A letter to my daughter Madelaine

Hva er nytt, my little treacle tart?

I hope that all is well with you and the family out there in Virginia. Did Deisel get home safe & sound? Did you get your ac fixed at last? How's work going -- still want to guillotine most of the staff?

The even tenor of my quiet existence continues to both please and baffle me. Each day seems to blend seamlessly into the next, with little or nothing to demarcate one sunrise from the next. Even the weather is uniform -- sunny and hot. Every prayer I hear at church asks for rain -- but when you live in a desert isn't requesting a weather aberration kinda presumptuous? Me, I hibernate inside my snug little apartment with the ac cranked up nice and high -- I rarely leave my abode after 9 a.m. for anything less than an emergency craving for pickled herring. I don't even go out to have lunch at the new Thai restaurant on Center Street. I'll try them again this fall.

I always thought I'd be cursed with wanderlust all the rest of my days -- wanting to dash hither and yon in a mad quest for satisfaction. That's how I seemed to be hardwired earlier in my life. But today I rejoice in knowing ahead of time just about everything that is going to happen to me today and knowing just where I'll be going and what I'll be seeing. The thought of travel actually alarms me. 

My health is so-so; no better than before and no worse than expected. One new wrinkle is I've developed a rash over most of my body, probably from the heat. I use up a bottle of Calamine lotion every week to keep the itching under control. My skin is permanently streaked with pink.

I've been spending most of my time, when I'm not writing or reading or napping or watching Netflix, experimenting with food. Last week I made several batches of refrigerator pickles. My pickled green beans turned out well -- Sarah loves them and wants me to make her some more. My olive salad was a disaster -- I mixed several kinds of olives with onions and Thai basil leaves. I thought the mixture would be interesting -- it had an aftertaste of old typewriter ribbons. This week I am going to pickle some Thai eggplant and some Thai long beans. I get them at the Asian Store that is across the street from Fresh Market. I'm supposed to make a pasta salad to bring to Sarah's house this coming Sunday for dinner, but think I'll just pop a roast in the crock pot instead -- if I use pork it's just about as cheap as making a good pasta salad and takes much less work. 

Oh, before I forget. Here is my new motto for the town of Provo:

PROVO, A GOOD PLACE TO TAKE NAP. 

My other food project this week has been vichyssoise, which is a chilled potato soup. I have a friend from my swim class at the Rec Center, Bruce Young, who teaches English up at BYU. His wife has left him all alone for the summer so she can go play humanitarian in the Congo. So I feed him about once a week. Since he lived in France for several years, I decided to make him something French and easy. Nothing easier than cold potato soup. You just boil some potatoes and onions in chicken broth until they fall apart, then whip them in a food processor, add cream and refrigerate for several hours. Serve with crackers and cheese. And the beauty part is that when you let it sit overnight it tastes even better the next day. I'm going to start making it every week, I think, for myself, until the heat goes away in September. Today I had a big bowl of Bush's Baked Beans, with sliced hot dogs thrown in, with a fresh onion bagel, for a late breakfast, and I doubt if I'll eat anything substantial again today -- probably some ramen noodles tonight. Beans really fill me up. I even have a piece of cheesecake sitting in the fridge that I haven't wanted to eat for the past two days.  My appetite ain't what it used to be -- and yet I stay so fat. Life just ain't fair.


Your mother was here last weekend, I forget why exactly. She came over to visit and we had a pleasant time. Not at all like when she ripped me a new one back on Memorial Day. It's a strange thing, but whenever your mother is nice to me I fall back in love with her and pine for her company. But it's a foolish wish; we can only manage to be pleasant to each other at long intervals of time and when we both know we don't have to be around each other very much. I would like to fall in love again, but I'm afraid I have grown too eccentric and selfish (and fat) to ever please another woman, no matter how complaisant. So I spend my evenings listening to the symphonies of Sibelius. Not a bad way to end my life, I guess. 

I wanted to write another mini-memoir today, but am just absolutely out of inspiration and ideas. Is there anything in particular YOU want to know about my young life? Just let me know and I'll turn it into another family memoir.

Well, my snowy egret, I guess I'll wrap things up here. A long afternoon stretches ahead of me. But the ac is working well (in fact I'm thinking of turning it off for a few hours) and I have  the Salterton Trilogy by Robertson Davies to read. So why complain?

Adieu,  dad.

Pfizer Lowers Drug Prices -- A Garden is Revived -- Parental Leave for Men.

Pfizer Inc. said Tuesday it will defer some recent drug-price increases, reversing course after President Donald Trump criticized the company. The New York-based drug maker, one of the world’s biggest pharmaceutical companies by sales, had faced criticism from Mr. Trump and others after raising the prices of more than 40 drugs last week.

WSJ

A bully sometimes is of use

to stop a commercial abuse.

A big stick, when swung

can knock out the dung

that companies like to produce.

The garden, as Westerners know it, survived the Dark Ages because of monasteries. Given these traditions, it was natural for the founders of the Franciscan Monastery of the Holy Land in America to count on a small farm when in 1897 they purchased 100 acres of open land in Northeast Washington.

Washington Post

There's something 'bout a garden sweet,

so full of bugs and blooms and beet,

that makes the heavy toil seem worth

the sweat I drop on Mother Earth.

It is part of God's plan, I'm sure,

to spread thick layers of manure;

what of my aching back and knees,

if I am one with droning bees?

The years, they push upon me now

like a stubborn blunt snowplow;

and though for fresh produce I pine,

I'll order all my meals online . . .

Many men say they remain reluctant to take advantage of parental-leave policies. In a recent Deloitte survey of more than 1,000 U.S. workers, one in three male respondents said they worried that taking time off to tend to a newborn would jeopardize their careers, and more than half of the men said they felt using parental-leave benefits available to them would be seen as a lack of commitment to their jobs.

WSJ

A father who worked down at Ford

went home to his cute little horde

and, covered with grime,

asked for overtime -- 

He claimed it was for the landlord.

The dust of the earth

And now I ask, can ye say aught of yourselves? I answer you, Nay. Ye cannot say that ye are even as much as the dust of the earth; yet ye were created of the dust of the earth; but behold, it belongeth to him who created you.
Mosiah. Chapter Two. Verse 25.

I am a boastful speck of dust that floats on prideful air.
I think I am the master as I drift from bed to chair.
A powder blown by willful breeze, I yet pretend to be
the ruler of my universe and my own destiny.

This loftiness of spirit is a ludicrous mistake;
I am no more the master than a piece of birthday cake.
To recognize that God alone is guiding me along
can give to life a meaning that makes even dust be strong!

Deadly Algae Blooms? -- Alexa, Tell My Children to Shut Up -- SCOTUS Leaning So Far Right It's Almost Horizontal

Is this women in danger of algae exposure?

The Finger Lakes in New York and Utah Lake in Utah, both of which are used for recreational purposes, experienced an unusual number of blooms in the past couple of years, Mr. Stumpf said. An algae bloom in 2014 in Lake Erie in Ohio left 500,000 people without drinking water for three days.

NYT

the next time you turn on your tap,

but sure to check for any crap

that's soupy and green,

because that will mean

your faucet's a great booby trap.

This is new territory for families. For the first time, children who are too young to distinguish fantasy from reality are engaging with devices powered by artificial intelligence. Many see smart speakers as magical, imbue them with human traits and boss them around like a Marine drill sergeant, according to several new studies in the past year.

WSJ

for those who are still in a diaper,

Alexa is like the Pied Piper.

a magical sprite

with no wrong or right,

she's making our babies more hyper!

President Trump’s choice of Judge Brett M. Kavanaugh to replace retiring Supreme Court Justice Anthony M. Kennedy is intended to move what is already one of history’s most conservative courts to even more consistent right-of-center outcomes.

Washington Post

Supreme Courts that lean to the right

are common as bats in the night.

the liberal view

has got very few

adherents that put up a fight. 

Look, journalism is an odd profession. In some ways, we’re that thing you love to hate. Our customer-relations mission statement is a tad different than most industries: Newspapers don’t provide happiness, rather we want to inform and make you think.

The Orange County Register.

reporters with too many friends

play middle against both the ends.

it isn't their job

to please the vast mob

of citizens who hate sharp pens.

Is Trump Opposed to Breast Feeding? -- Wrist Watches are for Fashion, Not Telling Time -- Twitter Removes 70 Million Phony Accounts.

A resolution to encourage breast-feeding was expected to be approved quickly and easily by the hundreds of government delegates who gathered this spring in Geneva for the United Nations-affiliated World Health Assembly . . . Then the United States delegation, embracing the interests of infant formula manufacturers, upended the deliberations . . . they turned to threats, according to diplomats and government officials who took part in the discussions.
NYT


a child who is fed from the breast
considers himself very blessed.
a formula lad
may turn out quite bad.
(perhaps that's why Trump turned out pest.)



With an extensive collection at his disposal, Mr. Lamdin sometimes switches watches multiple times a day, and he doesn’t pause to set each one. It’s more accurate just to check his phone . . . . . .“One does not wear a vintage watch to tell the time. You wear a vintage watch to experience the passage of time,” declared Mr. Lamdin, obliquely referring to an older watch’s potential to accrue value over the years.
WSJ

The Timex I carry with me
keeps time to a certain degree.
But mostly I wear
the thing to compare
with friends who are not broke as me.

SAN FRANCISCO — Twitter’s shares tanked on Monday following a Washington Post article that the company suspended more than 70 million accounts in May and June — a clean-up of the platform that may affect user growth.

Washington Post

my stock options for that damn Twitter
were not gold, though they may glitter.
my broker I shot,
my banker is not
saying much more than a titter.

Big Brother China -- No Swimsuits at the Miss America Pageant? -- Can NATO Survive Trump?

With millions of cameras and billions of lines of code, China is building a high-tech authoritarian future. Beijing is embracing technologies like facial recognition and artificial intelligence to identify and track 1.4 billion people. It wants to assemble a vast and unprecedented national surveillance system, with crucial help from its thriving technology industry.

NYT

In China they know who you are,

though you're not a big movie star.

Technology tops

the way that the cops

can find you from near and afar.

Nearly half of Miss America’s board has quit or been forced to resign in the wake of the organization’s decision to eliminate the swimsuit competition from the contest, and 22 state pageant leaders are seeking to oust Chairwoman Gretchen Carlson over concerns about the pageant’s new direction.

WSJ

Of course I am for women's rights.

I'm glad when they're scaling the heights.

But I cannot fake

distaste for cheesecake

when swimsuits at what is at stake.

European Council President Donald Tusk warned European leaders last month that judging by Trump’s language, allies could no longer assume that NATO would endure.

Washington Post

One day Mr. Putin asked Trump

if NATO he might want to dump.

The Trumpster replied

"It's time they subside;

onto your bandwagon I'll jump!" 

Taking the Train to Red Wing: A 1959 Childhood Travelogue

Train station. Red Wing, Minnesota.

In 1959 both Alaska and Hawaii were finally granted statehood, and my mother decided to take my 2 sisters and I on a train ride from our home in Minneapolis down to Red Wing in Goodhue County. The two events have no bearing on each other that I know of, but history has a strange way of getting tangled up in even the most mundane lives -- and I've wondered if the national euphoria felt by the nation at this completion of a great pioneering work (or highway robbery, as some revisionist historians have it) didn't rub off a little on mom, making her a bit more hopeful that the trip she was contemplating would not end in a complete shambles.  She wanted to visit the pottery stores which made the town famous among the artsy-craftsy set, and since she had a firm prejudice against babysitters in her home we children had to come along willy-nilly. I remember she was looking for a large ceramic sauerkraut crock -- not to ferment cabbage in, but to set out on the front porch with cattails poking out of it. 

She planned the trip well in advance, asking her friends Jean Brandt and Rose Ciatti to come along as well. When they both backed out at the last minute, her sunny demeanor became somewhat tarnished, and her inborn Cassandra tendencies began to emerge.

"Oh Jean!" I well remember her crying into the phone on our kitchen wall, "you mean I'll have to keep an eye on the kids all by myself? I was hoping you'd help out to keep them from . . . " here she glanced my way, not in a very friendly manner, and apparently modified her words "from becoming bored." When she hung up she released a gusty sigh. She took another long, considering look at me -- and it was as if I could see right into her mind.

"Is this little brakmaker going to cost me a fortune in broken pottery?" I could hear her think. For I was a known felon when it came to stacking tea cups perilously high, until they fell in a smash like the walls of Jericho. I also liked to throw the good dinner plates up in the air and catch them behind my back as I had seen Fatty Arbuckle do in an old silent film. 

Dad egged her on, the fat toad.

"You mean to take them kids down on the train all that way? I dunno what you're thinking of, Ev. They'll drive you crazy and get lost and fall in the river or somethin'." Thanks for that vote of confidence, father dear.

On the appointed day mom got us all dressed up as if we were going to Mass. Back when Eisenhower ran things, going on a trip meant dressing up -- not throwing on some dirty jeans and grabbing a grubby backpack. My navy blue dress pants were way too short -- I was beginning to sprout up like bindweed and there hadn't been time to buy new ones. My tan Buster Browns were buffed to a fare-thee-well. It was considered 'cute' for boys to wear bright argyle socks back then, and so I had on a pair that screamed at the eyes. My white shirt had about a pound of starch invested in it so the collar felt like sandpaper. I had mislaid my belt somewhere, so was obliged to wear galluses with monkeys on them. The hated red bow tie was wound around my throat, and I took along a green hairy sport coat that apparently was made of dyed twine. If mom had stuck a fez on my head I could have passed for a Munchkin from the Land of Oz.     

We took a taxi to the train station downtown. Steam and diesel fumes swirled about us as we boarded the Great Northern car to stow our baggage overhead and settle into the threadbare velvet seats with bright white doily antimacassars draped over each one. 

With a juddering crash we got underway, sailing past the Mississippi and endless fields of corn and wheat. At that age I was not much of a plein air enthusiast, so quickly grew bored. I wandered up and down the train car aisle, sticking my nose into where it didn't belong, ruffling some old biddies who were jealously guarding their copies of the Ladies Home Journal from prying eyes. 

Then I discovered the water cooler at the end of the car, with the paper cone dispenser. I'd never seen anything like it before. Marveling at the great ingenuity it took to invent such a wonder, I began pulling them out one by one until I had nearly fifty -- at which point some officious conductor intruded on my study and gruffly told me to return to my seat. I took the paper cones with me.

As my sisters and I argued and shrieked over ownership of the paper cones, grabbing each other by the arm and fending off blows like prize fighters, my mother sadly shook her head. Calamity was approaching fast, her body language clearly indicated. She managed to keep her temper, tranquilizing us with a bag of CornNuts. She must have had that bag in her purse since before her honeymoon, since the kernels were nearly impossible to grind and chew -- it was like eating gravel. And let me just here state for the record that Sue Ellen unfairly wound up with all of the paper cones in her sole possession -- out of which she made coolie hats for her damn collection of Barbie dolls. That's when it began to dawn on me that girls get the best of everything. I haven't much changed my mind since.

When we arrived in Red Wing and got off the train, mom huddled us together for an anxious pep talk. We were not to talk to strangers, wander off, and especially NOT TOUCH ANY OF THE PRETTY THINGS IN THE SHOPS.

She said this all in a chipper, upbeat voice -- but her eyes betrayed her. They were already deeply sunken in despair. There was no way our clumsy little hands could be kept from fragile and expensive boneware. She and dad would have to get a second mortgage on the house to pay off the imminent damages.  

I suppose you're preparing yourself now to read all about our slapstick shennanigans in the pottery shops -- and laugh yourself sick at the immense amount of damage done by myself and siblings.

Well, fuhgeddaboudit. We behaved ourselves just fine. I became fascinated by the jolly Toby mugs on display. But I could read the price tags, so didn't bother to ask if I could have one. I had to wait another fifty years until I found one at the Provo Deseret Industries store -- in the exact image of W.C. Fields. I use it to keep pencils in.

 Mom got her sauerkraut crock and we had grilled cheese sandwiches with french fries for lunch -- then got back on the train and came home without further incident.

The neighborhood ladies were waiting for mom as soon as we got back. They were licking their lips to hear about the disaster. What had those fiendish Torkildson children done now? When mom told them the trip had been peaceful and productive and the riot squad had not been called out even once, they were thoroughly disappointed and trooped back to their homes in a squalid, heavy-handed manner. 

I don't think mom ever got over that trip. For once in her harried life everything had gone as planned. For a lapsed Catholic with a deep tint of Calvinism, this was a crime that would have to be paid for in the future. And it's certain that never again did the Torkildson children travel so quietly and behave so well when the family went on vacations or just out to Anoka for Halloween pumpkins. Just a sampling:

I got my index finger stuck in the ashtray that was built into the back of the front seat -- dad had to drive to the nearest auto mechanic so he could take it to pieces to free my digit, and charge dad an unholy amount.

I had captured a bumblebee in a glass jar and surreptitiously brought it along on a drive out to Aunt Ruby's in Edina. It was raining, the windows were up, and I decided to open the jar to see how my new pet was getting along. The rest I will leave to the reader's imagination.

And there was the time my dumb sister Sue Ellen dared me to squirt a long stream of mustard into my mouth and swallow it while we were at a drive-in out in New Brighton. I took the dare, waiting until we were just a block from home to spew it all back up again. Sisters are really dumb, you know that? 

Belly Dancing Phone Talk SCOTUS

“In many cases, we lack the nuance, subtlety and grace of Egyptians,” said Diana Esposito, a Harvard graduate from New York who came to Egypt in 2008 on a Fulbright scholarship and stayed to pursue a career in belly dance.

NYT

a scholar who came to the Nile

discovered that people would smile

at her snaky hips

but not learned quips;

pedants cannot make such a pile.

A 2016 Yale School of Management study found people can assess others’ emotions most accurately when communicating solely via voice—far better than written or computer-spoken words, and even better than video chatting. And if you’re in it for the speed alone, you can probably speak twice as fast as you can type.

WSJ

the voice is a marvelous thing;

it makes our emotions take wing.

but getting a text

can leave me so vexed

I'd rather receive a bee sting.

Advocates on both sides of the political spectrum say judicial views on religion are certain to figure into a fierce confirmation fight, no matter whom the president chooses.

Washington Post

I think it exceedingly odd

that candidates must talk of God

when church and the state

must never conflate,

lest one or the other maraud.

An Email to my Minneapolis Freind Jim

This is me nowadays

Hey there, Jim;

It’s always good to hear from you.

Sounds like your daughter-in-law is making the beau coup bucks with her writing. Congrats. Were that I could pick up a few piastres with my scribblings. The only money I make writing is ghosting articles for my son Adam to place in Forbes and Huffington Post. It galls me to see my work under another person’s name, but the money is too good to give up. It’s the funds I use to take my kids out to eat once in a while. I read someplace, I don’t remember where, that eating out creates some of the pleasantest and longest lasting family memories. I think it was a NYT article -- or maybe even an Ensign piece. My memory is sadly decayed these days.

I won’t even begin on my health nowadays. Rashes. Dispepsia. Lack of focus. Insomnia. Shortness of breath. Ad infinitum. The best plan is just to roll with the punches, I guess. Thank goodness my Medicare kicks in this coming September.

I will mention that lately I have an inexplicable craving for tuna fish. In fact, I’m having it for breakfast this morning. I drained a can, put it in a bowl, and added all sorts of exotic things to it -- lemongrass, shrimp paste, lime juice, Tabasco sauce, and dill pickle relish. I’m letting it marinate a bit and then will have it with buttered toast. My mouth is watering as I write about it!

I have received many kind words from journalists from my NYT profile -- and one sour note. Dan Kelly, who for many years edited my poetry for the St Paul Pioneer Press, and who I truly can call a mentor, was very put out that he was not mentioned in the NYT article. He has even complained about it on his blog! There’s nothing I can do about it. I mentioned him many times during my interview with the NYT reporter, but she chose not to include his name in the final posting.

You and Joanne seem to like to roam around like vagabonds, visiting family and friends. I, on the other hand, have not been any further than Salt Lake City for the past four years. And that was a stretch for me. I tire and bore easily when on the road; give me my recliner and a good book or Netflix movie at home and I’m as happy as a clam. The downside is that I’m certainly spending too much time by myself -- although I almost never feel lonely or abandoned or anything like it, I have noticed I’m talking to myself more often. I go out early every morning to the Provo Rec Center for an aquatic aerobics class, where I have made some new friends that I’ve had over for some Thai dinners. But otherwise I’m holed up in my snug little apartment, avoiding the heat and sun, writing and reading to my heart’s content. I’m not a shut-in by any means, but I’m certainly turning into a hermit!

Well, I can smell that marinated tuna fish just waiting for me. Better go and demolish it before it stinks up the apartment too much.

Yer pal,  Tim

Cremation

But alkaline hydrolysis has an unsettling component that cremation lacks: The body’s tissues and organs dissolve into a syrupy liquid that is treated like wastewater; in effect, most of the body is liquified and goes down the drain.
Deseret News

There was an old man lived in Orem
who said "When I'm dead, in a jorum
just pour my remains,
but not down the drains;
that's totally lacking decorum!"