Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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abeyance
Imagine what it’s like to get knocked out cold. You’re in the boxing ring, or you slip on the ice, or you faint, and WHAM! – you’re out for the count. You never see it coming. Your very next memory is waking up as if it never happened at all. To be fair, you can’t imagine what it’s like to get knocked out cold. Your brain doesn’t register the experience; or if it does, it stores the memory in a place you’ll never be able to access. It’s as if you’ve took a break from your conscious world. This temporary inactivity of the mind – a kind of suspended animation – is known as abeyance.
Recently I had a tooth extracted. Since I have a strong jaw my dentist suggested I should be fully knocked out instead of hitting the laughing gas. So there I went, from “counting backwards from ten” to waking up post-op, as if the hour the procedure required was a split second.
After a tooth extraction, the dentist talks to you to make sure you feel okay, and more importantly to give you instructions for self-care for the next several hours. And here’s where it gets interesting. In the time frame of those several hours your brain is awake but not fully awake. My wife was in the room when I received my self-care instructions, and she said I was coherent and having a perfectly normal conversation with the doctor. But one day later I had no knowledge of that conversation – and I never have since.
That little amnesia experience got me to thinking: what if I could capture the “half-awake” brain in writing? Wouldn’t it be interesting to see what I write about in my semi-comatose stage, knowing that after the fact I’ll have no recollection of writing a single word?
I completed this experiment last month, when I went back to the dentist to have a post inserted (for a future crown). It was the same drill as before (ha). I was knocked out and woke up an hour later with no memory of the surgery. But when I was at home later in the day to recover, I wrote a quick story before my brain fully restored itself. The following day, and now a month later, I have no memory of writing that story.
To conclude, I am sharing that story with you below. I’ve read it several times and have zero recollection of ever writing it. Isn’t that amazing? Don’t ask me for the hidden meaning because I don’t think there is any, and needless to say, the story is unfinished. But I do think it’s remarkable this story was created – and stored – in a part of my brain I’ll never have access to. Here then – my moment of abeyance.
Todd was a gentle man, who worked an apple farm near the west coast of Central Washington. Each morning he’d get up with the dawn, climb on his John Deere tractor, and plow the rows between the trees, keeping the orchard nice and neat. The trees produced a variety of apples: Macintosh, Gala, Red Delicious, Granny Smith, and so on. It was not the sort of orchard that required a lot of labor or equipment. A typical harvest yielded 100 bushels or so, which were largely sold to the small organic markets in the region. Todd’s apples boasted a quality product year-in and year-out over several years.
One harvest season, Todd discovered that many of his apples were bigger and heavier than in previous years. They even shone brighter with their reds, yellows, and greens. Thinking nothing of it, Todd continued the harvest as usual, bringing home the first day’s bushels to prepare for market. As was always his custom, Todd brought several samples of each variety into the house, to give them a closer inspection and taste. Again, as he looked at an especially ripe Macintosh, he noticed the brightness: an almost glittery look to the skin. The fruit was probably an inch or so larger in diameter than any he had seen from his trees in previous years. The bite was crisp and delicious, the flesh firm and consistent.
After a couple of bites, Todd took a sharp knife and cut the fruit to the core. Imagine his surprise when his knife hit a solid core; the consistency of a peach pit instead of small seeds. Carefully, Todd cut the apple into vertical slices, revealing a one-inch solid core in the middle of the fruit. This was most unusual, as an apple typically has a hardened fruit core with seeds distributed throughout.
Todd took the pit to the sink and washed it carefully under mildly hot water. The surface was the woody gnarled look you would expect from most fruits, but it was as if a peach pit had found its way into an apple. Looking closer, Todd saw small bits of light emanating from between the gnarls. Taking up the knife once again, Todd began to scrape the outer surface of the core. Suddenly the core divided neatly into four sections, and fell away easily, to reveal… the most beautiful diamond Todd had ever seen. It was egg-shaped, with countless pentagonal facets, and it shone so brightly it was almost a brilliant blue.
Holding it up to the light, Todd thought he could see yet another core within the diamond, but it was difficult to make out with the layers of faceted diamond on top of it. The diamond felt solid and heavy; almost 10 ounces by his amateur guess.
With no small amount of anticipation, Todd returned to the fruit basket, picked a Granny Smith, and carefully cut the fruit into several slices.. While he discovered the same “peach pit” core, this time the core revealed a spectacular center cut emerald. Again, the core of the emerald was darker than the surface, suggesting something different inside of it. Otherwise, Todd was looking at two large gems, apparently the product of two fruits from his orchard.
Just what had happened here? How does a fruit generate a gemstone at its core?
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abstruse
You’re probably typing on your keyboard as you read this. But imagine you have a handwritten document sitting upright in front of you and you’re simply copying the words one keystroke at a time. Now imagine you have several keyboards at your disposal, each on top of the next like stair steps. Your hands move up and down the stairs, finding just the right key for each letter. Finally, imagine one more keyboard beneath your feet, which you occasionally depress like the gas pedal of a car. This my friends, is but a hint of what it takes to play a church organ. It’s a complex, hard-to-grasp skill requiring an absurd amount of focus. It’s abstruse.
The Basilica of the Sacred Heart at the University of Notre Dame is scheduled to receive a brand new organ; the first note to be played during the Christmas holidays in December 2016. This is the fifth organ in the 165-year history of the Basilica and as you would expect, the most impressive. The instrument will boast four keyboards (five if you count the one beneath the feet) and almost 5,200 pipes. The pipe diameters are as small as a pencil and as large as a ship’s smokestack. Listen for the shrill tone of a tin whistle or the booming alert of a departing cruise liner – this organ can duplicate both. It can even duplicate the soprano, alto, tenor, baritone and bass sounds of the singing human voice.
An organ of this complexity and size – it will soar to almost four stories in height – is taking several years to construct. But most remarkably, it is being assembled in the modest workshop of Paul Fritts & Company, in the outskirts of Seattle, by a grand total of six craftsmen. The University chose this group because its founders were trained back through several generations, dating to those who built the most prominent cathedral organs in Western Europe.
Next spring Fritts & Company will host an open house in their workshop, to show off the nearly completed Notre Dame organ. Then next summer when the University’s campus is relatively quiet, the organ will be shipped from the West Coast to Northern Indiana to be assembled in time for that first performance a few months later. Can you imagine the responsibility of the drivers of those several flat-beds, trucking so many handmade components over the mountains and across the plains to their final destination? They should have a police escort to clear the highways.
When I was in middle school I took organ lessons for a brief time, learning on a modest instrument in the loft of the small chapel of our Methodist church. There were only two keyboards for the hands and a small keyboard for the feet. I found it overwhelming to play with hands and feet at the same time. To further complicate the skill – and this is true of most organs – there are a few milliseconds of delay between the time a key is pressed and the sound is issued (thanks to the mechanics of opening and closing the organ pipes). So you’re playing the music a moment before you actually hear it.
I did perform in public once. Every year our Methodist leaders would allow the church youth group to conduct the Sunday services – from the sermon to the bible readings to the music. Our organist “rigged” the sanctuary organ for me so it felt more like playing that small chapel organ. A little less abstruse, if you will. Regardless, that was the end of my career as an organist. Two hands on the single keyboard of a piano (with little else for the feet and brain to worry about) is more than enough for me.
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copious
Ricky Gervais, the English comedian, once said, “the only reason I work out is to live longer so I can eat more cheese and drink more wine.” Maybe he was thinking about me when he came up with that one. I like a glass of wine, but my love of cheese borders on the unhealthy. Every time I pose for the camera and “say cheese!”, I’m salivating instead of smiling. I must be part mouse.
Cheese came into my life at an early age; probably true for most of us. A kid’s meal was a single slice of Kraft cheese sandwiched between two pieces of Wonder bread, mayonnaise or Miracle Whip for the glue. The cheese was technically “pasteurized processed cheese product” – infused with enough preservatives to sit in the frig for a decade and still taste the same. Like margarine. Or Twinkies.
By middle school I was making my own cheese sandwiches, with real cheddar cut straight from the brick. You could make the slices as thick as you wanted, and it was a great excuse to wield one of Mom’s biggest kitchen knives. One time though, the knife slipped from the cheese to the knuckle of my ring finger and the result was a small scar I still carry to this day. It’s like my little badge of courage, only for cheese.
When I discovered the wonders of grilled cheese, there was no turning back. We had this little cast-iron sandwich maker (the precursor to the panini press, I suppose) that would imprint a clam shell on the bread as it grilled the sandwich. Like I cared about an imprint, but it was a convenient excuse to crank out dozens of grilled cheese sandwiches.
Eventually I was adding Monterey Jack to my omelets, a spicy Mexican blend to my quesadillas, and handfuls of Mozzarella to my homemade pizzas. I was consuming copious amounts of queso. Cheese became its own level on my personal food pyramid.
Several years ago, in a particularly cruel twist of fate, I developed what I think was an allergy to cheese. Every time I ate a little Swiss or Ricotta my lips would puff up to the point where they didn’t look like lips anymore. Picture a blowfish minus the gills. No amount of antihistamines would bring me back to normal. It was like God waving a big white flag and saying “Dave, the (cheese) party is OVER!” Mercifully, the allergy went away and my cheese consumption returned to its previously unhealthy levels.
Trivia time-out: If you sample every variety of cheese ever made – one a day – it would take you more than five years to get through them all. Dang. My lips would explode.
My taste for cheese has become more refined in recent years. I actually sort through and sample all those little blocks you find at your supermarket deli. I’ll pair my cheeses with a nice wine for an overly elegant appetizer.
On a recent trip to Estonia, my wife and I visited a small dairy farm that specializes in cheese and yogurt production (our tour guide was appropriately nicknamed “cheese angel”). We bought an entire wheel of Gouda, just because I thought it was cool to have a “wheel” of anything. Shreds and slices, blocks and bricks; now entire wheels of cheese.
The U.S. is the world’s leader in cheese production, at more than 5,700,000 tons per year. You could pave a very long, very wide, yellow-bricked road to Oz with all that Provolone. I’d call us the “big cheese” of the world’s producers, wouldn’t you? Speaking of the U.S., Vermont has what may be the country’s only “cheese trail”. 40 dairy farms and cheese factories are networked on a back-country circuit of highways that covers most of the state. Many farms operate on an honor system, with free samples and help-yourself purchases. I need to go to Vermont. Tomorrow.
If I’m looking for an excuse to continue my copious consumption, they say cheddar, Mozzarella, and some varieties of Swiss and American help prevent tooth decay. But they also say without your gall bladder you’ll have a hard time digesting fats (like cheese). So I need to take care of that little guy. And there’s my reason to work out.
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quintessential
This time of year – Halloween in particular – sparks memories of a more innocent time. In the trick-or-treat years of my day, costumes were homemade from whatever scraps of clothing, cardboard, or construction paper could be found lying around the house. Pumpkins became Jack O’ Lanterns using a dark pencil and a sharp kitchen blade – no “carving kits” to speak of – easy faces and single candles, lit and placed on the front porch to greet the neighborhood each night. Halloween treats were simple and seasonal (Wax Lips! Candy Cigarettes!) collected and piled high in bright orange plastic pumpkins. “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!” was thirty minutes of can’t-miss television.
If I’m to put one Halloween memory at the top of my list however, no recollection touches my soul quite like my mom’s “pumpkin cookies”. These colorful characters go straight to my heart every year I bake up another batch. Behind those happy/sad/laughing/angry faces are my quintessential childhood memories.
Look closely at the photo. Mom’s pumpkin cookies are a fairly simple treat – no family secret here. Find a good rolled ginger cookie recipe (the kind that banks on molasses, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves); roll and shape the cookies like pumpkins; bake to the consistency of gingerbread; frost to a bright orange; and devise the faces with candy corn, M&M’s, and fruit smiles. Be sure to let them dry before you protect them with a little plastic wrap. A recipe that claims a yield of sixty will get you about two dozen if you make them the right size. These cookies are B-I-G.
Mom’s pumpkin cookies tug at my heartstrings for two reasons. First, mom let my brothers and I do the decorating from a very young age. We would sit at the dining table – our makeshift bakery – with bowls of candy and row upon row of cookies just waiting for their faces. Not all of the candy made it onto the cookies. This was a child’s dream.
Second and more significantly, we handed out Mom’s pumpkin cookies from a big bowl at the front door on Halloween night. That’s right; instead of Smarties or Abba-Zaba’s or Sugar Babies, we sent dozens of homemade, orange-frosted, funny-faced cookies out into the neighborhood. Does it get any more innocent than that?
In the early 1970’s, after a rash of highly-publicized incidents involving tampered Halloween candy, a lot of the fun went out of the holiday. Trick-or-treat candy quickly became the mass-produced, store-bought, plastic-wrapped variety you can buy anytime, anywhere. Parents took to driving their kids from door to door instead of letting them navigate the streets alone. “Safe” trick-or-treating was born in churches and shopping malls.
And Mom’s pumpkin cookies started landing in the trash can at the end of our driveway.
Perhaps that explains why forty years later I still bake up a batch. Perhaps it’s my annual salute to the innocence of Halloween. Or better, perhaps it’s my mom as I remember her all those years ago, urging me to open the bakery yet again. Cookies are waiting for their faces.
M&M’s are easy to find, while candy corn requires a bit of a search. But fruit smiles are becoming the real challenge. Cracker Barrel stopped selling them a few years ago, no doubt for lack of sales. But a local candy manufacturer still makes them, so every October I visit their shop and buy my lot. This year, the older woman behind the counter asked me what I was going to do with four dozen fruit smiles. So I dipped into my quintessential memories and told her about Mom’s pumpkin cookies. And just for a moment she paused and closed her eyes, perhaps once again a little girl dressed in costume, running and laughing through darkened streets in search of that next Halloween treat.
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waning
I remember well when I was a kid, those sleight-of-hand magic tricks that were always accompanied by the words “now you see it, now you don’t”. Even up close my eyes would deceive me as the silver dollar was in the hand, and then suddenly it wasn’t.
Now that I’m a few years past the half-century mark I have a better application for “now you see it, now you don’t”. Eyesight. Sure, a lot of things go south as you get older, but with the eyes you just don’t see it coming. Before you know it you’re a regular squinter. No more 20/20 for you. Your vision is waning.
In all fairness I never had perfect vision to begin with. I was born with a lazy eye and wore glasses from an early age. I sported a pirate patch for a couple of years to force the lazy eye to work harder – didn’t get me any girlfriends. When I switched to soft contacts in high school it was like I’d buried the secret of my imperfect vision forever.
Fast-forward another thirty years. During a routine visit to the eye doctor the question was posed, “do you wear reading glasses?” I remember kind of puffing up my chest as I said, “no, I do not wear reading glasses”. At that, the doc glided back in his chair, grinned at me and said, “well, you will soon”. And I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right. Within a year I was shopping for readers at my local drug store.
Keeping things in focus has evolved to a constant adventure. When I first bought reading glasses I kept them in that place where you think they’ll be whenever you need them. Wrong. Very quickly I discovered it made more sense to buy a half-dozen readers and just leave them all over the place. I put a pair in the car, one by the bed, another in the bathroom, a fourth in the home office, and a fifth in the family room. That fifth pair even travels to the kitchen and laundry room every now and then.
Speaking of the laundry room, reading glasses have become an essential for clothing labels. I can find the label all right but I better have my readers and some bright light if I expect to read the label. Trust me; f you’re not in focus your brain can convince you that “let hang dry” actually reads “tumble dry low”, and the next thing you know your wife’s sweater goes to charity as a gift for a small child.
In my home office I’ve graduated to two pairs of reading glasses, because my waning eyesight decided I needed the 1.0 prescription for the computer monitor and the 2.0 for the printed word. So that’s me in the office, flip-flopping readers every time I glance from the computer to the page. Please find me some bi-focal reading glasses.
Here’s a genius idea for modern times: flat, bendable readers for your smartphone. They live in a little pocket that sticks to the back of your phone, just waiting to come out to help you see all those tiny pixels. They don’t have the side supports that go back to the ears, but just pinch/perch on your nose. I snapped up a pair at Target the moment I found them. Sure they look funny but so does squinting to read text messages.
I just moved into a pair of bifocals. Doc said dry, aging eyes will eventually reject my contact lenses, so I’m trying the two-for-one approach. Above the line gets you driving eyes; below the line gets you reading eyes. For your sake I hope I never put them on upside down.
About Me
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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