Fire: First memories

My first memory of fire was looking through a grate in our floor to an oil fired furnace that was beneath the kitchen in a crawl space. There was a small window in the top of the furnace that gave a view of the flames contained in the firebox. Living in the northern part of Lower Peninsula Michigan meant that our furnace was glowing most of the winter. Because of this I quickly learned what heat and hot meant. One time I left a small plastic toy on the grate. It slowly transformed into a small droopy truck. I did not like the results of heat.

Later I ventured out onto the grate in my bare feet. Quickly, I came to realize the painful sensation of a burn. Despite my parents’ warning about hot, I suppose I needed to find out for myself. Some time later, I began to incorporate hot into my vocabulary. At the dinner table I wanted to put mustard on my hot dog. My mother would not permit this. She explained that mustard was too hot for children. I immediately reached for the jar of mustard, got down from the table and placed in on the grate. The adults laughed but it did not bother me since I knew where hot things were to be placed. Since the grate never burned or melted. I felt the jar of mustard was safe there.

Next to our house was my dad’s shop. He was a builder of wooden boats. Since there was much scrap wood from the boats and fire logs were readily available he heated his shop with a large upright wood stove. I was small but the top of the stove was higher than me. On cold days, upon entering the shop, it was customary to remove your scarf, gloves and hat and hang them near the stove, so they would dry out and be warm when you had to leave. Since I was never in the shop but for brief periods, I do not remember removing my outer clothes and hanging them up. Instead I would crowd near the stove all bundled up and warm the only exposed part of my body—my face. Once I stood too near the stove and my wool scarf badly singed. Singed hair or fur has a remarkable acrid pungent smell that still tinges my olfactory memory.

Before we moved to Florida when I was six, fire was almost a constant in my life. Not only did it provide heat in the winter as evidenced by the flickering glow in the furnace window or the smell of smoke and the sight of the blast when the wood stove door was opened. There were also the sparks and smells emanating from outdoor grills and campfires, most notably on the summer holidays when it seemed everyone was doing their living outdoors. It seemed too that many adults would make a fire on a small stick and use it to light tobacco, either in rolled form or in pipes. Once lit they proceeded to breathe in the smoke and appeared to gain much satisfaction, before releasing their breath that still contained a small trace of the wispy vapor. In Florida, fire was no longer the primary source of heat, but began to take on other meaning.

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Letter to you:

September 2008,

Dear Reader,
I made a decision to suspend this daily blog for a one week period. During this time, my intention is to instead pen daily personal letters. This path is one I have wanted to tread for quite awhile, perhaps since before I began my blog. I t was one however, I never seemed to sustain. My hope is I can use this practice of writing my blog on a daily basis as a springboard to another venue.
During this week long break, I will decide on the future direction of my blog. The well of stories I was drawing on has pretty much run dry. I do not know if, by suspending writing it will replenish, or must I draw upon another source. In the meantime, letter writing not published on the internet is my intermediate goal.
I also wan to spend some time. Sorting, organizing and editing the work already put into cyber space. I might find some stories in the gaps I intentionally created.
I would also like to reflect on my other writing projects and discern and prioritize the energy I must exert in order to bring about their creation. Besides deciding a future direction, I would like to take stock of where I currently reside in the field of being a writer. To help accomplish this I will draw on the experience of those who went before me. This will be a topic of some of my personal correspondence. Some of it may land on you the reader. Only time will tell. I will miss you. Let’s stay I touch. ‘
Sincerely,
The Author

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Reflections on consumerism. September 2008,

By far, most of my working career has involved handiwork. I have been called upon or made myself available to take on odd jobs that folks do not have either the skill, tools or patience to take on. Many times I have been asked to come over with my tools and install some sort of household device or product. This provided me with a sense of being needed and useful, certainly a boon to my self esteem. As an added benefit of taking on this type of work, I have been invited into the homes and lives of a rich assortment of humans. While conducting their work projects, I often get the chance to engage in conversation and observe an array of human characteristics and foibles.
I have not taken a statistical analysis, but it seems that many times, when I get to the job, the device I am installing comes in an unopened package. More often than not that package was not of recent purchase. Sometimes it was not even purchased by intent, but was picked up at a yard or garage sale. This means that another person purchased it and perhaps never got around to having someone like me come over and install it. Often its present owner got it on impulse and uses my talents to finally get the item put to use. This points to a pattern of making purchases that perhaps do not reflect true need.
I am more familiar with a pattern of when a need arises, a tree of decisions is made that will lead to that need being met. In this manner most purchases are made deliberately and with need in mind. Along in the flow of decisions, comes its being put to use. That way, a need comes up, a plan to fulfill that need is developed and carried out--done deed. But when a purchase is made without such preplanning, no path to have that purchase utilized is in place. The snag of not having the ability to conduct an installation means the item may never be put into use hence its appearance in garage sales. I surmise that somehow purchases are made without a preplanned need. Apparently some force other than need is making us consume goods. I wonder how much work, I would still have lined up in front of me should folks all of a sudden decide to stop making rash purchases. I do not see our economy grinding to a halt despite the warning that if we do not keep the wheels of industry churning out goods, economic disaster looms.

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Another day off. September 2008,

I think I am on vacation. And, I will likely be on vacation for another week. Today, I rose later that I usually do--after eight AM. Dragging Wendy with me, we went to a Friend’s meeting in the morning. Directly afterward we visited the Farmer’s Market, where we looked around running into a few friends, I have met since arriving here. Next came a play at Kitchen Theater and dinner at Moosewood. Both these items are extravagances for me. But out of a sense of duty, I let my friend treat me to a night on the town. Tomorrow is back to my small part time job for a day. Tuesday, Wendy is heading back to Boston and Wednesday, I head up to Toronto to visit Natalie, Liam, Ella and Alex. I plan to get back to my job at Loaves and Fishes Monday morning.
How does a writer take a vacation? I remember being self employed for most of my working life. When I wanted a vacation, I needed only consider two things. One, it was most important that I had enough funds to cover my financial commitments while I was not earning an income. Two, I needed to cover, my work responsibilities while I was away. For the present, my income situation will be pretty near the same whether or not I am on vacation. That leaves the question; how do I cover my responsibility to continue a writing practice? Most likely, by continuing to explore in written format, these questions I ponder.
I guess that is why it is called a practice. No matter it is a pointed story or journal rambling, the point seems to be continuing with the form. Being a goal oriented person, it is difficult at times to consider practice just as important even when it does not produce a polished published work. Maybe, tomorrow, I will throw out a story just to get back a sense of producing a worthy piece. But for today, this is all that comes out, before I get back to conducting some research. Good Night.

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A day off. September 2008

Late last night I picked up a friend at Syracuse train station. After getting home late, I wrote a brief journal entry, then went to bed. I awoke later than usual this morning and after getting some coffee and breakfast, decided to spend the day entertaining my guest. Wendy and I spent the morning on a walking tour of downtown Ithaca. After a small lunch we headed to Taughannock Falls State Park.
Taughannock Falls is reported to be the highest fall of water east of the Mississippi River. I did not measure it, but it looks to be so. We took a hike around the rim trail. This trail follows the perimeter of the gorge past two splendid waterfalls. We began near an old bridge that crosses the creek near Upper Falls, which drops a magnificent one hundred feet. Following this trail around we began to obtain vistas of the two hundred fifteen foot drop of the glorious main falls. I calculated that our viewpoint of the upper falls was at least a hundred feet above its high point. Adding that to the height of the two falls meant we were at least four hundred fifteen feet above Lake Cayuga. The path down to the lake descends this drop in slightly over one and a half miles.
Descending was slow but not tiring. At the bottom we ventured up the creek bed for about a quarter mile. Wendy was intent upon finding a fossil even though a sign warned us to not take them. We found none, so I pasted a damp leaf to a small smooth piece of slate and presented it to her. She was not fooled in the slightest. We next ventured back to where the other rim trail ascends back to our beginning point. Gravity being present made our climb much more exhausting than our decline. But on the way there was ample opportunity to stop and enjoy incredible breathtaking panoramas.
This is a hike I frequently enjoy with my visitors. Anyone coming can, more likely than not, expect to be treated to this mind-boggling sight. After getting dinner and returning home we both decided to turn in and get some rest before tomorrow’s adventure. Before climbing into my bed, I plan on conducting some more research into the early Christian epoch. And as much as I feel capable, I will spend diminutive time editing previous blog entries.

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A new look. September 2008, Writers workshop

Following through with yesterday’s entry, I will review today’s task at writing. Today’s adventure consisted of research into the time of Nero after the burning of Rome. It seems whatever fires were set, ended up as an excuse to go after Christians. They were blamed and had no strong defense against a massing of imperial forces. It seems that even back then, gathering in caves and underground was required for survival against overwhelming odds bent on persecution.
Gathering information about this epoch gives me an opening to reflect upon other times when there was an underground. Of course, in recent memory there was allied resistance movements throughout occupied countries in World War Two. It appears that whenever an army of occupation sets up, by nature, it forces the opposition to borrow. Our country has always shown a bias for the oppressed who are forced to take the subterranean stance. It seems odd that at the present we are taking the role of oppressor and seeking to persecute those who are forced into hiding. Much like in Nero’s time, the opposition are regarded as terrorist and worthy of being hunted down and exterminated.
The story I am constructing is set in the first century BC and the times seem similar to present. Although today was mostly spent in research and reading, I am finding that part of the writing process. Maybe out of all this will come opportunity to learn the art of crafting a novel. In the meantime, I keep the juices flowing by posting this journal. I am considering removing the location from my title as a way of preventing Goggle ads to zero in on my present location. Out of respect for those underground, I will practice hiding from predator advertising.

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Transitioning again. September 2008 , Ithaca, NY

At onetime in my travels, I came across an idea for a historical novel. I remember it hatching while I was in Arkansas in 1977-78. I toyed with the idea and let a story develop in my mind. Over time, I watched it coalesce into a complete tale. It has the form of a historical novel set in the early days of the Christian period. I have spent the ensuing time researching that time and its characters. Near the end of the 1980’s I even began to write this story down. After getting one chapter set onto my hard drive, My computer gulped and swallowed it. I took it as a sign , I was not ready to begin.
Part of my drive to write this blog on a daily basis was to develop the habit of spending a set time each day transcribing the ideas in mind onto virtual paper. Along with this I have also habitually gone backward and edited previous works. Besides putting to paper the many stories I went out to gather I have a yearning to begin constructing this novel. I reckon that while working on it I will not be posting it to my blog as I have been doing with my other stories. So this provides a dilemma-- what to do with my blog. Many of the stories I set out to transcribe are yet to be told.
Another use for my blog could be to keep a journal of my progress with developing a novel. I could spice this with tales once in a while or anecdotal accounts about my settling process. I could perhaps editorialize and add social comment as I see fit. I hope whatever turn it takes, I can keep it interesting for my readers. And that may be a large assumption that I have an audience out there beyond the fringes of cyber space. I also plan on using some of my writing time to set down personal correspondence. Of course this will not see the light of day in my blog, but will go to individuals. My belief is that now I have a set time to devote to the craft of writing, I am ready to expand my genres. To me the important thing is that I keep to the daily regimen.

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OK, I say uncle. January 1977, Gainesville, FL

I lasted exactly 22 days making croutons. It was a couple of days before Christmas when I got my last and only pay check. Soon the warmth of the Holiday season left and the bitter cold of Michigan winter set in. It did not take me too long to decide to head toward warmer environment. An oil tanker had befouled the waters off the coast of Massachusetts and Rhode Island. A call was out for help cleaning up shoreline. Although it was not the tropics, winter in southern New England is not as brutal as one facing Lake Michigan. I decided to hitch across to Massachusetts and see about helping cleaning up the spill.
After spending the whole of my first day trying to get across Michigan, I was getting disheartened about going all the way the across the Midwest and New England to get to somewhat milder winter. The temperature never rose above zero Fahrenheit by the time I reached I-75S. I knew from previous years this was the road used to get to central Florida. That cinched it, I changed directions and headed south. Quickly and elderly couple picked me up. They were only headed to Ohio, but assured me it would still be light out when they let me out. I had no illusions about trying got find a spot to make a fire to ward off the cold. Freezing to death seemed certain for anyone trapped out in this cold.
I made up my mind to press on until I hit Florida. I would stay on the road hitching. We passed a van that seemed full of smoke. You could not even see the driver and passengers. I made a remark about how they must be smoking up a storm. Secretly, I wished that after my ride let me out, this van would stop for me and keep me in smoke all the way to Florida. It did not take too long for my ride to reach its destination and let me out. As soon as I got my gear together a familiar van pulled over offering me a lift. My hopes soared, as I held a vision of riding all the way to florid awhile getting stoned on good smoke. I climbed in.
Right away, I captured reality. The smoke I believed I saw was caused by frosted windows. This van had no heater. This crew also held no smoke. However, they were headed to my destination--Florida. Several guys were installed in their sleeping bags scattered on the floor. Even the driver was in a sleeping bag. He worked the gas and brakes with both feet encased in his the bag. I rolled up in my bedroll and joined the parade. At least this gang was intent upon driving straight through until they found warmer weather. At first light in the morning we arrived in Chattanooga Tennessee. The temperatures were exceedingly mild-- up in the fifties. We stopped for coffee and breakfast, and stripped down to shirtsleeves enjoying the weather. I had not gotten my ride with a van load of hippies getting stoned, but I did find a ride that got me to mild weather. I felt grateful.

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How to make trillions of croutons. November 1976, Grand Rapids, MI

After my first day of making croutons, my chore became routine. I could start my shift and let my hands do the work while my mind wandered all about. It no longer took focus or concentration. I was slowly being transformed to an automaton. After they noticed I was taking to the job, I was offered a chance to join the bakers’ union and come on full time. Besides a big raise in pay and benefits, I would be allowed to work as many shifts as I desired. The only rule is that once you began a shift you had to complete it. Some workers aided by Dexedrine worked three shifts straight then left for a day to crash.
This seemed like no life for me. I asked them to hold my pay while I decided about joining the union. Unbeknownst to them, I planned on working as many days straight as I could tolerate. When I finally had enough, I planned to ask for my pay, then resign. I was only a temporary worker and planned on keeping it that way. My ambition was to head back to Florida as soon as I finished my career as baker. Every night my station was the same.
I faced a steady procession of boxes heading toward me, that I helped get into cases. I hardly was aware of the noisy machinery behind to my right that bagged and boxed the croutons being sent to me. Beyond was a large hopper that dumped croutons onto a belt headed to their boxes. I could not see further than that. Where the croutons came from remained a mystery. From the beginning to end of my shift , that was my world. I was assured it remained the same in between my shifts, a non stop march of boxed croutons. One shift the bagging machines became jammed and overloaded dumping several feet of crotons on the floor around them. Finally the whole line was shut down to halt the spillage of croutons. I took advantage of the break to take a tour of the plant.
In another part of the building were several machines that resembled cement mixers. Large pallets were lifted to their tops and bags of flour, boxes and jars of ingredients for making breads were poured into the mixers. Once full, paddles on the inside mixed batter. Water was added automatically. When ready, a small sphincter would eject a loaf into bread pans passing by its orifice. From here the pans would ride a conveyor line back and forth giving time for the bread to rise. At this point it its ride, bread would enter an oven. It took just enough time to pass through the oven to bake the loaves.
Still riding the conveyor till the bread cooled, the loaves would come to an end and be dumped out of their pans. Here human hands would grab the fresh loaves and place them on wire shelving. Once loaded the shelves would be stacked on mobile racks. Full racks would be hooked to a floor chain that dragged them through two swinging doors into a room as large as two football fields. This room was kept cool and dry. In the two days it took the racks to transport through, the bread they were carrying achieved staleness. At the far end of the room human hands again touched the loaves, placing them into a slicing and cubing cutter. Once turned into crouton shaped cubes they were sprayed with herb garlic flavored preservatives. From here, croutons journeyed into a toaster oven and emerged finished product in the hamper that churned them onto a conveyor belt that carried then to the now defunct bagging machines. Shortly after bagging they were delivered to my station. By the time my tour was complete, the bagging machines were returned to service. I proceeded to my station and waited the return of the croutons. In the wait, a scene was presented that reminded me of our food industry. Several workers came out with gleaming stainless garbage cans and just as bright stainless shovels. They proceeded to scoop the piles from around the bagging machines into their cans labeled “FOOD WASTE.” Until they got down to about a foot above the floor, they carried this waste and dumped it into the hopper that would carrying them back to the bagging machines. The mental picture I took was of workers dumping food waste into our national food production process.

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Did you get your croutons. November 1976, Grand Rapids, MI

I was staying with my cousin Ralph heading up to Christmas. Neither of us had jobs. Ralph was actively looking for work without success. He hoped to land a job and have some money for Christmas. I accompanied him on his job search. By luck we both got hired at a bakery. This one had contracted to make croutons for a large cereal producer. We showed up for our first shift at midnight. We were scheduled to work until eight in the morning with only a short break, long enough to smoke a cigarette, half way through the shift. After suiting up in a white baker’s outfit, we headed into the factory.
The shift boss pointed over to a guy standing in front of a moving line of boxes and said,” Go over there and tap him on the back and when he steps away, take his place. Stay there until someone taps you on the shoulder. You’ll get a break in a few hours. If you got to go to the bathroom, do it now. You cannot leave your spot.” I headed down to where he pointed and tapped the guy facing the line on the shoulder, He moved away suddenly. I saw a stream of herb-garlic flavored croutons headed my way. A worker next to me stepped in front of me and demonstrated my task. He lifted two boxes up and then gathered the next two, lifting all four. Adding two more he got six stacked in his hand. These he placed back on the moving belt. He jumped back to his place and picked up those six boxes, whirled around and stuffed them into a case box.
I was busy trying to duplicate his movement and send him a pile of six boxes. My hands were not accustomed to this yet and I fumbled a lot. Pretty soon boxes were beginning get backed up on my left. No matter how deftly I tried to maneuver they seemed to be overcoming me. The guys who had just showed me the drill leaned over and brushed the log jam of boxes onto the floor. He added, “You can push them off it they get too much. It slows down sometimes and we can get the ones off the floor.” I thanked him and continued with my struggle keeping up with a line of boxes that relentlessly headed towards us.
Sure enough, the line slowed to a crawl for a while and gave us a chance to clean up the ones, I had brushed to the floor. Soon, I was given a break and went tour for a cup of coffee and a smoke. By the end of my first shift, I was getting pretty dexterous. I not only could keep a steady flow of piles of six headed to my co worker, but had time to flip them if needed so they could all be aligned the same. I was turning into a piece of the machinery that pushed out boxes of croutons twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. According to production figures kept on the chalkboard over head, since the beginning of this run in August we were heading to produce nearly one box for half of the humans on the planet. At that time, the world population was slightly over four billion. We had produced slightly over two billion boxes of croutons and the machinery was still going full tilt.

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