Taking a chance with reading

A friend sent me a link to some fan fiction that I have been enjoying very much.  He sent the link in such a way that I almost deleted the message without opening it – it looked like so many other fishing email messages I get that appear to be from someone I know.  It would have been my loss… and yes, I chided my friend for composing his message in such a way as to give me no indication that he was really the sender. 

The book is Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality.  You always take a chance with fan fiction, but this has been worth the read – if you are at all scientifically minded.  It will take me a while to finish what has been written but the author (Less Wrong is the pen name) keeps me entertained with at least as many quirky (but more plausible) twists than in the original books.  My wife finds it an affront to all that is holy that Harry Potter finds Ron as annoying as the rest of us in this version of the book.  I had to stretch the limits of my imagination in J.K.’s version to imagine those two as fast friends…

I don’t get a whole lot of time to read anything anymore.  Something seems to be broken within me and I fray quickly in the evenings.  When both of the youngest kids are home I keep to the practice of reading to them before bedtime, but that reading is for them.  It hardly counts but it hopefully reminds them that they are loved.

I don’t find as much enjoyment in reading as I once found either, and this may help account for the reduction in reading, although it may also be a debate over the chicken or the egg.  I want to be held captive again.  I want to feel changed by reading.  I want to feel compelled to finish… just… one… more… chapter regardless of the lateness of the night.  I know that there are still magical kingdoms for sale, enchanted swords, dragons to ride, and plenty of adventures right here on planet earth as well.  So many books have become part of me that I can’t begin to list them all, and yet, when I go to the library and walk the shelves I do it with a mounting feeling of frustration.  The gems are in there somewhere but I can’t take time to mine for them.

Yes, yes – I can hear the advice of my sister “Go back to the classics”.  There are plenty of really good books that I have not yet read, and a list of books that I plan on reading someday.  The reason that I am not delving into time-proven literature is that this kind of reading takes effort.  If I do not read carefully, I get lost in the complexities that make these classics worth reading in the first place.  Add in a bunch of Russian names and it becomes totally hopeless.  Hopeless equates to Worthless and I am looking for something valuable.

I don’t see a solution, at least not in the near term, and this is as frustrating as anything.  I can, and will continue reading The True Blue Scouts of the Sugar Man Swamp, but it is not what I would choose.  I will read, and I will wonder how the book will resolve but never once will there be any doubt of a successful resolution.  When this book is finished, we will begin another and another until they decide that they are too old to be read to at night.  We will share the memories of those books I read to them and I will know that the time was well spent.

 

That will have to be enough for now.

 

     *      *

 

  One  Man

Changing Colors

Sixteen years ago I terminated my employment with one company to move to another and almost immediately lost contact with my friends there.  It is surprising to me just how often this happens to even the best of office friends, so the point of interest is not that we all went our separate ways, but where those paths took us. 

After no communication for many, many years, I somehow found a tenuous link to one of the VPs that I admired and considered a friend all those years ago.  The years had not changed Kevin’s fundamental nature but circumstance had placed him in a different environment foreign to the one I was familiar with. 

Let me tell you what I remember most about this man.  He had a wonderful sense of humor and of play – There were a group of executives that often went to lunch together, and two of them had a long standing game in which one would slip a spoon into the suit pocket of the other knowing that it would not be found until much later.  For the life of me I can’t remember if Kevin was the spooner or the spoonee.  I also remember that he could write well and that he had been published here and there in different magazines.  The last thing, and the thing I found most interesting at the time was that he raised chameleons.  It is surprisingly little to show for all those years working for the same company, but then our duties did not often bring us together.

When I found out that he had written a biography of Paul Nelson and that he was looking forward to having it published, my first thought was “Good Luck”.  I had no idea who Paul Nelson was.  It turns out that the man was fascinating: He lived one life in the Rock and Roll spotlight yet spent the last ten years of his life working as a clerk in a video store.  He did this so well that Kevin reports an obvious disconnect between those at his funeral who knew him as a rock critic and those who knew him from the video store.  He seems to have been a man with the same chameleon magic that fascinated me all those years ago.

I would never have picked up Everything Is an Afterthought: The Life and Writings of Paul Nelson if I had not been interested in Kevin’s new colors; my friendship with Kevin was such that I had to see what he had written.  I began reading Saturday and although I am nowhere near the end, I can pronounce his book fascinating.  I now know who Paul Nelson was and I feel slighted by not having known about him before.  I fully expect this book to turn me into a Paul Nelson fan before I turn the final page.

 

Oh, and if I have inspired you, the book is available HERE.

 

       *    *

    One  Man

 

Reading Matters:

I am a filter-reader: Almost everything that I read has first passed through the filter of my wife.  I am fortunate in this in that my wife is a really fast reader and that she consumes books at 4 or 5 to my one.  When I finish a book she has given me to read, she can give me the best of the next 4 or 5 books she has read so what I read tends to be quality. 

When we first married I felt a little intimidated by my wife’s ability to read so quickly but I have come to realize that we just read differently.  I would not enjoy reading the way she does – rapidly, and commonly skipping ahead to the last chapter because she does not like to be surprised – and she would not enjoy reading the way I do: I savor the sound of every word and I enjoy the progression of the story.  Where she likes to stand back and view the entire tapestry, I get inside and examine the texture of the yarn and the method of the weave.  To me the intricate twisting of warp and weave is as fascinating to me as the image portrayed.

I once read more rapidly, but then I started to read poetry.  In poetry the genius of the work is in the sounds and flavors of the words.  You just can’t enjoy poetry quickly.  And so my reading slowed.  It has become so habitual to speak every word in my mind that I have almost forgotten how to read any other way.

I think I will just let you believe that there must have been a girl wrapped up in my motivation to read poetry; what red-blooded American male would want to read poetry otherwise?

Because of this youthful mistake, my reading has slowed to the point that my silent reading is only as fast as my spoken reading would be if I concentrated on speaking really fast.  I sound out every word in my mind and savor the tempo – especially that of the spoken text within a book.  I crave well written books which will vary the tempo of the different characters speech, and keep my mind stimulated.

Can you imagine a better relationship between two people than the one I share with my wife?  Two people who love to read, and yet read so differently that there is a symbiosis between them.  This is a bonus because it is something I never imagined when we were talking about a future together.  I missed far more good things in her than I missed negatives, so I am much farther ahead for marrying her than I ever imagined.

It is often the little things that matter most.

 

    *    *

  One Man

The worth of a car is great in the sight of One Man

Raising eight children in the manner to which they think they are entitled is a costly endeavor.  The price per child has only increased as they have grown and I don’t see any end in sight.  The world ‘College’ makes me break out in a cold sweat.

We have been living right on the edge of our income for so long that we don’t know any other way.  This would be just fine if there were never any accidents or any problems with the house that needed attention, but we live in a world where entropy is rampant.  I believe that could entropy be measured, we would discover that there is an entropy vortex centered on our house.  We are getting by, and we will continue to get by somehow.

This morning the 14 year old slipped on black ice and fell.  He did not hurt himself but he did a number on the school cello that he had with him.  It is probably a good thing that the cello broke his fall, but we have insurance for the boy in case of breakage.  It is another unexpected expense that we don’t have a budget for but can’t wait to resolve.  We have lots of these.

I have been slowly preparing to sell my ’65 Mustang to help offset some of these expenses.  Yesterday I took in the carburetor for a rebuild and last night I began in earnest to research a price at which I would be willing to part with it.  This research included finding the packet that came with the car.  This includes the original plates from California where it was registered from 1965 until 1984, the original order sheet from the dealer itemizing the options selected and the cost.  The paperwork for the loan that was taken out, and many of the service records from the ‘70s and ‘80s was all there.  The car was a find when I bought it in 1996 and I will never have a chance to own another like it.

I tossed and turned last night to the point that I eventually went to go sleep on the couch so I would not disturb the sleep of my wife.  When I did sleep, my dreams were vivid and enlightening.  I dreamed of reattaching the carburetor – and magically, like a Cinderella story, the car was transformed with new paint gleaming.  It was in every detail what I have dreamed of the car becoming.  The car is so close already that it would not take much money to get it there, but it is money I can’t find.

My second dream, equally as vivid as the first, was of me mining for gold.  Although I did not find any gold in my dream, I did discover an abandoned store with relics from the 1800s.  All of these seemed in pristine condition as they were still in the glass display case at the counter.  I could not tell you what these relics were used for, but they were potentially valuable and finding them raised my level of excitement. 

My excitement peaked when I looked beyond the display case to the fireplace and the shelf above it where a row of ancient books was laid.  Most of these books were in poor shape and were the trashy novels of the day that would have appealed to a bunch of stinky miners far from home but there was one beautiful book that appeared to have never been opened.  It was of gilded leather and had stones set in the binding as well.  When I opened it to find it was an 1880 publication of “Alice in Wonderland” I knew all my financial problems were solved.

The fallout from my restless, sleepless night is twofold:  One, I am sleep-deprived sick.  The second is that I am not selling the Mustang until I have exhausted all my other options including selling my collection of books.

I don’t know why the thought of getting rid of a hunk of metal taking up garage space has such a powerful negative effect on me.  It is frightening because irrational behavior toward a chunk of steel such as this can strain a marriage.  It is good that my wife’s understanding has not been stretched to its limit in this.  At least, not yet.

 

     *    *

   One Man

A Brave New World

How things have changed.  I never imagined that I would have a job as an office rat and run through cubicle mazes all day.  I never imagined that I would spend so much time indoors that I would lose the drive to get outdoors.  It never entered my mind that the best car was the one you could get for $800.00.  I never imagined that a person could live without buying books.

As a boy, I was determined that I would not work at an office and I resisted any training that might lead me to a desk job.  My life was lived outside even if I had no real purpose there.  Some kids spent time at the mall or at the arcade and I spent time in the canyon near my home.  I had nothing to do there and no friends to meet there, but I wasted many hours there that would have been better spent on other things.

Up until a few years ago I would long for a fishing trip to the point that it was more important than anything else.  Rafting rivers, camping, hunting, even panning for gold were regular activities that I fought for.  It seemed normal behavior and I did not expect it to ever change.

Cars – I loved cars even more than I pretend to love them now.  I loved all the cars I owned and felt a real friendship for each of them.  My cars would want to get out and do and so I enabled them.  I would just drive the freeways because my cars needed to or I would go out of my way to drive home through the mud just because the trucks wanted to.  My cars were a part of me and a reflection of what I was. 

I still talk the talk but cars have become only excessive expenses that serve only the purpose of transporting people from one place to another.  I don’t go to car shows, watch the auctions, or even drool when I am passed by a particularly sweet one.  I don’t even care to fix the dents in the ones I own.  I never imagined that cars were really just seats on wheels.  Things have changed.

Yes, things have changed.  If I get an invite to go fishing or hunting, it takes a lot of convincing to get me to go – unless it is something for the kids.  Sometimes I force myself to go only because someone expects me to go but it is hard to find the same enjoyment I remember when activities like this have lost their importance.  I don’t know what was first – do I not feel driven to go because I don’t go often enough or do I not go because I have just lost the drive?

The most amazing thing is that I am actually fulfilled living this life that I never imagined for myself.  My time and my energy are spent on other things and when it comes time to do something for myself the loveliest thing I can think of is a nap while reading a book and watching TV.  These things all have the same thing in common – little to no effort.  Is it possible that I have just become incredibly lazy?

I would suggest that rather than lazy, I am extremely adaptable.  I like the sound of that much more.

 

    *    *

   One Man

A father’s work…

I have really enjoyed helping four teenaged kids do their homework every night.  I think I may have mentioned that before but the enjoyment continues.  It is nice that I still understand the concepts they are learning, or at least can look at a problem and help them figure out how to resolve it.  It is the teacher in me coming out.  Last night was no exception.

Our oldest boy was struggling with some math problems because he had the answer from the back of the book but he could not make his answer match.  The problems were about distributing a negative through an equation, and I remember this being a hard concept to grasp and to master.  I wanted to teach him the concept – I felt it was important for him to understand the mechanisms involved.

I showed him how I would work the problem, and came up with the same answer as in the back of the book.  This young man was frustrated because I did not do the problem the way his teacher showed them on the board and he was convinced that my method was flawed.  We backed up and I tried to show him WHY looking at 28 –(x-17-9) as 28 + -1(x-17-9) is not only valid, but helpful, but he would not believe that I knew as much as his teacher.  Eventually his frustration, not that he could not understand what I was doing, but that my way actually worked, was too much for him and he told me he did not need any more help.  Obviously, cramming the facts down his throat would not help so I left him and got myself ready for bed.

Before turning out the light for the evening, I went back down stairs on the pretense that I needed a glass of water.  I found two kids still working away at the kitchen table and both eager for help.  One of them was my boy who had spent the time that I was gone reworking all of his problems ‘my way’ and finding that not only could he get the right answer, but that he could get the answer in half the time.  “So, I guess your way works after all” he said.  He wanted my help again as he worked some story problems.

The other child at the table was working on a dissection of The Alchemist.  She thought for sure I was an expert simply because I have a first American edition of this book, and because I told her to read it a couple of years ago.  The fact that I was aware of this book, had a collectible copy, had read it, and had recognized the value of this book when I recommended it to her was proof enough of my intellect that she pressed me for my thoughts.  Unfortunately, my memory about how I felt while reading the book is better than my memory of characters or events.

It was ping-pong for a while, with both kids lobbing questions at me and expecting me to return them, but I managed to score enough points with both that they felt they could finish up on their own.

I went to bed feeling like I was playing the part of a good dad.  It was a pleasant feeling and I slept well.  This leaves me asking the question:  Why does it take so much work to get a good night’s sleep?

 

   *   *

  One Man

Dating for fun and profit.

I realized today that dating does not need to be expensive and can even provide a residual income.  I am not talking about anything sleazy either.  In fact I am fairly certain that my mother would be proud of me if she knew what I just figured out.

 

I was dating a fifth grade teacher some time ago, and found her fascinating.  She liked some of the books I had read and was able to introduce me to authors that I had not read.  I wanted to impress her but thought that I might make a better statement in other ways than by sending flowers.  I remember I once gave her an apple on one pretext or another, but my best effort was in finding her a book.  Not just any book, of course, but an autographed copy of “A wrinkle in Time”.  She said that not only was this one of her favorite books, but it was one that she read out loud to her classes every year.  I was confident that I could find a copy that would really get her attention, and I think I was right. 

 

 There it was – on line anyway.  An early edition signed by Madeleine L’Engle.  It even had a dust jacket.  I knew it was just the thing so I ordered it immediately and shrugged at the cost that was slightly more than I wanted to pay.  After all, it was not that much more than a couple dozen roses would have been, and I had spent more on her in one night with just tickets and dinner.

 

I remember very well that I ordered the book on a Monday – probably the Monday after a Saturday evening date.  It must have been September 3, 2007 because Madeleine L’Engle died that very week – Thursday the 6^th.

 

Because I am a compulsive collector, I saw other titles by L’Engle that I wanted so I ordered several books at the first of that week – all autographed.  The funny thing is that on Friday e-mail notifications began pouring in and they all said the same thing “We are sorry, we can’t find the book you ordered in our inventory”… yeah, right.  I sat on pins and needles wondering if I was going to get any of the books I ordered at all – the price for any of her autographed books doubled with news of her death.  I guess it makes sense since she was no longer going to be available to sign any more.

 

The book came to me the following week.  I had paid extra to expedite the shipping so I could give the book as a gift while the moment was right, but once I had the book in my hands I was not as interested in giving it.  I knew how difficult it might be to get a replacement, and I came to realize that I might not like her all that much – flowers, sure.  Dinner and a symphony? No Problem.  An autographed book? I decided to wait and see.

 

Today I got an e-mail splash from one of my book sellers in which they had compiled a list of books by librarians.  I don’t know anyone who has a collection based around that, but it was still interesting to take a peek.  Guess what was there?  “A Wrinkle in Time”; L’Engle was a volunteer librarian in New York in the 1960’s.  A quick search has revealed that autographed copies are hard to come by and that the copy I never gave to the teacher has appreciated nicely while sitting on my bookshelf.  Some quick math shows that I could sell the book today for more than the sum of the money spent trying to get the teacher’s attention.

 

Funny, I distinctly remember trying to avoid the teacher’s attention for most of my life… further evidence that it would never have worked.

 

 

     *    *

    One Man

Small ideas from Small minds

I can hold a grudge.  In fact, holding onto past injustices might be my super power.  I was told yesterday that my super power was remembering numbers when I seemed to commit a 20 digit number to memory while I was doing an audit of serial numbers, but I don’t know that this was such a feat when the first 6 numbers were the same for all the phones I was auditing.  I picked up the phone, recited the number to myself, put down the phone, picked up my clipboard and wrote then number down… It looked more impressive than it was, but I was not going to ruin the moment by explaining that it was really only the last 12 or 14 numbers I had to remember – and that only for a few seconds.

 

Holding a grudge, however, is something that I have long been an expert at doing.  I still curse the raven who stole my box of Sun Maid raisins when I was 5.  True, I had provoked the swooping attack by feeding the raven raisins from that very box.  Somehow I expected that devil bird to recognize the difference between my raisins (in the box) and his raisins (in the dirt).

 

Curse you!  You  black-hearted raisin stealing raven!

 

I am only just now beginning to waver in my long-standing boycott of the NBA that was brought on by the player’s strike.  I have been to a handful of NBA games when people I knew were performing at half time, and once after a half time performance I was offered tickets on the 14^th row which I accepted, but I have not spent a dime purchasing anything NBA related since the players began their strike and I began my retaliatory strike.  It is getting harder for me to hold out animosity against current players when they had no part in the original injury done to me.  I am wavering, but not yet willing to call it done.

 

Two years ago, a final application of lawn fertilizer was applied too thick and I ended up with dead stripes around a tree and down the middle of the parking.  It gives me pleasure to continue to refuse the services of that lawn care company when they call – and they continue to call every time they get a new account manager.  The damage only exists in my memory, but I still hold them at fault.

 

Many years ago I caught a book store cheating me.  I actually overheard someone, who turned out to be the owner, bragging to an employee about what a steal he had just gotten for a book he had just purchased.  The braggart paled and ran for the back office when he recognized me as the person who had just sold him the book he was talking about.  I don’t intend to ever give him the opportunity to cheat me again.

 

My father may find it funny that I still often remember to honk as I pass the house where a lady once honked at my father when I was about 12.

 

The funny thing is that the emotions that were originally behind all these reactions are long gone; these things have transformed from things that really bothered me to things that are maintained simply because of tradition.  Maybe I should have started this off by saying that I was really good at upholding traditions.

 

Yes, that would have been more accurate.  Somehow that does not sound like a super power at all – it sounds like the definition of someone with a closed mind… I don’t like seeing myself like that at all.

 

 

   *   *

 

 

Sending out the SOS

I am still reading the Percy Jackson adventure to my kids – basically reading until my voice gives out.  What a well written book that has been and it has certainly kept them excited for bed time.  Even the older of the littles (the gap between bigs and littles is only two years) comes to bed with the littles even though his bed time is officially 30 minutes later than theirs is.

 

Oh the power of a good book!

 

Last night, as I was reading, the SOS came to the door.  In clarification, I called him the WSOS for a long time, standing for Wasted Sack of Skin, but that was just too long a name for a man of such a small stature so I shortened it by one letter and let it be an abridgement for Sack of … something I will leave to your imagination.  Not that I am afraid to say the word shit when it is called for, I just don’t want to offend any of my precious readers.

 

When the SOS came in, he started speaking really loudly.  Now I was parked in front of three open bedrooms basically right above his head, so I began reading louder myself.  The littlest of the littles needed his sleep and did not need to be awakened by the ruckus his dad was making.  What was the guy thinking when he drops by at 9:00 at night on a school night and expects to take the kids for the evening?  I know the answer to that – he was thinking only of himself.  Why did I bother asking?

 

If it seems I am bitter toward the SOS, I would argue that I am entitled to such feelings, but I think that I am mostly beyond bitter.  I would like the guy to realize that there is life beyond his nose and to see how he is affecting those children that he professes to love more than anything, but it is mostly pity I feel for him.  Can you feel sorry for someone and laugh at them at the same time? 

 

Last night I was laughing within myself.  As I was reading about Percy Jackson and his hard feelings toward his father, I recognized a parallel in the way the SOS has treated his children.  When Percy was calling Poseidon a ‘dead beat’ and lamenting that he never even once cut his mother a check for child support, I wondered about how much of the story was being picked up by the guy beneath me.  The more I read, the more I realized that the SOS is likely to be viewed in exactly this way by his children.

 

It is not my job to force him to realize his shortcomings, but I won’t need to.  Last night he left with only one of the 5 kids that share his last name because the older ones did not trust him to care enough about them to see their needs met, and because I managed to drown out the noises that might otherwise have gotten the littlest little out of bed.  I don’t see any competition, although he has made it very evident that he feels he is in competition with me for the affection of his children.  In fact, I feel that my job is to be the dad even when it makes me disliked… perhaps especially when it makes me disliked.  Being disliked is something I excel in.

 

Truthfully, I am learning to listen to actions rather than words.  Sure, I am the evil step dad with the words coming from angry mouths, but when the homework gets to be too much, I am often the person they seek for help.  It is the little things.

 

On Monday, we had a family council to discuss some family issues (not related to the DCFS – it is still to soon for any conversations about that), and one of the things that was decided was that mom and dad needed to make more time available for the kids in a one-on-one setting.  We are going to get a calendar and block out one-hour blocks that the kids can sign up for with either one of us.  I was pleasantly surprised that one of my wife’s kids was so excited about spending an hour… with me.  I can hardly wait to get the calendar working to see what happens.  I would be thrilled in my kids signed up for my wife’s time first, but I have steeled myself to not having my dance card filled until my wife’s times are all full too.

 

It is not a competition for the affection of the kids, it is just about  the kids.  Some people still need to learn that.

 

 

      *     *

    One Man

A Polar Difference

On Friday, my ex demanded (well, almost) that I come to her house and discuss the problems the kids have before I picked them up.  My reply was simply that we would be there, and thus notified her that my wife would be coming as well.  It felt that my ex was trying to play the two of us against each other – to make us take sides.  Having my wife join me for this little sit-down seemed to be the best way to let her know that we were not going to allow her to divide us.  Of course this meant that her partner was there too: She would not normally have been involved in something like this, but there is always a price to pay.  I just did my best to ignore her, but I did wonder to myself how it is possible that someone who started out aesthetically challenged could be even harder on the eyes every single time I see her.

 

At the meeting, my ex asked each of the kids if there were things they wanted to tell me and they all replied that there was nothing they were concerned about.  The ex was obviously frustrated that the kids had forgotten what she wanted them to say and that she could not get any of them to remember their lines.  Eventually she was forced to voice her concerns using her own breath, but the issues all seemed petty and insignificant coming from her and it was made worse when the kids would not even back her up.

 

The ex became exasperated at this point – perhaps because I let it be known that I thought that it was silly that we were dragged over to talk about such petty issues – and she started reciting why she was so worried about the kids.  She used their behavior this past week as an example:

 

She reported that there had been bed wetting, break downs, nightmares, and that the littlest had not been able to get to sleep despite everything she tried (My wife leaned over and whispered “She should try reading to her”).  Obviously, she said, there is something wrong with the way the kids are being raised at my house.  She later continued her attack via e-mail saying that the kids had finally divulged an incident that happened two and a half years ago!  I could not help myself and replied:  What kind of questions are you asking the kids to get them to ‘divulge’ something that happened so long ago it is all but forgotten by everyone else?”

 

The kids seemed fine to me.  They seemed happy to be home and they were greeted with warmth by the five children waiting for them.  Smiles all around and it felt good.  The good feelings continued all weekend and I am pleased to report that we had no bed wetting, no breakdowns, no crying, very little yelling, and that everyone slept as they should.  In fact the only real complaint that I heard from the kids was that I did not read to them long enough last night.  I am used to that complaint; the kids would have me read all night if my voice would hold out so long.  I must admit that leaving Percy Jackson just when he found out who his father was was a difficult task for me too.  I thought about sneaking the book so I could read ahead, and call it practice for tomorrow night rather than call it cheating them.

 

We only have two more nights to read until the three go back to spend time with their mother until Monday of next week.  As good as the stories get, the kids that remain behind will not let me read because they don’t want the kids that are gone to miss any of the story. 

 

If that is not true love in a family, I don’t know what is.

 

       *    *

   One Man