I finally made it back to a scrabble tournament after a nearly two-year hiatus. Unforch, my rating slipped as I ran into a bit of bad luck and a tiny bit of rust. I was happy with how I played, tho the results didn't match my efforts. I ended the day with 3 wins against 4 losses, but because all of my losses were by less than 35 points and two of my wins were blow-outs, I finished with a big "spread" (positive or negative total points). The spread only shows that I was playing well but doesn't figure into national ratings or rankings.
The venue was new to me: North Salem, NY, about an hour's drive from New Paltz. Cornelia Guest puts on a very nice tourney there, attended by 32 ardent Scrabblers -- she even had a 10-person waiting list for today's games. I was the second-highest rated player, and the way our ratings work, I was expected to win about 5 of the 7 games. As a result of my poor showing, my rating falls into the 1750 range, but still, that puts me within the top 150 nationwide.
Here were some of my more unusual words from the tournament:
TENUTI (pl. of TENUTO, a musical term)
SATYR (a wood nymph) ... this is the only one I could define without the dictionary!
JOWAR (type of cereal grain grown in India)
COFFS (to buy)
AUXINS (substance used in plant growth)
BEZEL (a slanted surface)
QUERN (a hand-turned grain mill)
JEON (S. Korean monetary unit)
CURF (an incision)
Bingos (using all 7 tiles for a 50-pt bonus):
Note: Letters in () were blanks
SALTIER (R)
ENCASED (S)
ANTIQUES
FELLOES (def: wheel rims)
ULULATES (U)
INANEST
NEATEST
INQUIRES (R)
I managed to win my penultimate game by over 200 points, scoring 552 (and the "high game" prize, good for $5). In the 7 games, I scored 351, 359, 361, 431, 402, 552, and 349, averaging just under 400 per game. Sadly, average score doesn't figure into ratings, either, tho some have advocated for this.
I look forward to returning there in two months. Meanwhile, I'll keep reading the Scrabble dictionary (me=nerd) and playing online as much as possible.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Monday, January 01, 2007
I Can Drive 55
During my seven semesters at Vassar College, I made many trips to New York City. I often went into Manhattan to do my laundry. I visited my parents and brother or had a fun weekend in the big city. Occasionally I drove a friend or two to Yankee Stadium. My reasons for traveling varied, but one thing was consistent: I drove fast. I knew that highway 87 was wider and safer (in those days, the Taconic Parkway was mostly two lanes), but 87 was a haven for ticket-writing police whereas the Taconic was just a haven for speeders. In all of my trips to and fro, I never got a ticket, but I always sped. My fastest trip door-to-door was 65 minutes for the 78-mile journey. Oh, and back then, the speed limit was 55mph.
Speed was a hallmark of my driving for the next 18 years. Time slows down for objects the faster they travel, and I probably added at least a nanosecond to my lifespan. But then four things happened that changed that forever:
1) I moved to the calm and bucolic climes of New Paltz,
2) I turned 40 and got that much closer to actual adulthood,
3) Gas prices passed $2/gal (and then $3/gal), and
4) I started driving my Pontiac Aztek much more often.
Factor 4 was probably the most instrumental; the Aztek has a lot of cool gizmos, including control-panel readouts of one's instant- and overall-fuel economies.
I did a little experiment last month: I drove for three flat miles at different speeds to see how efficiently the car drove. At 75mph, I got about 22mpg. At 70 and 65mph, I did a bit better. By 60mph, the mileage was amazing: over 31mpg. That means that by maintaining a rate of speed 5 miles per hour below the speed limit, I can use my gas 30% more efficiently. Another gauge on the Aztek monitors how much gas has been used on a trip. By driving slowly, I have made the 85-mile trip to Manhattan while using only 2.7 gallons of gas. Another way of looking at it is that if a tank of gas costs $40, driving 30% more efficiently is like getting the gas for $28 instead. Or: If a gallon costs the average motorist $2.50, I'm getting it for the equivalent of $1.75. Take that, ExxonMobilCitgoShell!
Life begins at 40, but thrift begins at 60.
Mice in the Hice
Good thing we have a cat, because we also have mice.
One day while the kids were hanging out in the living room, they noticed Stanky running about in a particularly frisky manner. Soon they noticed that he had a mouse in his mouth. He put it down in front of the television and proceeded to play with it, as cats are wont to do. The kids called for me (or did they scream for me?). I raced downstairs and trapped the mouse so that Stanky wouldn't do any further damage to it. While it's one thing to clean up a dead mouse, it's an entirely other thing to clean up mouse parts.
A few days later, we awoke to find another dead mouse in front of the tv. Shirra cleaned the pantry carefully (finding an open bag of cheese crackers in the process), and we hoped that our mouse-finding days were over. At this point, I should mention that Shirra is deathly phobic about mice. She had some as a kid, but when they began to breed, her parents realized that the petshop owner had erroneously sold them two mice of different sexes. Shirra's parents apparently took this to mean that they weren't fated to own mice. They took the mice back to the petshop. Shirra later discovered that her pets had been sold as snake food. The phobia began.
When we lived in Manhattan, some of our neighborhoods were a bit trashier than others. That is, they were abounding in actual trash. The toughest place for her to live was our 114th Street apartment because it was down the street from a popular church that had a popular soup kitchen. Garbage bags regularly appeared on the curb outside this house of worship, but what really brought out the rats was the abandoned building across the street. Rats used to race over to the garbage bags, grab some munchies, and race back to their squathouse. When the garbage bags were out at night, we had to run past them to reduce Shirra's chances of spotting any rats, and when did spot a rat, she needed a few moments to gather her wits and control her breathing.
We went to Manhattan this past weekend, returning late last night. As Shirra and I unloaded the car, Emmett noticed a gift from Stanky. Our beloved cat had caught two mice during our absense and had laid them out parallel in his gift-spot two feet from the tv, as tho they had died while watching an especially boring show. Unfortunately, Shirra was in the room when the discovery was made. She immediately began hyperventilating, but she held her shit together until I made some joke about the mice (something about a particularly boring show on tv), and at that point she had to rush to the bathroom so that the kids wouldn't see her cry. Of course, this made Maeve wonder where mommy was. Within minutes, all of the kids were crying too: the girls at the site of their mother's tears, and Emmett because someone's elbow had jammed his eye while he was running to take care of his mom.
As usual, Shirra managed to compose herself almost instantly, and the night continued pretty much as normal. She found a lot of mouse poop near the sink today, however, and announced, "I guess they've hunkered down here for the winter. Great." She also announced that so long as we live in the country, we can never be without a cat.
One day while the kids were hanging out in the living room, they noticed Stanky running about in a particularly frisky manner. Soon they noticed that he had a mouse in his mouth. He put it down in front of the television and proceeded to play with it, as cats are wont to do. The kids called for me (or did they scream for me?). I raced downstairs and trapped the mouse so that Stanky wouldn't do any further damage to it. While it's one thing to clean up a dead mouse, it's an entirely other thing to clean up mouse parts.
A few days later, we awoke to find another dead mouse in front of the tv. Shirra cleaned the pantry carefully (finding an open bag of cheese crackers in the process), and we hoped that our mouse-finding days were over. At this point, I should mention that Shirra is deathly phobic about mice. She had some as a kid, but when they began to breed, her parents realized that the petshop owner had erroneously sold them two mice of different sexes. Shirra's parents apparently took this to mean that they weren't fated to own mice. They took the mice back to the petshop. Shirra later discovered that her pets had been sold as snake food. The phobia began.
When we lived in Manhattan, some of our neighborhoods were a bit trashier than others. That is, they were abounding in actual trash. The toughest place for her to live was our 114th Street apartment because it was down the street from a popular church that had a popular soup kitchen. Garbage bags regularly appeared on the curb outside this house of worship, but what really brought out the rats was the abandoned building across the street. Rats used to race over to the garbage bags, grab some munchies, and race back to their squathouse. When the garbage bags were out at night, we had to run past them to reduce Shirra's chances of spotting any rats, and when did spot a rat, she needed a few moments to gather her wits and control her breathing.
We went to Manhattan this past weekend, returning late last night. As Shirra and I unloaded the car, Emmett noticed a gift from Stanky. Our beloved cat had caught two mice during our absense and had laid them out parallel in his gift-spot two feet from the tv, as tho they had died while watching an especially boring show. Unfortunately, Shirra was in the room when the discovery was made. She immediately began hyperventilating, but she held her shit together until I made some joke about the mice (something about a particularly boring show on tv), and at that point she had to rush to the bathroom so that the kids wouldn't see her cry. Of course, this made Maeve wonder where mommy was. Within minutes, all of the kids were crying too: the girls at the site of their mother's tears, and Emmett because someone's elbow had jammed his eye while he was running to take care of his mom.
As usual, Shirra managed to compose herself almost instantly, and the night continued pretty much as normal. She found a lot of mouse poop near the sink today, however, and announced, "I guess they've hunkered down here for the winter. Great." She also announced that so long as we live in the country, we can never be without a cat.
No-Starbucks Diet
The title says it all. I've given away my best secret. The key to losing weight is to cut out Starbucks...mostly.
As reported earlier, I began a Calorie Restriction diet on my birthday two months ago. In that short time, I've lost nearly 20 pounds. That's a bit faster than one is supposed to lose weight (5-6 pounds a month is recommended, at most), but I was afraid that if I didn't see results quickly, I'd give up. I don't know what my caloric intake was before Halloween, but since then, it's been only about 1600 cal/day. I'm guessing that I had 3,000 calories a day beforehand, and a lot of them came in the form of fats.
When I was teaching, my days were excessively long. I awoke at 6:30, tutored a student before school, taught from 8:30 till 3, and then tutored straight from 3:30 till about 6:30; I unicycled to and from work each day. My days were pretty exhausting. I self-medicated in order to stay awake in the afternoons, and my medication was available right down the block at our local Starbucks. In a typical day I had a vente latte and a huge chocolate chip cookies. Simply by knocking out this trip, I avoided 1,130 calories a day including many grams of fat.
Starbucks drinks are hard to give up. Thankfully there's Shirra, a fellow addict, to help out. These days, a couple times a week, I'll buy her a small or medium pumpkin spice latte, take a few sips, and give her the rest.
I have lost 20 pounds, but one thing I have kept is... lots of cash. Starbucks is high in fat, calories, and cost. Eliminating my daily treats has saved me over $100 in a short time.
How does all of this relate to New Paltz? Well, there is a Starbucks in town, and the people who work there are really nice, but I don't see as much of them as I used to.
As reported earlier, I began a Calorie Restriction diet on my birthday two months ago. In that short time, I've lost nearly 20 pounds. That's a bit faster than one is supposed to lose weight (5-6 pounds a month is recommended, at most), but I was afraid that if I didn't see results quickly, I'd give up. I don't know what my caloric intake was before Halloween, but since then, it's been only about 1600 cal/day. I'm guessing that I had 3,000 calories a day beforehand, and a lot of them came in the form of fats.
When I was teaching, my days were excessively long. I awoke at 6:30, tutored a student before school, taught from 8:30 till 3, and then tutored straight from 3:30 till about 6:30; I unicycled to and from work each day. My days were pretty exhausting. I self-medicated in order to stay awake in the afternoons, and my medication was available right down the block at our local Starbucks. In a typical day I had a vente latte and a huge chocolate chip cookies. Simply by knocking out this trip, I avoided 1,130 calories a day including many grams of fat.
Starbucks drinks are hard to give up. Thankfully there's Shirra, a fellow addict, to help out. These days, a couple times a week, I'll buy her a small or medium pumpkin spice latte, take a few sips, and give her the rest.
I have lost 20 pounds, but one thing I have kept is... lots of cash. Starbucks is high in fat, calories, and cost. Eliminating my daily treats has saved me over $100 in a short time.
How does all of this relate to New Paltz? Well, there is a Starbucks in town, and the people who work there are really nice, but I don't see as much of them as I used to.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Scents and the City
Every time I get out of Port Authority, I am reminded that I live in New Paltz. When I lived in NYC, the smells of the city seemed normal. I picked up the occasional wafts from street vendors or exhaust pipes, but otherwise the scent of The City seemed neutral. But then we moved to New Paltz. Unlike Manhattan, New Paltz still has more trees than cars. A river runs thru it, even. Fresh air abounds. One's nose awakens.
Now when I set foot in Times Square, I'm immediately hit by the scent of a penny held too long in the palm. The entire city is oxidized and gives off a smell of burnt rubber, rust, ozone, and smog. It takes some getting used to.
At least it's not as bad as London. I remember a trip we made in the 1990s. After a couple days, when I blew my nose, I noticed something black in the tissue. Shirra explained that this was from the sooty air. You don't get that in Manhattan. There, it's only brown.
Now when I set foot in Times Square, I'm immediately hit by the scent of a penny held too long in the palm. The entire city is oxidized and gives off a smell of burnt rubber, rust, ozone, and smog. It takes some getting used to.
At least it's not as bad as London. I remember a trip we made in the 1990s. After a couple days, when I blew my nose, I noticed something black in the tissue. Shirra explained that this was from the sooty air. You don't get that in Manhattan. There, it's only brown.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Answering the Call
I live about 5 miles from the firehouse; some members live a block away. For this reason, it's hard for me to get to the station house in time to 'make' a call. That is, I often arrive after the truck has left the building.
That's ok -- it means that a situation, whatever it is, has been handled expediently. But on a personal level, it's a bummer. When little boys dream of being firemen, they imagine sliding down a pole, hopping onto the side of a fire engine, rushing to the fire, and hosing down a burning house. Little boys don't dream of sitting around a card table on donated swivel chairs, leafing thru Fire Engineering Magazine and chatting about the local synagogs, but those are some of my most recent activities. One time I even rushed to a late-night call only to discover that my pager had been on repeat mode -- the 'emergency' had occurred over an hour earlier.
My blue light doesn't allow me to speed to the scene, but it has occasionally suggested, gently, that other motorists kindly move to the side so that I can get downtown a bit faster. But since at least 90% of the calls are false alarms (smoke detectors that picked up a bit of burnt bacon, for example), there is little reason to rush to the station. This is especially true since we have enough volunteers to handle almost any call.
While reading one of the many magazines on the card table, I happened upon a page dedicated to those who had given their lives in the line of duty during the past month. Of the eight who had died, two had perished while attempting to get to the emergency. In one case a freak storm caused a fatal car accident, but in another, the volunteer had driven too fast to the scene of a minor motorcycle accident. He lost control of his car and wound up crashing into a tree. Upon reflection, I decided to slow down a bit while responding to my pager.
I did make it to the scene of a minor car accident on a slippery night last week. Two cars had collided near the Wallkill Bridge, and I soon found myself directing traffic while standing out in the rain for over an hour. It was nice that I could finally help out, and the experience was a positive one...even tho I didn't get to hose down a burning house.
That's ok -- it means that a situation, whatever it is, has been handled expediently. But on a personal level, it's a bummer. When little boys dream of being firemen, they imagine sliding down a pole, hopping onto the side of a fire engine, rushing to the fire, and hosing down a burning house. Little boys don't dream of sitting around a card table on donated swivel chairs, leafing thru Fire Engineering Magazine and chatting about the local synagogs, but those are some of my most recent activities. One time I even rushed to a late-night call only to discover that my pager had been on repeat mode -- the 'emergency' had occurred over an hour earlier.
My blue light doesn't allow me to speed to the scene, but it has occasionally suggested, gently, that other motorists kindly move to the side so that I can get downtown a bit faster. But since at least 90% of the calls are false alarms (smoke detectors that picked up a bit of burnt bacon, for example), there is little reason to rush to the station. This is especially true since we have enough volunteers to handle almost any call.
While reading one of the many magazines on the card table, I happened upon a page dedicated to those who had given their lives in the line of duty during the past month. Of the eight who had died, two had perished while attempting to get to the emergency. In one case a freak storm caused a fatal car accident, but in another, the volunteer had driven too fast to the scene of a minor motorcycle accident. He lost control of his car and wound up crashing into a tree. Upon reflection, I decided to slow down a bit while responding to my pager.
I did make it to the scene of a minor car accident on a slippery night last week. Two cars had collided near the Wallkill Bridge, and I soon found myself directing traffic while standing out in the rain for over an hour. It was nice that I could finally help out, and the experience was a positive one...even tho I didn't get to hose down a burning house.
Monday, December 25, 2006
To Live and Diet in NP
I hit 40 a couple months ago, and on that very day, an article appeared in the Science Times about the Calorie Restriction diet. This involves a balanced regimen of fewer-than-expected calories, and in a wide variety of lesser animals, it's been shown to extend the lifespan by a considerable margin, perhaps even 50%. Because it's so new, the jury is still out for humans, but it could mean that a man of say, 40, who was expected to live to 90 would instead last to 115. The diet has also been shown to increase immunity, thereby reducing chances of getting Alzheimer's, cancer, and so on.
Knowing myself lo these many years, I had come to realize that I thrive with obsession. When I learned to unicycle, I spent three hours a day for three days until I had taught myself to ride. When I started to play Scrabble at the tournament level, I studied word lists for months; in fact, I started going thru the Scrabble dictionary this past summer and have made it thru the Cs. So after failed attempts to take off some of the weight I'd put on this past decade, I decided to do something obsessive about it: calorie counting.
I weighed 165 when I left college, much of it made up by the muscles in my legs from unicycling and other sports. My weight hovered in the 160s until Shirra got pregnant. I put on 10 pounds of sympathy weight (eating with her late at night when she got the munchies, for example), but while she lost her pregnancy pounds by the time Fiona was six months old, I never lost my extra poundage. Then when Emmett and Maeve came along, the same thing happened, and before too long, I'd hit a high of about 197 (tho generally I was in the low 190s). I still felt pretty fit, usually cycling about an hour a day, but I had developed a spare tire that would not fit on my unicycle.
After reading an insufficient amount about the CR diet, I decided to jump on it in conjunction with my birthday. I figured that this date would be easier to remember than most others, and I really didn't want to wait any longer. I decided, against some good advice from fellow-CR dieters, to go down to 1600 calories per day (they usually suggest working your way down to that low a level). My decision was based on a personal need to see some results. Eventually I had a physical, as suggested by the book I was reading, and my 'bio-markers' were all pretty good, so I decided to keep at it.
The results came pretty fast. From 197 late this summer, I'd gotten down to about 192 by Halloween. Here on Christmas, I'm down to about 174, a loss of about 2 pounds a week. At my starting weight, two pounds doesn't make much difference, but when it drops off at that rate every week, the change is noticeable fairly fast. At this point, my gut is gone; abdominal muscles are peeking thru for the first time in a decade, and I feel great. So if all goes well, I can look forward to another 75 happy years. More to follow (or maybe I should say: Less to follow).
Knowing myself lo these many years, I had come to realize that I thrive with obsession. When I learned to unicycle, I spent three hours a day for three days until I had taught myself to ride. When I started to play Scrabble at the tournament level, I studied word lists for months; in fact, I started going thru the Scrabble dictionary this past summer and have made it thru the Cs. So after failed attempts to take off some of the weight I'd put on this past decade, I decided to do something obsessive about it: calorie counting.
I weighed 165 when I left college, much of it made up by the muscles in my legs from unicycling and other sports. My weight hovered in the 160s until Shirra got pregnant. I put on 10 pounds of sympathy weight (eating with her late at night when she got the munchies, for example), but while she lost her pregnancy pounds by the time Fiona was six months old, I never lost my extra poundage. Then when Emmett and Maeve came along, the same thing happened, and before too long, I'd hit a high of about 197 (tho generally I was in the low 190s). I still felt pretty fit, usually cycling about an hour a day, but I had developed a spare tire that would not fit on my unicycle.
After reading an insufficient amount about the CR diet, I decided to jump on it in conjunction with my birthday. I figured that this date would be easier to remember than most others, and I really didn't want to wait any longer. I decided, against some good advice from fellow-CR dieters, to go down to 1600 calories per day (they usually suggest working your way down to that low a level). My decision was based on a personal need to see some results. Eventually I had a physical, as suggested by the book I was reading, and my 'bio-markers' were all pretty good, so I decided to keep at it.
The results came pretty fast. From 197 late this summer, I'd gotten down to about 192 by Halloween. Here on Christmas, I'm down to about 174, a loss of about 2 pounds a week. At my starting weight, two pounds doesn't make much difference, but when it drops off at that rate every week, the change is noticeable fairly fast. At this point, my gut is gone; abdominal muscles are peeking thru for the first time in a decade, and I feel great. So if all goes well, I can look forward to another 75 happy years. More to follow (or maybe I should say: Less to follow).
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Firemen of Diminutive Stature
Fireman Tiny
Emmett came to visit the firehouse, and I had him put on my gear. It's a bit big, but maybe one day he'll have his own stuff.
Fireman Small
There is a 1942 book called Fireman Small, by Lois Leyman, that inadvertently illustrates a few things NOT to do when involved with a fire. I just took my first OSHA class (about fire safety), and while the captain was talking about fire-fighting dangers, I thought about Fireman Small. I had a hunch that the family should not have gone back into the burning house to retrieve their furniture, and it turns out I was right. I also had a feeling that they wouldn't be returning to the house just after the fire was put out (water- and smoke-damage would take their toll), but one thing I didn't know until last week is that the firemen make a basic error in putting out the fire: They chop a hole into the roof (this is standard procedure, in order to let out trapped heat and smoke), but then they shoot water from the hose into the vent they've just created. I don't think Lois Leyman knew too much about fire safety.
Emmett came to visit the firehouse, and I had him put on my gear. It's a bit big, but maybe one day he'll have his own stuff.
Fireman Small
There is a 1942 book called Fireman Small, by Lois Leyman, that inadvertently illustrates a few things NOT to do when involved with a fire. I just took my first OSHA class (about fire safety), and while the captain was talking about fire-fighting dangers, I thought about Fireman Small. I had a hunch that the family should not have gone back into the burning house to retrieve their furniture, and it turns out I was right. I also had a feeling that they wouldn't be returning to the house just after the fire was put out (water- and smoke-damage would take their toll), but one thing I didn't know until last week is that the firemen make a basic error in putting out the fire: They chop a hole into the roof (this is standard procedure, in order to let out trapped heat and smoke), but then they shoot water from the hose into the vent they've just created. I don't think Lois Leyman knew too much about fire safety.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The View from Saturday's Ride
I happened to be posing for this photo (see the earlier entry about red suspenders) when a call came over my pager. Emmett ran outside to tell me about it, but we didn't know what it was about. Since I had just bought my blue light the day before, I was psyched to use it. I arrived at SUNY's Esopus dorm, the scene of yet another false alarm. The difference was that this one involved a carbon monoxide detector that had erroneously signaled a possible emergency. Because of the holiday break, none of the students was there, but a couple campus security cops helped us out. We were back at the station house in no time.
What starts with F, and ends with U-C-K and involves a lot of screaming? That's right: FIRETRUCK!
Later in the day, I was having the oil changed in my car (the one with the blue light) when another call came over the pager. This one, too, sounded serious. I happened to be riding around town on my unicycle, so I zoomed over to the station house, announcing to the guys that there was no need to fear: "Unicycle Ladder #1 is has arrived!" I stowed the uni and hopped onto a departing truck, changing into some handy fireman clothes en route. Here is a photo I took from inside the truck on my first-ever ride in a pumper.
What lots of people don't know is that there are many different kinds of fire-fighting vehicles. Some have ladders ("ladder trucks"), others have special pumps that can suck up H2O from a nearby pond or lake and deliver it to the scene of the fire ("pumpers"), while still others serve different roles, like "engines." Today I wound up on a pumper, one of three trucks to show up. We rushed to the scene, but before arriving at the would-be fire, the driver stopped us by a lake. We waited for further instructions. It turned out that there was no fire. It was a three-(false)-alarm fire. Still, it was exciting.
Blue-Light Special
When you join the fire department, you get a surprising amount of cool free stuff. Granted, most of it is used in fighting actual fires, but still, who would mind having around a fire-proof coat and pants? There was also a helmet, a couple pairs of gloves, and a pager. I even got a set of red suspenders. [This reminded me of the old joke: Why do firemen wear red suspenders? To hold up their pants.]
But the one thing most of us need to buy is the blue light, the kind that attaches to your car's roof with a strong magnet. It doesn't allow us to go thru red lights or drive faster than the speed limit, but...well, ok, maybe it does, as long as we're careful and don't get caught, and as long as we're responding to an actual emergency rather than one of the daily false alarms that we get from a local university. I believe it's referred to as a courtesy light. In any case, I really wanted one.
I checked out the Galls catalog, but then it turned out that the local Autozone shop was even cheaper. I had to show proof that I work for a local fire company, so I proudly displayed my card and ordered a blue light; it arrived today.
Once on my private road, I tried it out. It's pretty bright, tho apparently it's not too noticeable during daylight hours. A fellow firefighter told me that once the sun sets, it's visible about a half-mile away.
The next items on my list of firefighter must-haves are a patch from the company (occasionally available on eBay for under $10) and a New Paltz Fire Department jacket. But that one is going to have to wait -- it's only for people who've worked for the department for 30 months. I have 29 to go. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to using my blue light while I race, carefully, to a call.
But the one thing most of us need to buy is the blue light, the kind that attaches to your car's roof with a strong magnet. It doesn't allow us to go thru red lights or drive faster than the speed limit, but...well, ok, maybe it does, as long as we're careful and don't get caught, and as long as we're responding to an actual emergency rather than one of the daily false alarms that we get from a local university. I believe it's referred to as a courtesy light. In any case, I really wanted one.
I checked out the Galls catalog, but then it turned out that the local Autozone shop was even cheaper. I had to show proof that I work for a local fire company, so I proudly displayed my card and ordered a blue light; it arrived today.
Once on my private road, I tried it out. It's pretty bright, tho apparently it's not too noticeable during daylight hours. A fellow firefighter told me that once the sun sets, it's visible about a half-mile away.
The next items on my list of firefighter must-haves are a patch from the company (occasionally available on eBay for under $10) and a New Paltz Fire Department jacket. But that one is going to have to wait -- it's only for people who've worked for the department for 30 months. I have 29 to go. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to using my blue light while I race, carefully, to a call.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Oh, Deer!
A family of deer live in the woods either side of our private road. The soft beauty of their appearance is matched only by their grace. I often spot them in the morning as they lope across the road after snacking on our neighbor's flowers. They seem to come out between the time that I take Fiona to the bus and when I return home fifteen minutes later.
I tried to take a photo of them, but they're too fast, so I've only managed to get some shots of where they've just been. These were taken back in October, and you'll note the great abundance of leaves. Back then, we also seemed to have more deer on the property, too.
This first shot shows where one of them had been grazing just seconds before. And if you look closely at the second picture, you can just make out where a deer is no longer standing.
My record for deer spotted at once is 8, on several occasions, apparently from two does and six fawns. It is a bit daunting to drive down the road on my way to the firehouse, knowing that I have to be cautious about the animals. Oh, deer; I had better be careful.
Home-Ec Teacher for a Day
My first ever chances to teach in the New Paltz school system, and I wind up teaching home-ec and Spanish. I've taught English, math, French, Spanish (not that I speak Spanish!), gym, science, and history, and I've taught all levels of students from K-12, but I'd never taught home-ec before.
I didn't even know home-economics was even taught any more, but I'm glad it is, and I enjoyed doing it. Rather than focusing on buying, baking, cooking, and cleaning, the class has diversified a bit and now focuses more on general health and nutrition.
Teachers usually leave videos or worksheets for their substitutes to inflict on their unsuspecting students. I was given videos in home-ec yesterday and worksheets in Spanish today. Matters were made more challenging by the fact that students were about to leave for their holiday breaks. Some of them had a hard time containing their enthusiasm, tho I got the feeling that for many of them, this was an ongoing obstacle.
I really like the kids in this middle school. Meeting them gave me an excellent chance to see just what kinds of people live in my new town. There was a lovely cross-section of religions, ethnicities, and socio-economic groups. Kids tended to segregate themselves by sex rather than any other factor, so there ended up being a boy side and a girl side to my home-ec classes. The Spanish teacher had given students assigned seats, and they mostly stuck to those.
Whenever I sub (and it's been 14 years since I did), I always find areas that I wish the kids had already mastered. I was distressed in 1992 when the kids in my Spanish class were less versant in the language than I was despite having studied it for several months (by coincidence, I'd picked up a Spanish Made Simple a few days before). The group in the New Paltz middle school was far savvier about the language, on the whole, but there were still a few who had little to show for the time they'd spent in class. Similarly, I was happy to learn that some of the Home-Ec kids knew about nutrition, but only one of them on the day was able to define 'calorie' or tell me what a 'serving' of food is.
I try to spice things up when I sub. This has been made easier by the Internet. For Spanish, I used the Web to turn the same paragraph into poorly translated versions, thanks to altavista.com and freetranslation.com. For health class yesterday, I printed out a funny entry from Wikipedia.com about the durian, a really peculiar fruit from southeast Asia. One great quote mentioned that it smells like a mixture of "pig-shit, turpentine, and onions, garnished with a gym sock." I changed "pig-shit" to "pig-excrement" because I think the e-word is far more descriptive.
I didn't even know home-economics was even taught any more, but I'm glad it is, and I enjoyed doing it. Rather than focusing on buying, baking, cooking, and cleaning, the class has diversified a bit and now focuses more on general health and nutrition.
Teachers usually leave videos or worksheets for their substitutes to inflict on their unsuspecting students. I was given videos in home-ec yesterday and worksheets in Spanish today. Matters were made more challenging by the fact that students were about to leave for their holiday breaks. Some of them had a hard time containing their enthusiasm, tho I got the feeling that for many of them, this was an ongoing obstacle.
I really like the kids in this middle school. Meeting them gave me an excellent chance to see just what kinds of people live in my new town. There was a lovely cross-section of religions, ethnicities, and socio-economic groups. Kids tended to segregate themselves by sex rather than any other factor, so there ended up being a boy side and a girl side to my home-ec classes. The Spanish teacher had given students assigned seats, and they mostly stuck to those.
Whenever I sub (and it's been 14 years since I did), I always find areas that I wish the kids had already mastered. I was distressed in 1992 when the kids in my Spanish class were less versant in the language than I was despite having studied it for several months (by coincidence, I'd picked up a Spanish Made Simple a few days before). The group in the New Paltz middle school was far savvier about the language, on the whole, but there were still a few who had little to show for the time they'd spent in class. Similarly, I was happy to learn that some of the Home-Ec kids knew about nutrition, but only one of them on the day was able to define 'calorie' or tell me what a 'serving' of food is.
I try to spice things up when I sub. This has been made easier by the Internet. For Spanish, I used the Web to turn the same paragraph into poorly translated versions, thanks to altavista.com and freetranslation.com. For health class yesterday, I printed out a funny entry from Wikipedia.com about the durian, a really peculiar fruit from southeast Asia. One great quote mentioned that it smells like a mixture of "pig-shit, turpentine, and onions, garnished with a gym sock." I changed "pig-shit" to "pig-excrement" because I think the e-word is far more descriptive.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Cracked Nuts
Each December, Emmett's ballet school puts together a production of the Nutcracker. This year marks the 10th anniversary of the New Paltz Ballet School performing the Nutcracker in Poughkeepsie's famous Bardavon, the oldest theater in New York state.
Emmett was asked to audition for this ballet, and he landed the role of 'party boy.' There weren't many options, tho, because most kids his age are girls, and most of the parts are for girls. Perhaps in future performances he could have a role in the second act, the one with all of the dancing marzipans and other candies. But for next year, he has his sights set on the part of 'rat' or maybe even 'Fritz,' the naughty lad who spitefully breaks the nutcracker in Act I.
The party scene calls for 6 sets of parents (including the hosts) and about 14 or 15 kids, half of whom are boys. Of course, in a school with an underabundance of male participants (as is often the case), many girls end up as party boys, and this year, Emmett is the only one with a Y chromosome in that role. The party moms are played by teenagers from the ballet school, but the party dads are volunteers like me who get roped into being (ok, who are dying to be) onstage for a few minutes. Party dads wear old-style tuxedoes and a few layers of makeup, and we look pretty snazzy except for our hats. These plastic top-hats could have been taken off the heads of New Years revellers at a TGIFridays, but they looked authentic from the audience. In general, the clothes are excellent; it turns out that the director's mother helped with them, which is a good thing because the Nutcracker uses over a hundred costumes.
Party dads don't rehearse much, but as the performance approached, it suddenly occurred to us that we have one objective: Don't mess up. The Bardavon holds over 900 seats, so in our three performances, we're seen by our friends, family, and about 2700 other people. So like all men in tuxedoes, our goal is to fit in. Happily, Saturday's matinee went well, emboldening us to think about making a few little touches to appear more realistic in the roles of Victorian-era men at a party. In my case, this meant taking a fellow party dad's advice to doff my top-hat before kissing the hostess's hand. I managed to remember this for that evening's show but forgot by the next day. Ah well, there's always 2007. Our confidence also allowed us to joke about making up back stories for our 2-dimensional characters.
My back story was this: I had had an affair with the hostess. Upon entering, I kiss her hand just a little too long, raising suspicion in the mind of the host. He glances furtively at my face in time to catch a gleam in my eye that confirms that the crumpled undergarments he found shoved hastily beneath his bed were indeed mine. He spends the rest of the party putting up a good face before the other guests and his children but makes a secret vow to challenge me to a duel as soon as he
can. As we shake hands at the end of the party, he holds mine just a little too long, stifling the urge to throttle me on the spot. I correctly interpret this to mean that he has uncovered my cockoldry and make a secret vow to get out of the country posthaste, as I am a coward of the highest degree. I'm not sure that these back stories were necessary, but they certainly took some of the stress out of a somewhat tense time backstage.
When Sunday's performance ended, I felt that mixture of relief and sorrow familiar to all performers. I was glad that we had all performed our roles admirably, but I was sad to lose the camraderie among the party dads. There is no cast party, but some of us felt the need for one. Next year, Shirra and I plan to host that event ourselves, having already received the blessing of the school's directors. Now we just have to figure out how to shoehorn up to 80 dancers and their families
into our modest home. Methinks the basement will come in handy for that. It will be fun for everyone to celebrate the end of another great run, especially for those of us cracked nuts who only won't be getting together till next year.
Emmett was asked to audition for this ballet, and he landed the role of 'party boy.' There weren't many options, tho, because most kids his age are girls, and most of the parts are for girls. Perhaps in future performances he could have a role in the second act, the one with all of the dancing marzipans and other candies. But for next year, he has his sights set on the part of 'rat' or maybe even 'Fritz,' the naughty lad who spitefully breaks the nutcracker in Act I.
The party scene calls for 6 sets of parents (including the hosts) and about 14 or 15 kids, half of whom are boys. Of course, in a school with an underabundance of male participants (as is often the case), many girls end up as party boys, and this year, Emmett is the only one with a Y chromosome in that role. The party moms are played by teenagers from the ballet school, but the party dads are volunteers like me who get roped into being (ok, who are dying to be) onstage for a few minutes. Party dads wear old-style tuxedoes and a few layers of makeup, and we look pretty snazzy except for our hats. These plastic top-hats could have been taken off the heads of New Years revellers at a TGIFridays, but they looked authentic from the audience. In general, the clothes are excellent; it turns out that the director's mother helped with them, which is a good thing because the Nutcracker uses over a hundred costumes.
Party dads don't rehearse much, but as the performance approached, it suddenly occurred to us that we have one objective: Don't mess up. The Bardavon holds over 900 seats, so in our three performances, we're seen by our friends, family, and about 2700 other people. So like all men in tuxedoes, our goal is to fit in. Happily, Saturday's matinee went well, emboldening us to think about making a few little touches to appear more realistic in the roles of Victorian-era men at a party. In my case, this meant taking a fellow party dad's advice to doff my top-hat before kissing the hostess's hand. I managed to remember this for that evening's show but forgot by the next day. Ah well, there's always 2007. Our confidence also allowed us to joke about making up back stories for our 2-dimensional characters.
My back story was this: I had had an affair with the hostess. Upon entering, I kiss her hand just a little too long, raising suspicion in the mind of the host. He glances furtively at my face in time to catch a gleam in my eye that confirms that the crumpled undergarments he found shoved hastily beneath his bed were indeed mine. He spends the rest of the party putting up a good face before the other guests and his children but makes a secret vow to challenge me to a duel as soon as he
can. As we shake hands at the end of the party, he holds mine just a little too long, stifling the urge to throttle me on the spot. I correctly interpret this to mean that he has uncovered my cockoldry and make a secret vow to get out of the country posthaste, as I am a coward of the highest degree. I'm not sure that these back stories were necessary, but they certainly took some of the stress out of a somewhat tense time backstage.
When Sunday's performance ended, I felt that mixture of relief and sorrow familiar to all performers. I was glad that we had all performed our roles admirably, but I was sad to lose the camraderie among the party dads. There is no cast party, but some of us felt the need for one. Next year, Shirra and I plan to host that event ourselves, having already received the blessing of the school's directors. Now we just have to figure out how to shoehorn up to 80 dancers and their families
into our modest home. Methinks the basement will come in handy for that. It will be fun for everyone to celebrate the end of another great run, especially for those of us cracked nuts who only won't be getting together till next year.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Keeping up with the Jones
SCRABBLE
I have a jones for Scrabble. I play about 10-15 games online each day, having amassaed a total of 4,600 games at ISC (the best internet Scrabble site). I study the Scrabble dictioanry on my rides to and from Manhattan (I just finished the Cs). I even have a Scrabble tattoo on my left arm. So it was frustrating that my move to New Paltz took me away from the NYC Scrabble club where I got my start in tournament Scrabble. I also found myself impossibly removed from the Long Island tournaments where I played as often as I could (tho usually no more than 3 times a year), usually coming in first or second place in the top division. I let my Scrabble News subscription lapse during our move. Since all of my opponents over the past 18 months have names like redsox2 and scrabmom, I started to feel like I was losing touch with real-life play.
A few weeks ago, I finally renewed my Scrabble News subscription (the paper had since become thinner, an apparent money-saver). To my happy surprise, there are monthly tourneys in North Salem, NY, about an hour from me. I was hoping to enter the tournament this weekend until I remembered that it conflicted with the performance of the Nutcracker that Emmett and I are in (more about that soon). I'm looking forward to the one in early January.
At ISC, I mostly play speed games. Under tourney conditions, each person has 25 minutes, but in speed games, it's about 4 minutes to a side. The computer automatically calculates score and keeps track of remaining tiles, but still, that's pretty fast. Not surprisingly, speed games are not as high-scoring as their slower counterparts, but they're still good for keeping my skills up, and they make tournament games much easier...a stroll in the park by comparison. I also like the fact that I can play my real life friends from time to time, and the chat feature means that we get to talk a bit during and after games. It's a nice way to keep up with the Joneses.
I have a jones for Scrabble. I play about 10-15 games online each day, having amassaed a total of 4,600 games at ISC (the best internet Scrabble site). I study the Scrabble dictioanry on my rides to and from Manhattan (I just finished the Cs). I even have a Scrabble tattoo on my left arm. So it was frustrating that my move to New Paltz took me away from the NYC Scrabble club where I got my start in tournament Scrabble. I also found myself impossibly removed from the Long Island tournaments where I played as often as I could (tho usually no more than 3 times a year), usually coming in first or second place in the top division. I let my Scrabble News subscription lapse during our move. Since all of my opponents over the past 18 months have names like redsox2 and scrabmom, I started to feel like I was losing touch with real-life play.
A few weeks ago, I finally renewed my Scrabble News subscription (the paper had since become thinner, an apparent money-saver). To my happy surprise, there are monthly tourneys in North Salem, NY, about an hour from me. I was hoping to enter the tournament this weekend until I remembered that it conflicted with the performance of the Nutcracker that Emmett and I are in (more about that soon). I'm looking forward to the one in early January.
At ISC, I mostly play speed games. Under tourney conditions, each person has 25 minutes, but in speed games, it's about 4 minutes to a side. The computer automatically calculates score and keeps track of remaining tiles, but still, that's pretty fast. Not surprisingly, speed games are not as high-scoring as their slower counterparts, but they're still good for keeping my skills up, and they make tournament games much easier...a stroll in the park by comparison. I also like the fact that I can play my real life friends from time to time, and the chat feature means that we get to talk a bit during and after games. It's a nice way to keep up with the Joneses.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Firehouse Reds
When we moved to New Paltz, I immediately decided to join the volunteer fire department. Back in my Manhattan days, I was an auxiliary cop for 5 years, but that was different. There are zillions of auxies in Manhattan, but there are fewer than 50 fire fighters here. I never figured out exactly why I joined the police force back then, but it certainly makes sense why I joined the NPFD. I've got free time, and I've got three kids. What if it's my house that's on fire one day? And really, what boy doesn't want to be a fireman when he grows up?
In fact, when I was three, my mom read me a Dr Seuss book about growing up that mentioned many jobs. I told her I wanted to be a policeman, a fireman, a doctor, an acrobat, ... finally I announced that I wanted to be an 'everything man.' Well, unicycling is close to acrobatics, and I've been an aux cop. I've tended many booboos, upset tummies, and some croupy throats, earning my daddy degree in doctoring. Firefighter was pretty much all that was left off my resume.
I met pretty much everyone at the fire department yesterday. The guys (and gal -- there is one woman on the force: you go, girl!) are great. The group gets together the first Monday of the month to discuss important issues like fundraisers, equipment, parades, and pizza. I was excited to be shown around the four trucks at the station house (there are more at the other station house, on North Putt Ave). I had the feeling that I'd wake up and be six years old again.
The expectation is that volunteers will show up for 100 to 150 calls a year, or about two or three a week. Since there are almost 900 calls a year, there is plenty to go around. Sure enough, while watching TV at 1:25am, my new pager went off for the first time. I felt the buzz and heard the dispacher announce that a fire alarm had gone off at a SUNY dorm. I rushed into some socks and shoes, threw on my coat, and drove to the station house. It turns out that SUNY fire alarms go off all the time for no good reason, and we never had to leave the building. I sat around chatting with two other volunteers before returning home just after 2 am. It was pretty uneventful, as are many calls, and I was glad that I got it out of the way. Emmett was happy this morning to hear that his dad is officially a fireman, but he does want me to keep my day job.
In fact, when I was three, my mom read me a Dr Seuss book about growing up that mentioned many jobs. I told her I wanted to be a policeman, a fireman, a doctor, an acrobat, ... finally I announced that I wanted to be an 'everything man.' Well, unicycling is close to acrobatics, and I've been an aux cop. I've tended many booboos, upset tummies, and some croupy throats, earning my daddy degree in doctoring. Firefighter was pretty much all that was left off my resume.
I met pretty much everyone at the fire department yesterday. The guys (and gal -- there is one woman on the force: you go, girl!) are great. The group gets together the first Monday of the month to discuss important issues like fundraisers, equipment, parades, and pizza. I was excited to be shown around the four trucks at the station house (there are more at the other station house, on North Putt Ave). I had the feeling that I'd wake up and be six years old again.
The expectation is that volunteers will show up for 100 to 150 calls a year, or about two or three a week. Since there are almost 900 calls a year, there is plenty to go around. Sure enough, while watching TV at 1:25am, my new pager went off for the first time. I felt the buzz and heard the dispacher announce that a fire alarm had gone off at a SUNY dorm. I rushed into some socks and shoes, threw on my coat, and drove to the station house. It turns out that SUNY fire alarms go off all the time for no good reason, and we never had to leave the building. I sat around chatting with two other volunteers before returning home just after 2 am. It was pretty uneventful, as are many calls, and I was glad that I got it out of the way. Emmett was happy this morning to hear that his dad is officially a fireman, but he does want me to keep my day job.
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