Apple – In One Fell Swoop…
The New York Times, quoted by Apple’s site, reports that Amtrack spokesman, Matt Hardison, said that the carrier has adopted Apple’s iOS devices to make improvements for Amtrak and customers in, “one fell swoop”. (Amtrack Story )
That’s what I LOVE about cliches. The ubiquitous meaning of the thing fades and all that is left is a sweet sounding shibboleth. Those of us who remain the faithful adherents of language filled with meaning are assaulted by the remarkable capacity of others in our species to use a phrase only because it “sounds right” but have no sense of whether it is really appropriate.
I suppose we could get our dandruff up over this or let our craft flounder but in the end it’s all really quite funny. Take the quote and replace the cliche with a substitute bearing the meaning of the abused phrase:
Imagine this, “Amtrak’s Matt Hardison says, ‘We’ve made a number of important improvements all in one cruel, predatory, devastating attack upon our customers and Amtrak that they never saw coming.'”
Shakespeare put the phrase, “one fell swoop” into the mouth of a grieving Scot. If we replace his tight script with our own, the burden of too many worlds might lead to an early end for McDuff. A McDuff whose remorse upon learning that his family and household have been ruthlessly slaughtered is so powerfully portrayed by the image of a predatory bird diving with breath taking descent, on his hapless prey. Ah, McBeth a ruthless predator, has descended upon the house of McDuff!
So, fair Apple, from thy tall tree hast thou descended upon commuters to work mayhem and destruction? Only on their wallets would Apple prey!
For those who missed my humor I can scarcely resist owning it. My dandruff may be “up” but the word is dander. Dander, I say, as in a frothy fermented roiling mass. In an argument some ill tempered people become so worked up the spit flies as if they were foaming; His dander is up.
As to water craft, they founder, not flop about like Sole (flounder). So far as I know all founder remain seaworthy even after they flop about. In the latter case a ship may strike a reef and be dashed in such a way that the vessel breaks apart; It founders.
Pagerism
In high school I wrote a poem. “Sticking feet out the window; tickled by the rain. ”
Teacher said it wasn’t mine because it was good.
Borrowed from Laurel Connections
That would have been a good time to learn to cuss. I didn’t and that’s too bad ’cause the poem was good and it was mine.
Wish I still had that poem. Guess I need to resume digging around in the attic (metaphorically) and find some more, maybe better?
We’ll see. Stick with me ’cause I am going somewhere. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow. But there’s piles of stuff and you might want to read more of it.
But not tonight. It’s late, I am tired, and I have been reading which is a good thing for a writer to do, don’t you think?
Chicken… really?
OK, now for something a little different. Well, ok, a lot different. My favorite niece has asked me, “Should I keep chickens?” Actually, she said that the new home she is buying in an upscale community has a coop with tenants. She wants to know if keeping them is “over her head?” You bet! But there’s more to it than that. I already have a vision of the scene and I cherish the opportunity for her to bring that dream to reality. Here’s what I have told her so far.
According to her there are a dozen chickens so in many ways, 12 are no worse than having two or three in terms of effort. It’s more a question of the ‘net effect’. For example she can expect to average around 6 eggs per day if they are laying well. In fact, I think chicken breeds lay one egg about every 27 hours. (I am sure my daughter Maribeth will correct me). Of greater significance than eggs is ‘poop’. Oh boy! Years ago I kept two dozen Rhode Island Reds. They were great layers (and poopers).
I had converted an old tin utility shed into their coop and kept a bed of sawdust on the floor to reduce the effort to collect poop, er, droppings. The shed was WAY back on the edge of the property (nearly 100 yards from the house). Soon I found that the, ahem, droppings were heavy; Shoveling them out was a bigger chore than I expected. (By the way, is cleaning out a coop like cleaning out a stall? If so, was I mucking the coop? That sounds far more disgusting! Anyway, I digress from my primary digression… ) It was too much work to haul the manure from the coop to the garden. Besides, in my ignorance, I thought it was too ‘fresh’ and would burn my precious plants. I needed a simple solution and I found one.
I just piled up the waste near the path that led from the house to the coop. Quite a pile, or piles, they turned out to be. The blended wood shavings (sawdust) and fresh manure seemed made for each other and from a distance it looked like I had a lovely stone wall lining the path down to the coop. My late wife, Beth, did not find the “stone wall” charming from any distance but I, as usual, had a vision that was not firmly rooted in reality. I forged ahead with my birds; I was a keeper of poultry, a rooster rancher, a hen hustler, a . . . well you get the point. I was proud of my pioneering spirit and self sufficiency.
One day some old friends not seen in years came to visit. Jim and his wife, Tina Cunningham, were from a neighboring state and they adored my late wife while graciously tolerating me. The afternoon was filled with conversation devoted to catching up and narrowing the gap of years that separated us. Meanwhile I, absorbed in my new found self sufficiency, was eager to ‘move on’ and invite them on a tour of my chicken chalet. I waited as long as I thought I could stand it and finally prevailed on them to follow me across the lawn, to a muddy path lined by my ‘charming’ stones to the the coop.
Jim had on a pair of Allen-Edmonds loafers. Those fine shoes with their leather soles didn’t belong on the muddy path. So I pointed to the margin where the grass, a bit long, offered the assurance of a drier trek. Instead, Jim, spry for a man in his seventh decade, leapt instead to the nearest stone… and thrust his right foot clear through.
Poor Jim, clearly unsettled by the nature of my rocks, felt his understanding of the material universe unraveling. Maybe, he reasoned in a nano second, his right foot was already passing through the earth’s mantle and descending toward the core. Indeed, his dexterity on one foot was beautiful as he elegantly leapt again… to another stone with his left foot.
Seemingly, he had acquired a ghost like capacity to pass through solid granite; He leapt again, and again. Each foot preceded the next, one stone at a time, until he transited the entire length of the adjacent path. Gasping for breath while grasping for an explanation he struggled to speak; How, what, who… why, Jim sputtered without resolution, without explanation… ever.
I never heard from Jim again after that day. I remember little of the aftermath other than it was filled with finding spare socks, clearing ‘granite manure’ from his sad shoes. I have vague memories of the fierce looks from Beth in response to my belated apologies and clumsy attempts to suggest she find some humor in the moment.
Since then I have often wondered how Jim, or anyone, from the coastal plain of Georgia or the sandy flatland of Florida could imagine a path lined by a New England stone fence could find its way to the marshy verge of my yard? One thing I have never forgotten is this: if you keep chickens you better plan for the prodigious production of poultry poop.
Yes indeed, dear niece, chickens need food, water, extra light in winter, and occasionally need to be treated for minor things. But of all the things you consider consider this: You may enjoy eggs benedict for breakfast. Perhaps you will find an Emeril Lagasse recipe for a quiche, but for poop, well for that you need a plan all your own.
Melville, Moby, and me…
Remember the books we were supposed to read when we were in middle school or high school? Books that, if they were food, seemed as palatable as sawdust? I can think of many of these unread-never-to-be-read books. Recently my grandson started complaining about a book, “I don’t understand it. I don’t know the words.” These observations should be translated: “It is boring. I don’t like it.” In response to dictums and ultimatums, vainly intended to compel him to read, he resorted well honed avoidance mechanisms. “Oh, Poppa, I can’t read it now… I need to do long division first.” or “I really need to get to bed early, Poppa, it’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.” One of these was very inventive, “The book is so very good that I like to read small parts. That way I can enjoy it longer.” Yeah, right, lots and lots longer.
So, I reasoned, how can I insist he read his book when there are books that I find opaque? And I thought, of all the books I, as a self proclaimed book worm, would never choose to read. What book would become my second choice if it were set as an alternative to water boarding? Yep, you guessed, “Moby Dick”. For all of my teen age and adult life “Moby Dick or The Great White Whale” has been near the top of this list. Unfazed by related movie scripts or fame of the book it seemed more broodingly malevolent than the eye of any Great White Whale. It was to that book I resorted. “Son, I am going to read a very long and very boring book. I am doing this because I know that misery loves company. You and your book certainly seem in need of companionship so here I come.” And indeed, he resumed reading.
We found ourselves sitting together during a wintery afternoon while on vacation. If he sensed that my eyes were wandering from the book to my email he would challenge me, “Poppa, are you reading?” Oh the tedious chore of Melville’s opening paragraphs! They seemed to confirm the fear on which my loathing was built. But I persisted; the boy’s eyes were ever upon me. Then, a strange thing happened. the book, that is the characters, became interesting. Ishmael, Queequeg, Starbuck, and Ahab seemed alive with interest. Alas as their interest grew, my dislike of the book faded. I grew to fear that my plan was failing. My revulsion became a transparent ruse. Now, though he continues to watch me, he reads less. I suppose he thinks, “After all, Poppa likes his book (now).” Like an mouse upset by a plough, the quality of Melville’s writing has proved to be unexpected though not entirely unwelcome. Is there a lesson here?
Oh, perhaps I could say something like, “See son, if you stick with a book you will soon come to like it.” or, “Well now, even a boring book has its moments.” Alas, the real lesson is not for him but for me. Never try to outsmart a child at a child’s game. That would be like trying to harpoon Moby Dick and some of us know how that turned out.
On a whim... 