Tim's Brain

Saving the planet... Or not

2012-01-30T11:12:00.000-08:00

I read an article this morning that really got me thinking. In a recent issue of my local suburban Chicago newspaper, there was a story about a local author living in Westmont, Illinois, Joel Greenberg, and his campaign to raise awareness regarding the one-hundredth anniversary of the demise of a local species, the passenger pigeon.

Now you may be wondering why such an article would interest me. After all, there are a number of species that no longer exist, from the ancient dinosaurs to the more recent dodo bird, so what makes the passenger pigeon so special? The answer's simple, really... I'd never heard of the passenger pigeon!

True environmentalists (or simply those better informed about such things, including members of the Sierra Club, the Audubon Society, etc) are probably now shaking their heads at the appalling extent of my ignorance. As a matter of fact, anyone who grew up east of the Mississippi may be wondering if I slept through something they'd learned about in public school or on a grade school field trip. Unfortunately, I did not grow up in the Midwest, which is why this story interests me so much.

Generations ago, off the coast of my home state of California, literally billions upon billions of sardines swam in enormous schools. Steinbeck wrote about them in his novel "Cannery Row", and my paternal great-grandparents actually worked in the Monterey, California-based canneries that provided the basis for Steinbeck's novel. Every year, millions of sardines were pulled out of the Pacific Ocean, packed in oil, canned up in easy-opening tins and shipped across the globe. An industrial machine was created that sustained thousands of fisherman and cannery workers. California's sardine industry grew into such a powerful engine of wealth that, when the sardine market collapsed, it continued on, simply grinding the sardines into fertilizer instead of food.

The story of California's sardine industry is well known to me, but the surprisingly similar (and even more cautionary) tale of the passenger pigeon was not. As the article strikingly highlights, between 3 to 5 billion passenger pigeons once made their homes here in the United States, "their vast numbers when in flight stretching for miles and literally obscuring the sun." Initially viewed as a ready source of food for individual hunters, the massive numbers of passenger pigeons later inspired competitive hunts where, to win, hunters would have to kill 30,000 birds. The passenger pigeon even created an industry of sorts, where birds were hunted so that they could be shipped across the sea and sold for food.

Unlike the sardines off the coast of California, which now exist in significant (though hardly historic) numbers, the passenger pigeons are now completely extinct. Out of upwards of 5 billion birds and flocks that once "literally obscured the sun", not a single flock flies above our purple mountains majesty, not a single pair of wings takes flight above our amber waves of grain... Nor have they since the last bird died in 1914.

The 100th anniversary of this one American avian's demise is almost upon us, and I'm sure you can now see why author Joel Greenberg wants everyone to remember it... A date not to be celebrated, but rather remembered and reflected upon, so as to help prevent such a tragedy from ever occurring again. If you agree, please take a moment and help spread the story.

White Thanksgiving

2011-11-10T10:55:00.000-08:00

I was pelted with snowflakes during today's dog walk, a full two weeks before Thanksgiving. Growing up in Calfornia's Central Valley, I can recall Thanksgiving frost, Thanksgiving rain, even Thanksgiving tule fog, but never Thanksgiving snow. Since relocating to the Midwest some twelve years ago, White Thanksgivings have been something I've become accustomed to though, so much so that I was once inspired to write a completely original song about them...

White Thanksgiving

♪ I'm dreaming of a White Thanksgiving,
        Just like the ones we never knew.
                Where the turkey shivered,
                        The cranberry quivered,
And gravy congealed into glue. ♫

♫ I'm dreaming of a White Thanksgiving,
        With mittens on so I can't write.
                May your furnace not fail to lite,
And your next Thanksgiving be less white. ♪
               
By T.R. Nunes (c), 2000

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Control Room of Hell

2011-09-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on March 1, 2003, close to a decade ago. I'm re-posting it here today in honor of my dad's seventy-second birthday.

How close have you stood to Armageddon?

I'm now convinced that children always take their parents for granted, failing to appreciate the many trials, travails and hardships their parents go through to support them. It's human nature I suppose, not being able to truly appreciate someone else's circumstances, someone else's sacrifices, without having shared the same (or at least similar) experiences.

I must've been around eight years old when my dad first got the job at the glass plant. Up until then, from the time he was twelve years old, he'd worked for the local newspaper, The Stockton Record. Back then, The Stockton Record (now simply called The Record) was a family-owned business that, like many other family-owned businesses, looked on their employees as "family". And one shouldn't be expected to pay other family members all that much for a days work, right? After all, there were all those other intangibles that came along with being a part of the family, such as sharing the load, respecting your elders, exchanging gifts during the holidays and such. So it's not hard to imagine how "the family" at The Stockton Record felt when they heard about a certain plus-twenty year employee's communications with an institution called "a union".

Suffice it to say that my father found himself out of work after two decades of employment, with a wife, two kids, and no money coming in. Which, to illustrate my point about children failing to appreciate the trials and travails of their parents, was a situation my sister and I loved! For, while my father was forced to work up to three jobs at a time, including a graveyard shift driving a cab around Stockton, California, in the middle of the night (I hope I didn't scare too many people there), one of his jobs was just oh, so cool. During the afternoon and early evening (swing shift), he worked at a pizza parlor called "Boyces". Believe it or not, my sister and I had never even tasted pizza up until then, and it just so happened that, when a pizza (or two... or three) got burnt and they couldn't sell it to a customer, dad got to bring those burnt pizzas home! Yum!! While it may have been one of the lowest points in my father's life, his children sure appreciated the "silver lining".

Eventually dad landed a job at a local glass plant, where he ended up working (with the exception of a painful layoff period that lasted a year or two) for over thirty years, up until his recent retirement. Once again though, his sacrifices went unappreciated by his children for many, many years. I can remember feeling resentment for the most part, because he was either working too many hours of overtime (a seventy hour week wasn't all that unusual), or working swing shift, where he left before we awoke and got home after we were asleep. For years growing up, a "traditional family dinner" was an oddity reserved for Sunday evenings, elementary and junior high school concerts were attended by only our mother, and family outings with cousins and aunts were occasionally missing the head of our own family.

As an atypical teenager, I appreciated none of this. The stories of working in an "incredibly hot" factory were probably just exaggerations, as were the descriptions of the working conditions. I mean, everyone exaggerates, right?

Years went by, decades even, while my dad continued to work in that glass plant. I graduated from high school, junior college, college, got married, became a father myself, and still he worked in that mysterious place he complained and exaggerated about all the while I was growing up. Then one day, only five or six years ago, I was granted the opportunity, the gift, to step into Hell itself with my father.

I'd recently taken a new job with a technology company (who I still work for), and received a call to go out to a local glass factory to help with the roll-out of new laptop computers, a rollout that had gone completely awry. As it turned out, the glass company my dad worked for had a support contract with my new employer... Which is why, one bright, crisp spring morning in California's Central Valley, I found myself driving up to the gates of the plant my father had worked at (and still worked at) most of the years I was growing up.

Though I spent most of my time in the nicely air-conditioned office areas, where the managers in their suits and ties worked (and the computers I was hired to work on mostly resided), I also got to spend some time "on the floor" (i.e. the production floor of the plant), where the bending and fitting of windshields occurred, inventory was warehoused, equipment and machinery were maintained... Basically where most of the day-to-day work occurred. I also got to spend some time working in the nicely air-conditioned offices of engineers near "the float"... Or (perhaps more accurately) near 'the gates of Hell'.

Most people, myself included, spend their entire lives using products they have no firsthand experience as to the creation of. For example, up until that point in my life, I'd never seen how "flat glass" – the architectural glass used in buildings – was made, or how the "shield glass" used in automotive windshields was created. Oh sure, I new the odd bits about melted sand, silica, that most people know, but not the gritty, uncomfortable and [potentially]dangerous details that the people who make such glass live with every day.

For example, "the float", an unbroken ribbon of glass over a quarter of a mile long, actually "floats" on a river of molten metal, of liquid tin. Remember the last time you opened a tin can, possibly one holding canned fish or fruit? Can you imagine how hot it might be if it were molten? I know I never could, at least not until I actually saw it in person. One of the reasons the float was so long was to allow for the gradual cooling of the molten glass. Towards its end, where the glass was only hot enough to perhaps burn away your hand (e.g. instead of your entire arm or body), the clear ribbon actually moved along on metal rollers. And, because the float had to run continuously (else it would take literally weeks to get the process going again), if there wasn't an immediate need for the glass, the end of the float would lower, causing huge sheets of glass to come crashing down, only to be pushed all the way back under the float, under that river of molten liquid metal, to the furnace where it then could be re-mixed and melted once again.

I can remember standing there, near (though not too near) an "access point", a small little door made of heavily insulated steel and surrounded by firebricks, used for maintenance. The heat coming from the viewing port of that little door was unbelievably intense, as was the incredibly bright red molten material visible beyond. I half expected a little man with pointed horns and a pitchfork to caper out onto the red molten liquid and thrust his ancient weapon in my direction. Then I remembered the stories my own father had told as I was growing up, all the complaints and exaggerations, about working near (or even underneath), something called "the float" (dad worked in plant maintenance); About how incredibly hot it could get in the plant, especially on days where the temperatures in California's Central Valley exceeded one hundred degrees.

Standing there next to that float, sweating after only a few minutes and wincing from that Hell that could've instantly incinerated me if it weren't for less than a foot of protective material, I understood... As a father myself, a husband, a college graduate, a white-collar worker, whatever, I understood... All those stories suddenly had meaning, impact, and I could feel their truth trickling off my brow.

Before I finished up that job, I got to spend time in my dad's office in the truck shop, where he worked most of the time. I even got a lift from him once, from one end of the plant to another, on a little electric cart he had (boy, was that a wild ride!). Eventually, I also got to work in the control room, possibly the most interesting part of the entire factory. Sitting immediately underneath the main furnace, at the beginning/"head" of the float, the control room was where the entire process was monitored, adjusted, and maintained. Engineers with college degrees walked hot, concrete pathways to that room, the heat near the entry doors almost unbearable. Then they entered and found themselves in a cool, air-conditioned, white-walled room, filled with controls, gauges, computers, and other monitoring or control equipment. A simple mistake in that room, a dial turned a little too far, or the wrong set of numbers entered incorrectly, could affect hundreds of fellow human beings working outside of that heavily protected "white room". Just one simple mistake...

Thinking back to that control room, I now wonder... Perhaps we adults are no more appreciative of others than our children are of us? For I can think of other examples, other "white rooms", where a single action could result in catastrophic consequences to others. And, as was the case in that glass plant, the people "turning the dials" in those other "white rooms" often haven't experienced what their fellow human beings have, out there "in harms way", next to the "float", next to Hell on Earth. Would a little empathy help improve the decisions of our world's many "engineers", sitting in their cool, safe "white rooms"?

To be honest, I couldn't even hazard a guess. I will say this, though... Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the sacrifices, the hard work, the endless days. Thanks for "dancing with the devil at the gates of Hell" for your family. Thanks for everything.

Sweet Memories...

2011-07-05T12:11:00.000-07:00

...Seen through rose-colored glasses or tasted 'pon a spoon

Many long years ago, I dated a young woman who dearly wanted to impress her new beau. Following the age-old rule-of-thumb that the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the young woman prepared a sumptuous, English-inspired feast of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy, with an 'English' trifle for dessert.

Many long years later, that young woman and I recently celebrated our 26th anniversary. And, while I will refrain from hypothesizing as to what influence (if any) that first meal had on our future, I readily admit that I have never forgotten it. Which brings me to this past weekend...

Though my wife's trifle recipe has been lost for decades now, I attempted to make it again almost entirely from memory (with her guidance/clarifications, of course) this past Independence Day, changing just a few things to make it both [slightly]healthier and [mostly]lactose-free. And, as the 'early reviews' (i.e. the comments of my wife and her coworkers) have been largely positive, I decided to share the recipe here...

Tim & Kathy's low-fat 'English' Trifle *

Ingredients:
1 - Sara Lee Free and Light Pound Cake, partially thawed
1/2 c. Smucker's Strawberry Jam
1/4 c. orange juice
1/4 c. dry sherry
10 old-fashioned/dry-style (versus soft/chewy) coconut macaroon cookies, crumbled
1/2 pound fresh strawberries, rinsed, drained and sliced, w/stems removed
1 dry pint fresh blueberries, rinsed, drained and sliced, w/stems removed
1 - 5.1 oz. package instant vanilla pudding
3 c. Light Silk soy milk
8 oz. fat-free whipped topping, thawed but still chilled

Directions:
Partially thaw pound cake and cut into slices approximately 1" thick. Liberally spread strawberry preserves on cake slices, cut into cubes approximately 1" square, and spread to cover the bottom of a trifle dish or other container. Mix sherry and orange juice together and evenly trickle over the layer of cake. Evenly sprinkle eight crumbled cookies over the cake layer. Add a layer of blueberries and sliced strawberries. Wisk/slowly mix instant pudding and soy milk for approximately two minutes or until it starts to thicken slightly, then let chill for approximately five minutes more. Fold chilled/defrosted whipped topping into the partially set pudding, then pour the mixture evenly over the fruit layer. Crumble two more cookies over the top of the assembled/completed trifle. Chill an hour or more before serving.

Serves six to eight.

* Note: Loosely based on/adapted from a "Seventeen Magazine" recipe published in the late 70s/early 80s

I hope you enjoy the trifle as much as we did... And that it becomes your own 'sweet memory'. ;-)

Dog Days

2011-07-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

Inspired by an errand in the car with the dog

Human (in the driver's seat):

... and he's putting on his brakes, better slow down... Watch the curb on the right... Damn, going too slow... Try to stay in the center of the lane... Jeez! Watch it, asshole!... Damn, now I'm going too fast... Wow, check out the ass on that jogger... Damn! Stay in your lane! Stay in your lane!...

Dog (in the back seat, head out the side window, watching a park pass by on the right):

Tree!

...

One Day 'Off'

2011-06-20T19:09:00.000-07:00

Those who know me (especially those who know me well), appreciate that I'm a little 'off'.

I've often wondered why it is that I am the way I am, generally coming to the conclusion that my personality is largely self-inflicted. Growing up on the eastside of Stockton, California, in a neighborhood with no other kids my age, my best friend from an early age was myself. As a child, I fished alone at the local diverting canal, watched TV alone, read books alone... I even practiced the sax alone, after picking up the family instrument at the tender age of nine.

Later in life, I continued to follow my own muse (so to speak), leading a church choir few thought I could lead, playing an instrument few now appreciate, using a computer few others used, writing poetry and prose few ever read, recording songs few would hear. For more than four decades, such solitary pursuits were the method to my madness, the modus operandi of my id... Until today. Today I came to a realization that upset all my prior assumptions......

I was simply born one day off.

I was born on July 13, a day like any other. It was simply the day I ate cake and blew out candles each year, in the company of my immediate family and (on rare occasions) a few cousins or the odd schoolmate. As a matter of fact, the date held little added significance until my sophmore year of high school, when I met someone who would become my best friend... Someone who, oddly enough, was born exactly one year and a day after I was.

Steve Childress was a fellow 'okieville boy' (Okieville being the nickname of the unincorporated neighborhood where we both lived) who grew up approximately four or five miles south of my parent's east Stockton home. Both band geeks, we didn't meet until we were attending Franklin High School together back in the late 70's, as our geographical separation meant we attended different elementary and junior high schools. I'll avoid revisionist history by falsely claiming that Steve and I were ever inseparable, but he honestly was my closest friend in high school... A friend who was born on July 12... As was another friend from high school... And a friend I met after high school... And a close in-law I met after that. All told, more of the people I hold dear share July 12 as their birthday than any other... Just one day apart from my own... Just one day 'off'.

Steve never seemed to mind my being a little 'off' though, which is perhaps one of the reasons we became friends... For a few years, at least. And it's because of his impending birthday that I was reminded of one warm day in October, 1993 when, as the interim choir director of First Presbyterian Church of Tracy, Calfornia, during an AIDS Awareness service, I eulogized my late friend as follows (Note: I've left the copy as I originally wrote it back in '93, typos and all) ...

Good Morning.

I'd like take a moment to talk about a very close friend of mine. Those of you who attended my wedding, in this very church in the summer of 1985 may remember him, as he was my best man. His name: Steven Childress.

Steve and I met in the fall of 1979, at Franklin High School in Stockton. Steve was just starting as a Freshman, I was a sophomore, and we met through our joint involvement in the music program.

The two of us were a study in contrasts:

- Steve was what some would have called 'clean cut'. I, on the other hand, had long hair and smoked.

- Steve was an Eagle Scout. I had 'left' the Boy Scouts before making the rank of Tenderfoot.

- Steve not only attended church on a regular basis, he helped with the choir at his church, as well as playing both the piano and the organ. I myself did not attend church at all (even Christmas and Easter).

- Steve was the most exceptionally talented musician I ever met, or had the pleasure of playing with. Any instrument he had a desire or a need to play, he easily picked up in a matter of weeks. In the few years we were in high school together, he was asked to play the Piano (as well as various synthesizers), the Trombone, the Oboe, the Bass Clarinet, the Baritone, as well as several other instruments I'm sure I'm forgetting, all of which he did quite easily. I, on the other hand, had to struggle to learn any instrument, as well as spend a great amount of time doing something Steve generally didn't need to do: practice.

In the fall of 1990, at the age of 26, Steve died of AIDS. The following hymn was one of his favorites.

I forget which of Steve's favorite hymns I sang that day, a fact that pains me to no end. I haven't forgotten him, though... Nor will I ever forget any of the other friends and family I later met who share his birthday, and who also forgave me for being a little 'off' (and yes, I still remember who you are). ;-)

Food for the Soul

2011-06-02T17:08:00.000-07:00

In the movie, "Pay it Forward", Haley Joel Osment plays a young boy who, inspired by a teacher (played by Kevin Spacey), commits to trying to make the world a better place. You'll need to watch the movie or read a review for more detail but, suffice it to say that Osment's character seems to sincerely want to help others, purely for the joy of doing so. It's a wonderful perspective, even a biblical one. Unfortunately, I'd be lying if I claimed that's why I volunteer my time or gelt.

I've volunteered for a number of charities over the years, including the local food pantry, as a reader of textbooks for the blind or those with learning disabilities, at the local homeless shelter, and as a e-mentor for an IBM program called Mentorplace. My choice of charities reflect both my own comfort level (e.g. my educational background, reading ability, love of cooking, etc) and a desire to improve the world my family and I live in, and the world my daughter and other young people will inherit. Still, it's the way volunteering makes me feel that is likely my driving factor. It's all about me, me, me after all... Which certainly isn't something to brag about, but I'd be a complete hypocrite if I claimed I was earning my way to paradise. As it is, I'd be happy for a window air conditioner in Hell. ;-)

Which brings me to the events of the day, and the inspiration for this blog. As a volunteer cook for the local shelter, I spend a few hours each month shopping for ingredients and preparing a dish to feed ten to twelve people (the shelter typically has fifty to seventy clients, but a number of other volunteers prepare dishes as well). Some months it's a salad, other months it's a dessert... And tonight it was a main dish... A rather labor intensive main dish (approximately three hours of preparation/cooking time, not counting shopping or delivery). Still, I felt pretty good about myself all the way to the shelter and in the car after... Until I drove past all of the clients standing outside of the shelter on my way home. Young and old, men and women just like you and me... People who, but for the grace of God, could be us.

If anything I've written here inspires someone to volunteer, that's wonderful. As a matter of fact, that's how I rationalize sharing the news of my volunteer work. I've often said that it's possible someone might read or otherwise hear about something I've done and decide to step to the plate themselves... As there are far more people in need than there are volunteers to meet those needs. The truth is, though, that I share what I do because that makes me feel good as well... Which, again, may not earn me that window air conditioner in Hell I'm striving for, but at least it's honest... Dammit. ;-)

That said, and without further ado, here's what I prepared for tonight's shelter meal... Which I sincerely hope the clients enjoyed, at least as much as I enjoyed making it.....

Tim's Teriyaki Stir-Fry over Confetti Rice*

Ingredients:

Chicken & Stock:
2 lbs. chicken thighs
2 lbs. chicken breast halves
8 cups water
2 tsp. kosher salt
1/2 tsp. freshly ground pepper
1/2 tsp. thyme
2 carrots, sliced
4 celery stalks, sliced
1/2 large sweet onion, quartered
4 bay leaves
1/8 c. reduced sodium teriyaki sauce

Confetti Rice
1/2 large sweet onion, diced
1 red sweet pepper, diced
5 1/4 c. chicken stock[see above]
3 c. Uncle Ben's brown rice, uncooked
3 tblsp. Fleishman's unsalted/lactose-free margarine

Teriyaki Stir Fry
PAM cooking spray
1 & 1/2 large sweet onions, halved & quartered (e.g. bite-sized)
2 green bell peppers, cut into 1"-1.5" pieces (e.g. bite-sized)
4 cloves garlic, minced
1 fresh pineapple, sans skin or core, cut into 1"-1.5" pieces (e.g. bite-sized)
+3 lbs. parboiled/marinated chicken[see above], cut into 1"-1.5" pieces (e.g. bite-sized)
1/8 c. reduced sodium teriyaki sauce
1/8 c. reduced sodium soy sauce
1/8 c. sesame oil

Directions (Day One):
Combine all the "Chicken and Stock" ingredients except the teriyaki in a pot, bring to a boil, then reduce to simmer for thirty minutes. Remove from heat, strain and refrigerate chicken stock, discard all other non-chicken ingredients, remove chicken skin, remove chicken from bones (preferable in bite-sized pieces), and discard chicken skin and bones. Place parboiled chicken pieces in a container or bag, add teriyaki sauce, and allow to marinate overnight.

Directions (Day Two):
Remove the chilled chicken stock from the refrigerator, skim the solidified fat off the top, discard or set aside any stock in excess of 5 1/4 cups, then combine with the rest of the "Confetti Rice" ingredients. Bring to a boil and then simmer for approximately thirty minutes (or until all moisture is absorbed by the rice). When done, pour into the bottom of a large, foil lasagna pan.

With fifteen minutes left on the rice timer, liberally coat a large skillet or wok with PAM cooking spray and place over medium-high to high heat until you can smell the oil and it's slightly changed color. Throw in the onion, bell pepper, and garlic, and cook, stirring constantly, until the bell pepper is slightly tender and the onion is just starting to get translucent (approximately four to six minutes). Add in the rest of the ingredients and cook, stirring constantly, until the sauce starts to thicken or the pineapple starts to cook (approximately four to six minutes). Pour over rice and serve (or cover in foil, deliver, place in warmer, and serve within the hour).

Serves ten to twelve.

* NOTE: The "Chicken and Stock" step of this recipe is largely based on Better Homes & Garden's "Stewed Chicken" recipe.

Recycled

2011-03-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time...

I recently took a personality survey. I typically don't take such things unless forced to, as I last was twelve years ago at a leadership seminar. That particular survey had been the Myers-Briggs, a survey focused on personality traits that [supposedly]indicate leadership ability. The Holland survey I took the other day was specifically designed to help students select complimentary careers, and I took it in support of a Chicago Public School's student I'm currently mentoring. I mention all of this because the result of the Holland survey, "artistic", was somewhat ironic when taken in the context of this morning's events. You see, this morning I recycled a significant part of my past... A past founded in Information Technology (IT), which some might argue is anything but artistic.

I once wrote a blog entitled "Career Day", wherein I detailed how my first computer, a Coleco ADAM, set me on a path that eventually led to my career in IT. Everything in that past blog was true, though I omitted certain finer details not related to my ADAM. One such detail relates to another computer that also contributed significantly to my career path... My Atari ST.

After graduating from college so deeply in debt I was unable to do my student teaching, I worked in several 'blue collar' jobs, the last of which was as the rental manager for a Bobcat tractor dealership. That job was an extension of my college job as an appliance parts clerk at Sears. I started at the Bobcat dealership as a parts clerk, then accepted a promotion (of sorts... A salaried position with no overtime) to rental manager. Unrelated to the new job, I'd also bought a new computer while working at that Bobcat dealership... An Atari ST.

The ST, like the Commodore Amiga, was based on the same microprocessor as the original Apple Macintosh, a Motorola 68000. Unlike the Mac though, it had a color display... And, unlike the Amiga (at least initially), the ST had both a Mac and a DOS emulator. It was via my ST that I learned how the Apple System/Finder operating system (OS) worked, and also how to use common DOS commands. Such knowledge built upon the CP/M OS experience I'd gained using my ADAM, which then made me the de facto 'go-to guy' for system administration tasks at the Bobcat dealership where I worked. If a problem arose with the DOS-based Melroe DealerNET PC, I fixed it. If new devices needed to be configured/defined on the dealership's IBM System/36 mini-computer, I took care of that as well. I even gained my first network cabling experience there, learning how to solder connector pins onto IBM Twinax cables.

In other words, my experiences were recycled. My early experience with multiple operating systems provided the basis for my later understanding of Unix/Xenix/Linux, OS/2 and Windows. What I learned while networking the System/36, I built on to learn and support Netware, OS/2 LAN Server, NT, LocalTalk, Arcnet, Ethernet, Token Ring, etc. Each experience provided me with the 'raw materials' with which to build an understanding of the next technology... And then the next. And many of those experiential 'raw materials' were learned, or 'mined', on my second computer, my Atari ST.

Which brings me to the sad events of the day. Unused and collecting dust in my den, my ST was but one example of the mountains of clutter I've accumulated over the years... Old and obsolete monitors, hard drives, cables, expansion cards, PDAs, joysticks and mice... Boxed and bagged up in the basement or otherwise taking up space on desktops or in hutches. And old computers lacking basic Internet connectivity aren't exactly in high demand. Which is why today I packed up all the boxes and bags into my Civic, along with the system that gave me so many hours of enjoyment and provided me with experiences I'm still building on to this day, and drove all of it to the Village's recycling center.

I know it was the right decision, a small but significant bite out the suffocating 'elephant' of clutter that surrounds me. Though my trusty old ST still functioned perfectly after all these years, it was simply an obsolete, inanimate object after all. I still can't shake the feeling of guilt I've carried with me all day though, ever since a recycling center employee dumped my ST into a bin of other electronic flotsam and jetsam, like so much old garbage... Which, again, I realize most people would rightly consider it to be.

Logic aside though, I still feel like I've killed an old friend... A friend who helped me become who I am today... And a friend I'll never, ever forget.

A Creation Care Sunday Devotional

2011-02-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

NOTE: This devotional was written to be presented during an upcoming Creation Care Sunday service in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, where my church's Earthlings group will be distributing free battery recycling containers and accepting donations for reusable bags, rain barrels, bee houses, and other environmentally-focused projects.

Good morning, everyone.

This morning, I'd like to share a few words about Creation Care, and why it's important to me. Let me start off by sharing that devotions don't come easy to me. You see, my faith is an intensely personal, intimate part of who I am. Such feelings have always made it challenging for me to evangelize as scripture calls us to do… Which is perhaps why I became active in church service.

Starting with my ordination as a deacon of First Presbyterian Church of Tracy, California many years ago, I've never felt the same discomfort evangelizing through service versus word. I guess I've always simply appreciated how blessed I've been to be offered the opportunity to serve others and make a difference, in small but important ways, a blessing received through the grace of my various church families. Whether delivering Thanksgiving baskets to the underprivileged of Tracy, California, or serving those in need at Hessed House in Aurora alongside fellow members of Knox Presbyterian Church of Naperville, such opportunities have reinforced the importance of my church families both to me personally, as well as to our greater communities at large.

As members of First Presbyterian Church of Glen Ellyn, we're blessed with a wealth of service opportunities. From assisting with worship to helping staff our PADS shelter, or participating in our church's many other ministries and missions, our church family offers each and every one of us opportunities to serve God, our congregation, and our community in ways that best suit who we are as individuals, or where we are in our own personal, spiritual journeys. One particular opportunity I'd like to share with you all today, on this Creation Sunday, is that of Creation Care.

To me, Creation Care is very similar to serving my fellow humanity. For service to our world is service to all, as we each share this wonderful gift our creator has bestowed upon us, this Earth. And, as we all share the many blessings of our creators gift, from the planet's natural beauty to the bounty of it's harvests, so too do we share the responsibility of it's stewardship. Practically every decision we make on a daily basis impacts the world God's gifted to us, from the transportation choices we make to the things we buy, how we chose to dispose of life's castoffs to how we help nurture our natural surroundings. All these things and more have a significant impact on the world we share and the lives of those who follow.

With that, I would like to personally invite each and everyone in attendance today to accept the heartfelt invitation of the Earthlings of First Presbyterian Church of Glen Ellyn to participate in this, our congregation's Creation Sunday. As you leave today's service, you'll find a number of tables set up in the Welcome Center with fun and informational items (some of which are FREE) that you and your families can use to thank God for the many wonders that surround us.

In the words of John Calvin, “...let everyone regard himself as the steward of God in all things which he possesses. Then he will neither conduct himself dissolutely, nor corrupt by abuse those things which God requires to be preserved. …The creation is quite like a spacious and splendid house, provided and filled with the most exquisite and the most abundant furnishings. Everything in it tells us of God.” Let us remember those words and our shared role as creation's stewards as we exit the doors of our church today and step out into the grandeur that is, perhaps, God's greatest gift... A gift that both enables and encompasses life itself.

Thank you.

An Open Letter to Illinois State Legislators

2010-11-15T14:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Illinois Representatives & Senators,

I am one of your constituents in Lisle, Illinois. I am writing to you today to encourage your support of Senate Bill 1716, House Amendment 1, and civil unions. As a long time resident, I love living in Illinois, a state with a rich heritage for doing the right thing. Illinois has set an example for other states time and again throughout its history, as exemplified by the underground railroad, President Lincoln, the sacrifices of tens of thousands of Illinois servicemen and women spanning eight different wars, the part of Chicago activists in achieving labor reform and an end to segregation, and more. Your own service in Springfield exemplifies that your passions for Illinois far exceed my own. Which is why I sincerely believe you'll share my desire that Illinois continue to set an example by legislating support for civil unions. Just as Illinois' largest city became known as "The City of Broad Shoulders" because of its near-Herculean industrial accomplishments, so too can the state of Illinois continue to be known for progressive thinking that includes rather than excludes, unifies versus divides, and proves that together, nothing can stand in our way.

Sincerely,

Timothy R. Nunes
Lisle, IL

Thoughts of 'Tits'

2010-08-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

Teenage memories of a well-endowed American beauty

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to WrittenByMe.com back in 2001, almost a decade ago. I'm re-posting it here because of a recent comment of my sister's, which then reminded me of an old 'acquaintance' from long ago.

She was gorgeous, a golden all-American beauty... Tall, lithe, with small pert breasts, a sixteen year-old's dream. I've been thinking of her quite a bit lately, especially since finding a new mistress this past spring. My new love is Italian, a golden beauty as well, though much younger, more petite, and, uh, less 'well-endowed'.

I was a sophomore in high school, struggling to play 'the family instrument', an ancient tenor sax. My uncle Eugene, my dad's oldest brother, had bought the sax back in the late forties from a long since defunct little music store in downtown Lodi, California. The horn was a Buescher, made back in the mid-thirties, and I considered it to be something of an eyesore growing up. When I entered the forth grade and was finally old enough for band, my parents bought a new case for 'The Buescher' and sent it, and me, off together on the bus for school.

Ours was a 'love-hate' relationship from the very start. I'd complain that the instrument was too hard to play, too difficult to blow, but would never practice the hours I was supposed to... "It's old, breaks down all the time, and then has to be fixed" I'd say, failing to mention the many times I'd taken a running start and slid on the case all the way across the lunch room floor of Fillmore Elementary.

My whining pretty-much continued until my sixteenth year, when my sister helped change the situation completely. She, unlike me, was (and still is) an accomplished musician; A piano/keyboard player, a bass player, a composer and arranger, who today holds a master's degree in music. Back then she was an aspiring pianist in the high school jazz band who needed a new instrument to take to gigs, an instrument my parents ended up buying her... a brand-new Fender Rhodes electric piano. It was the perfect opportunity... If she could get a new instrument, why couldn't I?

Though I felt I held the 'high ground', I was still surprised when my dad, a man forever frugal to a fault (the new Rhodes is still a partial mystery to me), actually appeared to give in. He took me down to our local music store, Bill's Music on Harding Way, in Stockton, California where we lived, and we talked with the owner, Bill Magellan, about tenor saxes. Bill was almost my downfall, as he'd been a sax player himself, had tried The Buescher, and thought it a fine horn. Still, I was determined to replace that scratched up old horn with something nice and shiny, so we were shown the new student instruments, all Conns, untouched polished brass and mother-of-pearl glittering in sapphire-blue lined cases. We were also shown one other horn, a slightly older, semi-professional model I immediately fell in love with, and later nicknamed 'Tits'.

The sax itself was a tenor, also made by Conn, but an upgraded 'Artist' model, with beveled keys and improved action. I'd love to say that the horn's quality was what impressed me the most at the time, but that really wasn't the case. The feature that stood out to me (so to speak) those twenty-two odd years ago was the engraving on the front of the bell, of the nude bust of a woman. "I'd be the only guy in school to have an instrument with TITS on it!", I remember thinking to myself. Needless to say, I was sold, and my father, the man under whose tutelage I gained my early appreciation of the female form, seemed as equally impressed.

Abandoning the old family instrument to a dark closet somewhere, I took that new and sexier horn a lot of different places... On high school jazz band and choir tours across California, Oregon, and Florida, and later on the road with GoldRush, the Top-40 lounge band I joined in my senior year of high school, playing in bars, clubs, and on military bases across four states and two countries.

A year or so after getting married, in our first house and so deeply in debt that each day felt like we were but a breath away from bankruptcy, I had to sell 'Tits' to help pay some bills. She ended up being bought by a music teacher from Holt, California, who needed instruments for the San Joaquin County Schools music program.

While I'm enjoying my new Italian beauty, a professional alto sax made by Grassi that I picked up in May and played this summer in the local community band and community jazz band, it's not the same. The action's superb, the tone (even from a hack like me) vibrant, her brass and mother-of-pearl shiny and new... Still, she's a little too 'flat-chested' for my tastes, leaving me to wonder if there's another obnoxious sixteen year-old out there, back in San Joaquin County, who's just been assigned his school instrument, has removed it from the case for the first time, and discovered that he's already 'made it to first base'.

The REAL Marcus Welby, M.D.

2010-08-06T14:08:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, Dr. Guey C. Mark retired and closed his practice in my hometown of Stockton, California. The local paper published an article on his retirement and, as he'd been my family's doctor since I was six years old, I felt compelled to write the following OpEd piece at the time (which can also be read in it's edited/published form)...

To the Opinion Page editor(s) of the The Record,

I am writing to address an inaccuracy in a recent Record article entitled "Doctor to retire after 50 years". The article, about the career of Dr. Guey C. Mark, stated that Dr. Mark and his wife "...raised three children in Stockton...", a fact I know to be patently false. Why? Because Dr. and Mrs. Mark helped raise a great many other Stocktonians, myself included.

Growing up in Stockton in the 1960s and 1970s, it wasn't Marcus Welby, M.D. or some other fictional character who defined for me what it meant to be a 'family doctor', it was Dr. Mark. When my sister or I were sick or injured, my parents called Dr. Mark. And when my parent's phone calls led to a doctor's visit, that doctor's office was warm and friendly, with children's books in the lobby and a friendly smile and lollipop to assuage childhood tears after.

Even as an adult, Dr. Mark remained an ever comforting and reliable presence in my life. Driving home from the airport after a business trip, it was Dr. Mark at the other end of a late night cell-phone call, directing me to the emergency room during an attack of appendicitis. And just a few years ago, long after moving away from Stockton, it was Dr. Mark and his wife who looked up ancient shot records from the 1960s and mailed them to me, so that I could enroll in graduate school.

Dr. and Mrs. Mark, deserve my heartfelt gratitude, along with the gratitude of a great many other Stockton children whose lives they helped nurture and enrich over the years. The care we received helped define who we became, who we are, just as sure as if our last names had been "Mark".

Sincerely,

Tim Nunes

Lisle, IL

Though several years have passed since Dr. Mark's retirement, and it's been more than ten years since I moved away from Stockton, hardly a day goes by when I don't think about him. Like dear relatives or close friends, Dr. Mark's care and council were ever present as I was growing up, became a part of the child I was, the teenager and adult I grew into, and the man I am now.

Which is why it hurts so much to know that Dr. Guey C. Mark, doctor and councilor, mentor and friend, Stockton's very own Marcus Welby, has passed away. I just received the call from my mother a few moments ago. I've also read his obituary which, though it very effectively communicates Dr. Mark's numerous accomplishments and impressive statistics, falls far short of communicating anything personal about the man himself... Of strong hands and a gentle disposition, serious advice tempered by a ready smile, or eyes that always seemed to glimmer with warmth and humor.

The City of Stockton, the State of California, this country and the greater planet we all share are all a bit poorer today with Dr. Mark's passing. And I... Well... I've lost a part of myself. I'll survive of course, partially due to the strength instilled in me at a very early age by a certain doctor... But not without experiencing pain only time can heal, and shedding tears no prescription can treat.

Farewell, Dr. Mark. To quote the Tao, "A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step". I wish you well on your new journey, and hope we meet again at the end of mine.

Dear Director...

2010-05-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

An open letter to Maryann Flock

Dear Maryann,

Hard to believe that we, the Concert Band of Benedictine University, have completed yet another school year, yet another graduation ceremony......

This year was my tenth as a community member under your direction, though it seems like yesterday when we first spoke. I can still remember my wife telling me the name of the stranger on the line as she passed me the phone, how you explained that you'd been given my name by another community musician and wondered if I'd be willing to pick up my clarinet again for the first time in almost twenty years.

Since that fateful day back in August of 2000, I've had the honor of learning under your direction, just as your many students have. And, while I have no doubt you've helped me grow as an amateur musician as I fumbled through whatever woodwind parts you needed covered, my growth has been nothing compared to the transformation of your students, year after year, for more than a decade.

Every Fall, fresh young faces arrived, looking for guidance and encouragement, unsure of what their new college experience might entail. And every Fall, the transformations began... Aided by a teacher who offered a ready ear and realized that listening can impact learning more than tutorials or lectures; a teacher who attended her student's games and cheered them on; a teacher students knew was only a cell phone call away; a teacher who, year after year, sent graduating seniors off on their next adventure with more than a diploma; a teacher who'll be remembered far beyond the band room, as the former 'fresh faces' leave the confines of Benedictine University as confident, young adults.

Considering the positive impact you've had on so many of Benedictine's finest, it's amazing to consider in hindsight all the many challenges you've taken in stride, refusing to allow adverse situations to negatively impact the lives of your students. My own recollections include a director who barely took time for a quick sandwich between back-to-back rehearsals, who lead past BU ensembles in St. Patrick's Day parades in the freezing cold, who directed concerts while eight months pregnant, conducted on stages so dilapidated you had to watch for the holes, and who kept a positive attitude even after losing her ensemble's permanent rehearsal space and being bounced between four other temporary facilities in subsequent years.

I suppose that, were I asked to offer an opinion as to how you not only managed to keep Benedictine University's Concert Band program moving forward through such adversity, but also managed to grow student participation more than sixfold, your enthusiasm would be what first came to mind. I further believe that it's primarily due to such enthusiasm that my most vivid memories of my 'Benedictine years' will likely be of candlelit Lessons and Carols services or the diverse themes of the many Winter and Spring concerts, not of uneven floors, creaky elevators, or the smell of chlorine.

It's been both an honor and a privilege, Professor Flock.

Sincerely,

Timothy R. Nunes
Former BUCB Community Musician, 2000-2010

Composed & posted via my iPad

"Die"... With a "T"

2010-02-25T15:37:00.000-08:00

Because you have to learn to live with the body you have, not the body you wish you had

Yes , it's true. Like most Americans, I struggle with my weight and have done so for most of my life. Yet, unlike some, I've also lost it all, shedding more that one hundred and fifty pounds some years ago. At one point in time I was actually down to my ideal weight and managed to keep off the extra pounds for more than two years. And how, you may ask, did I do that? Well, it wasn't easy.

Past experience has convinced me that the formula for weight loss is simply Reduced Calories + Increased Activity. I also realize there are other variables, of course, such as the type of calories and 'making your calories count' by increasing your intake percentage of whole grains, low fat/lean protein, fresh vegetables and fruits, etc... But the basic formula remains largely unchanged. And it's such a simple formula, isn't it? NOT!

Because the reality is that, while the formula itself may be simple, executing it is not. Exercise regimens, for example, require that you establish a consistent routine, something my former '9-to-5' government job (where I worked during the two years I managed to keep the weight off) allowed me to do. Sadly, the unpredictable schedules and workloads common in 'Corporate America' today are significantly less 'routine friendly'.

Beyond the exercise element though, I also believe that the significant challenges related to maintaining a 'daily diet' are commonly underestimated. For example, we're led to believe that, in a world where instant gratification of a dietary nature is available on every street corner, we can somehow achieve a sort of 'dietary balance' simply by avoiding the 'prepared foods' we choose to buy in the course of our plus-twelve hour days... When we'd otherwise be cooking 'healthy meals'.

Which leaves the most important factor in any weight loss regimen... Motivation. Without proper motivation, you'll fail before you even start. In my case, I'd just become a new father, taken on a new and highly stressful job I was untrained and unqualified for, and ended up working eighty hours a week at said new job with little time to even think about food... Which helped me lose thirty pounds in only a few weeks!

Motivated by my initial weight loss and a new daughter (and, truth be told, with the help of an over-the-counter weight loss medication that's since been removed from the market), I continued to lose weight. And when the eighty-hour a week IT conversion I'd been working on ended, I was further blessed with '9-to-5' work hours that enabled me to start and maintain a regular exercise routine. So, in reality, I didn't lose the weight due to superhuman will power, but rather due to a 'perfect storm' of events. That said though, I did prove (to myself, at least) that it was possible.

All of which brings me back to the fundamental challenges of managing one's own diet... A task that, in the long run, I failed at miserably (having regained all I'd lost and more). Establishing a new life style is hard, and anyone who tells you differently is either lying to your face or is a 'celebrity endorser'. Still, that doesn't prevent us from continuing to try and 'find the balance'. And, in support of that goal, I've created another recipe to share...

Tim's Quick & Easy Low-Fat Stir Fry

Inspired by my cousin, Marc Frigard, a professional chef who taught me the proper use of sesame oil

Ingredients:

1.5 oz. of Japanese-style buckwheat/whole wheat noodles
PAM-branded cooking spray
8 oz of frozen, stir-fry veggies
3.5 oz. (i.e. 1/2 can, net) of Kirkland-branded canned white meat chicken (NOTE: Vegitarian substitution: Your favorite flavored tofu, cut into small, bite-sized cubes)
2 tsp. reduced sodium soy sauce
2 tsp. teriyaki sauce
2 tsp. sesame oil

Directions:

Bring 4c. of water to a boil, add noodles, cook for 5 min, then drain and rinse with warm water to remove any excess sodium. Spray a large pan/wok with PAM cooking spray, bring to a high heat, and wait until the PAM has either begun to discolor slightly or you can smell oil. Then add veggies and stir-fry, stirring continuously, for approximately 3 minutes. Add chicken, soy sauce, teriyaki sauce, and sesame oil, stirring for another 1 to 2 minutes.

Makes approximately 2 - 8 oz/1 c. servings.

Nutritional comparison: For those curious as to whether or not this recipe is healthier than processed alternatives...
Tim's stir fry (1c. serving) (1)	La Choy-branded Chicken Chow Mein w/Chow Mein Noodles (1c. serving) (2)(3)
Calories: 203.5, Fat: 5.125g, Sodium: 865mg	Calories: 230, Fat: 16g, Sodium: 1470

Enjoy!

(1) Note: The amount of sodium is likely lower than shown due to the rinsing of noodles, but I have no way to measure the reduction.
(2) http://www.fatsecret.com/calories-nutrition/la-choy/chicken-chow-mein
(3) http://www.fatsecret.com/calories-nutrition/la-choy/chow-mein-noodles

Sopas

2009-12-31T12:22:00.000-08:00

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on July 12, 2005, a little more than four years ago. I'm re-posting it here because it's about what I'm cooking tomorrow, in celebration of the first day of the second decade of the new millennium.

Sopas

Because sometimes it takes a village to feed a village

I sometimes joke that my family's lineage is like a Steinbeck novel (or two Steinbeck novels, actually). You see, my mother's parents drove to California in an old black Ford, strait out of the dustbowl and the pages of "The Grapes of Wrath". A few years earlier, using both legal and, er, 'less than legal' means, my father's great-grandparents arrived from the Azores and found jobs in Monterey, California, on "Cannery Row". Though I think of myself mostly as an 'okie boy', having grown up in the unincorporated 'Okieville' neighborhood of Stockton, California, I also have plenty of childhood memories of my Portuguese heritage , one of which was the attending of my first 'festa'.

Festas are held throughout Northern California every year, are sponsored by the local Portuguese Club and Catholic parish, and are a custom leftover from 'the old country'. In the Azores, a very poor group of islands several hundred miles off the coast of Portugal, festas were held each year for one very important reason... To ensure that, for one day out of the year, no one in the village went hungry. For poor Azorian villages, feeding all and sundry was probably a very daunting task, and inspired the creation of a dish called "Sopas" (or, as we pronounced it in my family, "soupish"). Sopas relied on one village patron to donate an animal, which was then cooked up in such a fashion as to maximize the number of people that could be fed. Traditional sopas consists of, at a minimum, the most inexpensive cut of beef and a pot of water and spices, all of which are cooked up together (sometimes for days), until a palatable, soup-like mixture is achieved. Trays are then arranged with thick slices of bread topped with mint leaves, upon which the soup-like mixture is then ladled onto before serving. There are a number of common variations to the 'recipe', sometimes in the area of the spices used, sometimes with additional ingredients such as onions, tomatoes, or possibly even cabbage added to the mix.

When one arrives at a festa, one is first expected to pay tribute to The Holy Mother and local parish with a donation, paid at a shrine at the festa's entrance (only those who can pay are expected to, and, as a kid being raised in a Baptist church, that shrine was like nothing I'd ever seen before, let me tell you). All are then ushered into a large hall where everyone is fed. In the early days of Portuguese immigration to California's Central Valley, the local Portuguese Clubs would advertise their festas in the local papers, in an effort to continue the tradition of attempting to 'feed the entire village'. I believe this practice has diminished over the years, however, though festas still vary from the most modest of affairs (as described herein) to more elaborate events that host 'bloodless bullfights' and other activities.

The history of the festa aside, sopas has become a cherished tradition in our family, one I perpetuated just this past Sunday for a visitor from Alaska. The recipe I cook up these days is a little more elaborate than you'd probably find at a festa (and is mostly the work of my Aunt Pricilla [who is Portuguese] and my mother [who is not], though she cooks like she is (smile)), but its lineage can still be traced back to a poor little village on an Azorean island called "Pico". Here it is, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do:

Recipe for Sopas:

Assemble in a pot one lean round roast (approx. 2.5 lbs), two sliced yellow onions, the contents of a small jar of pickling spices securely tied up in cheesecloth, two 32oz. cans of crushed tomatoes, a half to a full 32oz can of extra water, a 1.5 liter bottle (or two 750ml bottles) of burgundy, between two to four extra bay leaves, and a dash of cumin. Bring to a boil and then lower flame to a low simmer. Cook for six to eight hours until the meat of the roast falls apart (after around five hours, you can help the 'falling apart process' with a spoon, the final goal being that the meat is as evenly represented throughout as possible).

When the pot is ready, take several loaves of fresh baked bread (I used sourdough back in California but, now that I've moved to Illinois, I often use Vienna loaves instead), slice the loaves into pieces that are approximately an inch and a half thick, arrange the pieces of bread in large pans (I use the bottom of broiler pans, though lasagna pans or other large pans should work just fine), place several fresh mint leaves on top of each piece of bread, ladle the soupy meat mixture over the trays of bread and serve (YUM!!!).

2012 addendum: I've been enjoying a healthier version of sopas for several years now, where I've substituted a boneless turkey breast roast (sans skin) for the beef roast, and fresh-baked whole-grain loaves for the Vienna or sourdough loaves. I think it tastes just as good, if not better, and it's definitely lower in fat and higher in whole grains. Enjoy!

An open letter to my Uncle, William Manuel Nunes

2009-12-29T23:25:00.000-08:00

November 12, 1934 - December 18, 2009

Dearest Uncle,

I'm sorry I was unable to attend today's service. It was held in southern California, a locale you've called home most of your life, thousands of miles and more than fifty degrees from the frigid heartland where I now reside. I'm told the event was well attended, with family and friends, clients and fellow Christians, all there to pay their respects and make their good-byes. And yet, while I wish I could've been there, my regret is out of respect for those who attended, and not because I needed to say goodbye... Because you're still with me and always will be.

Growing up in our mutual birthplace of Stockton, California, my family's yearly visits to "Uncle Bill's house" in Cucamonga (now Rancho Cucamonga), California, were not only a family tradition but also an indelible part of my childhood. And though the occasional side-trips to Disneyland were certainly fun, it's not the Matterhorn or leftover 'A' and 'B' tickets I remember most... It's the time I spent visiting you, my uncle Bill.

I can recall sitting outside on your back porch, with you and my parents, chatting about this and that, as families do (though one unaccustomed to Nunes family traditions might have mistakenly thought we were arguing). I remember winter mornings spent outside in the southern California sun, when those back home in Stockton were huddled indoors away from the cold, damp tule fog. I also remember sipping coffee with you in your kitchen, the vineyards that once surrounded your home (long since replaced by housing developments), and your 'wishing well'. Most of all though, I remember visiting with you in your natural element... Your barbershop.

Regardless of how early we'd make the drive, you were always waiting, chatting up the day's first customers or other barbers, coffee cup in hand. And every time you picked up your sheers, a miraculous transformation occurred...The boisterous former Navy man and gregarious uncle was instantly muted and partially replaced by the meticulous craftsman, whose chosen trade required precision, even perfection... Along with the cracking of the occasional joke or witty banter. Those who failed to watch (and watch closely) simply saw you pick up scissors and begin to work... But I and others saw the hard-earned skills and craftsman's pride engage instantaneously and [seemingly]effortlessly as well.

You've been so many things to so many people over the years, likely causing each of us to see and remember you a little differently... As a barber, husband, brother, father, uncle, friend, veteran, proprietor and small-business owner... The many monikers you've worn. And yet, all the labels fall short... So very short.

For, to me, your nephew, you're all of those things and so much more. To me, you're also a ready smile, a strong handshake, a loving voice, a set of twinkling eyes, a man so much larger than life as to make mere mortal rituals such as funerals utterly and entirely meaningless.

Because I can still feel you with me... In the heart that aspires to be as expansive, in the hands that aspire to be as strong, in the smile that aspires to be as ready, and in the man that aspires to be as hard-working, steadfast, and true... As my uncle Bill.

I love you, Uncle.

Career Day

2009-11-11T19:37:00.000-08:00

Because, sometimes, the best laid plans......

Has anyone ever asked you about your choice of career, or why it is that you do what you do? Some people probably have strait-forward answers to such questions... Memories of childhood passions and related college degrees or trade apprenticeships. Some people might even be working in the same career they started out in, or possibly even for the same employer.

I am not 'some people'.

In high school, my passions were music and writing... Music because the band room was a place to hang out that was [relatively]free of gangs and violence, and writing because it provided me with a creative outlet my 'academic surroundings' (to use the term loosely) didn't provide. I wasn't particularly good at either though, which likely explains why I'm not a professional musician or best-selling novelist (though I am a writer... of sorts).

By the time I'd recovered from my high school experience enough to motivate myself to go on to college, I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to be... So I decided to become a teacher [Note to any educators who may read this: I was a naive teenager at the time, unaware of the daunting challenges teachers face each and every day]. I spent more than four years working my way through school, eventually earning a degree but ending up so deeply in-debt I couldn't afford to take time off to student teach.

After college, I worked a number of odd jobs in a variety of industries, eventually ending up where I am today... A marketing manager for an international information technology (IT) company. And my circuitous career path certainly contributed to the modest success I've achieved, as did the many people I met along the way... Coworkers, managers, some of whom I'm still friends with to this day. But the initial contributor to my eventual success, the 'muse' that pushed me down the IT path, was a little friend I 'met' twenty-six years ago... A friend who is still with me to this day, and who I just spent some time with this very evening... My first computer, a Coleco ADAM.

When I started college, I was looking for a typewriter in a local shopping mall when I stumbled across a large, colorful box in a local toy store containing something called a 'home computer'. And unlike other 'home computers' of the day such as the Commodore 64 or Atari 800, this particular model came complete with a printer, high-speed tape drive, and built-in word processing software. So, though it sounded too good to be true, I slapped down the clearance price of several hundred dollars and took my first steps down a path that would eventually lead me to where I am today.

Now allow me to introduce you to my little friend, my ADAM... Still working after more than a quarter-century......

My Coleco ADAM

Uncovered for the first time in years, and the stack of third-party expansion units I purchased over the years (e.g. external serial port, external 80 column video unit, etc)

The ADAM CALC intro screen (notice the icons for dual Digital Data Pack drives, floppy, keyboard, and memory expansion) and worksheet screen.

The built-in SmartWRITER word processor, and the ADAMLink II telecommunications program
		CP/M, the add-on OS that enabled my little ADAM to run business-class software like WordStar, SuperCalc, TurboPASCAL, and more.

The opening screens of "Dragon's Lair", one of the most awesome 80's-era videogames ever made (and yes, it was originally written for the ADAM) as it loads off DDP
		More "Dragon's Lair" screens (what can I say... It was one of my favorite Coleco 'SuperGames' for the ADAM)

"SpyHunter", a fav because of its three-channel "Peter Gun" soundtrack, and "Donkey Kong Jr.", both ColecoVision console games compatible with the ADAM.
		Another "Donkey Kong Jr" screen to prove I could still make it to 'level 2', and the ADAM covered back up again.

I hope you enjoyed the history lesson. I know I certainly had fun visiting my old friend, and proving (if to no one else but myself) that you can still have fun with old technology! :-)

Confessions of a Vegetarian's Father

2009-10-31T21:32:00.000-07:00

I stand amidst a room full of strangers. Someone coughs. I nervously shuffle my feet and begin to speak.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Tim, and I'm the father of a vegetarian.”

“Hello, Tim!”

Yes, it's true... My daughter's a vegetarian. Or, rather, a lacto-vegetarian. And I, her father, find myself in the midst of Thanksgiving Day preparations once again; a holiday I approach with trepidation in the best of years, because, well... My daughter's a vegetarian.

Growing up, Thanksgiving Day was always the holiday of holidays in my family, a fact my wife finds exceedingly odd to this day. You see, my wife grew up in a military family (US Army), seldom living in one place for more than a few years, and more often than not, far from convenient driving distance of 'grandmother's house'. I, on the other hand, lived in one place most of my life... Stockton, California, the town where I was born, and where my parents were born as well (though, if you want to quibble, my mother was actually born in French Camp and my father in Lodi). And every year, we'd load up the car, the pies and our appetites, and make the trek cross-town to 'Grandma's house', where we and a good many other members of the Nunes clan would congregate, hug, talk in loud and boisterous voices, and bask in the glow of 'family'.

Years later, the gatherings moved to my parent's house, but the table remained large and the gathering's boisterous... Until I moved my own family to America's heartland, thousands of miles away. Since moving to the Midwest, traditional family holidays such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter have devolved into little more than regular family dinners, an opportunity for my wife, daughter, and I to sit down across the table from each other for a shared meal (which is an accomplishment, in and of itself, what with our respective schedules and the fact that our daughter's now in college).

This year, however, we will be hosting a family gathering once again, with my sister-in-law's family coming from Iowa, along with a nephew now attending an Iowa college. The latest head count seems to indicate that we may even need to set up our house's first 'kids table' (I won't go into how old I was before I finally got to sit at the 'big table', other than to say that I grew up in a large, extended family, and there were never enough places to sit... Okay?!?).

And, as in past years, I find myself struggling with the menu... Though not for conventional reasons. No, the decisions about the traditional main dishes and side dishes have pretty much been made... It's the vegetarian element that now needs to be addressed. Though my daughter 'poo-poos' such talk with comments like “I can just eat mashed potatoes, stuffing, salad, and vegetables” (which likely won't happen, as my darling vegetarian doesn't particularly like salad and vegetables), I, her father, the incurable optimist, continue trying to find dishes we can all share (she being lacto-vegetarian, and I being lactose intolerant).

In recent years, I've tried eggplant dishes (mine was a disaster, though she's since found another recipe we all like), faux-meatloaf (another disaster... let's not even talk about it), and macaroni and cheese (a marginal success, made using the best-tasting soy-based cheeses). And, to be honest, most of my attempts likely failed because I either used ingredients my daughter disliked (e.g. most vegetables) or tried to use 'fake ingredients' (nothing against Boca products, mind you, but... Well... Again, let's just not go there).

So this year, my wife and I adapted a tried and true recipe of my mother's, a recipe based upon an ingredient our daughter likes, with a few modifications to make it both healthier and lactose-free... A recipe for lentil loaf. And to reward you for taking the time to read this post, here's our recipe......

Tim & Kathy's Lentil Loaf

(The product of several previous failures, and inspired/adapted from multiple sources, including a recipe from a copy of “The New Laurel's Kitchen” cookbook given me by my sister)

Ingredients:

2 cups cooked and drained lentils

2 cups whole wheat bread crumbs

2 tablespoons ground flax seeds

1 cup finely chopped Pepitas (aka raw, shelled pumpkin seeds)

1 cup Egg Beaters (or 4 eggs)

½ cup catsup

½ cup + 1 tablespoon olive oil

1 package Lipton Onion-Mushroom soup

1/2 teaspoon sage

2 cloves chopped garlic

1 cup shredded and finely chopped carrot

½ cup finely chopped onion

½ cup finely chopped celery

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Saute onion, garlic, carrot and celery in 1 tablespoon oil until onion is translucent.

Mix remaining ingredients and place in greased loaf pan. Bake for 45 minutes uncovered. Let stand for at least 10 minutes before serving.

Makes one full-size loaf.

Romeo & Juliet - Revisited

2009-09-25T18:04:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on September 7, 2006, a little more than three years ago. I'm re-posting it here because it's about two people who I've been dearly missing of late, two people at least partially responsible for any redeeming qualities I might possess.

A love story ended today, the most powerful love story I've ever heard told or witnessed. I have no doubt in my befuddled mind or pained heart of the veracity of that statement because, in this case, I was a witness. I was one of the blessed few to share in the wonderful, magical, and ultimately tragic love story of Kay and Frank Northway.

Kay and Frank met many years before I was born, in the San Francisco Bay area they called home. Frank was an engineer, a man who helped build massive, riveted creations of steel, cable, and reinforced concrete. From drawbridges throughout California's Central Valley (where I myself grew up) to the unparalleled majesty of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge, Frank left his mark on an America trying to pull itself up by its bootstraps amidst the innumerable challenges of the Great Depression. And, though he was indeed a strong man and a small part of his legacy is truly encased in steel, Frank Northway was also the most caring, sensitive, and loving man I've ever known.

Kay was an artist, a free spirit who, on the surface at least, appeared as different from Frank and his steel creations as a mountain flower might differ from the powerful granite at a mountain's roots. Though challenged to carry a tune, Kay probably sang most of the days of her life. Her songs reflected the joy in her heart and the beauty in her soul, a soul that seemed to derive as much joy from serving a family breakfast as from painting the most beautiful works of art. Yes, she was the artist, he the engineer, and yet, from the moment I first met them, I couldn't imagine them apart.

For Frank was like the mountain's granite, the strong presence that allowed Kay to continuously flower. And Kay, with her ready song and her rainbow of paints, warmed the strong stone, kept it clothed in verdant greens and other beauteous shades, like an idyllic alpine garden where it was eternally spring. Together, they almost always had a smile on their lips. Together, their hands were seldom apart. Together, it was like looking at love incarnate.

And then Frank's flower was lost, brutally crushed beneath the unforgiving boot of cancer. From that day on, it was like a light had been shut off inside him, as if his very soul had been diminished. While he remained the caring and sensitive man I myself had grown to love, a man who still had a smile for his friends and family, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he now had to have a reason to smile. And even then, there was something behind the smile, something in his eyes, a sadness he unsuccessfully tried to hide from those who loved him.

For Frank truly did have steel running through his veins, steel that betrayed him day after day, and year after year. Though his heart felt broken, it was actually stronger than the hearts of many. As the years progressed and other family members passed on before him, first a grandchild, then a daughter, then a son, his heart remained strong. Other parts of his body failed him, his ears, his knees, and eventually his kidneys, but never his heart.

I last saw Frank little more than a month ago, while traveling in California on business, after hearing his health was failing. His medical condition had finally blessed him with a choice he'd never before been given: to live on in constant and progressively worse discomfort, or to finally rest. Frank chose rest.

The news arrived this evening. We'd been expecting it for some time, but it still hurts badly. My chest is tight, my vision blurred. And yet, I can't help feeling a small spark of joy, somewhere deep inside me, a spark that reminds me of an alpine garden clothed in verdant greens and other beauteous shades, set atop a strong, majestic mountain. And in that garden, a flower is blooming again, to the carefree warbling of songbirds.

I love you with all my heart, Frank and Kay.

Manufacturing & Art

2009-09-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

Two pursuits I thought were completely unrelated... Until I visited South Whitley, Indiana

NOTE: This blog was originally posted to Xanga.com on July 18, 2007. I'm re-posting it here because it's a topic I'm passionate about, and is illustrative of both who I am, and why I eventually chose a Fox bassoon.

[I stand up slowly, surrounded by strangers, in a room normally used for some other purpose. I clear my throat, trying not to appear as nervous as I feel, and begin speaking.]
"Hello everyone. My name's Tim, and I'm a bassoonist."
"Hi, Tim!" [Everyone in the room responds in unison.]

Yes, it's true... I play the bassoon. Not well, mind you, but I do play. In amateur ensembles, for my church orchestra, in my own basement... Wherever and whenever I can... Because I love the instrument.

And if someone asked me "Why the bassoon?", I'm not sure I'd have a rational answer. All throughout grade school, junior high, and high school, I played the tenor saxophone because that was 'the family instrument'; An old, beat up Buescher made in the 1930's and passed down from brother to brother, and finally to me (a son). Though I toyed with other instruments (e.g. flute and clarinet) in my senior year, I didn't touch a bassoon until college. And the strange beast stole my heart.

The relationship has made no sense from the very beginning, for a number of reasons:

Bassoon reeds cost as much as ten times what sax reeds cost (or more), and require adjustment and a soaker cup for proper play
There are as many thumb keys on a bassoon as finger keys (and, if you're like me, you probably have more fingers than thumbs)
Bassoon music is written in three clefs (e.g. Bass, C, and Treble), one of which is movable

Still, something about the instrument has always enchanted me. Perhaps a part of the enchantment has to do with an affinity for the instrument's personality, potentially difficult and admittedly different. Or perhaps it's simply that I love the sound, and especially love the fact that it's me, partnered with my bassoon, helping to make that sound. My own mediocrity is momentarily forgotten amidst the realization that I'm somehow helping make such beautiful music.

Which brings me to the true reason for this blog. A year ago, on my birthday, I received a gift, something I've longed for more than twenty-odd years since college... A new bassoon. And not just any bassoon, but a Fox. The bassoon I was given by my wife was worlds apart from the nondescript, off-brand, plastic instrument I'd played in college, and I've tried to care for it as best as I could since receiving it... Which is why my wife and I traveled to Whitley, Indiana, this past weekend.

Whitely, Indiana, is home to the world headquarters of Fox Products, the premiere US manufacturer of bassoons, contra bassoons, oboes, and english horns. It was an amazing visit as, while my own bassoon was receiving its initial annual service, my wife and I were given a tour of the factory. From aged maple to gorgeously finished and fully tested instrument, we saw how Fox manufactures bassoons, via a meticulous and labor intensive process that takes approximately six months. Fox bassoons are manufactured by people who are skilled craftsmen and craftswomen, wood workers, machinists, wood finishers, and many other meticulous jobs requiring skills more typically associated with jewelry making than factory work. At Fox, the boundaries between manufacturing and art are blurred, with the occasional computer-controlled machine coexisting with legions of highly skilled people, combining to create products of unparalleled quality that are essentially handmade.

But enough words. Come... Take a tour with me, and see 'the Fox magic' for yourself.

The place and history

		The factory nestled amidst corn fields, and the 'first Foxes' in the lobby (i.e. first bassoon, first plastic bassoon, first oboe, etc)
Closeup of the 'first Fox' bassoon, and a portrait of Hugo Fox, CSO bassoonist from 1922-1949 and founder of Fox Products.

The Materials

Aged wood (maple pictured here) and plastic, the basic materials used in the making of a Fox instrument.

The Machines

Definitely not the stars of the manufacturing process, as that would be the people. Pictured here are a manual and a computerized lathe.
		Fabricating keys, and a polisher (the pink bits are ceramic, used to polish the keys prior to sending them out for plating)

The People

World class craftsmanship, being practiced every day in America's heartland. Pictured are tone holes being drilled into bassoon and oboe pieces.
		Hand drilling post holes, and using a torch and silver solder to hand craft a key assembly

Other Parts and Pieces

Hard rubber liners for bassoon wing joints, and finished bassoon pieces sans posts, keys, etc.
		Bassoon keys arrayed on a mold board, and finished contra bassoon pieces sans posts, keys, etc.

Well, that's about it for today's 'virtual tour'. I hope you enjoyed it! ;-)

PS: If you'd like to hear me playing my bassoon, errors and all (pained smile), here's a recording of Pachelbel's Canon in D, played on my Fox-Renard 220.

Love

2009-04-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, I was given the chance of a lifetime... To serve as an interim music director for my church. It was an opportunity for which I was extremely unqualified, having never conducted a choir before... Though the pastor insisted I try, somehow sure I would succeed. And succeed I did, at least for the five short months I stayed in the role. And yet, I now know my success wasn't for the reasons I've always thought. Above and beyond the regular weekly rehearsals and Sunday morning services, I can remember spending hour after hour organizing the church music library so I'd know its contents, along with countless additional hours at home in front of a keyboard, recording and learning each vocal part so I could then conduct the entire choral ensemble. For the longest time, I was convinced my efforts alone were the reason I succeeded... And yet the reason was much simpler... It was love.

A few years earlier, in the fall of 1990, I became a father, a role I was sure I would fail at. Before my daughter was born, I read books and articles, attended Lamaze classes, wrestled with car seats, ordered toys specially designed to aid in the development of children. And after she was born, I was her first primary care giver (as I worked nights at the time, while my wife worked during the day), making up bottles of formula, changing diapers, playing with her on the carpet. As my daughter grew, I played dress-up and other games with her, watched innumerable Disney movies... And, though I've since made more mistakes than I care to recall, I always considered my early parenting successes were directly related to all the effort I put in... Which was wrong... They were also due to love.

In those formative months and years, it wasn't the toys from Parent's Magazine or animated Disney masterpieces like The Great Mouse Detective that put a smile on my daughter's young face... It was her certainty that she was loved. When my wife and I, near bankruptcy after a childbirth-related insurance debacle left us without the financial resources to even afford diapers, it was the love of my mother that helped us. And a few years later when I took the reigns of that church choir in Tracy, California, all my efforts would've come to naught if it weren't for the love of the pastor, Dr. R. Michael McLellan, the church organist, Bernice White, and parishioners like Cathy and Harold Reich, Virginia Moss, and Harold Hazen, people who provided me with unasked for support and assistance when I needed it most, therefore ensuring my success.

Perhaps then it's not altogether unusual that the only two pieces of music I can still remember from that brief musical experience so many years ago were also about love. The first was entitled The Story of Love, a Christmas cantata written by an Army chaplain whose experiences in the midst of Hell on Earth during the Vietnam War inspired him to write about the ultimate gift of love, that of a benevolent creator who gave his only son to save the souls of humanity. The other piece was even more unusual. Entitled Faith, Hope, and Love, it was an old anthem written in the 1960's, with an odd plainsong feel to it, based upon a well known Bible verse that includes the words "Faith, hope, and love abide, but the greatest of these is Love."

"... The greatest of these is Love." Imagine that. Savor it, let it simmer and stew within you for just a moment. That above faith and hope, there is love. Think about it from the perspective of your own life and the true joys you've experienced, the most rewarding successes you've achieved, or the fulfillment granted you by your closest personal relationships. Set aside your ego, your self for a moment and ask yourself, was it really you or something you did that made possible your life's greatest moments? Or rather, was it something else, something more along the lines of giving instead of taking, of releasing control instead of controlling, of the caring support of others versus your own personal accomplishments... Something like love.

For none of us are islands unto ourselves. Regardless of how good we are at something, there's always someone better; And no matter how competent we are, or how much we think we're in control, even the best of us needs a helping hand on occasion. And where- and whenever we come up short, there is love. When we encounter people we don't understand, people we think are so different from us that we want to reject or refute their very existence, there is love. When our pride demands we succeed at all costs, without asking for or accepting help from anyone else, there is love. When the pressures of life become so great they seem to smother our very souls, forcing us to cry out for solace, or even an end, there is love.

Think about it.

It begins here

2005-01-10T13:38:00.000-08:00