2005 12 -- Royalty

My Royalty Post is Abbreviated because it contains some personal information:

Royalty

The Duke of Windsor and Duchess of Cornwall arrived in California last month for a variety of reasons. Not among those reasons was to see me. But they saw me anyway.

I was sworn to secrecy about going to church, which was odd, since it was something I was going to do anyway. R and I often attend worship at ____________ in ________, California.

I found out many things after the fact which makes the story interesting. My wife told me we HAD to attend church at ________ on a certain Sunday. She said she couldn’t tell me why we had to do this, but that it was a good thing. She told me that she had been sworn to secrecy. I didn’t have a clue about what this might be but I dutifully entered “Mandatory Church” in my calendar. She also told me that we’d need to arrive early that morning. I said, “Okay”.

A week before the scheduled event, I invited my wife and the pastor to a special performance of “Autumn” from Vivaldi’s Seasons. For this performance, the actors played Johann Sebastian Bach, Antonio Vivaldi and I was solo violinist and orchestra leader. We had a fun time with the lines that involved banter about which composer produced the better music. Following the performance, my wife prompted pastor to tell me what was the reason for our mandatory attendance at church next Sunday. I was first sworn to secrecy . Then he said, “We’re going to be visited by the Duke of Windsor and the Duchess of Cornwall”. In my mind, I had to translate…”Oh, that would be Prince Charles, future King of England and his wife, Camilla”. That explained the reason for secrecy…the security of the Royal couple. It also explained why we had to arrive early. They had to control the guest list. That was pretty exciting news. It’s not every day you get an invitation to be in the presence of royalty.

You can imagine how hard it is to keep such a secret, but I kept my oath. On Friday before the day, my brother and sister-in-law arrived to stay at our house for the happy celebration of our father’s 95th birthday. The party was on Saturday…the day before we were to worship with the Prince and Duchess. There were about forty people for dad’s birthday—a very social situation. Gossip would have been so easy—“We’re going to see the Prince tomorrow”. But we kept our silence.

At about 10:30 p.m. on Saturday night, I decided to tell my brother and sister-in-law in a way which would not compromise the secret. I swore my sister-in-law to the following oath…”If I give you an envelope will you swear not to open it until 11:30 a.m. tomorrow morning?” She first speculated on what the secret might be, but when I refused to divulge the true nature of the expected event, she agreed to the oath. I then went up to my study and wrote the following on a 3 x 5 card: “By the time you open this, R and I will have worshiped with the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall in ___________”. I put the card in a security envelope and handed it to my sister-in-law.

So Sunday morning arrived. The weather was a light intermittent drizzle of mist, but not too bad. We got up early and drove to ___________. To enter the church grounds you need to drive up a long curving driveway. We arrived at about 8:30 a.m. and it was obvious the secret was out. The paparazzi were crowded at the bottom of the hill. Press vehicles with their big antennas crowded at the entrance. There must have been sixty reporters, camera crew, photographers and security. We were greeted by ______, a member who had the guest list. He was the gatekeeper. Since we had our little car which is low to the ground, he directed us to park at the top of the driveway rather than the meadow below since it was pretty muddy.

At the top of the driveway were another thirty or so press and paparazzi cordoned off by the secret service with crowd control barricades. We were directed into the parish hall downstairs from the sanctuary. We waited there while the secret service conducted a sweep of the building. They then announced it was okay to go up the stairs to the sanctuary.



While we were waiting, we had a good discussion with a secret service lady from the Los Angeles office. She wore a black trench coat and at one point when the church—appointed photographer wanted to step out on the balcony, she spoke into her sleeve asking permission from her superior. Behind her dark locks we could barely see the communication earpiece. She made it clear to him that there were to be no photographs during the worship service. On the hill side of the building were newly installed shear curtains. They were placed at the request of the secret service so the paparazzi couldn’t intrude into the service. Since it was a bit crowded in the sanctuary, my wife and I moved to the chapel off the left side near the altar. That turned out to be fortuitous, since it put us within about ten feet of where the Prince and Duchess were to sit.

Pastor gave us instructions on protocol. First of all, one never approaches the Royal couple. Instead, you respond to their invitation with mirrored gestures. For example if they extend a hand, you reciprocate. If they ask a question, you include the words, “Your Royal Highness” in the first response, then “Sir or Ma’am” afterwards. This really makes the whole event very civil, as otherwise, people would literally mob the royalty in an attempt to gain a touch or word. It also means that some people will be overlooked who might like such a touch or word.

From our vantage point in the chapel, we could see the royal motorcade arrive up the driveway. First all the attendants and ambassadors came up the steps and into the church. Then the Prince and Duchess got out of the car and climbed the steps from the parking lot amid a clatter of camera clicks and greeted the pastor who ushered them into the church. That is when we first saw them. They processed to their appointed seats in the front pew on the left side, quite near the opening to the chapel where we were seated.

Everything about the service was completely normal with the following small exceptions. First, pastor acknowledged their visit. Second, during the service, three small gifts were presented. The children of the church had prepared a drawing. And two good friends, EJ and EG, each talented with needlework, presented embroidered crosses to the royal couple. While EG was working on the cross, she did not know who it was going to be for, since the secret was not yet out. So my wife, who knew the secret, and has regular contact with EG, had to be especially careful during the embroidery time they spent together in advance of the royal visit. The story came out afterward that during the presentation, the Duchess’ thumb touched EG’s thumb. During communion, there were two chalices. One gold and one silver. The prince drank from the gold chalice (as did I) and the duchess drank from the silver chalice (as did my wife).

When the organ started playing, I could see the photographers through the shear curtains jostling for position to capture the royal exit. We went out the back door of the chapel onto the deck overlooking the stairs where the royal couple would walk down. After they proceeded onto the deck downstairs to sign the church guest book and greet members of the vestry, we were at the very bottom step. The secret service then directed us to walk along the side of the limousine. We followed their instructions. They asked us to “Keep on going” past the open door of the limo. It was that instruction which kept us from shaking hands with the royal couple. Instead, Camilla and then Prince Charles came through the receiving line, shaking hands and generally showing interest in each contact. The prince asked some of the children just in front of us, what they did for Halloween. The post-church visit was about five minutes total, but they both showed a lot of gracefulness in their contact with each person. As Charles got to our end of the line, he hesitated just a moment as if he was going to reach out to shake my hand. But realizing that to do so would involve reaching over the person in front of me, he instead gave me a look in the eye and a royal nod which I returned.

Shortly after, they got into the limo and drove off, leaving everyone at the mercy of the press who wanted the scoop on what happened inside. Many parishioners complied. We saw some of the coverage later which made me remember my first musing of the year on the subject of counter speech. One newscaster asked nine year old MB what she was feeling about the Royal visit. They then quoted her answer, “I’m about to blow up” (cut). Please remember that what you see and read in the press is often taken out of context. Her whole sentence was, “I’m about to blow up with excitement”. Even such a little thing as that can start wars.

And now, a quick analysis of royalty. The visit of the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall to the United States was focused on sustainable farming. In addition, I heard that they were intending to give Camilla a lesson on handling life as a future queen. From my perspective, they did both admirably. But, of what use is royalty, really? Will the monarchy be sustained?

In the eyes of God, I’m convinced that Charles and Camilla are just ordinary human beings. After all, like all of us, each is an accident of their parent’s decision to make a child. Being royal has nothing to do with a person’s innate character, but that character is most certainly shaped by being royal. After all, why would so many others and I have such a great curiosity to be in their presence? How is it that we dwell on their every gesture and possible touch? Constantly being surrounded by the photographers, reporters and others wanting an audience must certainly take its toll on their attitude toward life. It must be impossible for them to be normal. So why do we all exhibit such curiosity? Admittedly, it is fun to be in the presence of someone so recognized around the world. I have shared these anecdotes with anyone who will listen. I’ve shared my photos as well:















I just hope that continuing royalty will somehow make the world a better place. In the eyes of God, I believe we all have an equal chance of making that so.

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20051201

2005 11 -- Next

Next!
Or…Doing your next now…

Standing in line at the bank and hearing the teller call out, “Next in line, please!” made me think about what comes next. What next to write about for this month’s musing? The next phase of life? The next action to take? The next project?

Looking forward to “next” is something we do with great glee and anticipation.
When’s your next birthday?
Next year when I’m eight, I’d like a bicycle!
How will it be different when you’re age 10?
Next year when I’m 16, my mom & dad will let me date.
When I’m 18, I’ll be legally able to vote in the next election. I’ll also be able to enlist in the military, get a job, leave my parents and get married.
When I’m 21, I can legally drink alcohol.
When I’m 55, I can start getting some senior discounts
When I’m 65 (or 66) I can apply for Social Security
When I’m 70 ½ I have to start making withdrawals from my retirement plan

Here are some examples of “Next”:

Next year, I resolve to…
Lose weight
Exercise more
Spend more time with my family
Work more
Donate blood
Volunteer at a local food bank
Discover the cure for cancer and diabetes
Run for office
Explain the universe

Next President’s Day, I’m going skiing
Next Memorial Day, I’m taking a hike
Next Fourth of July, I’m going to a ball game
Next Labor Day, I’m swimming a mile
Next Halloween, I’m going to be a _____________ (fill in the blank).
Next Thanksgiving I’m going to celebrate quietly
Next Christmas, I’m going to give to charity
Next time I get the chance, I’ll…

In some instances, procrastination is closely tied to next. Other than those items like birthdays which require waiting, why not do your next, now?

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20051101

2005 10 -- The Middle and Truth

The Middle…and Truth

I was listening to extreme radio the other day. The host was pronouncing the great good that the current administration is doing in the world. Later in the same day I heard another host proclaiming the disaster that the current administration is wreaking on the world. And recently, I had the chance to meet individually (on separate occasions) with Nobel Prize winning physicists Martin Perl and Charles Townes. One proclaimed that he is an athiest and the other observed that there must be some sort of spiritual guide to our amazing universe.

These observations led me to ask, “How is it that from the same set of data, each of these bright minds have arrived at polar opposite conclusions? What and where is the middle?” And, “Is it possible that the truth lies in the middle, or is there really only one true answer?”

First; what and where is the middle? …And the truth?

In people, it’s the belly. In people, it’s the brain
In politics, it’s the compromise. In politics, it’s the investigation

In music, it’s the peak of a phrase. In music, it’s the re-creation
In a sphere, it’s the locus of the radius. In a sphere, it’s the locus of the radius.
In math, it’s the average or the mean. In math, it’s the proof.
In airlines, it’s the hub airport. In airlines, it’s the safe arrival
In a city, it’s the central district. In the city, it’s the social interaction
In a trip, it’s the midpoint. In a trip, it’s the experience.
In an effort, it’s half way. In an effort, it’s the result.
In time, it’s an equal number of In time, it’s the continued refinement
oscillations on either side of an instant. of measurement

Now it seems that for some data, there is no middle. In the question of religion, for example, it seems that there either is, or is not, a God. It doesn’t seem logical to think that there would be a pseudo-Creator. And in science, it seems that there is observable fact. Either a star exists or it doesn’t. In life, it appears that you’re either alive or dead…or is there an instant when you’re both?

In football, they call it mid-field. But that’s anywhere from about the 40 to the 40. With twenty yards of middle, that represents one fifth of the total. That’s a pretty big middle.

Even midnight is not in the middle of the night. Because of the earth’s alignment with the sun, and depending where you are on the planet, midnight doesn’t exactly divide dusk from dawn.

“I’m in the middle of a project”, we sometimes say. That could be anywhere from just having begun the project to almost at the end. On a relative scale, that might mean anywhere from 5% to 95% completion. That is how we can manipulate the middle to represent the truth in a way we like without actually lying. Honey, “I’m in the middle of something…I’ll be there in a little while”.

My father once told me about the professor who used the phrase “For all practical purposes”. A sharp student questioned him on what he meant. To illustrate his point, he divided the class in two by sex, with the men along the wall on one side of the room and the women against the opposite wall. He instructed them to each advance half way toward the middle of the room. Again he gave the same instruction, to advance half way. Upon repetition several times, he noted that the students would theoretically never reach the middle. But they would be close enough for all practical purposes.


Where is middle, what is truth?


Where is the middle?

You can count.
You can measure
You can fold in half.

You can cut
You can dissect
You can draw an arc.

You can split
You can estimate
You can draw a line.

But where is the middle?

It’s where you want it to be!

What is the truth?

You can count
You can measure
You can fold in half.

You can cut
You can dissect
You can draw an arc.

You can split
You can estimate
You can draw a line.

But what is the truth?

It’s what you want it to be.

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050901

2005 09 -- Yosemite Part III

Yosemite Part 3

During the summer when I worked at Yosemite, several incidents come to mind which were memorable. The first was my first encounter with the dangers of motorcycle riding. One of my buddy’s friends had a motorcycle and loved to ride down the winding roads leading from Yosemite Valley. It was a beautiful ride on a two lane road with steep canyons and rugged granite boulders. On one such ride, my friend’s friend noticed something not quite right with his front wheel. So he stopped and adjusted the problem. A few minutes later, the adjustment failed, he lost control and flipped over a granite guard rail—flying with the motorcycle down the steep ravine. Fortunately, someone came along right after the incident, provided first aid and got medical assistance. Also fortunately, there was no concussion. However, they had to amputate his foot which was crushed under the bike as he landed.

Lessons taught! Motorcycles are not toys. Don’t fix a motorcycle half way.
Lesson learned? Later that summer I rode on the back of a motor scooter several times. No helmet in those days.

***
The steep granite walls of Yosemite Valley provided a dramatic backdrop for a “Firefall”. Starting at about four o’clock each afternoon, a fire was lit at Glacier point using bark and other pine logs. The idea was to let the fire burn nicely down into coals which after dark could be shoved off the cliff with shovels and special broad rakes. From Camp Curry below, the effect was quite dramatic. When the sky was sufficiently dark, tradition involved shouting from above and below.

Above: “Hello Camp Curry!”
Below: “Hello Glacier Point!”
Above: “Are you ready?”
Below: “Let the Fire Fall!”

The coals were flung out over the edge and everyone below would “ooh and aah” in delight at the red embers cascading exactly like a glowing waterfall down the face of glacier point. The whole affair lasted about four or five minutes, but was always a special treat for those in the valley. Several concerns caused the firefall to be discontinued. It used a large amount of wood in a dwindling supply. Preparation was extensive. Uncontrolled fire was a possibility. Smoke was settling in the valley. And perhaps the major overriding factor was that the firefall was certainly not a natural phenomenon. As a result the practice was discontinued shortly after my summer in the Valley.

Lesson taught! Sometimes even nice ideas have to be discontinued.
Lesson learned? The Boy Scouts at Union Lake continued their own firefalls for another decade.

***
Even though I had negotiated working seven days a week stocking groceries in Yosemite Park & Curry Company’s Village Store, one week, I decided to revert to the more normal six days with one day off. In addition, I had earned another eight hours of vacation time, so I could string two days together for a backpacking trip. Mother and dad came up from Berkeley and together we hiked up the Grand Canyon of Tuolumne. That is the valley just north of Yosemite. Due to the prehistoric glacial action, most Sierra valleys run East/West. Like Yosemite, the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne is special for it’s glacial polish on the granite faces, rugged elevation changes and running water coursing through the canyon from several directions joining in the middle.

Our plan was carefully laid out. We had our backpacks, drinking cups (giardia was not a problem back then), camping stove, sufficient light weight food, sleeping bags and flashlights. Naturally, being younger, I had no problem with the hike and strolled along easily while my parents took a more leisurely pace. We got a nice early start and made good progress up the canyon. The whole journey was to take three days, but I only had two days off. So after the first night, I walked with my parents during the morning. It was then that we encountered a rattlesnake. It was sunning itself on a nice open granite place but as we approached, it startled us with it’s rattle. We had met rattlesnakes before and knowing of their poisonous bite, gave them due respect. Nevertheless, they are a curiosity, so we watched from a healthy distance as this one slithered away into a crevice.

Shortly after lunch I parted from my parents to continue the climb up the canyon alone so I would get to work the following evening on time. That’s when my day got more and more interesting. I saw another rattlesnake! It is one thing to encounter danger in a group and yet another to encounter it alone. It’s hard to describe the feeling I had when I saw that second snake. The surprise, the fear, the jump back and the pounding heart. The thought that there might be a companion snake. Little did I know what was yet in store for me. That afternoon I saw two more rattlesnakes. By the time the shadows lengthened into dusk, I imagined a rattlesnake under every rock, behind every branch and taking a drink at every stream. When I bedded down in my sleeping bag alone in a rustic campground, I imagined rattlesnakes crawling into my bag to keep warm. What would I do if one actually did that? Stay completely still until it left? Try to grab it and fling it aside? And if it did bite me, would I be able to apply a tourniquet? Would I run for help or stay still to not allow the poison to circulate? Four rattlesnakes in one day is enough for a lifetime!

Lesson taught! Hiking alone is not a good idea.
Lesson learned? I have since hiked alone and even enjoyed it.

***
My rattlesnake dream night passed uneventfully, though somewhat restlessly. I packed my gear and hiked up to the road to catch a ride back down into Yosemite Valley. It was the first time I had hitchhiked, so I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I stuck out my thumb and pretty soon a Volkswagen camper van stopped for me. This was the late 1960’s. The VW was painted psychedelic and the occupants were definitely of hippie quality. They wore the tie-dye shirts. The interior of the van smelled a bit of marijuana and in fact I was offered some. I declined. For them, the ride must have been pleasantly peaceful. For me, it was a nail-biter.

Lesson taught! Hitchhiking does have its risks.
Lesson learned? I’ve never hitchhiked again.

***
Two musical activities enhanced my Yosemite experience. The first was an employee chorus. We rehearsed in the non-denominational chapel in the valley. Employees with any talent and interest in singing rehearsed several times a week and got pretty good. Our leader was an encouraging employee of the Yosemite Park & Curry Company. I recall about fifteen chorus members. Our repertoire was from musicals. The most memorable performance was before the firefall at the Camp Curry campfire in which we sang “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever” and “I am I, Don Quixote”, from the Man of La Mancha. At least once, we performed at the Sunday service in the Chapel.

The other musical activity was my viola playing. After waking up at about 2 p.m., I’d have something to eat, then all afternoon was “free”. I brought a viola for the summer since it was a less valuable instrument than my violin and I didn’t want to risk the violin being stolen from our unsecured tent cabins. Subsequently I learned that violas are actually more at risk of being stolen due to the fact that more people want to get rid of them! So after lunch, I’d go down to the Merced riverbank, set up a portable music stand and work on the Bach unaccompanied cello suites transcribed for the viola. I learned them all during that summer, and even memorized the G major Sonata. It turns out that the memorization was pretty effective, as thirty five years later at the Berkeley Breakfast Club I performed the Sonata from memory with neither rehearsal nor music.

Lesson taught! Music and mountains go nicely together.
Lesson learned? Practiced skills can last a long time.

***
During a spring break from Cal, several of my fraternity buddies and I took a trip to Yosemite. One of the brothers, Steve Howard, was on the Daily Cal newspaper staff and had access to a great 4 x 4 Graphlex Camera. 4 x 4 stands for the size of the film—four inches by four inches. That allows for a very sharp image with a slow speed film. Steve was inspired by Ansel Adams and wanted to take some of the most gorgeous black and white Yosemite photographs ever taken. The camera was both a single lens reflex as well as a leaf shutter camera. In order to take a picture, you stood behind a hood and looked at the upside down image on a ground glass plate slid into the back of the camera. Then when you were all set, you slid out the glass plate and slid in the undeveloped film which was covered with a black slide. Removing the slide exposed the film to the inside of the camera box and when the shutter clicked open, the image was exposed onto the film. Then you slid the covering plate back over the film to keep subsequent light from spoiling the exposure. Film was a bit expensive, so we only took about fifteen shots, but each one was carefully set up, the exposure taken carefully and dials set on the camera, and double checked before we actually clicked the shutter. I was present when Steve did each photo and took a special interest in the whole process of about ten to fifteen minutes per shot. As a result of that interest, Steve invited me into the darkroom back in Berkeley when he was ready to develop the images.

The Daily Cal darkroom was in the basement of Eshleman Hall. So we went down there and Steve showed me how the film was processed. First you turn off the lights in the room so it’s pitch black. Then you open the film cartridges and remove each 4 by 4 sheet of film and insert it into a special holder designed to hold twenty films. Then you place the holder in the developer bath. This part of the process needs to be carefully timed. Since it’s pitch black in the room, a special timer with a lightly glowing face is put where it won’t affect the processing. We set the timer and gently shook the film back and forth in the liquid to make sure the developer covered all parts of the film equally.

The next step is to “fix” the developer. The timer is set again, the film is taken out of the developer solution and put into a fixing bath. As with the developer, we were most careful to gently shake the film to be sure that all parts got the right amount of fixer. Steve then said, “Okay, turn on the lights”. I did. And there before us were the most gorgeous pictures ever taken of Yosemite. As we looked at the negatives, and held them up to the light, they unexplainably started to fade. It only took about ten seconds and the images actually disappeared before our eyes. Neither of us could understand what was happening at the moment. Then Steve exclaimed, “Oh no, I developed them twice and didn’t fix them”. In the dark, he had put them back in the developer bath instead of in the tray next to it which held the fixing solution. It was too late. The images were all gone. Every single one of them! At that moment we felt that the whole trip was wasted.

Lesson taught! If you work in the dark, have a plan.
Lesson learned? Fix what you develop.

***
On that same trip, my fraternity buddies and I wanted to climb the closed trail to the base of Yosemite Falls. Of course closed trails to 19 and 20 year olds present a challenge rather than an obstacle. Our attitude was, we’re young and healthy, whatever made the authorities close the trail must have been for old folks. So off we went. It was spectacular. We got almost right under the falls. Since it was Spring, the melting snow and ice was creating an enormous flow of water. Being right underneath the fantastic cascade gave us a sense of awe and the power of nature. Then it happened. When ice thaws off the face of the granite, it comes crashing down with enormous velocity. Icicles become spears hurtling off the cliff in random fashion. When four such spears staked their claim in a literal rectangle around me I exclaimed, “Whoa, that was close, let’s get out of here”. We got the message as to why the trail was closed and ran for cover.

Lesson taught! Authorities sometimes have reasons for their actions.
Lesson learned? Think beyond your impulses.

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050901

2005 08 -- Yosemite Part II

Yosemite Part 2

My first recollection of Yosemite when I was about 11. Boy Scout Troop 5 of Berkeley was an adventurous troop and one of our annual outings was a winter camping trip to Yosemite. Usually held in February on President Lincoln or Washington’s Birthday weekend, up to sixty boys would meet at Cedar and Euclid Streets in Berkeley at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning, load into station wagons and drive through the central valley on mostly two lane roads to Yosemite, about a six hour drive. We always stopped in Tracy at a little restaurant on the right hand side of the road for breakfast. Each of us was given a two dollar bill which was to cover our breakfast. Gas cost about 15 cents per gallon.

We’d arrive at our campsite on the valley floor in time for a sandwich lunch. Then we’d be called by the bugler to assemble by patrols. Each of the six patrols had up to eight boys. Then there was the Senior Patrol which we called Junior Staff which faced the Patrols to give instruction and outline the rules. The Junior Staff was very taken by their sense of responsibility and importance. Giving the Junior Staff responsibility for the well being of the younger scouts is how scouting makes boys into men. Attendance was taken by the senior patrol leader, usually a boy of about 17 years. “Rattlesnake Patrol?”…”All Present and accounted for, sir”. “Viper Patrol?”…”One missing, sir”. An explanation ensued. The other patrols were the Cobras, the Moccasins, the Pythons and the Boas. We were then instructed on the schedule and warned about bears, food storage and staying together.

We spent the better part of the afternoon setting up camp. Each patrol would figure out how to pitch heavy canvas tents on the snow. Sometimes this was a bit of a challenge since the patrol leaders were usually around 13 years of age. Then the staff called a work party where the younger boys went out in search of firewood. Finding dry wood was often a challenge under the snow. Then the patrol members had a bit of time to throw snowballs and generally get wet while the staff got a fire going and the “commissary” was set up. For the annual Yosemite trek, a supper of beans was cooked in a huge commercial pot. Usually on outings the boys cooked in patrols, but in the wet of Yosemite on our first day out, that was deemed too risky, as some patrols would fail to light their fires until dark, the meal would take too long to cook, and boys would go hungry. That was especially true because the staff ate with the patrols and they didn’t want to suffer without supper.

After dinner, there was a campfire and we all huddled around vying for a warm spot. Then we’d play flashlight wars where two teams tried to capture the each other’s baseball bat and run it back to the campfire without being named by name. It was lots of fun trying to outshine an opponent, get the light in his face and call out his name. There were lots of disguised voices calling out “rat or mocc?” (short for rattlesnake or moccasin, which were the team names). The honor system prevailed, and if you were asked, you were required to acknowledge which team you were on. After the game was over, there was always a lot of arguing about who cheated, or the strategy the winning team used to outfox the opponent. There was an occasional trip over a log buried under the snow, but we all had a grand time. We wrapped it up with some songs, a story, the scoutmaster’s minute and “By the Blazing”.

“By the Blazing council fire’s light,
We have met in comradeship tonight,
‘Round among the whispering trees,
Guard our golden memories,
And so, before we close our eyes in sleep,
Let us pledge each other that we’ll keep
Scouting memories strong and deep,
‘til we meet again.”

The scoutmaster would state, “Goodnight, fellas!” and we would respond “Goodnight, Ed!” Fifteen minutes later, the bugler would play taps. And we would try to avoid going to sleep as long as possible by telling stories and jokes under our breaths. Of course after a particularly juicy punch line, we couldn’t suppress our guffaws, so the staff would admonish, “Boa Patrol, go to sleep”. In hindsight, sleep was pretty hard. We did not have cushy air mattresses nor were sleeping bags of the technology they are today. They were pretty heavy. If they got wet, which they invariably did, we got cold. A few of the boys had featherweight down bags, but that was the exception.

In spite of the cold, we all had great fun. The next day started with a morning assembly and patrol breakfasts. The meal preparation took place in patrols which were judged by the Junior Staff for quality and cleanliness as part of a contest. The patrol which got their fire started first and showed good leadership by the patrol leader usually won the prize which was blueberries for the final morning’s pancakes, awarded at the morning assembly.

After breakfast, we packed up the station wagons and rode home. Usually the trip home was pretty quiet, as we had managed to expend significant amounts of energy on the activities of our snow adventure. We also had the reality that we had homework waiting for us at the other end of the ride.

--

Several of my high school buddies and I planned a backpacking trip in Yosemite with some favorite young ladies, also of high school age. We just thought it would be fun to go backpacking together as a group. Initially, six of us wanted to go. All the parents were consulted and all agreed to the trip, save my parents. The rationale was that it was not proper to have young men and young women together in situations which would compromise the honor of any of us. So we investigated the possibility of a chaperone. We found a 21 year old who would be willing to go with us. Still not acceptable. What was acceptable was if just the guys went. Naturally, we were not happy about the decision, but after our best pleas, we acquiesced and decided to go stag. Now that we’ve raised two sons and a daughter, I better understand my parent’s reasoning and respect them for it.

We bought maps and decided that the place to go was the Southeastern part of Yosemite National Park. Five of us ended up being able to make the trip: Hugh Spitzer, Joshua Smith, Pat and Mike McCarthy (identical twins) and myself.

We obtained permission to drive over Tioga Pass, camping at a beautiful spot…Agnew Meadows. From there we hiked up past Shadow Lake to Lake Ediza. I was particularly taken with the beauty of the Minarets and Mounts Ritter and Banner. Especially in the morning. The second day out, we hiked almost to the top of Mount Ritter. I didn’t want to get caught late at night on the side of a rugged mountain and even though we were near the top, I suggested to my friends that we not attempt the top. Especially since Hugh had gotten elevation sickness and we didn’t want to leave him alone. So, disappointed about missing our goal, we turned back. It was the right thing to do. Even in high school we had some good judgment.

Our plan was to hike and camp for a week, covering about fifty miles of gorgeous high country. Lake Ediza was so spectacular that I later chose to share it with my bride on our honeymoon.

On the last day of our fifty mile outing we were planning to go over Donahue Pass and into Tuolumne Meadows. As we started up the pass, the wind got stronger and stronger and the clouds darker and darker. At one point it was blowing so hard that my gray Stetson hiking hat flew off and out of sight. Amazingly, the wind took it in a circular pattern and about 30 seconds later it came tumbling back again and we were able to grab it. In Tuolumne Meadows there was a dusting of snow on the ground and several of the “car” campers were planning to leave. One such person saw us and offered their tent which we gratefully accepted. It was one of those large heavy canvas tents which easily fit all of us and our gear. We fell fast asleep in spite of the cold. In the morning we awoke to clear skies and the beauty of a new day.

One of our parents came to pick us up and take us back to “civilization”. Our observation was that wilderness is in many respects the most civilized place on earth…certainly the most beautiful. As was the case with our Boy Scout trips to Yosemite, we returned home tired but exhilarated by our amazing world.

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050801

2005 07 -- Yosemite Part I

YOSEMITE

In 1968 I was a university student looking for a bit of summer income. One of my dreams was to work at Yosemite during the heavy tourist season to combine my interest in the out of doors with my zeal for life. I applied for a job with the Yosemite Park and Curry Company and was accepted. When I reported for work, I was assigned to the night shift of stocking groceries in the Village Store. That meant that I needed to get to the store right when the last customers were leaving. My work partner and I got a big wheeled cart from the storage room, loaded it with product and spent eight hours a night transferring goods to the shelves. It was actually a pretty involved process.

First we cut open a box of 12, 24 or 48 product units. We compared the item with a price list. We inked a price stamp with purple indelible ink. We rotated the price dials to set the price. We stamped each can or box. We took the older product and moved it out of the way. Then we stocked the new inventory. Finally, we placed the older items in front so the buyers would get the benefit of lower prices and also keep the stock rotating. The idea was to make a nice neat row of cans or boxes so the buyer would be drawn down the aisle and easily find that for which they were looking. Finally, we collected the empty cardboard boxes, broke them down and put them in the trash bin. This was in the days before recycling was commonplace. To this day, as a result of this experience, I have a great appreciation for a well stocked store.

Our shift was from nine in the evening to five in the morning. That led to some interesting experiences. Quickly my buddy and I learned that we could work better as a team than alone in pushing the big carts. The normal work week was six days with one day off. That meant that two days a week, one or the other of us had to stock the store alone. That was really hard. So we spoke with our manager and negotiated a change. We’d both work seven days, but on two of the days we’d only work from nine to one. The hours were the same, the pay was the same, but the work was easier and more efficient. The manager saw the wisdom of our logic and allowed the arrangement. Labor codes probably would not allow that today (what a shame).

Working at night was a special experience for a couple of reasons. First, it was pretty quiet. The manager would occasionally come by to spot check our work and to resolve any pricing discrepancies. It was especially nice to be outside the back of the store in the dawn breaking down boxes. The valley was so still and lovely at dawn. When we walked from the store back to our tent cabins, there was rarely anyone else stirring yet, so it was as if we had the entire Yosemite Valley to ourselves.

Our usual pattern was to go to bed by 5:30 a.m. so we could sleep when it was pretty quiet. Then, we’d wake at about 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., have a lunch, and hike, read, swim or in my case, play the viola. I brought a viola since that was a less expensive instrument than my violin and I wasn’t sure if my violin would “appreciate” the dry summer outdoor air of the valley, nor was I sure of the security in the tent cabins we occupied.

Usually, when I woke up I would have a bite to eat, then go to the bank of the Merced river and play my viola. I’m not sure what others thought of my playing the cello suites of Bach, but I had a lot of time and I learned them really well. So well in fact, that some thirty years later, without rehearsal and from memory, I performed one of the sonatas (G major) for members of the Berkeley Breakfast Club when they were making fun of violas and viola players.

After a bit of practice or reading, my work partner and I would sometimes scramble up the face of Glacier Point. The trail said “closed”, but being young and immortal, we decided that the sign was for old folks. So we scrambled up the jumbled granite face of the mountain oblivious to any danger. Since then I learned that a major slide has obliterated the entire area. The reason we would scramble up the face (and we did it perhaps six or seven times) was to have dinner at the Glacier Point Hotel. As employees of the Yosemite Park and Curry Company, we had priveleges at any of the company’s dining facilities (except the Awahnee Hotel). So we’d eat a nice dinner at about six o’clock. Just before the sun set, we’d RUN down the regular glacier point trail in time to get to work at 9:00 p.m. That trail was clearly marked and well traveled. Nevertheless, it wasn’t a paved path. There were roots and rocks jutting out at odd angles. It was amazing that we never got injured. It is amazing looking back at the experience from the perspective of a thirty years later to think of the crazy things we did which seemed so normal at the time.

Another somewhat crazy experience which stands out in my memory about Yosemite was a night hike. I’ve already mentioned that we worked seven days a week. On the two half shifts we finished work at 1:00 a.m. So one night, we decided to ride my partner’s motor scooter up to the end of the valley, park it at Happy Isles and hike with stars and flashlights up the trail to Nevada Falls, Vernal Falls and on up the back side of Half Dome. The night we picked had no moon and in the clear mountain air the stars were spectacular. We were in really good shape, so we hiked fairly fast. A couple of times it was tricky to find the trail, but my boy scout experience helped keep us on track.

All of a sudden, we heard a kind of a grumbling noise. Just as we rounded a bend in the trail, just in front of us about 30 feet was a good sized brown bear. He was as surprised as we were. With our flashlights, we had the advantage, but being careful not to shine the lights directly at him, we let him go along his way. In might be more accurate to say that he let us go along our way! That gave us something to talk and think about for a long time as we resumed our journey up the mountain. Along about 4 a.m., we noticed what they call the false dawn. A faint blue wash of light near the horizon. We were at a place where the trees were thinning, so the false dawn was a special experience to see. We were anxious to get to the top by true dawn, so we picked up the pace and arrived at the base of the cable assist just as we didn’t need our flashlights. We had about half an hour to get to the top of Half Dome before the sun came up, so we scrambled up the side of the huge granite rock. I wondered if I could make it without the cables, but found it too steep for our sunrise objective, so by using the assistance left by previous generations of climbers we made it in plenty of time.

The sun rose directly over the peak called Cloud’s Rest. Dawn is a beautiful time of day, as it slowly unfolds leaving you with thoughts of unlimited possibilities. After our focus on Cloud’s Rest, we sat on the precipice edge looking down into Yosemite Valley and noted that the shadow of Half Dome starts big and gets smaller on the Valley floor as the sun rises. We had a nice picnic lunch, then started our uneventful descent to the scooter ride to our tent cabin where we soundly fell asleep until the alarm woke us at 8:45 p.m. to get to work.

The night janitors at the Village Store were two very colorful guys. One was a senior fellow who never had much education, but was quite refined and genteel. The other was a crude Vietnam vet who might very well have had a dishonorable discharge for his free and independent spirit. In other words, he didn’t always comply with societal rules. It was pretty clear that he enjoyed substances not approved by his doctor. However, he was a very entertaining story teller. So during our breaks, we’d sit around the aisles listening to his far fetched, unbelievable tales calculated as much to make him bigger than life as to tell a story. Every third word has to be censored in the re-telling.

I remember only one of these many tales. While it may not have been original, it was embellished and strung out with such finesse that even Mark Twain would have enjoyed it. It was about a little kindergarten girl, Suzy, who always wore a lovely yellow ribbon around her neck. Now as kindergarteners will do, some of the other children made fun of Suzy for always wearing the ribbon. But she refused to take it off. In particular, one little boy, Jason, teased her incessantly about her ribbon. It became an obsession with him. She told him again and again that she wouldn’t take it off. And she certainly wouldn’t tell him why she wore the ribbon.

Well, time went along and they stayed in the same class together all the way through their sixth grade graduation. This was in the days when schools had K-6 in one school. At the graduation, they were now eleven years old and had become pretty good friends. Jason said, “Suzy, I’ve known you since kindergarten and have become your good friend. Here we are at our sixth grade graduation. I think I am a good enough friend for you to trust me to keep your secret about your yellow ribbon. Won’t you please tell me why you always wear the yellow ribbon?” Suzy replied, “Jason, I cannot tell you”. Even though Jason was disappointed, he had been disappointed so many times before that he let the matter drop for the time being.

Jason and Suzy continued their schooling together and then went on to Junior High School. In those days, they didn’t have Middle Schools, so they stayed together for the seventh through ninth grades. Suzy continued to wear the yellow ribbon around her neck. At the ninth grade graduation, they were now fourteen years old and had become even better friends. Jason said to Suzy, “Suzy, I’ve known you since kindergarten and have become your very good friend. Here we are at our ninth grade graduation. I think I am a good enough friend for you to trust me to keep your secret about your yellow ribbon. Won’t you tell me why you always wear the yellow ribbon?” Suzy replied, “Jason, I cannot tell you”. Again Jason was disappointed, but he let the matter drop for the time being.

Jason and Suzy continued their schooling together and then went on to High School. Things between Jason and Suzy began to get pretty serious. Suzy continued to wear the yellow ribbon around her neck. At the high school graduation, they were now seventeen years old and had fallen in love. Jason said, “Suzy, I’ve known you since kindergarten. I love you so much. I’ve taken you to all the proms. I’ve given you gifts and have shown my devotion to you. Here we are at our high school graduation. You can trust me to keep your secret about your yellow ribbon. Won’t you tell me why you always wear the yellow ribbon?” Suzy replied, “Jason, I cannot tell you”.

In spite of his disappointment, on his eighteenth birthday, he proposed to her, gave her a ring and asked if she would marry him. Suzy replied, “Jason I love you too. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I have a condition.” Jason enthusiastically said, “Sure, anything you say, Suzy”. Suzy replied, “Jason, you have to promise never to ask me about the yellow ribbon again.” Jason was ecstatic. “Of course I’ll promise”. And they were married the next Spring. She wore a beautiful white gown with the yellow ribbon showing prominently around her neck.

Jason kept his promise for thirty years. They had two beautiful children together. Suzy always wore the yellow ribbon. And Jason never asked her about the yellow ribbon. Then one day, he thought to himself, “I know Suzy so well, and it’s been so long, certainly now it wouldn’t hurt to ask her what I have been curious about all these years”. So he called for reservations at the finest restaurant in town, told Suzy that he had a special treat planned for her, would she please get dressed in her finest so they could go out for a romantic time on the town. And that they did. After sharing stories and a bottle of wine, Jason got up his courage to pop the question: “Suzy, I have shared my life with you. We have two beautiful children together. I know you better than anyone else, but I really would like to know…why do you wear that yellow ribbon around your neck?” Without saying a word, Suzy slowly untied the yellow ribbon and her head fell off.

My stories of experiences in Yosemite will be continued…

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050701

2005 06 -- Inventions

The Downside of Inventions

Thomas Edison was revered by many people for his inventiveness. Recently I met a man who met Edison. And that got me thinking about inventiveness and inventions. Inventions have done many things for many people. Once something useful is invented, there is no turning back. Some items are simple. Some are complex. Many have unintended consequences. This musing will be about the “bad” side of inventions.

Take the phonograph, for example. Most people would say it is a good invention. While that may be true in some ways, in several other ways I disagree! The phonograph and its many subsequent iterations has become a substitute for the real thing. Real music, played by real people. Real people making music just for the joy of making music. The world being entertained rather than entertaining. Some people are naturally better at creativity, but that shouldn’t stop the rest of us from trying. Whistling used to be commonplace. Rarely do I hear anyone whistle any more. Instead, they would be interrupting the constant stream of music being blasted at us by a radio, public address system or worse yet, music on hold. Even today, I was stopped at a stop light and a big rumble came up boom, boom, boom behind me. What an awful invention, that phonograph!

After I perform a particularly nice violin piece, well meaning people often come up to me and ask, “Did you record that?” My answer is usually, “No”. Out of courtesy, I refrain from explaining. Usually I don’t plan to record it. If you once think that a recording is the same as creating the music, you’ve taken away the reason to perform again. In addition, I actually did hear it the first time, albeit from the perspective of a performer.

The invention of the camera, and thus photography in its many iterations, is much the same as the phonograph. To look at an array of images is an attempt to substitute for the real thing. Perhaps that is why pornography is attractive to some. Viewing pictures does not take the commitment that real life does, just as listening to a recording doesn’t take the same commitment as creating music does. Thus, photographs become an escape from reality rather than a capturing of reality. It is tempting to think that if we could just freeze our special moments “forever” on film or digitally, we would truly have preserved the moment. That is why thousands of dollars are spent on wedding photographers. The fact is that the only important moment is now. If we try to hold on to a special moment, an instant later, we have already lost it. Besides, no matter what technology we have used to try to recreate that moment, over time it has always deteriorated in quality regardless of the storage medium.

We somehow think that if we can see a photograph of a person, that we get to know that person. Recently my sister Marilyn converted some of our father’s old photographic slides to digital images stored on a compact disc. I am thankful for her efforts, as it allows wide distribution to the family. We can now view people we’ve known and remember moments we shared even if those people are deceased. However, most of the photographs are posed. So the glimpse into the past is distorted by the stilted happy nature of the poses. If you knew of the lives and challenges each of those people faced, you’d have a very different appreciation of who those people were.

Writing too, has the same limitations. The inventions of pen, paper, the typewriter, the printing press and the keyboard allow people to make written observations which can be shared by many people. The happenings reported are not the same as reality however. In fact, when I distribute my views of shared events, often comments are received back…”I remember differently”, or “That’s not how it really happened”. Stated simply, my written reality is only valid for me.

The press has the same limitation with the added complication that in order to exist, there must be readers. Consequently, to pique interest, it is often the extreme which is portrayed, not the mundane events of life. As a result, the limits of extreme are constantly pushed. If you read the newspaper every day, you’re not really reading news, you’re being enticingly titillated by bizarre behavior, extreme positions, fear of attack or disaster or the ultimate curiosity about death. And that curiosity leads to an acceptance that what you’re reading is truth…a dangerous assumption.

Radio is another invention with a dark side. Just as in the written word, radio pretends to portray reality in a deceptive manner. If radio broadcasts music, the same fault as the phonograph emerges. If radio broadcasts news, the same fault as the written press emerges. If radio broadcasts talk, the need for market share dictates that the host must engage as many people as possible which leads producers to select talent who are abrupt, abrasive and/or entertaining. That is not a particularly good way to get at the truth.

Television and motion pictures are perhaps the best we’ve come to preserving reality in media other than real life. Like opera, these media are captivating in the stimulation of all the senses save touch, taste and smell. Watching the screen and listening to the speakers gives the impression that you really know the actor. What distorts this medium, however is the editing room. Life is not packaged neatly in little bundles precisely designed to fit between commercials. Life unfolds slowly and awkwardly—giving way to dilemmas of competence and incompetence, success and failure, rewards and challenges, joy and misery. The editing room cuts from one scene to the next while real life is a drawn out continuum.

Conflict which is inevitable in real life is made bigger than life on the screen. And when that is broadcast into millions of homes, the result is a distorted view of reality known as the availability bias. When information is readily available, the perception mechanism we all have leads us to believe that such information will affect us personally, even if that is not true. That is why after an earthquake somewhere in the world is reported on the news, some of my customers will call up and buy earthquake insurance. The risk hasn’t changed, only their perception due to the availability of the news information.

I could go on almost infinitely about the negative impact of other inventions. So, to sort out my thoughts and avoid rambling, poetry provides a creative medium to cover more ground in a more consise manner.

Inventions—Good and Bad


Beer—Gives pleasure, masks feelings
Light bulb—Lights dark, longer hours
Television—Entertains, stifles thought
Computer—Eases work, demands time
Laser—Cures blindness, guides missles
Chain Saw—Cuts trees, denudes forests
Radio—Sells product, creates conformity
Electricity—Eases work, electrocutes folks
Automobile—Moves things, maims people
Street sweeper—Clears gutters, Pollutes air
Calendar—Organizes time, forces schedules
Atom Bombs—End wars, mistrust continues
Disposable diaper—Clears mess, fills dumps
Phonograph—Saves sound, chokes creativity
Lock—Protects property, stimulates isolation
Books—Proliferates ideas, perpetuates myths
Airplane—Shrinks distance, destroys cultures
Insurance—Indemnifies loss, encourages fraud
Stock Market—Produces capital, kindles greed
Camera—Saves images, produces pornography
Nuclear Power—Energizes cities, produces waste
Password—Keeps confidentiality, complicates life
Printing press—Conveys information, consumes trees
Government—Helps downtrodden, fosters dependance

©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050601

2005 05 -- Two Whistles and a Horn

Two Whistles and a Horn

Whistle I

Growing up, my family spent idyllic summers at South Lake Tahoe. Since my father’s occupation was in education, he had the summer “off” and found a job as Supervisor of Tahoe Meadows both to supplement the family income and provide a nice vacation. We children would hike, play in the sand at the beach, do chores, find friends to play with, climb trees, and generally waste time playing cards, skipping rocks on the lake, swimming in the cold clear water or rowing in the family row boat. Three times a week we also played an organized baseball game at a baseball diamond full of trees, wildflowers and other hazards such as wasps and the hot Sierra sun. On alternate mornings, dad taught us swimming in the cold clear Tahoe water. With a few exceptions we had no responsibilities.

Our family lived in tents. We carried water drawn into buckets from a hand pump near the lake to a small shingled cottage with a pit toilet in the corner and wood stove for cooking. For warm showers, dad fixed up a bucket with a spigot and hose hung from the rafters over a large wash tub. Mom cooked up some hot water on the stove to mix with the cold water. We stood in the wash tub—lathering up and rinsing off with the minimal water flow and minimal privacy as well.

Life seemed truly eternal at the lake. There was no sense of urgency from day to day. Often we would lose track of time. Not mother. She knew when we needed to come in from our blissful reveries and sit down as a family to eat lunch or dinner. So when it was time to come in from our play, mother would blow on a three pitched whistle. I know neither where the whistle was obtained, nor where it is today. But it was effective.

The whistle was silver in color, probably chrome steel. You blew into a single round hole which opened out into three pipes which were joined together in a way which could not be inspected. It was essentially a bundle of three hollow metal sticks about ten millimeters in diameter and eight, ten and twelve centimeters long. Each pipe had an indented slit common to tin whistles which faced outward near the blow hole. The pitches I remember were a major third and a fourth: G—B—E. It was pretty loud, as we could hear it (if we wanted to) clear down at the end of the block. Not hearing the whistle was not an acceptable excuse for not coming home, as mother’s rule was, “Frank you aren’t supposed to go beyond where you can hear me call”.

Perhaps it was intended as a conductors train whistle or work supervisor’s call to shift workers. Probably purchased at the five and dime store for 20 cents, it had a life of at least 20 years and (probably much longer) in calling us children to lunch or dinner. Let’s see: Amortized over its useful life that comes out to a cent a year…Is that how they coined the term penny whistle?
Whistle II

Another whistle my parents used was a bird call starting on any pitch and descending a minor third in a quarter—eighth-eighth note rhythm: C—A-A. This call came from a bird, the Black Capped Chickadee which is common in the Sierra around Lake Tahoe. The Audubon Field guide, describes it’s call: “The rapid, nasal chicadee-dee-dee instantly identifies it”. The male call usually leaves out the last dee.

The bird is quite small, but has had a big impact on our family. It would be impossible to list the times when I’ve heard both the bird and what has become the Bliss family whistle through the generations. This call has been summoned up by our family in many places throughout North America, Canada, Europe and New Zealand, instantly identifying the whistler as a relative.

Usually, the original is about an octave higher than our renditions using our pursed lips. That is presumably due to the Chickadee’s diminuitive size. And we only use the female version of the call.

I have never heard of any other family which has had such a distinctive call. Never have I been in the grocery store, hardware store or public square and heard other than a relative use it. Whether summoning a spouse or errant child, the black capped chickadee whistle has become a family trademark currently extending to four generations.
Horn

As a high school student at Berkeley High School, I had the afternoons available for several activities. First there was swim practice. We swam under the tutelage of Mr. B. In those days, there wasn’t the stigma of the naked body. In an all—male indoor pool, we went straight from the showers into the pool in the buff. If you haven’t done that, I recommend it, as it is an exhilarating feeling to have the water flow over your body unencumbered by a swim suit. We worked hard for an hour or so every afternoon, then showered off the chlorine residue and dressed. And of course, we wondered if the girls followed the same routine. (I learned later that they didn’t).

I got my books out of my locker and then headed straight for the Berkeley Public Library, two blocks away. The Berkeley Public Library main reading room is spectacular. The ceiling must be forty feet high. With high windows opening to the east, the light in the afternoon was perfect for studying. Just in case the natural light was not adequate, the fixtures hung down twenty-five feet from the ceiling. The globes were ivory frosted glass, providing a diffused effect ideal for reading. The tables were solid oak, as were the carefully shaped chairs. The polished hard wood almost seemed soft. If you did make a sound, because of the high ceiling, it was lost in a sort of diminuitive echo which was certain to not disturb your neighbor.

To this day I cannot remember what I studied there. All I can remember is that wonderful full experience of peace and calm after an energetic day.

Every school day started at 5:45 a.m. We started our music practice at six, had breakfast by seven and were off to school by 7:15 a.m. At the other end of the day, it was our family’s practice to have dinner together promptly at six. Mother and dad strategized how to make our family dynamic such that we would understand and value the family time that having meals together provides. Therefore, punctuality was an important factor. Since dad worked on the south side of town, the library was downtown, and home was on the north side of town, it made sense that he would pick me up at the library at 5:45 p.m.

You have already read the description of the library and can imagine how easy it would be to lose track of time. This was in the early sixties, so calling on a cell phone was not an option. Parking in front of the library was for loading and unloading only, so dad couldn’t just park the car and come in to find me. So we arranged that he would honk the car horn. The problem was that others would do the same, so our horn had to be distinctive.

As a Boy Scout, I learned morse code. The letter B (as in Bliss) sounds long—short—short—short. So that was our family car horn call. Only now I realize that it’s almost the same rhythm as the Black Capped Chickadee!
©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050501

2005 04 -- Missing Matter Matters

Missing Matter Matters

Background:
According to our understanding of the laws of motion, galaxies are rotating much faster than they should. Einstein’s theory of gravity has proved correct in virtually all other cases we have been able to observe. However, Einstein’s theory cannot explain this phenomenon.

Scientists think the answer is looking for something we cannot yet measure or understand. So far measurements include all ranges of the spectrum. We use radio, infrared, optical, ultraviolet, x-ray and gamma ray telescopes to try to observe this stuff. When the calculations are done, we find that there should be four times as much stuff out there than we can observe through our measuring devices.

So far, the following explanations have been put forth:
MACHOS (Massive Compact Halo Objects)
Observation: Brightening and dimming of distant stars which might be explained by the gravitational effect of intervening star “lenses”.
Contradiction: They don’t seem to be very abundant
White Dwarfs (The final resting place of small to medium sized stars)
Observation: If they cool more rapidly than we think they should, they are possibly abundant enough to explain the missing mass
Contradiction: The large amount of helium that should thus be produced is not observed
Neutron Stars or Black Holes
Observation: They should be dark, especially Black Holes
Contradiction: These objects are expected to be scarce. Also, they release a lot of heavy elements and energy which is not observed.
WIMPS (Weakly Interacting Massive Particles)
Observation: In theory they could have been produced by a “Big Bang” in sufficient quantities to explain the missing matter
Contradiction: No one has ever observed even one of these particles. That’s a long way from explaining the amount of mass we’d have to find.
Hydrogen Gas
Observation: Three quarters of all matter we observe is hydrogen. Maybe there are many small clouds of hydrogen
Contradiction: Our tools for observation easily measure hydrogen.

With these observations and contradictions come bright minds trying to explain this unknown stuff which has been dubbed dark matter. Perhaps some poetry will find its place into the mind of one of these scientific geniuses and unlock the key to our understanding of the universe.
Missing Matter Matters

Major aMounts of Missing Matter?
No, Matter Must not be Missing!
Our Methods Must Miss the Mark;
We need a Missing Matter Measurer:
A Major Mass Metering Machine…
What Might that Mean?
This Material so Mysterious,
Mocks our Methods.

Although Able Astronomers
Assess Ample dAta Arrays,
Adequate Assessments Avoid Analysis.
Accumulated Asteroidal Articles,
Although Abundant,
Are not yet Adequate
To Adduce an Arrangement
Attested, Avouched, Accepted.

Some Striking GalaXies
Sport Speedily Spinning Stars,
Sending Stymied Scientists
Speculating Sanguine Solutions.
Simply Stated:
Skewed Spectral Statistics
Stump Cerebral Cells
Seeking Salient EXplanations.

Some Silently Standby,
Skeptical, Scoffing, Cynical.
Yet I predict:
A Self-effaCing Theorist
Will think outside the box,
Submerging PreconCeptions,
Synthesizing a Serendipitous hypotheSis,
Sending that perSon into the Scientific Stratosphere.

In hindsight, the solution will seem simple. Every discovery ever made seems that way. Even though the data is voluminous, the right person looking at the data in a new way will slip into an understanding that will revolutionize all subsequent thought. Could that person be you?
©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050401

2005 03 -- Who Am I?

Who am I?


Who am I?



I love children.

I like gift giving.

I have lots of time.

I am a good listener.

I can tell elaborate stories.

I know how to knead bread.

I am an authority on child rearing.

Everyone in the world has four of me.

I have seen lots of joy but also pain.

I witnessed dramatic change.

I understand love and hate.

I’ll live on when I’m gone.

I am a problem solver.

I help out when I can.

I have many names.

I make kids laugh.




I am…
Grandma, Grandpa, Grandmother, Grandfather, Oma, Opa, Grams, Gramps, Grandmama, Granddad, Nana, Grandpapa, Mimi, Pappy and many other names of endearment.

As a boy, I knew three of my four grandparents. Ernest, Elsa and Jennie. The fourth, Percy, missed out on the grandchild thing with me. They were all born in their mother’s homes in the late 1800’s. That meant that they were familiar with things like gas lights, horse and buggies, and travel by stage coach and railroad. Farm life was close to city life. Stories of their youth often included a sense of being close to the outdoors. The telephone was a marvel of operators, party lines and four digit numbers. My grandparents lived through earthquakes and fires and the great depression. They found their way in the world of formality and civility. The ladies wore lace veils on their hats when they went downtown. They also wore fine gloves. The gentlemen wore top hats and polished shoes. Wash was done on Mondays and hung out on clotheslines to dry in the sun. By and large, men went to work to take care of their ladies and families financially. Ladies, by and large stayed home to take care of their families food, shelter and clothing needs. That generation experienced the expansion of the automobile and witnessed the advent of flight.

I’ll start with Ernest. Born in New Zealand, he made his way with his family to California to make his fortune. Somewhere along the way he apprenticed as a silversmith. He was very fond of the outdoors and was a gentle man who wooed my grandmother Elsa with courtesy and flair. As a child he had rheumatic fever and thus had a weak heart. He made up for that by having a big heart for his family. One day when I was about eight years old, we were invited over to grandmother and grandpa’s house on Brooklyn Avenue in Oakland. On this occasion, Grandpa (the adults called him Will) decided to go into his garage workshop and work with some rolled copper. He had a neatly organized workbench at one end of the garage. Tools were all arrayed in order. I was allowed to watch, but he explained how I needed to keep clear of his work. In a matter of minutes without one wasted motion, that flat copper turned into a beautiful bowl. He turned it on wooden molds and hammered it. He dipped it in an acid bath. And then methodically, he made beautiful ripples with a ball peen hammer. I’m glad he let me watch because that is really about my only recollection of Will. Shortly after that time, he died suddenly. We children were protected from knowing any details. I just knew that we wouldn’t be seeing grandpa any more and that grandmother was very sad. Our sitter let us play chinese checkers while the adults went off to something called a funeral.

Elsa Irving Rosalia Kirner was born in Oakland to parents of Swedish/German ancestry. She managed to obtain a fourth grade education, but had an almost perfect handwriting. She learned to cook and sew and did both very well. I remember two special treats she made to perfection. One was the lemon meringue pie. The other was a spice cake. In April of 1906 Elsa was sixteen, living with her parents on Octavia Street in San Francisco. Many years later she described the great earthquake and fire. As she tried to go down the hall to her parent’s room, she was thrown from side to side. Because of the fire, they hiked up Lone Mountain which was unpopulated at the time. They camped there for a week or so before moving to the East Bay. They could see the smoke and hear the dynamite which was used to blow up buildings to stop the spread of the terrible fire. She told us of aggressive people, categorized by race/religion who pushed in the food lines. That experience tainted her view of that group. As a result, throughout her life she held a quiet bias against them. Elsa revered Will and worked hard to please him. She kept a clean house and served excellent meals. After he died, she sold the house and moved into a duplex with her sister on Athol Avenue. She purchased a 1957 Chevy two color sedan. As those cars started to become classic her mechanic convinced her to trade it in for a Chevy Nova. Elsa loved lemons and hot tea. She made a fine marmelade jam. In later years she tried a small dog for companionship, but that wasn’t very successful. She moved to Lake Park in Oakland, setting a trend for my parents who later moved into the same apartment. At the age of 89 Elsa died of a stroke having lived a model family life.

Jennie McCall was born in Cuba, Missouri and was raised into the farm life. We called her grandma to differentiate from Elsa, who was grandmother. I knew Jennie as a story teller. She could spin a yarn and keep us young children guessing the outcome for what seemed like hours. Many of the stories were based on real life experiences. A family favorite is “The Day the Stovepipe Fell”. We asked her to tell it again and again and it seemed that she always obliged. It was a “really truly” story about how she as a young bride was all alone in the house one windy afternoon. She looked out the window and saw that the barn door was open and her husband’s prize horse was about to escape. She didn’t dare let that happen, so out she ran to catch the horse. As she got closer, he’d just pick up the pace, making a game of the chase. Finally, when she caught up and led him back into the barn, she noticed smoke coming from inside the house. Well, the wind had blown the stovepipe down and smoke was billowing into the room. So she put out the fire. The famous line in her story was at the end. She asked, “And do you know what I did?” We’d say, “What, Grandma?” She replied, “I sat down and cried”.

Jennie and my grandfather Percy separated in a time when divorce was uncommon. The family was always quiet about that subject. To this day, I just know that he was a bit of a drifter. In order to make ends meet, Jennie built a duplex at 9 Ranada in Oakland. We visited there as children and enjoyed her company and her special toys. My favorite was a set of blocks. She also had a gyroscope which fascinated me. I’d spend hours with both. The toys and her company always seemed satisfying. We didn’t need anything else.

Both grandmother and grandma impressed me so much with their warmth that Roberta and I named our daughter Elsa-Jennie after them. I’ve always appreciated Roberta’s willingness to pass on the paternal tradition in those names.

So now you have the answer to the riddle: I love children, I like gift giving, I have lots of time, I am a good listener, I can tell elaborate stories, I know how to knead bread, I am an authority on child rearing, everyone in the world has four of me, I have seen lots of joy but also pain, I witnessed dramatic change, I understand love and hate, I’ll live on when I’m gone, I am a problem solver, I help out when I can, I have many names, and I make kids laugh.
©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.20050301

2005 02 -- Feet

Meet Feet

-------- I --------

Feet Beat
Stay warm

Feet Stomp
In protest

Feet measure
How far

Feet carry
Body loads!

Feet wear
Socks, Shoes

Feet flutter
Swim crawl

Feet hurt
Corns, bunions

Feet point
Gymnast toes!

Feet hike
Blisters miles

Feet meet
Under table

Feet smell
Dirty socks

Feet march
Rhythmic rows!
------- II -------

Flat Feet
Army release

Fleet Feet
Fast runner

Light Feet
No trace

Poetry Feet
Metered prose!

Sewing Feet
Guiding cloth

Duck’s Feet
Chinese Treat

Bare Feet
Sandy beach

Smelly Feet
Hold your nose!

Best Feet
First impressions

Board Feet
Lumber

Many Feet
Centipede

Athletes Feet
Air your toes!
------ III ------

Footprint
Muddy bog

Footing
Solid ground

Footbridge
Crossing creek

Footstep
Friend or Foe?

Footrest
Play guitar

Footman
If you please

Footwork
Tennis match

Foot race
Time to go!

Football
Soccer game

Footage
Prime property

Footage
Choice film

Footlight
Start the show!

-------------------------------------------Feet? They’re neat! ----------------------------------------
©Frank Bliss 2005 All rights reserved.

2005 01 -- Free Speech

MUSINGS

Prologue

Everett Bliss, my ninety-four year old father, is an inspiration in many ways. One of those ways is his determination to write on a regular basis. He is part of a writing group at his senior living residence. When he retired some thirty years ago, he decided that he did not want to do what many retirees do. He didn’t want to sleep til noon, fritter away his days on trivia and stop living a productive life. Instead, he set himself a schedule, kept an active calendar and developed a discipline of looking forward to each day with an acute anticipation. He continues to do so to this day and I’m honored to be part of his schedule from time to time, especially Friday mornings for breakfast.

Many “life advisors” suggest that such a discipline as my father has followed is the way to keep young in spirit. They also suggest that it is crucial to develop the habit of mind stimulation well before one thinks about retirement. It is my hope that some day I too will retire from my career in the insurance and financial services industry. And while that may be ten or more years away, I thought it wise to start the habit now as those life advisors suggest.

So here is my first effort. As the months roll by, I plan to share them as my father has done. He prints them out and mails them to his extended family members. I’ll do so by e-mail, only keeping a hard copy in a binder as a backup. The subjects will vary widely. Others may later be added to the e-mail distribution on request. Because of the personal effort involved, I’ll copyright them to retain the possibility of royalties for distribution beyond my immediate family someday.

Warning: I do plan to speak my mind. Sometimes I will promulgate views which lead to discussion and controversy. Sometimes I’ll get political and religious. At other times, I’ll just have fun. Feedback on my efforts will be encouraged. If I insult or offend you, please accept my apologies in advance. If I state views which are counter to your view of the world and you’d like to set me straight, please do so. And if you want to be taken off the distribution list, that is easily done. For those of you that enjoy what I have to say, happy reading.

Frank Bliss
Albany, California
January, 2005
MUSINGS ON “FREE” SPEECH
The counter-speech movement

I grew up in Berkeley, California, home of the free speech movement. Through personal observation I learned that this “movement” was not about free speech at all. It was about promoting a point of view counter to prevailing wisdom. A more apt term would be the counter-speech movement. The prevailing wisdom in Berkeley in 1964, was actually fairly conservative. Berkeley was a quiet town and gown city. Republicans actually sat on the City Council. It was a nice place to raise a family where mom stayed home and dad worked. The roads were nicely paved. If a citizen complained about a crack in the sidewalk more than one eighth of an inch, the city had a man (not a worker) out that afternoon to fix it. You’ve just seen one of the examples of counter-speech. No longer can you acceptably use the word “man” to describe a worker.

In those days, boys were called upon to be Berkeley Junior Traffic Police. They had parades showing off their formations and reviews of the ranks in a very military fashion. Girls were called to be hall monitors and the like. Roles were clearly defined. Dad worked. Young ladies worked until they got married and then a baby came along. Then they stayed home. If mom did go back to work, it was usually as a teacher, nurse, librarian or housekeeper. The prevailing attitude was one of organization, order and clean living. There was no graffiti. Street lights worked. Grass was green, trim and watered. Food was plentiful. Unemployment was minimal. I’m sure that hoboes rode the rails, but crime in Berkeley seemed remote. We felt safe.

In the schools we had good education. We mastered the three A’s: Academics, Athletics and the Arts. In elementary school, we had music. Strings, orchestra, chorus and band. The concept of the Junior High School (JHS) was a Berkeley first. JHS separated adolescents from their younger and older fellows which solved all sorts of age related problems. Girls took classes in cooking and home economics. Boys took woodworking, metal shop and mechanical drawing.

The memory of World War II was vivid in our parent’s minds as was the United States role in winning that conflict. We neighborhood boys played shoot-em-up with Cowboys and Indians as the antagonist/protaganists or us against the Germans or the Japs. We did use the term “Jap” in a derogatory manner at the time. After all they were our enemies. I have since learned that the term Jap is racist and offensive. Thus I have scrubbed it from my vocabulary. So that is my second example of counter-speech; when terms are stifled by sensitivity. The war was over and we were self-confident, proud and ready for peace. We had the bomb and that power felt good. We could help solve the world’s problems. But there was a problem. Communism.

Communism flew in the face of our hard-fought freedoms. Brutal dictatorial control of populations was a danger to be confronted, especially Stalin, Khruschev and the Kremlin. Berlin was split. The U.S. air-lift saved thousands of marooned people from the oppressive thumb of communism. Cuba was another example of a dictator to be feared. Even the popular John F. Kennedy feared the Cuba threat. When he visited Berkeley, thousands, myself included, flocked to Memorial Stadium to see him and hear him speak. We were definitely enthralled by his bigger than life personality, his quick wit and strong, youthful and energetic leadership. I learned that once you elected a man to president you supported him (almost) unconditionally. President Kennedy did his best to counter communism in several ways. One action was to create an embargo around Cuba. The other was to visit Berlin and say “Ich bin ein Berliner”, winning the hearts of the West Berlin populace and flying in the face of the Eastern bloc.

The fear of communism and communists reached fever pitch. Our government went looking for subversive communist activity in order to protect us all. Loyalty oaths to support and defend the United States were deemed important. A few people thought it through to its conclusion and determined that forcing anyone to take a loyalty oath was at its core counter to the First Amendment. Those who refused to take such oaths were subject to job loss, ridicule, ostracism and occasionally physical harm. Their position was deemed dangerous and the assumption was that if you were not willing to subscribe to a loyalty oath, you must at heart be against the government (whether that was true or not). Gradually, those attempting to stand up for their rights to not pledge loyalty began to develop credibility. As their countering political views gained sway, they found new ability to challenge the established order. It became possible to promote more and more radical positions. It became okay to not support your president. I became okay to do whatever it took to get your message out even if it meant breaking the law.

Taken to its extreme, such a position is anarchy…do and say whatever you like whenever you like as long as it doesn’t hurt other people. Promote love, eschew hate. This attitude began to prevail in all areas of human endeavor. Women were able for the first time to use “the pill” for relatively effective birth control which gave them freedom to be sexually active without fear of commitment to raising a child after an encounter with a casual partner. Experiments with substances such as marijuana, “speed”, LSD and other drugs were deemed harmless by those who wanted to experiment. Thus the “flower” children of the sixties were born. It is that same absense of commitment to others and unbelievable self-absorbed interest which has led to the incredible increase in divorce, split families and the lack of meaningful lasting relationships among a large portion of the population.

The attitude of caring for others crept its way into government as measure after measure was passed to spend the public money on the poor, the downtrodden, the weak. “Take from the rich and give to the poor” became the mantra for an acceptable form of wealth distribution. If you opposed such welfare, you were labeled callous, cruel, unfeeling and insensitive. More counter-speech. Welfare blossomed. Government ballooned as the primary solution to many of our human ailments. As money was re-distributed through progressive taxes (more counter-speech…it’s really regressive) more and more of our citizens came to expect their entitlements.

I was at the public trough one time. Between jobs in what they call the unemployed. Unemployed is another counter-speech term which would better be called the work seekers. Unemployment implies entitlement, work seekers implies self actualization toward supporting oneself. Back to my story. As was required, I had paid into the State Unemployment Fund during my working days. When I was laid off (counter-speech…I was fired), my employer suggested I file for unemployment. I did. I stood in line and registered for my entitlement. The checks started coming. Being a productive individual with a certain amount of pride, I started to build my business so as to get off the public dole. And as I did so, the assistance checks got less and less. Dollar for dollar less. The psychological result of this plan is that hard work did not pay. I might just as well have gone to the beach as developed my business and the money would have been equal. For the many people who have gotten into this cycle, it’s the kiss of death for a productive life. Sleep until noon, look at the newspaper want ads, apply for an occasional opening with a half effort and report to the Unemployment office for another handout. The cycle gets worse as you feel sorry for yourself. You see others going about their seemingly happy lives while you’re at home moping. Take drugs to deaden the pain. Become less employable as a result of your self-medication. Move to less desirable housing or ultimately to the street. More public assistance through “self help” programs or jail.

Now I do understand that for a variety of reasons some people simply cannot work in the normal workforce. Disabilities (more counter-speech, since virtually everyone has some ability) or mental and physical illness can indeed prevent people from supporting themselves. For those, our government is a perfect solution and we have the moral obligation to assist. This big question has been and will continue to be, where do we draw the line? That is a question I’m not prepared to answer.

Counter-speak

When you hear a view,
That’s counter your own,
Open your mind, do;
Don’t cut those thoughts down.

Yet…

As you struggle along
To right wrongs of the world
And others write wrong
Your counter-speak must unfurl.

POSTLUDE TO FIRST MUSINGS

I see now that I’ve reached the end of the third page. So as to make these writing efforts readable, I shall try to limit the length, even if the topic has not been brought to its conclusion. So until next time, feel free to counter-speech my observations.

©Frank Bliss. January 16, 2005 All rights reserved.

Update on writings

I haven't finished my December writing. It is on the subject of culture and has proven to be more difficult than I first thought. Next month is "Bubbles" and February is going to be "Choices".

Opening the Dowps Blog

K started a blog and I like the idea. So I'll start one too.

Being a few years senior, I'll take a bit longer to get the hang of it. I surmise the idea is to keep names anonymous.

Here is a poem to start it off:

To Blog or not to blog?

That is a question.

Whether tis nobler to live in cyberspace

or to write with pen and paper.

This old guy will give it a try.