ReKINDLEd Love for Printed Pages

Am I a candidate for a Kindle purchase?

To get four textbooks from North America to here for another synchronous online classroom has put me in touch with:

-five different book distributors
-four separate couriers to bring the books at no cost.

To make these arrangements:

-loads of messages in two different e-mail accounts

So far:

-one missed deadline on a courier's departure
-one book listed but not in stock

What looks much simpler than my present craziness? Purchase the Kindle electronic reader, then go to Amazon.com and buy and download to the mobile device the textbooks* as pdf files.



But wait . . . and here a line from the movie "Witness" seems to fit:

"You're plain, John Book."

Book is a streetwise Newark detective brought by circumstances into a cultural clash with Eli Lapp, a wizened elder of a religious community known as the Amish. At Lapp's farming community where cows are milked by hand and homes are lighted by lanterns, Book and Lapp's grandson find refuge from corrupt cops bent on destroying the witness to a murder. Book too, becomes "plain" like the Amish.

Books are "plain"compared to flashy digital technologies like the Kindle a gal showed me in conversation at the airport several months ago. She told of its adjustable font size for easier reading. She displayed the lighted screen and mentioned the free books she'd downloaded. Shelves full of books, newspaper subscriptions fit onto a Kindle's memory.

Still, I am sporadically "Amish"on the world's techno wonders, liking the old ways. My love affair with pages began decades ago.

I face a growing list that needs to be transferred to a digital format: audio heirlooms (on cassette), Miles Davis jazz (on LP), radio productions and other prizes. (Some available from I-tunes, of course.)

Hopes ran high for a viewing method after I acquired some used, LP record-sized, digital-format disks of the civil rights movement in the United States. But I finally disposed of them, the information a prisoner of a short-lived technology. Our collection of VHS-format movies, well we still use those . . . for how long we don't know.

These technologies are from my lifetime. In contrast, my oldest book, by a pastor named Henry Ward Beecher, was published in 1854.

It still works as well as it did when it came off the press.

Book, I know you. I can judge you by your cover, in spite of the old expression that says otherwise. I open the cover and begin interacting with the content. The interaction is thorough; I use a highlighting pen.

Book, you are dressed in black and white.

Book you have no buttons.

Book, you are plain.

I like that.

(Just for fun, here is a video on Youtube called "Helpdesk in the Middle Ages." A similar one explains features of Book on this site for website visitors who speak Spanish.)



*none were available in Kindle format, although other textbooks are. Of 20 textbooks I´ve used over the last couple of years, five are available as Kindle books.

Of Volcanoes, Dinosaurs and Alerts

(photo: H. Schirmacher)

Now it is raining.

But recently, our wonderfully green neighbor, Mt. Pichincha, was burned black in places. I was reminded of days a decade ago when news dinosaurs like myself would update radio listeners about news, weather, and natural phenomena. Tongue in cheek -- well somewhat anyway -- I tried to be a pundit. I explored the possibility of politics affecting nearly any situation. So from my files, here it is:

SMOKE AND MIRRORS - OCT. 1999

With just the right angle, a mirror outside our studio door should provide an "on-air" view of Quito's slowly erupting volcano, Guagua Pichincha.

Why take the trouble to install a vehicle rear-view mirror visible by the morning show host? During our October 7th show, Guagua belched a 15-kilometer high vapor cloud that dominated Quito's western sky. Learning of it, our morning team immediately went to air with observations on the volcanic explosion.

In the last 13 months, we've grown accustomed to --even tired of-- experts' descriptions of the volcano's seismic activity.

And we've debated on what drives the alerts system. Could the alerts serve as a diversion? Was the Yellow Alert (and a more recent Orange Alert) a ploy to divert people's attention from Ecuador's economic crisis? Nature's wrath or human sleight of hand? (So you see "Smoke and Mirrors" fits after all.)

"Since new protests and strikes are coming, they're going to announce new eruptions," Alberto, a computer technician, predicted as he read a newspaper in Quito's tourist district. The October 1998 Yellow Alert came just as Ecuador faced massive strikes. Coincidence? Nearly a year later, the Orange Alert came as Ecuador defaulted on Brady Bond interest payments.

Discussing the volcanoes, we say partly in jest -- and what part I don't really know -- "It's just political."

But we don't say it about Tungurahua volcano, a hundred miles away. It's issuing fairly constant ash columns and throwing out incandescent rocks -- some as large as pickup trucks. Authorities quickly evacuated the tourist resort of Baños. Experts say of Tungurahua, "It's one mean volcano."

Quite honestly, there is enough happening in Ecuador's economy and on the political scene, that “these things happen” even while Ecuador's volcanoes burp, spit and spew.

As our fragile democracy here confronts one crisis, then another, volcano alerts merely coincide with one more trudging step forward.

Well, the morning host,Jeff, has strung mic cables up to the roof. Today we gave news and sports, volcano observations and an interview from "up on the roof . . . uhh, that's the 'High Tech Volcanic Monitoring Station'," he says.

Of course, he has to set the record straight. Otherwise it would be just Smoke and Mirrors.

Shortcake, Shortwave, Short Night

Tim, Ian and Ralph witnessed the end of an era of great shortwave

broadcasts from Ecuador. September 30 was the official final day,

but some broadcasts will continue through mid November.

Ken writes, "Just stepping on the property one knew that it was a special place."

Others declared that it was holy ground.

Whatever a person's viewpoint, these 130 acres of rolling green fields with a spectacular view of the perfect snow-covered volcanic cone of Mount Cotopaxi to the south were a single point from which shortwave radio programs could be beamed to the four corners of the earth."

Read "From Ecuador to the World," about the decades of shortwave service from Pifo, Ecuador. Ken's reflective writing on the Pifo transmitter site is found here. (In Spanish here, and in German here.)

Ralph writes, "Why strawberry shortcake?" you say.

A bittersweet experience maybe? (Naturally tart, strawberries -- like news you don´t want -- must be appropriately sugared.)

But the reality is that shortcake just happened, or as we say in Spanish, por casualidad. Tim wrote, "Just found strawberries -- will have short cake."

It was a cellphone text message. Appropriately enough, I suppose. We adapt to new technologies . . . rapidly or with less enthusiasm as we hit the learning curve. This little getaway on Pifo closing night, September 30, was planned entirely by text messaging:
SUNDAY SEPT 27
"When can I come and talk about Wedsday?"

"Come by right now."

ONE DAY LATER:

"Ian McF to pifo w us. When back?"

EVENING OF SEPT 30:

"Please pick me up at the compound whenver ur ready."

"Could take me an hour to unplug."

"Ok no hurry."

"Tell him 9745 to Mexico is on."

When Tim wrote about the strawberries, I wrote back "nice".








After the official closing date of Pifo (Sept 30) several languages continue, with the final, final end of transmissions there in mid November. Details are found here.

Getting the Story: "State of Play"

As the cursor crosses the the old computer's screen in a cluttered cubicle at the Washington Globe, all eyes are on investigative reporter Cal McAffrey at the keyboard.

McAffrey (Russell Crowe), and his colleague, Della Frye (Rachel McAdams) have pulled together the facts, connected the dots, and written the stories. A purse snatcher laying dead in the morgue had unknowingly grabbed much more than cash and credit cards when he pinched the attache case of McAffrey's fellow Pennsylvanian and friend, Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck).

McAffrey's boss, Cameron Lynne (Helen Mirren) pooh-poohs his theory initially, heaping scorn upon him and demanding coverage that is more instant, more attention grabbing, and yes, more superficial. Earlier, she'd given him and Della eight hours to tie it all together, then held off the Globe's press run for four hours more.

Racing the clock to prove that a sinister conspiracy is behind four murders, McAffrey and Della have scrambled to get sources to go on record . . . before they're killed. Throughout the spellbinding "State of Play", a shadowy assassin stalks witnesses and others to enforce secrecy.

The secrecy surrounds contracts with the Defense Department that are worth billions. Collins leads the congressional committee investigating the private security firm that has its CEO rolling in the dough.

Della's gossippy angle initially leaves it up to McAffrey to begin tying the seemingly disparate events together to unravel a web of power, money and murder. Della stays on the story, objecting as McAffrey crosses the ethics line again and again. Despite personality contrasts (as with Woodward and Bernstein's merged efforts to become “Woodstein” in breaking the Watergate story of the early seventies), together they build the investigative reports.

One reviewer compares "State of Play" to the intensity of a Bourne movie and I agree. The tensions are laid to rest as the newspaper's last story of the night goes to the page, the pages goes to press, the papers go to the trucks.

Journalism as it once was, as the closing song runs. The page negatives are shot, the plates are burned, the web-fed presses roll, the collator orders the pages. In the darkened theater, I remember that exhaustion of the wee hours (in a much, much smaller market).

“Put a candle in the window” say the closing song's lyrics - a 1970 rock/blues number “Long As I Can See The Light.”

Light. With radio rants from the right and left consuming our attention, we have a lot of heat. But does this journalism reveal dark secrets hidden behind the doors of power. Is there light? Meanwhile, major cuts are made to newsrooms. An earlier refrain of "profit" has been replaced. Now it is "survive".

With artforms sometimes telling a story more effectively than do business reports and balance sheets, floundering major newspapers should give away (they're already giving away their content, why not give more?) tickets to see State of Play.

We need to be reminded in yet another way, that journalism has historically contributed to democracy and is expected to continue doing so.

Plugged In Online reviews it here.

Jamall Finkley of Blacktree TV interviews Russell Crowe about journalism then and now (*includes one British expression some may find objectionable.)

Giving Thanks for our Home

Ralph has been begging me to write a blog, so here goes!

If you look back an entry, you will see a few pictures of our new place. As the day started, I was reminded of all the reasons I am so thankful to the LORD for it!

*Getting up this morning at 5:40, looking out the window into the dawn of a new day, I could see the glimpse of an inactive volcano in the distance!

*As I exited the front gate, I noticed our faithful street guard, in his little casita, only a hundred yards away.

*By the time I got back from my daily walk, the house was flooded with light. Oh how beautiful is the morning sun through spacious windows in every room.

*There are three full baths here, less crowding as we all prepare for the day!

*Each of our kids finally has his/her own real bedroom!

*Our work and the kids' school is a five-minute walk!

*I could hang the laundry right out the back door from the utility room, and watch it flutter in the wind as I did the dishes.

*As I write this at a laptop, there is room at this desk for another laptop and 2 oldies for word processing. Thanks to my dear husband and boys who constructed a long narrow desk so there's plenty of room for all the kids to be doing homework at once!

*The indoor garden helps keep the air clean from the pollution of the busy street a block away.

*Ralph finally has a quiet study to call his own. A refuge as he does homework for his masters level class and room for his vast collection of books!

Now I must move on to the “adventure” of grocery shopping. Perhaps I can return another day and fill you in on more reasons I am Thankful! -Kathy

A Very, Very, Very, Fine House

Eleven Lighted Churches on a 10K Run

This was a really fun evening run.

I took it slowly; most of the photos didn´t blur.

I hope these photos capture the festive, party feel of this 10k run through our historic city.

Members of a mountaineering club trotted the distance in full gear (one weilding an ice pick)
with their helmet headlamps on and roped together.

I ducked into a doorway quickly, asked about AA batteries, and Amelia quickly sold me a packet (she even had correct change.)

I always feel a magnetic pull to a band. I can't get past without watching awhile or snapping a picture. (Once I shot photos at a high school dance and most of the pictures were of the band, which didn't set too well with the yearbook editors.)

On Amazonas Avenue, the cheering crowds thin. But a drum corps compensated. Rhythmic energy emanated from the stage. I asked a bystander, "Tomback?" and she said "Si, es Tomback." I've included here a concert appearance they did a few years in France. 

White - Black - Gray

Likely tomorrow, a new frenzy of media chatter on Michael Jackson. He was born on August 29, 1958.

At Jackson’s death in June, Kathy and I - both pop music fans- placed a long play record (LP) on the turntable and listened to "ABC" and "I'll Be There."

More recently however, an old copy of the book, "Black Like Me" has turned our attention: the world obsesses on one whose skin was lightened; we are reading of one whose skin was darkened.

I first read it 40 years ago. In the year 1959, J. Howard Griffin used medications intended for sufferers (as Michael Jackson later became) of vitiligo. It is a splotchy loss of skin pigmentation. Griffin also spent time under a sun lamp. He shaved his head and shaved the hair off of his hands. His skin turned temporarily black.

Then he travelled about in the Deep South of the United States as an African American and was treated as a second class citizen.

Black Like Me excelled as first-person journalism, holding up a mirror to show a society its own “Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Sometimes we would rather look away . . . and markets-driven media know it. In June, Jackson’s death prompted a media stampede, revealing our diminishing news judgment and the declining scope of news coverage. Journalists still do the heroic, but the herd mentality can be both contagious and dangerous.

Fortunately social networkers in Iran used Twitter and blogs to keep before us an ongoing story of international import. Fortunately journalists were willing to risk those wayward steps into North Korea. Fortunately we have technologies to use in right and proper ways.

A Virtual --And Virtuous? -- Community

Does social networking create community? Does it promote healthy relations with other people?

With God?

Yes and no.

Using Twitter, you may now send a short prayer request to Israel. A young economist, Alon Nir, and his team will print it and stuff your prayer into the Western Wall in Jerusalem.

Community, I suppose.

A California teen, Alan Wright, has devised “A Note to God”, by which people would be able to pray using their I-phone.

Community, if you consider “other-oriented” or selfless behavior as a necessary element.

So much of it however, centers on self. “Like many of you, I reluctantly entered into the world of virtual social networking, primarily swayed by the argument that it would be a good way to stay in touch with friends and family,” writes David Sills on http://davidsills.blogspot.com/2009/08/tweet-tweet.html. “However, reading the Facebook updates and Twitter tweets that inundate the web through the day makes me suspect that their primary purpose is self promotion.”

Where is the virtual community taking the younger generation?

I watch our sons minimize the homework screen, pop up an online chat (multiple conversations, no less), then check on the status of a video that's loading, then go to homework. Can normally mono-tasking males be transformed by this media to multi-taskers who do everything all at once?

If -- and I have NO proof but just am wondering -- there is biological change in brain circuitry occurring, can the mental and spiritual remain exempt? Can media, which changed the way we look at candidates and national events with the advent of television, also modify the way we look at ourselves and how we posture ourselves before others?

Awhile back, a newspaper reporter and I were using e-mail to discuss the use of Twitter in journalism. Don also observed a "self-obsessed twist in the nature of Facebook updates . . . and Twitter that, over time, is unhealthy for society." I tucked it away, only to find the same observation amplified recently by Dr. Sills.

Our start point may be “I can ride my bike with no handlebars.”Will our claims about ourselves then morph into "I can destroy the planet in a holocaust."? No, because we do not become megalomaniacs overnight.

A likelier scenario: a much subtler, smoother slide to "hey, hey look at me!" And collateral damage in that slide: a loss of the fine art of listening, the discipline of meditation, the give and take of true friendship. Replaced by white noise of "everybody's talking at me; I can't hear a word they're sayin'" as Harry Nillson sang in a simpler day than ours.

We may also lose discernment, for it's awfully tough -even for multitaskers- to evaluate as we're pecking out our next Tweet.

You Done Broke My Heart . . . Uh Guitar

Guitars and communications – a couple of my favorite topics.

While I've held Taylor guitars in high regard I've only ever held one Taylor in my hands. And until today, I'd never heard of Dave Carroll.

After today, I hold both Taylors AND Carroll in high regard.

A songwriter, he tried for a year to get an airline to cough up for his Taylor guitar damaged on a Chicago-Nebraska flight.

After penning a country song “United Breaks Guitars”, the troubador and his bandmates hammed up a corny video*, already viewed nearly two and a half million times on Youtube.

Carroll also used his own website and Twitter effectively, as demonstrated by an Aussie, Lance Scoular.

In his staid deliver, Scoular chronicles the phenomena (I hestitate to call it a formula. Carroll did some things very right, but wannabes could now do - and and likely WILL do- the very same and get just 15 views.) Congrats go to Dave (a David of sorts), who brought the giant to heel, with faith in new media capabilities and letting go with a couple of stones.

The little guy can be heard against a giant, whether its United or the manufacturer of malfunctioning voting machines (another episode of new media, viral story travel and crowdsourced journalistic work).

But it is still not a replacement for newsrooms and professional journalists. There is too much injustice for that.

*a little warning that the Lord's name is used in vain early in the song.

Twenty-thousand Feet at 2,820 Meters

(Deep radio male voice, close mic position) TWENTY-THOUSAND FEET!

(Excess studio reverb) 10,000 RUNNERS!

THOUSANDS OF CHEERING FANS!

(Race noises up, then under) And a 15 kilometer race on cobblestone and on pavement, with the FINISH in the Atahualpa soccer stadium!!!

That’s the way it was likely promoted – the annual Ultimas Noticias run. The way it began was much more low key.

We and other runners rode in silence on the trolley. At the end of the line we walked in small groups, most of them talking among themselves.

We stretched and waited for the starting gun. Then after the race officially began . . . we waited even more. Ten-thousand people don´t cross the start line all at once.

The stories are important to me. A day earlier, I talked with Luisa and Gustavo while in line to get our singlets and shoelace time chips for the race. A year earlier, Gustavo had come up from Riobamba to run the race, so Luisa took him way down south for the race start.

“Well, we´ll see how I get home,” Gustavo casually mentioned. “I´ll go with you for awhile,” Luisa replied.

A ways down the 15k route, she decided to go further with him, then on a bit further.

And on and on . . . until they jogged right into the stadium in the north part of town. That was 2008.

Saturday June 6, 2009 they were picking up their race supplies for the Sunday race.

Gustavo is 83 years old.

And The Beat Goes on

My first drum restoration is underway. The bass drum shell is in good shape, considering its age. It is Made In Japan vintage from the sixties or early seventies. The wrap, though faded, was staying on. On the inside, one rib needed a bit of regluing. The lugs and tension rods were not pitted, and so cleaned up nicely with rubbing compound.










The inside mounting plate had rusted, but in Tim's shop I cleaned it up with his grinder/brush. It was nice to get back into the shop for a change.
Bought some claws on Ebay for $11. Andrew brought them. The one remaining drum hoop was pretty beat and after watching Ebay sales for awhile, I opted for a pair made in Ecuador. They used three coats of preservative, followed by four coats of car paint. $12 each hoop.
The new hoops are more of a royal blue, not blue sparkle. But they dress up the drum nicely. (Will put on the other one when I get a drum head.)

Make Me Thy Fuel

In a country church down a gravel road off Highway 75, it was time for a music special. I didn’t have a song; I had a poem. I stood at the front and recited “Flame of God” by Amy Carmichael of Dohnavur Fellowship.

From prayer that asks that I may be

Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,

From fearing when I should aspire,

From faltering when I should climb higher

From silken self, O Captain, free

Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,

From easy choices, weakenings,

(Not thus are spirits fortified,

Not this way went the Crucified)

From all that dims Thy Calvary

O Lamb of God, deliver me.

Give me the love that leads the way,

The faith that nothing can dismay

The hope no disappointments tire,

The passion that will burn like fire;

Let me not sink to be a clod;

Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

A couple of decades and a few thousand miles away, I am carried back to that time and those influences upon me. On Monday, I arrived for work only to learn that old-timer, John Munday, had died. Soon I had in my hands, Kay Landers’ biography of John, God’s Fuel.

The obituary written, the final story told. John’s threescore plus 10 (in this case plus 20) are gone. Who could ever count his legacy among orphans for whom he became a surrogate dad?

John’s death. A second event this month that helped me recall mission nudgings from my younger years.

You don’t need to do much to leave a legacy.

Just die.

Every day.

Just be God’s fuel.

Penned in Pain and in His Power

Though the woman in the bed had no choice but to be served, “servant of all” was still her watchword. One kind of service still open to Amy, when pain did not make it impossible, was writing.

The Servant as Writer, in "A Chance to Die, The Life and Legacy of Amy Carmichael"

Punch is needed in newsletters, for they seek to update donors, solicit specific prayer, and, we hope, help givers keep on giving because they know they have invested in work that is bearing spiritual fruit.

How is this done when a delicate health condition forces on you, confinement to a limited schedule of activities? How to write with spark and pzazz of human limits, solitary suffering, and seemingly unanswered prayers.

You begin, if you happen to be married, by telling of the work your spouse does. That's how Becky handled it in a letter I reviewed recently for her and her husband, Germán.

German does this; German directs that project; German has plenty on his plate of responsibilities.

Becky mentions her involvement with the ladies of the church German pastors, saying she will coordinate a women's retreat. Otherwise, the work and social hubbub that is reality for many of us who work together is to her, a foreign land. She is not seen stopping by for a few minutes to see German. Or working in the same complex. Her health does not allow her to be here.

Her presence however, was powerful in my office the morning I reviewed her letter. I sign off with the words that Becky wrote:

Still Waters Artist

Jesus,

When pain is a storm that my boat unmoors,

You turn my eye to still waters’ shores.

With artistic wisdom uniquely yours

You reweave the peace that my soul restores,

touching and teaching me through my tears,

lovingly lifting me from my fears

up toward the clearness of Son-lit spheres

where yours is the Music that my heart hears;

painting me portraits of divine Grace,

setting each detail into its place,

sculpting eternity’s Time and Space,

which some day I’ll share with You face to face.

The rage of the storm seems more faint and blurred

When all through your artwork your voice is heard.

I watch and I listen, my senses stirred

By a poem composed of the Perfect Word.

As power dances deftly at your command

And kindles the strength that I need to stand,

You draw me a map of your Father’s Land,

Where some day I’ll walk with You, hand in hand.

No, storms that unmoor can’t compete with You.

You hold me through all that the storms might do;

You steady my hope, once more prove it’s true

That You love me far more than I ever knew!

-Becky Rhon ©

(used with permission of the author)

photos: Ben

This Old Man, He Played

And he played and he played.

Continuing to play music, he celebrated his 90^th birthday earlier this month.

I returned to my old haunts and dug up an interview done in the mid 1980s during a song fest in Quito:

Please click here to listen to the 7-minute interview.

Ken: I’ve been a fan of yours for 20 years. I remember the music during Vietnam and the civil rights struggle. Do you feel that music – that 'protest music' as it was called – made any impact on policies and decisions of governments? Or was it a way to vent frustrations for those who found themselves opposed to policies?

Pete: I don’t think I could say for sure. If I didn’t think that music did something I wouldn’t still be singing. I love to sing but I would rather be home with my family o n the beautiful Hudson River where I’m fortunate to live.

But I do believe songs can help pull this world together. I think of music in the broadest sense – lullabies and love songs, and various sorts of hymns and serious songs, blues and laments.

It’s hard to say though exactly what effect they have. Of course one can go into history and find people saying they have an effect. Plato is supposed to have said way back . . . he’s the old Greek philosopher … that it would be very dangerous for the wrong kind of music to be used in the republic. It could destroy the republic.

Here’s my favorite - not original with Pete. He set it to music 50 years ago though.

A video version

Text is here.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose under heaven.

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep.

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together.

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing.

Turn, Turn, Turn.

Turned 90 on May 3. Pete Seeger.