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.
19 September 2008
17 September 2008
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.
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.
13 September 2008
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.
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.
07 September 2008
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.
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.
06 September 2008
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!
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!
03 September 2008
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.
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.
01 September 2008
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 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!
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!
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