Bungle

OK, it's ventin' time.

Disclaimer: the following rant is rated "M" for "Mindbendingly numbing in its picky geekiness." Proceed with caution, and the awareness that your eyeballs will glaze over about half-way through.

What is it with software vendors that they put out a "new and improved" version of their software that eliminates the very things you like about it?

My current annoyance is with Google, or Bungle as I now prefer to think of them. They sneakily replaced the Google Toolbar (for the non-nerdy among us, that is the little bar across the top that has the Google search window in it, plus a bunch of other colorful icons I not only don't use, but don't even know what they do) with a newer version, at least in Internet Explorer, the browser I use.

The old version, Version 5, kept track of all of my search history entries, and I could scroll down through them, a veritable trip down Google Memory Lane. For someone who Googles in her sleep, this is a very valuable thing - I can go back to words I searched on and call up the exact wording if I need to see something again.

This search history feature chronicled for me the minutia of my daily life - topics that came up in conversation, places that I or someone else was interested in, blog information that I needed, whatever. Veni, Vidi, Googli.

Then a new version, Version 6, just came along one day and rudely shoved Version 5 out of some virtual window, without even asking "Mother, May I?" I realized this when I went to the Google history well, and instead of the hundreds of search words or phrases that I have used, I found a total of 11.

Yes, Google Toolbar Version 6 shows 11 entries in history. That's it.

In a state of outraged indignation, I (of course) googled for an explanation. I discovered a web discussion thread filled with other, equally indignant Google users, complaining about the same issue. Then, someone identifying herself as "Maggie" from Google Customer Service helpfully explained that the search history is still on the computer, you just can't see it anymore.

Gee, thanks, Maggie.

One of the complainers then chimed in to say that he had located Toolbar Version 5 online and downloaded it again. It worked like a charm, he said. Except that, every time he logged off and back on again, Version 6 was back, like some annoying salesperson, infesting his computer with its perky, new-and-improved, history-annihilating self.

Software vendors seem to think that they can shove whatever changes they want down the metaphorical throats of their users, and sweet-talk the users by saying, 'Don't worry. This really is better. You will get used to it." (Facebook users know this only too well). Sometimes, they trip all over themselves and make a big mess (Windows Vista users, you know what I am talking about).

Hello. People don't like change, especially to things they like the way they are.

Now I, too, unrepentant and defiant, download Version 5 of the toolbar every time I log back on. Yes, it is time consuming and annoying. Yes, I know that I am standing in the path of progress.

But somewhere, one has to take a stand. To the barricades!

Maggie, are you listening?

The Teeth of the Lion

I look out on the verdant carpet beside the house and I see golden spots all over it.

Dandelions have arrived, in force. They proliferate in every single patch of grass on our property. This is because they are literally everywhere; they are native to all parts of the temperate zone in the Northern Hemisphere, and have become naturalized throughout the globe, including all 50 United States and most Canadian provinces.

Dandelions, or taxacum officinale, are weeds, certainly. No one in our culture cultivates these opportunistic and hardy little buggers. They are considered to be a blight on the landscape, an annoyingly pervasive yellow interruption in the green sward; they are to be sprayed, treated, tamed, eliminated. Rip them out!

And yet, there is hardly a more useful plant in the kingdom of plantae.

Where to begin about the helpful dandelion? Well, for starters, there are the leaves, or dandelion greens, which give the plant its name. The name "dandelion" is an English corruption of the early French term dent de lion, or tooth of the lion, due to the large jagged serrations on dandelion leaves (certainly not as if that majestic carnivore would be caught dead munching on a weed).

The young tender leaves, as well as the unopened buds, can be eaten in raw in salads. Older leaves can be cooked, like spinach. Their nutritional value is similar to that vegetable, as they are high in vitamin A, vitamin C, calcium, and especially iron (even more than spinach).

Dandelion leaves can also be brewed into beer, enjoyed in many parts of Canada. Other leaf concoctions, such as dandelion tea, have been used by herbalists for centuries to help liver and kidney function. Some of the first mentions of the plant as a medicine are of the use by Arab physicians in the tenth and eleventh centuries.

My maternal grandparents were skilled foragers; my grandmother used to gather dandelion flowers to make wine (also elderberries, but that is another blog). At the time that she was doing this, in the early 1960's, I was too young to taste the beverage that resulted, but all that I can say is that people drank Gram's dandelion wine, seemed to enjoy it, and no one died as a result.

The root of the dandelion also has many uses. When dried, ground and brewed, it can be used as a coffee substitute, especially before meals; apparently it not only tastes good, but it aids digestion, and is a mild stimulant. The root contains a diuretic, which may account for the more current French name for the plant - pissenlit, which literallly means "wet the bed." In Canada, dandelion root is registered as a medicine, for its diuretic properties.

The milky sap of the root has been used as a mosquito repellent.

I have yet to mention the entertainment value of the dandelion, which has provided children everywhere with immense enjoyment. After its life cycle is finished and the plant head has dried out, the little seed stalks, like so many fluffy parachutes, lift out of the dried head and expand into a ball of fluff that can be blown with a puff of air to gently waft away, carrying with them the curatives of centuries, to land and start anew.

My son Spencer was even inspired (and required, as a school assignment) to write a poem about the dandelion, in the fifth grade.

Somewhere around now, I'll bet that you, Gentle Reader, are beginning to feel a little remorseful about your past mistreatment of this noble and healthful plant (I know that I am.) Perhaps you are beginning to respect the lowly dandelion, and wondering if you too can make use of its beneficence.

Well, I for one am ready to go foraging. I can see a whole salad on my lawn.

The Diletantte's Dilemma

There are people in the world who were born with a great talent.

They can write, or act, or sing. They can paint, or carve, or dance. They can direct, or compose, or build, with whatever material suits them - film, food, metal, wood, paper. They can throw, or kick, or run. Whatever the area of endeavor, if the ability gets developed and used, if the person is supported and encouraged, the greatly talented leave the rest of us in the dust.

Aretha Franklin. Michael Phelps. Frank Gehry, architect extraordinaire. Itzhak Perlman.

Sometimes a person has more than one great talent, and then you have Michaelangelo, or Leonardo Da Vinci, or Isaac Newton.

There is another group of people, however. These are the people with some talent, in more than one area.

They can sing, kind of. Write a little. Draw somewhat. Maybe they are pretty smart.

These people are called generalists, and I am one of them.

Of course, being a generalist doesn't have anything to do with telling others what to do, at least in my case; I have never met another human being who would actually do what I told them. But it does mean that you have options open to you in more than one area.

Therein lies a dilemma. How to choose what to do, when you can do more than one thing?

You like to draw, so you draw for a while. But, while you are not bad, you realize that you are no Michaelangelo, or even James Whistler, and you have no patience with yourself, so you put the pencil down. Or, you get distracted from drawing by the desire to sing. So, you do that for a while.

Then, the choir or group you sing with breaks up, or moves away, or you get laryngitis, or stage fright, whatever, and you realize that what you really want to do is write.

So, you write, and that's fun. But, things keep getting in the way - the need to make a living, or to raise children. You think, why am I sitting here writing when I need to get to the dentist, or fold clothes, or go to work?

If only I could focus, you think, and develop my abilities. Maybe I would be one of those talented people, and do great things.

But I am a member in good standing of the Dilettante's Club, so I pick up and drop these hobbies as the caprice strikes me.

There are also areas in which I, to put it colloquially, stink out loud. I tried ballet once, and was laughed out of the dance studio. I do not have a scintilla of athletic ability, as anyone who has ever watched me try to play volleyball can attest. My taste in decorating could most kindly be called eclectic. My organizational skills fall toward the haphazard end of the spectrum. And God help you if I try to take your picture; you will look like a thumb with legs.

For these inabilities I am grateful, lest I spin completely out of control. The small talents that I do have keep me more than busy, or so you would think.

And then, one day, a friend (let's call her Joan, since that's her name) emails me a link to a night school class about the "voiceover" field, wherein you use your voice to convince people to buy things, or you read books to them on CD, and I am intrigued, and touched by her interest. Hmmm, I think; yet another pursuit to take up and drop in a whimsical way. I'll do it!

And so, Gentle Readers, I embark on a new venture. I had my first vocal coaching session on Monday, over the phone; it was a voice evaluation, and apparently I managed to pass the test, filled as I was with the fear and loathing of putting myself out there on display, at least vocally, at a fairly ripe age.

I was also excited by the prospect of starting off in a completely new direction, and learning a new skill, which is one of the things, I suspect, that fuels the dilletante's need to change hobbies frequently.

That, plus a really low threshhold of boredom. And the fear of actually succeeding at something.

As I undertake the quest to become the next voice of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, I will continue to write, about this new enterprise as well as whatever else floats to the surface of my mental pond.

Fit To Be Tiled

It is April, if not the cruellest month then certainly the rainiest.

I have already written about the lush landscape, well watered from the celestial watering can. Today is yet another watering can day, sprinkling but not drenching.

This is a good thing, I know. It will give a good start to the veggies. Later this year there will probably come a time when we will wish for rain, and the hose, lying coiled since last year like a sleeping snake, will emerge from its winter lair to spit water at the tomatoes and the zucchini.

But these rainy spring days are a bit on the raw side (currently it is 42 bone-chilling degrees F.) I am not inclined to be outside more than I need to. I scuttle from car to house and house to car.

Inside, the darkness and the rain seems to dampen enthusiasm for lots of important activities that require actual movement, like cleaning, or laundry, or cooking. And, thanks to a family member who shall remain nameless (she knows who she is), I have re-discovered a really good time-waster.

Mahjongg.

Computerized mahjongg, to be precise. Perhaps the most insanely addictive game ever created.

Regular Mahjongg is an ancient Chinese pastime that can be traced back about a thousand years, although its introduction to the West came in the late 1800s; by 1920 it was all the rage in the U.S., where it is frequently played in Jewish circles. Outside of the U.S. it is sometimes a gambling pursuit, and is still widely played in Asia.

The game as it is played now involves four players; 12 or 16 tiles are dealt to the players, depending on the variation played. It is somewhat like pinochle, or gin, in that it involves collecting "melds" or sets of tiles, and requires skill and some strategy as well as luck.

Computerized Mahjongg, on the other hand, is diabolically simple. There are 144 tiles with various interesting and exotic Chinese symbols on them, arranged so that some of the tiles are stacked on each other, some just layed out in rows. Kind of like a pyramid with legs going out from it.

Your job is to click on two matching tiles that are "free" (meaning, at the edge of a row). Match all of the tiles, and you win. It is actually a form of Solitaire (in fact, the online game I play is called "Mahjongg Solitaire".

The Chinese symbols on the tiles can be grouped into categories such as "stones", "honor" or "flowers"; honor tiles have names like zhōngbǎng or báibǎn, meaning things like passing the test or getting rich; flowers would be plum, orchid, Chrysanthemum or bamboo.

I, however, have made up my own names for them, based on what they look like. So, for me the tiles are called things like "strips of bacon", "party hat", or "lobster".

Crackjongg, as I now think of it, involves no more complicated mental process from me than thoughts like "darn, that lobster I need is stuck behind two strips of bacon" or "what do I have to do to free that party hat so that I can match the hamburger and fries?" Each time I match two tiles ("columns"? "buttons"?
"torpedos"?) I get two points. I rarely get a game to come out perfectly, which means 144 points; frequently my score is more like 72.

Every now and then, however, I do actually win, which allows me exactly one second of satisfaction. Unfortunately, this averages out to about one time in 10. So, the principle of intermittent reinforcement is definitely at play here.

There is a little button at the bottom of the game that is the most troublesome thing of all about playing Crackjongg. When you press it, you instantly get another game. I just know that the next time I play, the game will come out perfectly. Or, the game after that.

This is how I became a Mahjunky. Somewhere, B. F. Skinner is chuckling.

I have one piece of advice for you. Do not play this game. If you do, the next thing you know, it will be dark outside, your loved ones will be hungry, and you will have no clean underwear.

Let All The World In Every Corner Sing!

image courtesy of Spencer Greet

Today is Easter Sunday in the Christian calendar, a day for celebrating Christ's resurrection from the tomb.

For singers and musicians, it is a busy time; Easter services require a church to "pull out all the stops" both in a metaphorical and literal sense. Metaphorically speaking, all of the musical resources at a congregation's disposal are marshalled, from choirs, to brass, to handbells, and, of course, the pipe organ, the "king of instruments." On a pipe organ, stops are knobs that control the flow of air to the pipes; when an organist literally pulls out all of the stops, he or she is allowing the organ to reach maximum volume.

Easter Sunday services are nothing if not loud. But it is certainly a joyful noise.

Norm, Spence and I could be found this morning singing in the choir at our church, the Church of the Loving Shepherd in West Chester, Pennsylvania. All of the stops were indeed pulled out today; there was a delightful brass quartet that provided music before, during and after the service, everything from a reverential piece to Dixieland jazz after the service had ended.

During the service itself, the choir sang the Ralph Vaughn Williams composition Five Mysical Songs, an Easter song cycle set to meditational poems by George Herbert. Three of the songs are arranged for baritone solo with choral accompaniment; one selection is a baritone solo, and the last piece, or antiphon, is a choral anthem.

Anyone who is familiar with the music of Vaughn Williams would recognize his signature in these pieces; they are gorgeously lyrical, yet not easy to sing. Vaughn Williams was a twentieth century English composer who used the varied rhythms, time signatures and chromatic harmonies common to modern classical music. He was an agnostic, but had no difficulty composing music for the beautiful spiritual texts of Herbert.

The Five Mystical Songs is among my favorite choral pieces to sing. Today's experience was particularly meaningful, because it was the first time that Spencer, perennial boy chorister, joined the adult choir, singing tenor along with his versatilely-voiced dad. Spence had sung some of the pieces before, but with the Valley Forge Choir of Men and Boys, as a boy soprano. So, the three of us sang together for the first time.

When it came time for the final song, which shares its title with this blog post, all of the stops were indeed pulled out - it is a triumphant song of praise, with an accompaniment that mimics a swirling carillon of bells ringing. For a choral singer, it is a rare moment when the art that we love the most is trumpeted to the skies. Let all the world in every corner sing!

And what if we did, all of us, in unison all over the world?

Singing has been called the first art; the voice is the original musical instrument, and all cultures, from times before recorded history, have sung. In fact, it is likely that speech originated from song.

I can tell you that singing in a choir allows you to lose yourself and become one with other people in a way more profound than just about any other endeavor. It makes me wonder what would happen if the entire world could stop, and sing even one note, all at the same time. What would that be like? Music speaks to us at such an elemental level; could rage and frustration be suspended at least during that one moment?

As the choir joyfully (and musically, it must be said) shouted the last notes of this morning's antiphon, my heart pounded; I found myself exhilarated and moved - by the song; by the singers I shared it with, including my son and husband; by the musicians; the congregation, and moving outward, by the common humanity we all share, in every corner, all over the world.

Spring Bud

And so it is April, the first full month of spring.

Spring and autumn, at least here in the mid-Atlantic part of the United States, are all about bright color. The colors of summer, while varied, tend to be more muted, and the palette of winter's colors, at least outdoors, tends to be a monochromatic mix of blacks, whites, grays and browns.

We human beings have been able to discern color since our ancestors evolved in ways to achieve tricromacy, meaning that our ocular systems have three different receptors that receive color. This works out nicely for perception of the three "primary" colors, (either red, blue and yellow, or red, blue and green), and the rest of the color spectrum that derives from them.

It is thought that the ability of humans to detect color came about as a response to the need to find food sources when life is lived in daylight. Nocturnal animals, or animals that live deep in the ocean, cannot perceive color as well as land animals because light is necessary for the color-sensing systems of the eye to work. But for diurnal creatures, it is pretty important to be able to tell the difference between the intense red of the poisonous holly berry and the indigo of the delightful blueberry.

Sir Issac Newton discovered that color is an attribute of light waves when he split light into colors by the use of a prism, and recombined them back into white light by the use of another prism and a lens. He also originated the tradition known as "color theory" and invented the color wheel.

Apparently discovering gravity and inventing calculus wasn't enough for Sir Isaac; perhaps he had a yen to be an interior decorator as well, to wit: "Faugh! Art thou mad? Thou knowest that heliotrope doth not go well with turquoise!"

Since then, color theory has evolved to help us understand the nature and uses of color; which colors complement each other, what psychological effect is created by a color. Human eyes can detect approximately 10 million colors, a lot of shades to work with (not to mention naming them - remember the big 64 color Crayola box, with burnt sienna and periwinkle?)

It is interesting that lots of color names derive from edible things - orange, peach, lime and lemon to name a few. Also aubergine, the gorgeous French word for the purplish-brown eggplant.

There are two fundamental ways to create color - by addition, as with light, or by subtraction, as with pigment or paint. Essentially, to create color with light you start with darkness, and add colored light to reach white light (add a blue light to a yellow light and the result will be green; add in a red light and you will get white.) When dealing with pigment or paint, you start with white, and remove colors on the spectrum by using a pigment that absorbs or blocks everything except a specific color wavelength; whatever shows through is the color of the paint (for example, cobalt blue paint absorbs every color except cobalt blue.)

Differentiations between the two methods of creating color have caused some difficulty in the creation of a coherent theory of color usage. However, generally speaking, in color theory there are three attributes used to describe a specific color: hue, saturation and lightness.

Hue translates to the basic color itself - is it a variation of blue, of yellow, of red or green? Saturation refers to the intensity of a color. Lightness, of course, has to do with the amount of light versus darkness in a color.

Of all of the seasons I think that Spring has the most saturated colors. Could there be a more intense yellow than a daffodil?

But if April had a color, for me it would be chartreuse, a tertiary color. Chartreuse is defined as being halfway between green and yellow on the color wheel. It happens to be one of my favorite colors, because it just looks good enough to eat.

The color of key limes, and the pie that is made from them. The earliest buds on the trees, no doubt tasty to some foliage eater. Those little tiny pea shoots peeking up in the garden.

Look around you - at the blooming forsythia, a saturated yellow with just a tint of green that could be called citron; at the young willow switches, more chartreusey; at the new grass, an intense velvety verdant carpet that looks so soft you just want to roll on it forever, and maybe munch some, if you happen to be a cow.

Soon green will give way to magenta, as the redbuds come into their own, and tulips will bring everything from reds to oranges to silky black to the spring palette. And the incredible edible pansies will add violet and blue as well as yellow.

Next week the cherry tree on the front lawn will pop with pink. But for now, the chartreuse landscape is feast enough for my eyes.

The Girls of Indian Summer

There is a song by Stephen Sondheim called The Girls of Summer. It begins:

The girls of summer get burned; they start the summer unconcerned...They get undone by a touch of sun in June, plus a touch of the moon.

Last weekend I got together with a group of women that I have known since St Joe's college days, when we were all girls of summer. One member of the group, Denise, I have known since freshman orientation in the summer of 1973, when I was 17. Jenny, Anita, Rose and Maureen I met during the fall of that year. Mary and DJ I met later, but certainly by the summer of 1977.

The girls of summer get fooled...but soon the summer heat has cooled. And come September they can't remember why things were hot in July..

Back then we were vessels filled full of life and all of its potentialities. Plus beer. And chips.

We spent our summer weekends at the Jersey shore. We hit the beach in the afternoon, heedless of the UV rays, slathering ourselves with what passed for suntan lotion in those days. Our most important daily decision was where we would go that night to meet guys and to watch and comment snarkily when other, less fabulous girls met guys we wouldn't be caught dead with.

Sometimes we played pinochle. At least one of us reneged quite frequently.

Sometimes we woke up in the morning and couldn't remember why things were hot the night before. Or, anything else about the night before, other than a blur of loud music and laughter and intrigue in smoky, darkly lit rooms with sticky floors that smelled of hops.

Not me, it's too easy to fall ...The moonlit sand, a faraway band, and that's all...not me, I don't easily thrill...never did, never will

The song's narrator is too smart, too rational, to be beguiled by the sultry magic of youth, and the folly of an open heart. Clearly not a girl of summer.

The end of summer's at hand, I thought the summer was grand, and here I am with the same undamaged heart that I had at the start...

Those summers were packed as full as we could make them, with work, and play, and friendship that's lasted a lifetime. Sometimes we chose unwisely, and then there were tears and recrimination. Sometimes we chose well, and our lives were forever changed.

The girls of summer forgot to run...the girls of summer were bound to lose..the girls of summer had all the fun...

Now we are the girls of Indian summer. Our lives have known joy, and heartache, and complications we couldn't have imagined in those halcyon days.

We are still together. Our hearts may be damaged, but they are still open. We still have all the fun.