Non-fiction day


Magic.  E-publishing is magic.

Until about half an hour ago, I had a “Kindle app” only on my Ipod Touch I-gizmo.  For most purposes, reading on the I-gizmo was satisfactory but lately I’ve been buying instructional books and I wanted to make notes.  Using the I-gizmo to read books from which I want to take notes is do-able but the screen keeps turning off while I type (and if there is an off-button for the auto-off function, I haven’t found it).  If I take notes from the books, I also have to flip back and forth between reading the I-gizmo and typing on the computer.  Because of this, I bit the bullet and clicked on the Kindle app for computers.  Actually, I only clicked near the Kindle app button to find out more, but whaddya know, I’d downloaded something.

Seeing that I’d already taken that first step in putting a Kindle app on my laptop, I kept on clicking.  The app-fairies did their bit and, within a minute, all my e-books were neatly lined up awaiting my merest click.

I know that we all take for granted the stuff that we grow up with, which for my generation would be

  • Marilyn Monroe, Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor
  • televisions,  tape recorders and party-line telephones
  • supermarkets, yellow margarine and tv-dinners
  • Snoopy, Dagwood and Alfred E. Newman
  • Disneyland, Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck
  • jet planes, the USSR and bomb shelters
  • Elvis, the Beatles and the Monkees
  • rock & roll, Dick Clark and teenagers (as a population demographic and not just as people older than 12 and younger than 20)

Just as all the above seemed as natural as air to me and my peers (but maybe not our parents), it seems as if the e-reading devices have been around for a long time.  In reality it has only been within the last decade or so that the computer capability explosion has magnificently rocked the amount of stuff — books, music, movies and games — made almost instantly available to customers.  The Kindle e-reader was introduced only in 2007.

I don’t know whether Hermione Granger could have conjured up dead-tree books any faster than my installation of the Kindle app, and if that’s not magic, [insert Harry Potter wand-wave] Publarium computatis!, I don’t know what is.

Breakfast again on the road (well, in the hotel prior to getting back on the road after Bouchercon) and I have to wonder why toast is not an integral component of egg breakfasts. Nut bread is the standard accompaniment at this hotel.

I’m used to the Americans not providing milk with tea (coffee creamer with tea is gross) and plunking down lemon wedges and honey, willy nilly, but no place we’ve eaten automatically offers toast to go with eggs. This makes me wonder if we’re the weird ones for expecting toast or if “it’s them“?

Do you expect toast with eggs?

I am developing an abiding hatred for invisible toggle keys on the keyboard. The program you’re using may tell you to “press X to use the keyboard shortcut to do Y” but it doesn’t tell you the “shortcut” of the key that turns that toggle key on and off.

I was happily using “insert” to create a new text box, all according to the drop-down box’s recommendation for the keyboard shortcut. An hour after I started work, all of a sudden the insert key will only make a zero (since the insert key is also the zero key in the number pad). I don’t remember striking the num lock button, but yeah, pushing it fixed the problem. Still, it was an interruption, an irritant and and an imposition.

I am so tired of the pile of learning curves between programs, between gizmos, and between iterations of gizmos. It’s like an hourly ‘learning of toilets’ on a European road trip: “how do you flush THIS one?!?!”

Okay, rant over, blood pressure returning to normal, time to get back to work.

(I’m enjoying alone time with the last of my tea from my room-service breakfast so I can finish a highly-useful course by Kris Neri that started before I left home and ends this coming week. I’m going to buy the CDs of the Bouchercon panels I’m missing — many thanks to the Bouchercon team posting pictures on Facebook to remind me.)

Just returned from walking around the Bouchercon convention area at the Cleveland Renaissance hotel.  I’m familiarizing myself with the hotel so that when the CROWDS are flowing and I’m drifting along between two (invariably) 6’5″ fellows who know where they’re going and we’re not there yet, I don’t wind up in Toledo.

I had a good time today with Nancy Pickard from my home Sisters in Crime group (Kansas) and about forty new friends.  Nancy taught a seminar, SinC into Great Writing, and many of us later agreed that we were happily surprised at the number of hints, tips and techniques she generously shared.

The icing on my cake was having my name drawn to win Nancy’s book, The Scent of Rain and Lightning.  She autographed it, too.

I must also thank my husband for doing my convention registration while I was listening to Nancy.  So far, I’m win-win at Bouchercon, and it doesn’t even officially begin until tomorrow.

Decaf tea still tastes like steeped fish scales.  I’d have thought that in over twenty years of production that manufacturers would have made some improvement.

  (1994, tea on the patio with May-ree)

That’s all.  Just letting off steam after breakfast.

Heat, heat, go away.

Let the rain come back to play.

I understand the people in Arizona and Texas routinely tolerate this kind of heat in the summer, but this isn’t the Southwest.  This is the temperate part of the western Midwest — see the trees in the background?  (they still look green, but they’re already losing leaves and I’ve seen dead trees among the stands of woods along the roadways)  The beige on the lower edge of the photo is the parched grass shaded from the midday sun by a pretty tall oak.

Please consider this post an official complaint to The Management — wherever that Management resides.  The humans may be deserving of divine wrath, but our trees didn’t do anything to anyone (other than the sweet gums planted in the wrong places and are ruining sidewalks, but they didn’t plant themselves).

Management, spare the trees.  Consider the wildlife.  Have mercy on the livestock.

We’re off for a short adventure from one side of the state to the other.  Yesterday morning we were west of the Mississippi, by supper we were east of the Mississippi.

After sitting all day, the grandkids were full of energy — I think they leached it from Poppa and me.  To burn it off, I ‘gave in’ to the pleas to go swimming.  I’d have joined them in the pool, but when I searched for my bathing suit while packing the suitcase, I couldn’t find it.  How does someone lose a bathing suit from a drawer?

Because of the lack of a suit, I played lifeguard from the side of the pool, prepared, at any moment, to fling caution to the winds and leap into four feet of water to pluck floundering children from the water.  I’m happy to say that me getting wet was never necessary.

But that doesn’t mean that me getting wet didn’t happen.

Today we’re off to see relatives and museum.   It might not be life in the fast lane, but, so far, it’s not life in the parking lot.

Whether I’m writing or not, I love research.  Or maybe I’m entranced because it’s just as Robert Louis Stevenson said, “The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.”  In any case, I’m off on a ‘characteristically’ new adventure — learning about spirits.  No, I’m not delving into the modern trend in spirits with vampires and such, but rather indulging the traditional writerly spirits — booze.

By way of background, since I’m not known for my taste in alcohol, I set off on this adventure because I was browsing a sale email from The Teaching Company (I am known for my taste in Teaching Company courses).  I was looking at the history, science, religion and museum courses when The Everyday Guide to Spirits and Cocktails (pictured above), caught my eye. “Hmmm,” I thought to myself, “that’s different.”

I read the description, but wasn’t sure I wanted to make it a permanent part of my collection as the last cocktail I drank was in 1975 — a Tequila Sunrise which, I found out in this course, is just a tequila screwdriver with grenadine.  I also learned that Tequila is a place, and that the heart of the agave plant from which the liquor is distilled is called a piña (which has nothing to do with a piña colada).  My research is already paying off.

I bought two courses I wanted more than this one, budgets being what they are, but the idea of learning what many adults already know wouldn’t leave me alone.  I was pleased when I checked the library’s website to find that the course was there.  I put it on hold, and it arrived quickly.  I took about a week or so to get around to watching it, but once I started I found the episodes engaging and watched them all, yesterday and today.

The one downside to making the course “interactive” was tasting the spirits. I tried whiskey yesterday and even though I only tasted the liquid still clinging to a spoon I dipped into each spirit, it seemed that the flavor stayed in my mouth for hours after.  I was surprised at the pervasiveness of both the smell and taste especially since the whiskey I had was Canadian and not one of the peaty brands.

Despite the clinginess of the flavor, I wanted to continue my education.  My husband and I went to a liquor store and bought a selection of the tiny bottles of liquor such as airlines use.  I’m not sure if the clerk believed me when I said I was buying all those little bottles for research.

Not all the recommended liquors were available in sample-sized bottles — to get potato vodka I’d have had to buy a 3-pack of fifths — but there were more than I expected.  I was lucky in that I do like cooking with some liquors (Calvados in apple crisp lends a sophisticated depth to the homey dish, and Wild Turkey gives pumpkin pie new flavor notes) so I already had a selection to taste — the taller bottles in the photo are my cooking liquors.

As for the character research, I now have in mind a sophisticated gentleman as a supporting character.  I’m looking forward to finding out whether his coworkers appreciate his cocktail gatherings and dinner parties. He is probably also knowledgeable about wine. Luckily, that course is still on sale.

An article at the Huffington Post puts into perspective something I wondered about, but didn’t know the particulars of — in Baden-Württemberg, our landlord’s father had a strong non-German accent because he was from Czechoslovakia.

The Expulsion Of The Germans: The Largest Forced Migration In History, R. M. Douglas, 25 June 2012

R.M. Douglas is the author of “Orderly and Humane: The Expulsion of the Germans after the Second World War” (Yale University Press, $38)

I always had a devil of a time when Herr E. would come over to the house to do some kind of maintenance.  His German was heavily accented and my conversational comprehension was a challenge to us both.  Luckily for me he was a nice man.  Our family jokingly called him the “garden gnome” because he was always weeding or planting, and he was a skilled gardener.  (the lawn mowing, though, was left to us)

I’m fascinated by other languages and have tried to learn something of any language I thought I’d need but, unfortunately, fluency in languages other than English is not my talent.  German is my ‘best’ language, but to go by the laughter of the nurse-nun who I called to complain to about my pain after being discharged from the hospital (and the grinning of my German-linguist husband who was listening in), no one will ever be asking me to make speeches to German audiences.  (the pain was transient and I only needed to wait it out)

Because Herr E. was retired and therefore acted as his son’s go-between with the renters, and because I was usually the person at home during the day, he and I were stuck with each other for household matters.  Conversations between us were sometimes a game of Charades as he tried to tell me whatever it was he needed to inform me about, and I listened as hard as I could to instructions about door handles, the furnace, and bleeding air from the radiators. To my credit, I don’t think I ever used the tactic of shouting to make myself understood, and I know he never did.

I’m saddened, now that I find out that Herr E. was probably deported under less-than-pleasant conditions from the place he considered his homeland.

Expulsion of Germans from Czechoslovakia (1946) Czechoslovak Film Chronicle  [YouTube]

He married and raised a family in Baden-Württemberg, but getting there can’t have been the happiest time in his life.

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