The snow is melting

Receive each day as
a resurrection from death,
as a new enjoyment of life.
[William Law]

Photography by James E. Miller

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Good Customer Service: Livescribe

It is not the employer who pays the wages.
Employers only handle the money.
It is the customer who pays the wages.
[Henry Ford]

I have a self-inflicted rule—to avoid impulse buying, I wait and save up for something that strikes my fancy. If I still want it in time, I’m more likely to get my money’s worth out of it. When I was in high school, my sister and I wanted a high fidelity record player. Our mother gave us a jar and encouraged us to save up for one. During the year it took us to fill the jar, stereophonic record players came on the market. Needless to say, we were glad we waited.  Several years ago, a participant at a writer’s conference showed me her Livescribe pen and extolled its virtues. It struck my fancy to the extent that I saved up and finally bought one. It was delightful and fulfilled its promises. Select this link to see what wonderful things it can do.

I have been on a learning curve for several other pieces of technology so I didn’t use my pen for several months. When I tried to recharge it, I had problems with the battery. That is the bad news. The good news is, I emailed the company and received a reply from a customer service person named Wendy. After trouble-shooting to no avail, she made arrangements to replace the pen since the battery was still under warranty (just barely). My new pen came promptly in the mail. Thank you Livescribe and thank you Wendy R.

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Solitude

I am no more lonely than
the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than
Walden Pond itself.
[Henry David Thoreau]

In Duke Ellington’s song, “Solitude,” he writes of lost love and despair. He writes, “I sit and I stare, I know that I’ll soon go mad in my solitude…”

In Henry David Thoreau’s essay, “Solitude,” he writes at great length about the nurturing beauty and enriching companionship he finds in his solitude. He writes, “I am no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud, or than Walden Pond itself.”

In the past seven decades, my attitude about solitude has become less Ellington and more Thoreau. Therein lies the key—attitude.

I pulled my neighbor’s Adirondack chair into the sun and sat in solitude this morning. The breeze was chilly for mid June, but the sky was blue and colors vibrant. I looked back at my home with its window boxes and lace curtains. Solitude for me was that moment in the middle of a city of 300,000 people when birds were the only sound and my furry buddy my only companion. I choose to live in relative solitude. It suits me. I can be alone when I need to work and think, and I can seek out companionship when I need to hear another human voice. I meet the public with more civility because I replenish my positive attitude when I am alone.

When I was a teen, I liked solitude for reading and for shutting out the cacophony of life with which I had not yet learned to cope. At the same time, I was experiencing the adolescent angst of wanting friends and wanting to be liked.

As a young adult, I was smitten with the desire for a life’s companion. That threw me into the midst of crowds of other young adults. I equated being busy with being alive. Solitude still drew me from time to time, but it also frightened me. Would I go through life alone?

In my family years, I sought solitude wherever I could find it—thirty minutes in the bath tub, or early morning coffee at the kitchen table. My life was so well populated that I equated solitude with escape into quiet.

There were spans of time when I was painfully lonely in spite of my full house, especially when I was tied to indifferent life companions. Then the time came when I was really alone. My children grew up. My parents died. My life companions simply left. I have not been lonely since. I have come to realize that the difference is because my solitude is a choice and is not enforced by one circumstance or another.

(The Story Circle Network is an international not-for-profit membership organization made up of women who want to document their lives and explore their personal stories through journaling, memoir, autobiography, personal essays, poetry, drama, and mixed-media.  This was written for an internet circle affiliated with that group.)

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A view from the window seat

Do you hear that whistle down the line?
I figure that it’s engine number forty-nine
She’s the only one that’ll sound that way
On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe
[Johnny Mercer]

My choice of a window seat on the Texas Eagle grew into a magical experience. I’d paid $210.00 for a round trip coach ticket between Chicago and Austin, Texas. I’d left my car in South Bend and caught the South Shore (electric commuter train) to Chicago. I’d hoisted my bags up and down steps, in and out of cabs, and through the crowds at Union Station. And then I found the magic window seat.

• The first gentleman who sat next to me had served as a seabee in the Navy when I’d served (I wonder why he looked young enough to be my son). He’d had river-boat duty Vietnam then came home to Minnesota to work for the power company. He was soft-spoken, genteel, and thoughtful.
• We passed wind farms, and fields of early crops across the Illinois prairie. We appreciated our tax money at work as we sped along smooth stretches on the track where wooden ties had been replaced with concrete.
• We crossed the Mississippi and rumbled into St. Louis past the arch.
• My table mates at supper in the dining car were excited about the wedding they were going to in Galveston. They, and many members of their family, had taken the train from Detroit and would catch a bus in Longview to finish their trip.
• It seemed odd to sleep the night with strangers but it was also nice in a way. When I awoke at three a.m. in Little Rock, I was struck by the trust folks had in order to sleep instead of keeping vigil.
• My seatmate and I woke early and made our quiet way to the observation car while everyone else slept. We watched the East-Texas sunrise, sipped coffee, and visited until he disembarked in Dallas.
• My next seat-mate, a stunningly-beautiful young woman, boarded in Fort Worth. We shared our time together by looking at a bride magazine. I was fascinated by the process. The magazine tied our generations and our conversation together. We discovered that we had the same taste in gowns. She told me that the fields of flowers out of the window were Texas blue bonnets. We discussed her wedding worries and high blood pressure. I advised that she focus only on pleasing her groom and herself with the wedding plans. By the time we got to Austin, I felt like her grandmother and she kindly called a cab for me on her cell phone.
• The point of my journey was to attend the biennial memoir-writer’s conference held by Story Circle Network. It was enriching, encouraging and energizing. It also helped me focus on story sources. Maybe this was because the conference was sandwiched between two such interesting journeys.
• My first seatmate on the return trip was another veteran seebee. He was 92 and had built runways in the South Pacific during World War Two. Ever since college on the GI Bill, he’d worked as a civil engineer. He told me stories about growing up in Texas in the ’20s and ’30s. He bought me a cup of coffee and treated me in a courtly sort of way. He kissed my cheek when he departed in Dallas.
• The lady across the aisle and I went to supper together. We sat at a table with a writer and her husband, an artist. They were on a book tour. My aisle-mate, a singer with a lovely speaking voice, exuded wisdom when she spoke. I basked in the beauty of it all. It was like turning a kaleidoscope. Each combination was beautiful but not to be captured again.
• In the night’s wee hours, a lad boarded the train in Arkansas. Every time I awoke, he was taking a nip from a hip flask and another dip of snuff. He was finally asleep by the time I crept to the observation car for coffee. I mused at the combination of experiences that providence had dealt me on this trip. He was awake when I returned, and he talked with me the rest of the way to Chicago. I was surprised since I must have looked as old as dirt to him. He was returning home to bury his 19-year brother who had been murdered. He looked like he was in shock as he told his heart-wrenching story, and our wise aisle-mate reached over to  put her hand on his shoulder. He relaxed at her touch.
• The experiences went on and on through a discussion I had with a kindly Pakistani taxi driver, and a visit with my seatmate on the South Shore train. He was studying a booklet about his upcoming trip to Patagonia!

On my drive down U.S. 30 toward home, I felt like I’d just finished reading a novel based upon John Donne’s poem:

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
… any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
[John Donne]

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The hurrier I go…

The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.
[Lewis Carroll]

My April was full of activity, and my to do lists were longer than my time and energy. My blog posts were non-existent. Now that I have taken a long breath, I do want to share several things.

Knitting Retreat

First, the Dayton Knitting Guild annual retreat at Bergamo featured Debbie Wilson as our teacher. The tea pot cozy in the photo above was just one of the projects. She also presented us with the challenge of knitting brioche stitch in the round. Hum-m-m. I got the gist of it but raveled my sample to knit the cozy. Debbie is an accomplished knitting teacher and a lovely person. I also enjoyed the yarn market and, of course, renewing old friendships.

Knitting Book Contest

Next, do subscribe if you don’t want to miss hearing about the contest. I plan to review the new knitting book by Charlene Schurch and Beth Parrott later this week. I’ll be drawing a name from the commenters on that post so that I can mail the winner a copy of their new book.

Train Trip

Third, my account of a trip on the Texas Eagle is coming soon. Instead of the Orient Express, it could have been called the Blue Bonnet Special.

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Carried Away

Grace is knowing when to bind off.
[Rachael Herron]

Okay, so I got a bit carried away. This Regia Hand-dye Effect yarn caught my eye not only because of its color, but also for its unusual texture. It has what looks like single-spun wool wrapped with a fine strand of nylon to strengthen it for wear, but it knits up smoothly and felt wonderful when I tried it on.

I am currently working on a toe-up anklet pattern for a workshop in May. I have it adjusted for a variety of stitches, yarn weights and needles. I was trying one more variation with this yarn but failed to stop at the ankle and made it knee high. There are cabled clocks up each side, and increases on the back half to enlarge it for the calf of the leg. It actually stays up.

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Keeping Up

Once a new technology rolls over you,
if you’re not part of the steamroller,
you’re part of the road.
[Stewart Brand]

We all have our odd turns of the mind. One of mine is a fear of ending up as road kill on the information super highway. After working more than 25 years in graphic design, I still spend as much time in training as I do designing. Software upgrades are a big part of that, and Lynda.com is my main training resource. One of my favorites there is Anne-Marie Concepcion of Seneca Design and Training, and InDesign Secrets.

Fear of not knowing enough can hold a person back from finishing a job, just like fear of the marketplace (agoraphobia) can keep some folks entrenched in their homes. A thought struck me as I was scrubbing out the toilet bowl this morning. I was doing that chore to procrastinate from working on a design job. I really enjoy my design jobs so why put it off? I realized that I don’t necessarily procrastinate because I’m lazy. I usually procrastinate because I’m not quite sure I have the right solution to a production issue. The question is, how much of my mental block is based on a misperception?

I’ve successfully completed countless design jobs over the years, but I’d just watched a video about advances in the software I’ve used for a decade. There were five more hours of lessons available. What if I missed something that would make a difference in the project? Well, phooey, I thought. If I’d waited to upgrade like other designers I know, I couldn’t even do what I didn’t yet know how to do. I simply finished the job. I’ll watch the other five hours later.

The conclusion to all of this goes back to maintaining a balance (but then I wonder if I can get a life-time membership on the training site?).

---

When I was hunting a “keeping up with technology” quotation for this post,
I had trouble picking just one. Here is another quote that nudged my funny bone:

If GM had kept up with technology like the computer industry has,
we would all be driving $25 cars that got 1000 MPG
[Bill Gates]

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Okay, now I’m excited

When I’m inspired,
I get excited because
I can’t wait to see what I’ll come up with next.
[Dolly Parton]

Yesterday, I laid out and printed copies of a pattern for a class I’m scheduled to teach next Saturday. I used Adobe Illustrator to produce the chart, Adobe Photoshop to process the photos, and Adobe InDesign to lay out the pattern. I could easily save and distribute the layout as a PDF file.

I have been itching to try a layout in iBooks Author (Apple’s new, free software). Since I already had an assortment of images and text in a folder, I simply opened one of the templates in the new software, and placed my own content. With a little tweaking, I was ready to preview it in iBooks on my iPad 2. The images above are screen shots of the pages as they looked in iBooks (they were larger of course and quite readable). If I’d had a video demonstrating how to work this knitting technique, I could have placed it in the book as well.

For a number of years, I have been producing PDF files that can be read paperless (read that, on any PC or Mac that has a free Adobe Reader). In the past couple of years, I have been converting print books to ePub files for use on such devices as Nooks and Kindles. I’ve been researching ways to produce apps that include visually rich content, audio and video. I’ve learned the most from taking courses on Lynda.com.

Although I’ve learned a lot of technical stuff over the years, I am still a graphic artist at heart and have avoided crossing over into application programming. This new software opens a new world to me and it can only get better.

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iBooks Author

Without the playing with fantasy
no creative work has ever yet come to birth.
The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable.
[Carl Jung]

I’ve been waiting for this since 1961. Back then I had a summer job through an Indiana University research grant. In the study, one group of children sat in a traditional classroom to learn reading skills. The members of the other group received individual instruction using a mechanical device. The device used scrolled paper to lead the student through practice cycles. I was a machine facilitator. On the bus ride home after each session, I dreamed of a science-fiction device that would replace the clunky machine.

I was a nursing instructor in the early 70s when I took a course about developing self-instructional packages. I even wrote a package that focused upon learning how to compose and evaluate a plan in a variety of settings. Since it was non-linear, I realized I needed to have control over the book design process so I went back to school. I studied graphic design and have focused upon publication design ever since.

When I bought my first personal computer in 1982 (4k and no hard drive or software), I taught myself basic programming so I could compose small learning packages. I recall that my first program had something to do with multiplication tables. When it worked, I thought about the twenty years of baby steps I’d taken toward the kind of learning tool I dreamed about in 1961.

Having spent hours formatting eBooks in the past couple of years, and searching for ways to create interactive, enhanced books without having to learn programming, I told myself that we are getting close. Then I read the news on my iPad last night and saw an article about iBooks Author. I fell asleep and dreamed of the science-fiction device I used to think about riding the bus. In the middle of the night, I awoke and knew I’d not go back to sleep until I fired up my computer and installed iBooks Author.

When I opened this software, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I am familiar with the interface because it is similar to other Apple applications so I only have to learn some details. Then I’ll kick start my imagination, and I am on my way to doing what I dreamed about 50 years ago.

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Another Christmas Story

The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree:
the presence of a happy family
all wrapped up in each other.
[Burton Hillis]

In the late 1940s, my Aunt Esther was working on a masters degree in children’s book illustration when she composed and illustrated a book that told the story of my grandmother’s childhood in Kansas—Little Sister Sunflower. One episode in the book tells about the doll in the pink dress in this photo that I snapped this morning.

Gertrude Chamberlain, age 6

My grandmother, Gertrude Chamberlain nee Black (the Sunflower), was born in 1877. This Christmas story took place on Christmas Eve when she was six.

It was just the kind of weather for Christmas. It looked like the Currier and Ives print hanging in the front parlor. Snow covered this Kansas world, and the clouds were so low they looked like they were resting their elbows on the tree tops.

The Sunflower was leaning on the windowsill, blowing her breath on the windowpane. “Night will never come. It will just never come,” the little girl murmured.

Tonight was the district Christmas tree at Peebler school house. Ma had worked in the front parlor with the door closed most of the afternoon. Pa and the boys had the chores done. The sleigh stood at the back gate.

It was finally supper time, but the Sunflower was too excited to eat. Everything was so wonderful at Christmas time. The house smelled good with cedar and cookies and molasses taffy and good nature.

The Sunflower, as I remember her

Ma put on the Sunflower’s best dress of dark wool over her small hoop. Then she bundled the squirming child into the red velvet cloak and hood. Myrtle wrapped hot bricks in paper for foot warmers, and pa carried the box of gifts out to the sleigh. At last, they were finally in the sleigh. Francis and John William rode along side on horses.

The Sunflower closed her eyes. She had waited all day for this moment. The team dashed through the lot gate to the music of the sleigh bells on their harness. It was a merry trip with laughter and greetings to neighbors along the way.

The school house was packed. Each family in the district had brought their gifts to put under the community tree. The sunflower’s eyes were wide with wonder and amazement as she gazed at the tree with its hundreds of gleaming candles. Each time someone opened the school house door, the candle flames would bend and dance.

Almost at the top of the tree, tied to a big limb, was a beautiful doll. Her china head with painted hair glistened in the candle light. The Sunflower was sure the doll’s blue eyes were looking directly at her.

Santa Claus came in with a flurry of snow and sleigh bells. He laughed and began to hand out the gifts, but the Sunflower didn’t even hear what Santa was saying. She was carrying on an imaginary conversation with the beautiful doll.  Wonder who would get her? The Snarr girls? They never took care of their playthings. Maybe it was little Florence or Mattie Belle Deweese.

Jack Keck, who was helping Santa give out the presents, reached up and took down the lovely doll. He looked at the name tag and read out loud, “Miss Gertrude Chamberlain!”

The Sunflower couldn’t breathe, but she held out her six-year-old arms to receive the precious gift. The doll was almost as tall as the little girl. It had tiny china hands, and feet with painted shoes. It wore a dress like the Sunflower’s and had three starched petticoats.

The child held the doll close, kissing the cool china head over and over again. She saw no more of the Christmas party.

—Esther F. Clark, Little Sister Sunflower, 1948

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