Elizabeth Gamble garden

Last year, I had the urge to get out and see a garden I hadn't seen before. I did a simple online search for gardens in this county and came up with this garden, a gorgeous place where one of the Gamble daughters (of Proctor and Gamble fortune) lived.


[Click for a larger version.]

It sounded interesting. Mom was up for the adventure, so we got some Starbucks and hit the road. I've gone back many times since, enjoying the ever-changing plants (though I'm still partial to the explosion of color in the Spring and Summer).

That time of year, revisited 2

That car radio. I thought I was done with it. All that work I've put into getting its time right, as I have previously documented...

There are just two more days before the Cash for Clunkers program ends. If I take in my car, they'll just squish it after destroying the engine. I dunno, maybe someone at the scrap yard parts it out and makes some money on the parts. That radio. I originally bought it for Mom's car, but that car's speakers turned out to be blown. The notion of scrapping that radio after all of these blog posts...

So, this evening after work, I got my tool box and pried up the dashboard and center deck and rear hatch panels and removed the radio and four speakers. My hope is that I can get this functional set to work in Mom's car.

If I don't trade my car in, I'll have a hole in the dash. Can't set the hole to noon.

Fortunately, my hobby will continue... resetting the county's sundials for Daylights Savings.

[Update Aug 23: looks like I missed my window of opportunity for the Cash for Clunkers program. I get to keep the hole.]

Yahoo Cares

Yahoo's IM window enables you to listen to music stations. And they have audio commercials. Before several of the public service announcements, they insert a subdued male voice saying "Yahoo Cares". But the result to my ear is a bored male saying "Yeah who cares..." and I completely miss whatever the important message was.

It's for you

My friend Tom posted this photo of me today in Facebook. Ha, fun for me to see and remember. I'm guessing it's the only photo record of this school antic.

In 10th grade, I found a dial phone in the garbage. I took it home and disassembled it out of curiosity. I liked seeing why the dial mechanism spun at a constant speed when released and how the amount of rotation was converted to a pulse for the selected number.

Hey, there's my best friend from high school, my constant sidekick, Paul Morgan. On a rainy day in high school, I found a damaged umbrella. I yanked all the fabric off so it was just a wireframe and handed it to Paul. It was lunchtime, and folks had poured out of classrooms and were now crowded in the sheltered outdoor walkways, waiting for the rain to break. Paul made his way around to the far end of the courtyard and then calmly walked the longest diagonal across the yard, wire frame over his head, rain pouring down like it rarely poured down. Laughter all around the yard. Someone threw food his direction. Paul plodded along, unswayed, soaked.

The internal bell mechanism looked like what I had seen on the outside of alarm clocks: two inverted brass cups or bells with a ball hammer between them. Though the main mechanism was an electrical-coil solenoid, a structural member nearby, if tapped right, would bang the hammer into one bell, and the spring action would ring the other bell. With rapid taps with my piano-trained finger, I could make the ring sound like someone was calling.

Hm, an idea. I severed the handset from the base, with coiled extension intact. I secured the cut end in my left pants pocket and fed the handset up inside my coat and hooked the handset in the pit of my left sleeve. I put the bell mechanism in in my right coat pocket. And so began a long period of my carrying this gag phone in my coat at high school.

In college, I soldered an 1/8" jack to the end of the extension and put that in the earphone jack of the mini-tape recorder I used to capture college lectures. I put some classical music on a tape. Now I could listen to music through the handset--a ridiculous substitute for the popular Sony Walkman tape player/headphones (the iPod of the '80s).

The typical setup was this: I'd have my hands in my coat pockets, get near someone who didn't know I had this phone (including complete strangers) and hammer the mechanism to ring the bell. Heads would turn a bit as folks reacted to the familiar sound that was out of place. (Hey, remember, this was waaaay before cell phones brought noise outside for everyone to enjoy.) Shortly after, I'd reach down into my coat and pull the handset from my armpit and say "Hello?" (which would help them know where to look to finish their thought). First timers were still forming thoughts about a phone cord connected mysteriously inside my coat. "It's for you" worked well (I'd extend the phone to them, stretching the cord). Or I might say things that made little sense when you don't know what's being said on the other end, like, "No, not today, I left it at home". Or declare "Wrong number." Hooking the handset back inside my coat and bringing my empty hand back out and going about my business--it was always wonderful to observe reactions.

I was in a school play at the end of that school year. In the last performance (the "oh who cares what anyone thinks" performance), I stuck the handset into the armpit of my outfit. I was at the front center in one particular singing/dancing scene and found a time that I could pull the phone out and put it to my ear briefly and put it back away without any fellow dancers having a clue. Family members were there for that last performance and I heard my brother's shout from the darkness, over the music, "He's got his phone!" Satisfying.

So You Think You Can Dance, part 2

A week after the swing dance lessons, the pain in the arch of my left foot is nearly gone. On the schedule for this week: intermediate waltz. Cool. I like waltz because, well, it's the only dance style I've ever felt successful at. (I recall how my attempts to dance with rock music actually drew pointing fingers and covered mouths. Hm, won't do that again.)

There was a lot of time between evening church and the start of lessons. I went to the nearby Walmart for some unsuccessful shopping for stuff I thought I needed and was growing nauseated from not having had enough food. I bought a couple of protein bars at a cash register in the middle of the store and, with receipt in hand, wolfed down the bars right there. I tend to favor peanut butter stuff. One of the bars left grit in my throat. Its irritation led to hacking and coughing for the next 45 minutes. Excellent.

Fast forward. I'm in the dance hall and have joined the 30 others who indicated they wanted intermediate waltz over beginning or intermediate salsa lessons. The male instructor asked a series of questions about who had waltzed less than 6 months? a year? 2 years? I was the only one who raised my hand for the less than 6 months query. The instructor said that in the next hour we were going to learn to do "this" and grabbed his partner and stepped and slid and spun and paused and spun the other way and another travel and then hesitate and, oh, now the lady is plunged backward and looking blankly into space as for a photo op and then the twirl out of that. The guy next to me and I spurt out expressions of disbelief.

My great skill in tapping my foot to music continued to prove ineffective in my learning new moves. Hey, waltz is supposed to be a 3/4 thing. I learned the box step 20 years ago. One, two, three, one, two, three. That's groups of threes. Simple math says that if I do two groups of threes, whatever was my starting foot will be the foot that's ready to move after two groups. Oh, but Jim the Teacher is now on his other foot. What? Watching, watching, listening, aha! He snuck in an extra step right there. I seek confirmation: "Is there a skip at one point?" The teacher, mic'd to project his voice to our section of the gym through large speakers, points out that, no, skipping is hopping on one foot. He was sacheing, he said. ("Oooo, sacheeeeeeing. You can say sacheeeeeing." I didn't actually say that or think that, but I think it makes for good reading.) I watched again and AHA, he had an extra SKIP in there (okay, on a different foot) that resulted in the change in final foot. Okay, progress for me; I was soon able to complete the first twirl thingy on my own and then with whatever gal was now paired with me from the ongoing rotation.

I tended to introduce myself when moved to the next gal in the circle. Maybe half of the ladies told me their name; not a big tradition there, I guess. "Dude, just assume The Frame and do the your dance steps so I can learn my bit," I imagined them thinking. So, in the handful of times when I heard my name called by a woman, it jarring because it felt out of place. It was always used as part of playful conversation but also when I think I looked clueless. Yeah, nice to have my name remembered, and I hope it was an expression of comfort in playfulness and not simply ease in identifying the dancing rag doll from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

And so I made it through another one or two moves, with only minor brain damage. Then they got to the plunge part. Okay, I'm not happy now as I write this. I left the evening having not understood how to plunge right. What I was consistent at was tipping while the gal leaned back and continuing to tip off balance. Yeah, that's rewarding. Yeah, I'm sure the ladies like watching their upside down view of the gym wall now start to include the floor. My tempo-oriented brain wanted counts! What should happen on one? on two? on three? Sure, he explained it a dozen times and demonstrated it, but... I don't know... I missed something, obviously. That put a damper on things. In the subsequent multi-style free dance period, I was willing to try anything but that plunge bit; unfortunately, we were taught these moves in a particular sequence, so it was like a puzzle piece that had to be fit in or the rest wouldn't work. When they started the free dance period and a waltz piece came up, I spun around by myself on the floor, attempting and reattempting the moves I'd learned, attempting to get the steps right. Nope, try again; again; again. Pretty inconsistent.

A chinese woman who was not part of our little class zipped up to me, ready to go. Sure, why not. Ballroom dance is supposed to be led by the man. In this waltz lesson, little was done to encourage us to mix up the handful of moves we'd learned. Noooo, we did all of "random" moves in a particular sequence through the whole lesson. Good for teaching several moves in one lesson, but not good for teaching me to be a bit more random. In that moment, I decided that I would just lead. I'd do the basic no-brainer box step. I'd try to dig up some of the stylish yet simple waltz steps I'd learned 20 years ago. And I'd try to insert some of the moves I learned tonight. I'd just go for it. And I did! Yeah, I mangled several steps, but by golly, she followed and we twirled and I got her walking backwards sometimes and forwards other times. Hey, that worked. And when the music ended, she said she'd never taken waltz lessons, that she just followed. YES! I took it as a positive and went and ate grapes and brownies and drank liquids in the break area. I went back in and sat all cool-like on a side chair. But reality was that I didn't want to take the risk that one of the actual waltz students would want to do the scripted routine and get me into the plunge predicament again. I went and had more grapes.

So You Think You Can Dance

That's probably what I was thinking that kept me from high-tailing it out of there. After Saturday evening church, I mosied on down the street to a community center where they teach ballroom dancing. I'd been there before--wow, 20 years ago?--to learn waltzing for my college roommate's wedding. I knew to expect a big gymnasium (they bill it as the largest wooden dance floor in the USA) with lots of singles and a few couples, constantly being rotated to new dance partners (certainly a kindness to my partners when I'm clueless).

After two hours of lessons and another half hour to get home, I'm finding my heart beat still elevated. I'm writing this while nearly horizontal to aid in easing my nausea from exhaustion. The ceiling fan is set to puree to maximize cooling of my feet, one of which wants to cramp into an arc, and it's on the same leg as the shin splint. But it's still fair to say it was fun.

Officially, the man's supposed to lead, but I'm tellin ya I'm glad at the many tips and corrections the ladies (of a big spread of ages) gave me. It was probably a bit of smart sales work on the instructor's part to get me to come back, but nonetheless I liked that she told me should could tell I was determined and inquisitive and trying to get it right--in contrast, she said, to the folks who show up "who watched So You Think You Can Dance and think they should be able to learn it all 'right now'".

Holy cow, that East Coast Swing is a lot of fast steps. I am OUT of SHAPE. I had to sit down while everyone else kept learning because I thought I was going to pass out. My heart rate was elevated (a good thing for the heart that's used to that) and sweat was dropping onto the floor off my forehead. But it was fun, I keep telling myself!

A treat for me was getting to watch those who knew their stuff. I'd put them in two camps: those who were skilled with the moves and those who also looked like they were really enjoying it. I remember one couple (formed, as these pairs are formed, simply by a guy approaching any gal on the side and drawing her out to the floor) who, just like that, were into these elegant, precision moves that were new to my eyes--like well-tuned machinery. Yet I don't recall seeing either of them smile. Soon, they were off dancing with other partners.

The evening had two halves: class time (learn steps for one style) and music time (for folks to freely dance a variety of styles). In that second half, I'd shuffle around a bit, watching the footwork of dances unfamiliar to me, to see what I could mimic. (Not a high success rate there.) A courageous lady approached me as the song style changed. I told her I'd just taken my first lesson in swing. She was glad to be of help in answering my barrage of questions. It was funny to me how difficult it was to learn some of the footwork advice she sought to give, difficult because she had one of those flowing dresses that, with just a little spin of her body, would flare outward. No chance of my seeing her feet! I appreciated that, at one point, she clutched a bit of her dress upward so I could see her footwork.

It *was* my first formal lesson in swing--BUT I thank folks for putting all those videos on youtube so that, last night, I could try out the steps in the comfort of my home and try to burn that odd 6-beat pattern into my brain and limbs before wrassling with the ladies tonight. Me and my long legs--I'm so used to taking big steps that I carried that over to swing. Doesn't work. The vocal ladies would keep reminding me, "Smaller steps". I shake my head now in recalling all the things I have to try to remember at once. As one of the youtube instructors noted, it's complicated to learn at first, but then it becomes natural. Hm. Becomes natural. That's still future for me.

Skateboarder Ground Hog Day

I so much want to know what that guy was thinking.

The background details escape me, but I remember that, for some reason, my folks' car was parked a couple of miles from their home, they were away on a trip, and I wanted to get their car to their home. I had my own car. And in my car, I had my skateboard. I figured that I could drive my car part way, skateboard to their car, and drive then drive their partway, and repeat until I got both cars home.

I have my limitations with skateboarding. One leg is my standing/squatting leg, and the other is the kicking/propelling leg. I'm good for about 15 kicks before my standing leg thigh is burning from the series of one-legged squats while my kicking leg smacks the road over and over. With this in mind, I drove my car within what I figured was a reasonable distance of my folks' car. It basically worked out right: I'd propel myself to a point of weariness, arrive just in time at my folks' car to collapse in it and regain some leg strength (and reduce my heart rate) as I drove the next portion.

For you to understand the rest of the story, you have to be able to picture how the cars were doing a sort of leap frog in the direction of the house and my skateboarding would take me back the opposite direction. Let's say my folks' car was now furthest from home. I would drive it beyond my car and then park. I would hop out, ride my skateboard back up the street to my car. I'd drive my car to a point beyond my parents' car and park it. I'd ride my skateboard back to my parents' car, and repeat this until both cars were home.

There was this guy walking along the same road on which I was doing this leap frog thing with the cars. He was walking the same direction that I was moving the cars. Think about it: when would he see me? He would not see me as I drove past him. He could only see me as I rode my skateboard in the opposite direction of his travel, on the other side of street.

It just so happened that the pace of this whole cycle of drive, park, skate, resulted in my skateboarding past him at four times. I would park far ahead of him, out of his view (blocked by other cars, trees, etc) and then propel myself on my skateboard back the long distance to the car in the distance.

Consider that this guy is making decent progress down the road. He is steadily arriving at new block after block. And every few minutes, I keep reappearing ahead of him and and skating off into the distance behind him. That must have caught his attention that I would reappear on the same road, travelling the same direction, yet having a starting point further back from where he'd last seen me start. (I'm reminded of that goofy scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where the knight keeps re-galloping from the same starting point.) I remember that the guy's stare was extended on my fourth pass by.

Eventually, I got both cars to my folks' house. I think of that event and that guy nearly every time I have driven down that road in the 20 years hence. I wonder what he was thinking.

Claim your prize

I once lived in a house on a bluff with a nice view of Marina del Rey and of a cheap market area with a payphone. My brother and I could tell, with the aid of a telescope, whether that was a man or woman on the path approaching the payphone. My brother, whose voice had deepened enough for him to fake a radio announcer voice, would call the payphone and declare to the person that he or she had won and instruct the person to walk to the Marina Mart (wow, what good fortune for the winner! why, that was right down the street!) and instruct the person to say some secret message to the cashier to claim the prize. My brother would pick some odd word or phrase as the secret message (and we'd grip our faces to stifle laughs). Off the person would go to the market. We'd watch him disappear into the mart and within a minute come out just as fast as he went in.