Emma's 9th Birthday

We had a great time at Emma's party, yesterday. Did the presents, did the cake, had fun out of the sun in the Family Room. Emma got lots of good stuff, including her bi-annual replacement Elmo and Zoe puppets.

Once again, the cameras were rolling. Commence with the Amateur Auteur Hour:

Emma's 9th Birthday Video from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

 

 

 

 

Happy Birthday, Girl!

My Great Aunt Willo May

The service for Willo May was yesterday. I waited until today to write about her because I needed to. I wanted to reverberate the thoughts of her family, friends, and co-workers with my own, in an effort to be not quite so selfish in my thinking about her. For you see, it's one of the words that describes Willo May. Unselfish.

Willo May was, as her son said, part of "The Greatest Generation." She was a professor of music - piano, organ, theory - for some 39 years. She taught piano to thousands of people, including me. She began playing piano, then organ, in church services at the age of 12, nearly every Sunday, until 17 days before her death - a span of 79 years. She was one of those individuals who befriended nearly everyone, cooked for nearly everyone, taught us all much more than just music, and prayed and cared for everyone. She has played piano and organ for multiple generations of families' weddings (yes, mine and my parents') and funerals - she's accompanied thousands of rehearsals, recitals, choirs. . . A life of service.

She has always been a part of my consciousness, my wider family circle. As a young boy, we would travel to Aunt Willo May's for Thanksgiving and New Year's Day - they lived in Pasadena, and, back then, on New Year's Day, the floats from the Rose Parade would be parked about three blocks from their home, where we could see them up close. I know that it was more about the food and the fellowship, though, than flowers. In my memory, I have been remembering the sights and smells of that house, these past weeks. Her husband, Dan, was a football fan of epic proportions, particularly college football. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself following players just to try and impress Uncle Dan, or at least keep up, when we were there. Thanksgiving usually included at least one guest from the college, or a serviceman from church - their hospitality nearly always extended outward to someone not home for the holidays. To put it bluntly, they set standards for us all, not by display, but by practice, of how to serve and love each other.

Then there were the piano lessons. Learning to play the piano, unfortunately, became the skirmish line in the battle between my Mother and I for control. I hated it. I was learning to play the cello, then the bass, rock and roll was in full swing, all I saw were guitars and basses - and I really didn't want to be a church pianist at all. It is a testament to both of them that they persevered with me as long as they did, and I did learn many valuable things about theory and life and love from Willo May. You see, we lived in Long Beach, about 30 -40 miles apart. Mom used to drive me, every other weekend, for at least two years, to Willo May's for piano lessons. I have a musical gift that is in fact a two-headed monster - I have a real 'ear' for music. It makes it easy for casual music, to learn by listening. It doesn't work so well for the orchestra or, let's say, playing the piano, where you're really supposed to play the notes exactly as written. Most piano teachers, when giving me new music, would play the piece for me as an example. I would then go home and, when not stubbornly not practicing, I would learn to play the song from memory, not disciplining myself to translate the notation. Willo May figured this out, and started handing me music to learn sans demonstration. It was tough love. What small skills I now possess in the realm of reading music are attributable to her - as much for the realization that there was more to be gained by this than by not learning it, that discipline brought long-term rewards over short term satisfaction. She set a new standard for me. I didn't meet it, and I don't think it was too long after that that Mom surrendered to the battle of wills. Over the years, I had a few opportunities to play alongside her, as a bass player, and she was always very complimentary. She didn't know it, but I cherished those times, as I did her approval. I know that she wasn't pleased that I hadn't pursued the piano, but she never spoke a word to me to that effect. Willo May was a self-determined accompanist, and I understood this, and have shared and tried to emulate that aspect in my own playing.

I'd always felt that Willo May 'got' me, that she knew me pretty well, and loved me in spite of all that. I came to the realization, many years ago, however, that that was the way just about everyone else felt about her. The loss of that feeling of exclusivity, eventually, made me just love her more. Whether this trait was a gift, or the result of great effort, I do not know, but she applied it generously.

She died from what turned out to be a rapidly growing brain tumor. The diagnosis was that she'd have 3-4 months to live. I lazily assumed that she'd be around, this next weekend, for Emma's birthday party. I didn't speak with her. Fortunately, a large number of those that she'd 'gotten' did. She teaches, again, by example. Don't hesitate to tell those you love that you love them.

Yesterday was beautiful. I cried, not from sorrow, but from gratitude. Many people never know someone like Willo May. Others are influenced. I was privileged to gain part of her heritage; to claim her as my own, if only in small part. The outpouring of music, most of it selected by her, was testament to both her talent and heart for her savior. Her legacy is substantial, albeit mostly played out in churches around the world on Sunday mornings, not in great concert halls.
A life lived with excellence, through service to others. It is the life that Christ calls us all to.
Well Done, Aunt Willo May. Thank you. Thank you.

Tube System Tales - Epilogue

Sunday night, one of the four APU's (blower) motor bearings went to pieces. The decision was made to tear the motor down to see how much damage had been done. My 'mentor' joined me, and helped me disconnect it and unbolt it from the floor.

The APU lineup.
The black boxes are air shifters. Air goes into the motor on the left tube, out of the motor on the right, the air shifter's like a paddle that moves in a circular housing to direct the flow.

Here's the APU off the floor.
Notice the screens at the bottom. The inlet side is about 70% PLUGGED. The outlet side, about 40% PLUGGED.

My 'mentor" - the guy that I'd inherited the system from, was flabbergasted. He had no idea that these screens were there, let alone that they needed to be cleaned. The preventive maintenance work order procedure (quarterly) says to clean the blower motor screens, but he thought that meant another set of screens that are on the air shifters. Upon further discussion, and questioning, there were other employees that knew of this need, and had in fact performed this maintenance - it was a situation where the proper information had not been passed along from knowledgeable people to those that needed to know. These screens had not been inspected or cleaned for at least THREE YEARS.

I left the motor tear down to the real mechanics, and returned to the tube room. One at a time, I cleared and cleaned blocked screens. Four hours later, I had a rockin' tube system. To express it numerically, tube stations where my meter had shown vacuum of 5 inches of water now showed 15. The BOC guy got a complaint call from one floor secretary that her tube station was making too much noise - no, baby, that's the sucking sound of success!

That nagging feeling that something wasn't the way it was supposed to be was gone. The need to primp and preen each opening and orifice to keep minimum functionality was gone. The pressure, now on full blast, was off me. I was observed, smiling, at work - a phenomenon rarely seen since the turn of the century. Like the motors, I was relieved. It is now 10 degrees cooler in the tube room than it usually is. Transactions - tracked by the computer - are taking 2/3 of the time they used to take to get there. Faster. Better. More reliable. Me happy.
I can deal with this.

Emma Eats Cake Video

It's only a week away!

Emma Eats Cake Birthdays 3-8 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Sucker, Part IV, or Existing in a Vacuum

In frustration, I turned to the healthier parts of the system. I learned that:

• There are several different ways to construct a diverter - it seemed that each one was put together in a manner different from the last 3 I had looked at. I am going to assume that it's because diverters are set up differently - horizontal tubes, vertical tubes, etc - and not that we were just the victim of using whatever happened to be on the truck, that day. It didn't really matter now, except that each solution would be different.
• In my well-working zones, there wasn't a whole lot of difference in pressure/suction between the stations closest to the APU's (Air Power Units - blowers) and those at the farthest end. This meant that it was possible to realistically expect this - not to assume that the end stations were just going to be weak.
• The two zones I had problems with, those stations had the largest number of diverters between them and the APU's. More opportunities for leakage. Sure, it makes sense now, but I was learning this on my own.
• Suction was the first indicator of a problem, because of inertia. When pressure is applied to the tube, it's only about 20 feet from the APU. Gets the kick in the pants and off it goes. If the pressure's weakening as it gets to the outer limits of the system, gravity and inertia tend to carry it along. With suction, it's the opposite. The closest analogy I've thought of is holding a rubber band between your two hands. The farther you pull your hands apart, the more force it takes. That, of course is kinetic energy pulling your hands back together, but the point is that that energy has to be transmitted the entire length of the tube to have an effect on that carrier sitting out in the open atmosphere in an arm to be pulled into the tube in the first place. The reverse effect. Did I mention that I have a degree in psychology? Thank you.

Fascinated? I know I am. Let's continue.

One example, then we'll move on. Here's one end of one diverter. The white plastic ring is what would slide on the metal wall of the box from one path to the other. The other end would be connected to a section of metal tube with a rubber sleeve, flexible enough to accommodate the movement. At the other end, another sleeve to the one opening at the other end. Now, let's take a closer look, shall we?

I would draw your attention to the brown thing between the white ring and the metal. That's a rubber ring, yes it is. It's actually tubing that's wedged in there, with the ends glued together to make a ring. Now, this is one of the things that I really didn't see until someone pointed it out to me - remember that these boxes are wedged up in the ceiling between conduits, steam lines, gas lines of various persuasions, etc. - and this is only one configuration. Some of these details, one can only find by feel or shutting it down and dismantling them. It was time, though.

There was no huge leak. They were all over. It became a matter of methodically working through the diverters, and the suction increased gradually until we were peggin' the meter everywhere.

The lessons learned were these:

• The system was more complex (and better designed) than I originally thought it was.
• Because of this, my expectations of what it could do needed to change.
• Once my predecessor finally started to get more detailed, this included admitting to a certain lack of maintenance and, shall we say, follow-through on his and others' parts. Aye, there's the rub! Now the college boy was making him look bad. Guess what, the system was doing that, not me.

So, I'm smarter, it's better, and I've gained a certain confidence in an area I never wanted to know better. I'm proud of the work ethic that's been instilled in me by those who chose to invest, as well as my own stubbornness and ability to work through really being pissed off. Sad to say, I'm surrounded by a working atmosphere where, when the work's not obvious, people take shortcuts and would rather put some tape on something that really needs to be replaced. Most of this system is hidden; I have literally pulled 3-4 layers of tape off certain places. It is also sad that our current working environment does not lend itself readily to mentoring, apprenticeship, the passing down of the values behind the processes, the true nature of quality that starts with the person holding the tools, doing the right thing, making those pieces shine that no one else would ever see. It was this realization that turned my anger into action, and then into pride of accomplishment. I learned what it would take to make this work like it should, and then did it. It's why I've gone on so long about it. Nobody else really cares, beyond it's working or not, but I know better. I'm not proud about a lot of things; you won't hear me talk like this, very often (at least I hope not). It has been something of a journey for me, this tube system.

Sucker, Part III

Pardon the blurry cellphone pics, please.

Ok, so I was angry. The guy before me was really too busy to help me, cleaning out a boiler. I was left to my own devices. I soon learned that there were no devices - you just kinda looked around for leaks, fixed what you found, and tried it again. I had a couple of problems with this, in that I didn't know what I was looking at, listening for, or feeling around at. After about a week, crawling around in ceilings - oh yes, it's all in the ceilings, obscured by ductwork, insulation, and conduits - I decided that I needed a device. Something to measure the movement of air, specifically suction. Following the layout of the zone, I still really couldn't tell where my vacuum was dropping off, at least not by sticking my hand into the open maw of each tube station to get a sense. I needed numbers.

Air pressure/vacuum is measured in "inches of water" - no, I really still don't know what that means, my degree is in psychology. At any rate, I found a Magnehelic gauge with a working range for what I wanted to do, and set to drilling, running a tube through a carrier to said gauge. My co-workers gazed at me with disdain, the college boy's wasting more time. I fitted it with a rubber collar, I didn't want this thing taking off and embarrassing me further.

   

I soon learned that a properly working station would peg the scale, providing at least 5 inches of water. The non-working stations were only 'pulling' 3 or more. Receiving, at the end of the line, barely made 2.

I enlisted the aid of my co-workers. Some gave me good advice, some told me long, anecdotal stories with no real point, and still others sent me on complete wild-goose chases. One of the things that ultimately turned me from psychology as a career, as a young man, was that it's practical application depended upon one's philosophy/philosophies, there were no concrete answers. I was beginning to feel that way about this tentacled beast that seemed to defy common sense. Everyone had their theories, but none were proven. I was wrong, of course, it was just a matter of getting the right information, this is physics, not the inner workings of the human mind.

I was on my way. There was at least one big leak, and I was going to find it. Now, if it had been water, the problem would be evident. How to find it? Couldn't use smoke. . . although it was tempting. Thought of using some sort of odor, but I let that pass, too. I knew from my exploration that there were no gaping holes, no cracked open section due to some contractor's mucking about on some other mission. It had to be the diverters. Specifically, it had to be either diverter C12, C07, C11 or C06. I'd been told (and shown!) by one co-worker that they were all fine. Little did I know that he knew as little as I did.

Next time: Diversions and Elbog's rubber-band theory of space and time.

Hey, Ain't This Great!

Headline:
Woman has breast cancer-free baby!

Hope they can soon screen for the "won't grow up to hate her parents and join the Druids" gene or "economic success - will definitely end up on the dole" gene.
I'm just saying. We're on the precipice. How good is your vision?

Sucker, Part II

So, to review:

The Five Stages of Grief are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Looking at them now, I'm chagrined to admit that it's not an appropriate descriptor in this case. Denial was momentary, went straight to Anger. Not much in the way of bargaining to be done, no one to trade with. Anger (direct, not the residual) lasted a good couple of weeks. Fortunately, when one has been even angrier, for longer, one learns to channel this energy. We'll come back to this. Depression was good for another 3-4 weeks. Acceptance came with some success. This concludes our overview.

When we last left our hero, Food Service had virtually no suction. Central Service, provider of all things sterile and clinical, was not much better. Receiving had given up on using their tube station, some months ago. The EAU and 8th floors were complaining of intermittent service and lost tubes. The two major zones weren't sinking, but they were listing hard to port, as it were.

Now, the technical description. This system is a one-tube system - the same tube is used for sending and receiving. There are 42 stations, segmented into 4 zones - 4 main routes that branch off to each station by means of diverters - think railway switch. They converge in the basement at the "Dazzler" - a conflagration of bent, rotating tubes that makes the exchange from station C12(Lab) to B11(11th fl.) possible.
Nurse Nancy puts her lab sample into bubble wrap, then puts it in the tube. She puts the tube into an arm-like holder, and enters the destination's address on a keypad. The station accepts this (usually), and moves the arm over to the gate - the closed-off opening. In the BOC (Pit of Despair, see earlier posts), A PC takes the request and lines up that zone to the station. One of the 4 large blowers in the basement fires up, vacuum is created, and the tube is pulled into the basement, into the "Dazzler". The PC then directs the "Dazzler" to line up a path to the destination station. The blower shifts from suction to pressure, and the sample winds it's way to the lab. That's it. Usually takes less than 2 minutes. There are communication links, optical sensors that track the trajectory, and log the results. We hardly ever lose a tube - it has to go somewhere, and it does. When it goes, of course. These weren't leaving the station.

As you may have experienced, pneumatic tube systems can move small items very quickly and efficiently. This beneficial service is multiplied in an institution such as ours. It is one of those things that is easily taken for granted, which, like fresh tomato on a "California Burger", can lead to outright rage when it's taken away. Food Service had had to find a different way to get patient menu selections from the floors, and the affected floors were really missing the quick and efficient transfer of minutia, like medicines from the pharmacy. My boss had set me firmly in the midst of a large steaming pasture, whether he knew it or not.

Next: Anger is an ener-gee, or Troubleshooting Things You Don't Understand.

There's a Sucker Born Every Minute, Part I

Alright, I mentioned it, and some of you have been needling me about it, so here's my essay on the tube system. Pneumatic. Ecstatic. Acrobatic, tube system.

In the world according to Dilbert, I have done my best to transform myself from Dilbert into Wally. Wally - the little bald-headed guy whose raison-de-etre' is to do as little as possible, while maintaining the illusion of work. For me, this has been by focusing my efforts on those systems that are least likely to result in a telephone call in the middle of the night from our latest hire, naturally working the graveyard shift with no experience and a million square feet to take care of. The actual fact is that I am so good at maintaining the things that I'm responsible for (as my friend says, "It ain't rocket surgery"), that I end up looking for things to do. So, into my semi-secure world drops the tube system, as I guess someone noticed that I'd actually been happy at work for 3-4 weeks or so.

I was very angry at the manner in which it came to me. My current supervisor/Manager/Team Leader/I-really-don't-care-what-his-title-is, is a nice-enough guy who was working his way up the ranks while I had crested and fallen. He's actually asked me for some occasional advice, and I've seen him make some real progress, management-wise. His job (which is actually the job I had, reconstituted into something I'd never want to do, again) keeps him up at night at least 2-3 times a week, and his hair is going greyer even faster than mine did. Every morning, we carry on a fine naval tradition called the POD, or Plan of the Day. Sharing info, doling out assignments, finding out where the floods were the night before (It's a 540 bed hospital that's 43 years old, you do the plumbing math). This particular morning, the meeting breaks up, he motions me over, and tells me - in the presence of my co-worker that's being relieved of this burden - that it's now my responsibility. No warm-up, no warning, no smoke signals of any kind. I then get about 90 minutes of "this is where everything is"- "here's the main parts of the tube station" - and I'm left alone, seething with a handful of work orders and a third of the system not working.

Flash back to 1990. I am a "Management Specialist", working for the Director of Engineering. We've just replaced our 25 year-old pneumatic tube system, and the new system's performance is not quite what the brochures and sales pitches told us that it would be, primarily in the form of the amount of daily attention it requires from our service techs. The boss calls about 5 of us into his office, where he places a conference call to the president of the company. He informs him that we're not satisfied at all, and we're going to inform all of the trade publications and medical device newsletters of how incompetent this system is. He wants the president and anyone else he wants to bring to be in our offices tomorrow, for a meeting about how they're going to fix it - or else. It is the age of Total Quality Management. I actually "Facilitated" that meeting - my first one, handed to me, incidentally, three minutes before it started, without warning or preparation (yes, history repeating itself). We came up with an action plan, and basically made them sweat until the warranty was up, or they went out of business - I don't remember which happened first.

Yes, this all went through my mind before that day was over. You bet your sweet bippy, I was mad.

Next: The Five Stages.

One for the money, 2fer the show.

As residents of Southern California, we have the unique opportunity to participate in Disney's "2Fer" offer - During the first few months of the year, one can visit Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure for the price of one admission. The only real rules are that you can't visit one park twice, and you have to visit the second one within 30 days of your first visit. Yesterday was the 29th day after our recent day at the Magic Kingdom, so DCA (that's what you call it when you live in "the OC" - the surrounding Orange County) was in order.

Hot. Hot and muggy. Stinkin' hot and muggy - probably an average day on the Eastern Seaboard, but oh so icky for those of us used to a desert climate. Arriving late, our first omen was our parking placement without tram service - meaning that we had the pleasure of traversing "Downtown Disney" on foot before we'd even started.

The purpose of the 2Fer is to pump up attendance in the off season. Our procrastination, this year, means that we hit the resort (when I was a kid, it was Disneyland, now it's The Disney Resort. Big whoop) in full Summer swing. Stinkin' hot, muggy, and crowded. Sweating bullets at the front gate, already. Quick, head for the Muppetts' 3-D theater. When I was a kid in Arizona, there were signs on restaurant windows that boasted "refrigeration", regarding their air conditioning. This theater was refrigerated, baby. Emma had great fun with the 3-D effect. Rides. Lines. Lunch. Pushing the stroller back and forth. Melting. Everybody kinda caved in at about 6 o'clock - even though there were 3 more hours of magic awaiting us. Our hip OC friends with annual passes who met us barely had time to see the parade, and we were leaving. I think that they were hot enough, themselves, by then.

We're spoiled, like meat left in the hot sun. When I was a kid, and there was no internet, no 183 channels on the TV, only a record player and some books in the house. Disneyland took planning, stamina, and an intense feeling that, if one didn't work at it, certain fun would be missed. It's not that way, today. Spoilage aside, it does seem to be a bit more relaxing.
So, for your comparative note-taking, here's footage from DCA's carousel, along with some scenic interpretations from Samuel L. Goble, BSC (class of 2015).

Disney California Adventure, June 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Graduation Day, 2008

So, today was Graduation Day. OK, from the Fifth Grade. Here, it's the transition from elementary to middle school. For some of them, it's leaving the school they started at. For Sam, it's only been a year, but it's been a really good year. Marvin Elementary is a great school - the folks there do a great job. Sam's teacher, Mr. Myrick,helped turn a bad situation into a great positive. Of all the things to build upon, they share a fondness for Monty Python's Flying Circus - naturally, I think Mr. Myrick is brilliant.

 

 

Sam graduates from 5th Grade from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

There was a little Pomp, under the circumstances, but all in all it was a warm (no, not just the humidity), brief, and heartfelt ceremony.

 

 

 

I caught Sam smiling, again!

 

 

 

It was the last day of school for Emma, too, unfortunately all I got was one blurry picture, melting popsicle and all.

 

 

It was a great family day. We had some Mexican food, came home, and promptly crashed. Tomorrow is the last day for our Disneyland/California Adventure 2fer ticket thing, so we're off to the place right next to the "happiest place on earth."

Summer's Here!

Shorn, Fleeced, Bamboozled.

One of my best online friends, Kelly, has posted The sheep that we are. I recommend that you read it, as she has so clearly and coherently put her mind and heart to this work.
Our children are the 'canaries in the coal mine' of Eugenics. The prevention of their lives should serve as a warning to us all.
Thank you, Kelly.

Call me Clementine/D-Land 2008

Why? 'Cause as of Saturday, I'm a 49'er, that's why.

"Next year's the big one", Dad said on the phone, that morning. "If you say so," says I. Fully aware that it's not halfway - I'm confident that I aint makin' it to a hundred; I figure I'll be lucky if that point passed 9 years ago.

I haven't written much, although there's been stuff to say. I seem to be living in that realm where the news is either too big for the blog, it's info that I don't want others to read for legal reasons (believe it or not - relax, no warrants yet), or it's whining. So I've let it be. Good things are happening. Not so good things have happened. In short, Life is going on, whether I want to play or not. It is the way of things, grasshopper.

We had a really good family day at Disneyland, last Monday. For some reason, I didn't feel that pressing need that has been a part of the 'Disney Magic' since my first childhood visit  - to see and do everything before the park closes. As always, it took us longer to get there, and seemingly forever to get through the gate. That hasn't changed. Now, I'm not saying that it's a bad thing - but it is worth noting -that my son doesn't seem to be as enraptured with the Magic Kingdom as we were when we were 11. Once I'd moved through the five stages - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - it made the day much easier to take. Learning from past experience, we got the pass that lets us use Emma's stroller (yes, she still barely fits into it, yay!) as a wheelchair, which mostly saves us from major meltdowns in long lines. This time, it seemed even more magical on a day when attendance was light, and we breezed through the major attractions with some real ease. If you realize that sometimes going anywhere with Emma can turn into a major scene, this was truly a blessing, and I'm grateful for it.

Emma had a great time. This was the first time that she could go on the big rides. She held on tight through the dark sections. This, of course, is the carousel.

Disneyland 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

It cooled off as the day wore on, seemingly boosting our available energy into the evening. Steve and Rita met us in the afternoon, and we left "the happiest place on Earth" to venture into Garden Grove for some great mexican food with them and their son Matthew and his girlfriend. Sprinted home, and made it into bed before the stroke of Midnight.

Maybe, soon, I'll write about my new responsibility at work, the pneumatic tube system. Talk about working in a vacuum.

I read the news today, oh, boy.

  I found out yesterday that Larry Norman died at the end of February. Like any fan, I'm saddened that the majority of you have no idea who he is. He claims the title, as much as anyone could, of being the first Christian Rocker. Our lives intersected at a crucial time in my life, and, taking the same road made all the difference for me. He was 60.

I remember hearing my first Larry Norman song. There was a new church that had grown pretty rapidly, called Calvary Chapel, in Costa Mesa, Ca. I was invited to go with some older teens to the Saturday night concert - it became a regular event for many of us for a couple of years. That night, I don't remember who it was - other than the singer was blind - sang "U.F.O." I remember -the sound of their voice simply singing it. It was the gospel, presented on my terms, with brash honesty and love. I didn't know that it was one of his songs at the time, but the impact of the words still carries me to a sense of wonder:
"He will come back, like he promised, with the price already paid. He will gather up his followers, and take them all away. . .
And if there's life on other planets, well I'm sure that He must know. 'Cause he's been there, once already, and has died to save their soul."
There was a lot more. Larry was political, and I didn't always agree with his politics. But he was telling it like he saw it, and pointing out others who were taking advantage of the times to lead people astray:
"The Beatles said,"All you need is Love" and then they broke up."
-"Readers Digest"
These lyrics are from a song released in 1972. Incredibly sad that they mean so much, today:
"you are far across the ocean
in a  war that's not your own
and while you're winning theirs
you're gonna lose the one at home
do you really think the only way
to bring about the peace
is to sacrifice your children
and kill all your enemies"
-"The Great American Novel"
Larry and his converted friend, Randy Stonehill, sang the songs that touched my heart and fueled my passions for a very long time. I even begged Randy for an audition, once, I wanted to be a part of that group so much.
His most famous song, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready", was a powerful evangelical tool for a while, eventually over-performed into irrelevance as the age of sending teenagers already afraid of nuclear destruction to bed with the fear that the faithful were going to disappear all around them before morning if they didn't get right with God faded. Those were some scary times to be a teenager. As a fan, I see the whole "Left Behind" stuff as his legacy, even though I know that there's more to it than that.

Although I saw him perform as many times as I could, I never met Larry. I sent him an email, a couple of years ago, thanking him for his impact upon my life, never got a reply. My understanding of things is that he had relationship problems with a number of people over the years, with bands, etc. Part of his persona was that he was against whatever grain there was. As a fan, I can accept that - I never had to live or work with him - it was part of his art. His poetry, performance, and faith inevitably influence the things that I do and say. God Bless you, Larry.

"I've been knocked down, kicked around,
But like a moth drawn to the flame,
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus just the same. . .
I've been rebuked, for the things I've said,
For the songs I've written and the life I've led.
They say they don't understand me, but I'm not surprised
Because you can't see nothin' when you close your eyes.
They say I'm sinful, backslidden,
That I have left to follow fame.
But here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, brother
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, sister
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, just the same."
-Shot Down

The Ramblings of a Sleep-Deprived Service Tech

Working in a hospital engineering department has always been a combination of monotony, maintenance, and surprise. I tell people, "If you can think of it, we probably have at least one of them." We supply air, water, gases, nuclear medicine, etc.
One of the capabilities that we have is the capacity to generate our own power. Part of our responsibility is to assure that that power is always available, and able to come on line within 10 seconds of city power loss. So, for example, someone checks our generators 3 times a day, to make sure that the switches are in their correct positions, that there's fuel avaiable, and that the batteries are charging. Once a month, each generator (we have 3) is tested under an actual load, and they are all run once a week. This means that, twice a month, a couple of us get to come in at 0430 to run them under a load on a scheduled basis, at the least disruptive time for all of the activities that happen in our happy little hotel. We sometimes have to postpone a test if there's a trauma or other unscheduled surgery going on - even though those areas are protected by Uninterruptable power supplies - we do not take the chance that someone might be plugged into the wrong outlet. I'd want to know that if I were on the table. Today was my turn - to do the test, not for an operation.
Getting up at 0330, even to go fishing (which I've never actually done), is like getting up in the middle of the night. Fortunately, wearing a uniform means that it's relatively easy to get dressed in the dark. Stumbling out to the car - I've worked there so long that I really don't have to think about where I'm going - my 16 year-old buggy knows the way. Traffic is light. Who knew?
The hospital is lit up, as it always is. With the exception of different faces, and less of them, it really doesn't matter what time it is in the hallways. The Generators are out back, sequestered in buildings that block a majority of the noise that they make. We check the fuel, check the oil, check the radiators, write down the vital statistics, including the hour meter readings. We are in a constant squeeze between regulators; the Air Pollution Control District only permits us to run these mammoth diesels for so many hours a year (excluding actual emergencies), and the Joint Commission for Hospital Accreditation sets the parameters for testing them, including how much load to place on them, for how long, and when. These agencies do not communicate with each other.
The Generators, themselves, are big, with big old radiators on the front, the actual generator on the other end, and massive exhaust systems crammed into the building to keep the noise down. Ear protection is required. Heaters keep the engine warm, to help them start more quickly. When running under load, they are actually turned on by Automatic Transfer Switches, which either sense the drop and switch automatically in an emergency, or via our building automation softwarem, on a PC when we test. So, you press a button with your mouse, the lights go out, and within 10 seconds the switches switch, the behemoth awakes, takes the load, and everything springs back to life. Thirty minutes later, the switch back is just a 'bump'.
There are lots of things that can go wrong, and they do, although rarely. Today, all was just peachy. We fired it up, made sure that we were delivering over 300KV (30% of the generator's 1000kV capacity), checked the temps, hertz, amps, and stood around for 45 minutes while it did its' thing. The crescent moon was lovely, through the clouds. We ran the other two 'no-load' for 10 minutes apiece, filled out all of the paperwork, and it was time for breakfast.
One of the things that I've always taken great pride in is that even these industrial actions that we take can be and are related to taking care of patients. The people that are the best at this kind of work are those who relate what they do to the greater good. I like watching "Dirty Jobs" on TV because Mike Rowe understands and promotes the concept. To be quite honest, my paycheck isn't enough to drag my tired butt out of bed to do something like this, knowing that it is important makes it happen.Yes, this is one of the reasons that your hospital stay costs so much. There's a lot to this facility that most people never see in redundant systems and things like fire safety. There's a lot wrong with healthcare in this country, but there's a lot right, too. I know that in my house, you're going to be safe, secure, and the lights will be on, if I have anything to do with it. We might even make you comfortable, every now and again. but that's another story.

"I smell the onions, I look around for you. . . "

It's been a fun few days, here at Casa Bardonia. The good news is that we've had good outcomes - the process has been a bit, well, odiferous, though. First part of the week, I started noticing a rotten, kinda moldy, pungent smell in the bathroom, when I was giving Emma her bath. Emma tends to well, splash around a lot, sometimes, and I often end up putting an old towel on the floor to sop up the water, and the towel doesn't always get hung up, and it'll lay there for a day or two. . . cause she'll just do it again, tomorrow. . . so I'm thinkin' that we've got a mildewing towel thing going on. Next day, it's a little worse. I bother to pick up the towel - nope, it's not the towel. What is it? Don't know.
Thursday, it's getting nasty. I pull up a corner of the vinyl flooring - thinking to myself, 'great, it's gonna be mold, I'm going to have to tear this floor out and . . . '
No mold.
Then, it dawns on me. I've smelled something like this, before. Yes. It's DEAD ANIMAL. I don't think that I've recorded my experience - I think it's been 5 or so years ago - of removing half of a dead skunk from under this house, and I'm not going to, now. I will tell you of its effect upon me yesterday.
Resigned to the reality that 1) it was too late to do anything at the moment and 2) it was going to be my main concern in the morning, I went to bed. The odor, which had previously only been perceptible in the one bathroom, was now beginning to pervade the eastern end of the house.
I awoke at 3:15, my personal 'witching' hour. When I'm bothered, when stuff happens in the middle of the night, I've noticed that it's usually right around 3:15. I could smell this thing, and my brain began to turn. The condition of this corpse. The physical proximity that I would need to assume to address said corpus, or should I say now, host. I began to consider the logistics, put forth new theories and designed potential tools to do the job, like rigging up a plastic bag on a pole with a cable threaded around the bag opening, that could be placed over the thing and then drawn tight like a drawstring, in order for the operator to stay further away from the business that surely would be at hand. The smell wouldn't let me be. Went to the office, opened the window. Gad. My course became clear, even as my stomach became increasingly muddled. It was time to call a professional. Whatever the cost - actually, I considered about $200 to be my price ceiling - somebody else was going to do this dirty work. To the internet! I selected three companies, got myself dressed - the smell taking over my senses the whole time, and left for work a little early.
Speedy Animal Control. They open at 7 - perfect. I'll get them going and we'll be done. Left a message on their machine at 7:25. They never called me back.
On to D&D Dead Animal Removal Service. No fancy website, 'no bones about it' - low tech, on the lowdown, actually my first choice but no posted hours. I stopped waiting for Speedy just before 10am. D&D (lots of opportunity to 'riff' on the possibilities of those initials) had an answering service, too, but then Mary called me back within minutes. They had a live one, as it were. I explained that there was a dead animal under my house, could they please remove it, TODAY?
"What kind of animal is it?"
"I don't know. I'm thinking it's a possum or a raccoon - I'm pretty sure it's not a skunk, because we've had a dead skunk under our house, before."
"Well, a dead skunk doesn't always smell like a skunk."
"Yes, ma'am."
After going back and forth, spelling street names, Mary relaying info to another person trying to find us in the Thomas Brothers' map book, she gets back to business:
"Is this space accessible"
"Yes."
"How much space is there?"
(I don't know, I can crawl down there, I can turn over, it's a CRAWL SPACE!)"I'd say a good 24 inches or so."
"Well, sir, we do charge for this service."
(Oh really? It'd be kinda creepy if you didn't)"Yes, Ma'am."
"We charge between $60 - $120, depending on how far we have to crawl, and what we find down there."
(SWEET!) "Sounds great"
"Sometimes, they're alive, you know."
"I'm pretty sure that that's not the case, here."
We wrapped up the conversation, and they came out a couple of hours later. Vicky brought Jesus into the house, to the bathroom, and he said "I know what that is." Identifying animals by the smell of their rotting bodies is a skill that, while I admire it, is not one that I'd like to cultivate. He did his thing, we paid them $80, and life was much better all over again. I received the text message from Vicky - "Possum gone." Yes, Jesus had delivered us from the pestilence that had afflicted us, yea verily, our entire household. Make your own jokes, if you must. I prefer to remain respectful, for a change.
There's still a little smell, this morning, I'm just a bit nauseated at the moment. Yes, I found another broken vent and closed it off. We're moving on, today, to brighter horizons, and domestic bliss.

World Down Syndrome Day

Today was World Down Syndrome Day. Of course, I didn't have to tell you, I'm sure you saw the blue and yellow banners waving from the lampposts in your town. It was in all the papers, and the heartwarming stories filled the post-sports-newscasts slots between chuckling anchors and videos of hailstorms as big as golf balls and water-skiing squirrel videos. People with Down Syndrome got free haircuts, donuts, and movie tickets, and they waved from convertibles as parades were held in their honor. 21-gun salutes, plus one "extra" shot, echoed at military installations. The telethon was a great success, raising 40 million dollars for research. Of course, we've already found a cure, but there appear to be a number of things that we can do to help those who've escaped it. The day was all about possibilities, inclusion, and achievement.
Yeah, Annie, I have my days, too.

Waiting in the Weeds

I've been sitting on that last post for three weeks. I find myself, from time to time, unable to post about the things I'm thinking about. Years ago, I often read about writing taking courage, and I really didn't understand what that meant, outside of, say, Karl Marx or George Orwell. I am realizing that, if I really want to delve into some subjects, I'm going to need to do what I'm told every writer should be doing anyway, and that's writing a journal. I don't have the ego to think that my thoughts need international publishing; you've all been invited to read at your leisure and discretion as I hopefully work on myself. I try to do this in a way that might have some value for you as my friend, family member, or parent on this zany caravan we call - heck, what do we call it? At any rate, thanks for checking back, I've been kinda blocked. I'm going to try and start journaling, which hopefully may clear the docket for some more focused material. And I'm going to floss every day and check the oil in the car at least once a week. I'll save my courage for the time being, even though that kinda makes me shudder. Anyone understand this?

The news says that it takes a big chunk more than we bring in to 'make ends meet' here in San Diego. The school district - a big part of our lives right now, for both of my kids - is cutting on the very programs and services that serve Sam and Emma, being at either end of the educational spectrum. We've all been sick with some kind of crud that has lasted for about 3 weeks now, leaving us with a messy house, unmown grass, fast food because we're too pooped to get to the store, let alone cook. . .
It's just been a season of malaise.
Spring is on the way, though. I'm listening to music, again. I'm working through some stuff. I'm trying to figure out what my next career is going to be. I've pretty much ruled out inspirational speaker, cause I'd be livin in a van down by the river. And nobody wants that.

Bonus Photo!
Here's a picture from my webcam that we sent to Vicky when she was in Yuma a few weeks back.

Fasten Your Seat Belts

I'm warning you, right off the bat, that I'm going somewhere that I'm not exactly comfortable with, and I'm pretty sure that some of you won't want to go. Feel free to stop this ride at any time - this is not required reading. The topic - same sex marriage. Curious? Let's proceed. Not curious? Feel free to check back, later.
I got a phone call, yesterday afternoon, from my neighbor Sid. Sid and Janice are lovely people; their children have grown and moved on, and I really do like having them for next-door neighbors. We've been through stuff together like building and paying for a common fence, reaching Janice on the phone when Sid had chest pains and got taken away in the ambulance, Sam was a somewhat unwitting accomplice when the neighbor kid set fire to one of Sid's trees - you know, the usual neighbor stuff.
Sid calls, wants to know if Vicky and I would join them in signing a petition for another ballot measure stating that marriage is between a man and a woman. I politely answered, "no." He politely said,"o.k., bye then," and that was that. Poor Sid. I do hope he talks to me again, someday.
We talk, all the time, in my communities of DS parents, about how our children change our lives. It's often hard to express just how. Time shifts, expectations change; after being stared at enough times you care less and less what people think about how you look, or what you're doing, because they have no clue what this is like, and most don't ever want to. Yup, I'm a minority, parent of a smaller minority.
So, there's stories about the occasional, "high functioning" Down Syndrome couples getting married. OK, there's no law against that. Should there be? They're different. How are they different? Why, it's a chromosomal anomaly. There's a behavioral gap between them and 'normal' married people.
I have grown to the opinion that homosexual people are born 'different'. I don't know if it's chromosomal, or not. I think that there's a whole range of genomic expression, just as there is with hair color, cruelty, and any other major characteristics of our human condition. I know some gay people that don't really exhibit any outward characteristics at all. There are many in key leadership positions where I work. There's a transsexual (at least one that I know about) in my building. We all manage to do what we need to do.
Now, I understand the societal implications of what I'm saying. I frankly think that there's been more damage done to our society by what is now the near requirement that both parents work to support an artificially high standard of living, financially, sociologically, and morally. That ship has sailed. We live in a country where single persons and gay couples can adopt children, 'have' them via surrogates. They live together in monogamous relationships and raise children, already. We've given them all of the de-facto trappings - more to the point, they've done it regardless of any law to the contrary. We don't have the legal/moral authority to jail them or stone them to death. Meanwhile, 90% of the children with the chromosomal condition that Emma has are killed, excuse me, prevented from living, er, what would you call it? And that's acceptable to all of us, because it continues, and is being further strengthened by the church of medicine.
What if homosexuality was discoverd to be a combination of genetic factors? Would it then become a disability? Perhaps you think it is, now. Would gay people suddenly be allowed to park in front of the grocery store? Would we evangelical folk be willing to accept them for who they were, then, now presented with a medical model, instead of a moral imperative?
This is a big pot, and this post is not going to make any sort of palatable soup. I'm reading a big book about theology and Down Syndrome. I don't know how it ends. I'm thinking that it may affect how I feel about this subject. At the moment, though, I just can't help but feel that we've got to come up with some new answers for these moral mines, answers that speak to love, God's love, that pass our understanding, that pass our propensities to alienate, that seek to bring healing relationships.
I know that some of you will disagree with this viewpoint, completely and utterly. You have other criteria. I'm just saying that Emma has changed my perspective on many things. I don't think I could ever explain myself to Seventh-Day-Adventist Sid in a way that he'd understand. I know he's a compassionate man, but I don't think he'd be able to fully see it through my eyes. I don't know if I've explained it in a way that anyone else understands.
It's amazing, what a telephone call can do.

IEP, 2008

Individualized Educational Plan. Talk about your 'living documents.'
I've said before, in this context, that I wonder how most of us would measure up to this kind of scrutiny. Experts in their fields, describing your strengths and weaknesses, accomplishments and failures, setting goals for your performance over the next year.
Emma is doing well. As you can see, she is beginning to write letters, and is doing better all the time at writing her first name. After years of tracing, she's heading out onto the wide open spaces of paper and dry-erase boards. She can count to 6. She's learning signs, and using them, and, a couple of weeks ago, put a 3-word sentence together, signing "I Love Ice Cream." Mom thought it was going to be "I Love You," but Emma may have been leading her along on purpose. That's my Emma - likes the surprise, the joke, the 'BOO!"
She's beginning to work with an assistive device for speech, a little bit at school, and seems to like it. She's now being prodded to actually ask for things, rather than pulling someone to what she wants - and she's asking, rather than melting/shutting down. She's gaining strength, can now 'gallop' for many feet (another measurement), and the threshold's been lengthened. She's going to learn how to dribble a ball, here, pretty soon. She's sorting like crazy, and she's more visual than verbal when it comes to colors and identifying like things. Yes, she is. She's got buddies, and gets along really well with the kids at school - loves to participate with everyone. Everybody loves Emma (as far as I'm being told, anyway).
Now, you can look over this list and consider it to be pretty pathetic for an 8-year old. Nope. One of the things that Emma has taught me, that I think Jesus taught over and again, was that our expectations of others need to meet where they are, not where some arbitrary or selfish or theological or social norm labels them as unworthy. Our 'worthiness', our value, exists independently from these things; they are only mechanisms for us to distance ourselves from each other. But I digress. That we take the liberty to do so with the disabled should be a lesson to the normal, but we don't pay attention.
We made a major change with Emma, about 18 months ago, and I think we're just now beginning to see some measurable results. My parental cycle with Emma seems to be that, just when I've given up on something, she surprises. She is determined to take her own path.
I come out of every IEP meeting with two major emotions. One is gratitude for those that are investing themselves into my daughter, and pride in what they say about my Emma, the person. There's no graph, goals, or objective criteria for that, just the way she changes and enriches them. I couldn't be any prouder of her than I am, in those moments.