...for Man Nor Beast. (The five steps to great ideas is postponed until tomorrow.)
But, the trailer is functional, working well, and made operational with minutes to spare. Three iceboats now in the fold. (The problem with the lights turned out to be blown fuses in the truck—from a short in some other trailer.)
Chilly, with a cold rain. The first hint of the changing season, but really not all that unwelcome.
...come from a process.
Ideas here from the book Curious, by Ian Leslie, and A Technique for Producing Ideas, by James Webb Young, a famous advertising man.
All five steps in tomorrow's blog......
"Every really good creative person in advertising whom I have ever known has always had two noticeable characteristics. First, there was no subject under the sun in which she could not easily get interested —from, say, Egyptian burial customs to modern art. Every facet of life had fascination for her. Second, she was an extensive browser in all sorts of fields of information . . . In advertising, an idea results from a new combination of specific knowledge about products and people with general knowledge about life and events."
James Webb Young's formulation is simple but powerful. Any task or project that requires creative thought will be better addressed by someone who has deep knowledge of the task at hand, and general background knowledge of the culture in which it and its users (or readers, or viewers) live. A mind well-stocked with these two types of knowledge is much more likely to be a fertile source of the serendipitous collisions that lead to brilliant ideas. Leo Burnett, founder of the global ad agency network that still bears his name, and a near-contemporary of Young's, said, 'Curiosity about life in all its aspects, I think, is still the secret of great creative people.'
New wiring harness on the old trailer, but, of course, it doesn't work (in spite of meticulous and methodical installation). It doesn't work because: 1) the LEDs are faulty, 2) there's a discontinuity in the new wires, 3) the plug at the front end of the harness is defective, 4) the plug at the back end of the truck has gone squirrely, 5) things never get properly grounded no mater how hard you try, or, 6) trailer wiring never works, no matter what, so why did you even waste a moment of your time trying to hook stuff up, you dodo?
Perfectly lovely (though on the warm side) summer day. (Climate change is really starting to freak me out.)
Katy and Will, and later Abby and Tony. Great fun on a day of plentiful weather. Right now, a fire in the chiminea being blown sideways by the cold-front that finally came through.l Manitoulin had a weather advisory—heavy rain.
And a little rain.
Still warm.
Trailer work for some and needle work for others. Wisconsin Friday fish fry, followed by Sequence with neighbors.
To Kewaskum, and a private junk yard on the banks of the Milwaukee River in northern Kettle Moraine. A beautiful place for piles of junk, but also the perfect place to buy an excellent used trailer at a great price.
Why another trailer? Because of the third iceboat—and the assumption that this winter will be a fine one for ice sailing.
Cleaning it up and converting to iceboat readiness will be a fun project.
...have lost their leaves so far, and there is little fall color.
One of neighbor Kathy's roses.
But a feeble thunderstorm did its best about 2:30 last night to remind us that weather was still possible in these parts. The barometer, however, had no use for this nonsense and remained high. Sunny and pleasant today, so who's to complain?
Mostly errands and chores. (And a little memory work, too.)
or lack there of.
But, at least there's the compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), which helped early visitors to the prairie find their way.
In light of Las Vegas, Speaker Ryan has decided to hold off for a while on legislation authorizing widespread sale and use of silencers.
Seriously, a great majority of Americans are in favor of sensible gun laws. It's just that the NRA, the gun lobby, and a relatively small group of gun fetishists have bought the Republicans in Congress. The only real solution to continued carnage is voting the moral cretins out. They have got to go.
for memorizing.
~~~~~~~~
Foolish Questions
American Folk Rhyme adapted by William Cole
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?
Or a key for the lock of his hair?
And can his eyes be called a school?
I would think—there are pupils there!
What jewels are found in the crown of his head,
And who walks on the bridge of his nose?
Can he use, in building the roof of his mouth,
The nails on the ends of his toes?
Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail—
If it can, well, then, what did it do?
And how does he sharpen his shoulder blades?
I'll be hanged if I know—do you?
Can he sit in the shade of the palm of his hand,
And beat time with the drum in his ear?
Can the calf of his leg eat the corn on his toe?—
There's somethin' pretty strange around here!~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sick
Shel Silverstein
"I cannot go to school today," Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more—that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut, my eyes are blue— It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is . . . Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play! "
...of the memorizing kind.
~~~~~~~~~~
Jabberwocky
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
| The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
by the violence in Las Vegas and the unwillingness in this country to prevent it.
But, continuing on in my narrow version of existence—I'm going back to the topic of memorizing poetry...
Things have become competitive here in seeing who can get Guest down first. (I have to admit that the "poem" is repetitive, and that makes memorizing hard.) Hard is good though, and the brain is a muscle, so it might be good to think of memorizing as a visit to a fitness center. Here's a good article on the joys of memorization: Got Poetry?
And here is another possible subject in case Edward Guest is not your cup of tea. (More choices to come.)
If Little Red Riding Hood
by Jeff Moss
If Little Red Riding Hood had a dad,
Perhaps things wouldn't have turned out so bad.
He'd have taught her the useful things a dad can teach you,
Like the difference between Grandma and a wolf who'll eat you.
He'd have brought her two photographs to let her see
How completely different two things can be.
He'd show her a picture of his kindly old mother,
And say, "Grandma's one thing. A wolf is another.
Grandma wants to hug you and give you a kiss.
A wolf wants to eat you, and he looks like this—
Big teeth, big ears, and plenty of fur.
Now look at your grandma, does a wolf look like her?
Your report card was great, I know you're smart,
So it shouldn't be hard to tell them apart.
Now, please get to Grandma's before it gets dark,
Don't go through the forest, stay out of the park.
Don't stop to talk to any wolves you meet,
And don't wear that red thing when you walk down the street. "
Now is just as good a time as anytime to memorize a poem. And, we all should. Great for young people. Even better than Tai Chi for old people.
Actually, I was thinking of calling this post "The Unattended Garden" which has a nice ring to it, and is factual. But tonight I thought poetry should take precedence. (The photos, however, are of the unattended garden, which actually looks ready to provide quite a bountiful crop of squash and beets.)
But, anyway.
Memorizing poetry was at one time considered an important part of pedagogy. That idea faded in the glare of the technological revoulution; but, recently, those in the know have begun to remind us of the benefits.
"Memorize a poem. Find your kindred spirits across the centuries so that — as W. H. Auden counseled — you might, 'composed like them/Of Eros and of dust,/Beleaguered by the same/Negation and despair, /Show an affirming flame.'”
So here's the deal: anyone who reads this blog (and the Force be with you if you do) and everyone else within that sphere of influence (of any age), shall commit to memorizing a poem—haiku okay, but preferably something of more than a few stanzas. Below is the one I'm working on (and about halfway there).
Then, at various times, whenever in company assembled: recitations.
Any poem is fine, or this one, or any of those I will post in future blogs.
I know the piece below is by Edgar Guest, and a bit on the trite and schmaltzy side, but for this purpose, ALMOST anything goes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It Couldn't Be Done
Edgar Albert Guest
Somebody said that it couldn't be done
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it!
Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it;"
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
In honor of Will's 6th.
...and a ride to the prairie. Another perfect (if dry) day with a cool north wind counterbalanced by a bright, warm sun. In spite of everything, Pax and I got in a bike/run to the prairie, which has now almost completed its annual cycle. (I plan to put together a photo essay of a prairie year, from spring burn to first frost.)
Big bluestem, about 7 feet tall.
But no rain for a month.
Now the summer perch flips twice and glides
a lateral fathom at the first cold rain,
the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.
Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.
Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heart
locked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced)
above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreams
and curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass.
Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear,
the moving crayfish claw, the stare
of sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand,
a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge.
How do carp resolve the eel and terror here?
They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leaves
predicting weather foreign as a shark or prawn
and floating still above them in the paling sun.
Richard Hugo
Abby is suggesting that I do another blog (actually that Pax and I do it)—a two-or-three-time-a-week nature/scientific blog—completely separate from this blog but loosely affiliated with KWill Publishing. Aimed at middle school level readers. No personal or family stuff, just our observations; perhaps called "Rambles With Paxton" in deference to Steinbeck's "Travels With Charlie." Or something else?
I guess that seems like a good idea? (Writing is pastime, after all.) So, as an audition (or pilot blog post), please see below the fold. (N.B. I can only write one blog a day so what's down there will have to do.)
I can say, however, in passing, that a dry cold front moved though last night, and conditions are now very pleasant, if also very, very dry.
Right now I can see four squirrels working in the back yard. They hop from one spot to another, stop, sit up, maybe chew something, then hop to another spot. Often they dig. Once in a while they chase each other up and down a bush.
I call what they are doing work because they stick to it, never seem to take a break, and do it from first light until it’s too dark to see. Each squirrel seems to be working on its own, no teamwork, but never any real fights either.
I’m quite sure that they are not just snacking all day long, but actually thinking ahead, planning for the future so to speak. They take the things they find—seeds, nuts, dried crab apples, dried bits of mushroom—and bury them. They are putting these food items into storage, for the lean times to come.
Wait, I just saw one of my backyard workers jump at a robin—shooing it away from a tasty morsel.
I know they are burying some of the stuff they collect because I find little divots all over the yard, and because every spring sunflowers sprout up in odd places (seeds taken from the bird feeder). One morning last winter I saw a dozen squirrels gathered underneath the feeder.
Why are there so many squirrels in this neighborhood? Could there be too many? One or more of them chewed a hole in the corner of my neighbor’s garage door, because, I assume, dog food was stored inside. We found a big squirrel nest in the attic of this house when we moved in. ( But I found their sneaky entrance holes and patched them up.)
Its a basic fact of ecology that a population of animals will keep expanding until the resources they are living off are used up. Then “survival of the fittest” kicks in.
I think the large population of squirrels in this neighborhood is the result the the great number of trees, including many oaks and walnuts, in all the yards and especially in the park across the street. Also a lot of bird feeders. Also because of a lack of predators.
Actually, I should say, because of a small number of predators. We can't forget about Pax. Pax, as we know, is a terrier, born and bred to hunt rodents. When he was younger he used to chase every squirrel he saw, and would sometimes catch one, which was a rather gruesome and unhappy ending for that animal. Survival of the fittest again—Pax catching the slowest ones, those not quick-witted enough to know a dog is dangerous, or those just not fast enough to make it to the safety of a tree.
Are predators necessary and good? Aldo Leopold thinks so. His essay “Thinking Like a Mountain” in A Sand County Almanac shows what happens when predators are wiped out.
Pax isn’t mean and nasty, btw. He isn’t cruel, either. He’s just doing what comes naturally.
Did I say that the hard working squirrels in my back yard were thinking ahead and planning for the future? On second thought, I don’t think so. What I really think is that they are motivated by instinct. They have a feeling in their bones that if they don’t do all their collecting, hopping, and digging right now they won’t be around next spring.
Unpacking, sorting, rearranging, replacing, hooking up, reconnecting. (And, almost everything working.)
Evening visit to Whitewater City Market. Pulled pork sandwiches from Casual Joe's smokehouse.
Yes, the joys of civilization. Of course there were nearly half a dozen major siren events, and the "Proud Boys" are back in the house around the corner with their big Trump banner across the front of their garage. (In fairness, they are the oddballs in Whitewater.)
Furthermore, Pax loves retracing his favorite routes and checking up on past events, and he even got to chase a cat.
...but, overall, glad to be home.
The ideas is...you come home in the fall when the weather up north is cold, damp and trending awful; and you want to retreat and retract into a snug space where you can tuck yourself away for the winter. So what do you do when it has been 91 degrees (F) pretty much since you began driving at 8 a.m.?
You unpack the vehicles, turn on the AC, and be glad you are not in Puerto Rico.
However, the only warning seems to be a heat advisory.
Water system pulled and cottage winterized (one can hope), and on the road by noon and to St. Ignace by six.
And another phantasmagorical face, this one smiling “see you soon.”
No, not the temperature (though close), nor the number of mosquitoes per cubic centimeter (though close), but the amount done in terms of shutting down and packing up. We are close to departure-ready, and looking forward to air conditioning and junk food.
