he grabbed the angrily flailing prize with his strong hands, brought the fish up to his face, and ... BIT the fish right on the top of its head.  There was a brief crunching sound that we all heard.  The fish instantly went limp.  I still remember scales on his lips and some unidentified fish liquid (brain juice?) dribbling down his chin as he emphatically said, "You have to kill it — right away!".  We boys were stunned by what we had just witnessed — to the point of having our already weak and immature vocabularies reduced to long-drawn renditions of "Oooh!"  "Yuck!"  "Gross!" and, after a short pause of palpable silence, "Cool!".  And with that last word, Theo's victory was confirmed.  He had won the respect of these young boys, and working with him at the restaurant was forever changed.  We no longer saw him as short, or poor at speaking English.  No, Theo was a force of nature.  We knew that he was capable of doing things that none of us had ever before considered, and that put just enough fear into us that we never questioned his authority.

Oh the things that impress teenage boys!

A Restart

Just before the start of 2007, I embarked on a quest to do two weekly blogs: Photo of the Week, and Tip of the Week.  The first was more philosophical in nature, using photography to help put life into focus; the second was an attempt to impart some of my photography knowledge and experience to others.  Both blogs were very rewarding — I got lots of feedback and connected and reconnected with many family and friends, and I had a regularly scheduled event which forced me to pick up my camera and shoot something.  After a year's worth of weekly entries, I had to re-evaluate my priorities and came to the realization that what I had done was taking more time than I could justify.  So, for the last nearly 9 months, I have done zero blogging, and I have missed it.  Recently, my two oldest children have established blogs of their own, and this has inspired me to find an happy medium between 2/week and zero.

So, with that history, I debut Relancer — to restart.  This will be more ad-hoc, less structured, and less consistently updated than what I did during 2007.  AND, it won't be just about photography.  By setting the expectations up-front, I hope to create a forum more forgiving of the lack of consistency in my schedule, and more open to a broader range of topics.