Self-Talk

 

   I like browsing through self-help books in the bookstore or the library. People who buy these books realize that deep down it's chaos. They have reached rock bottom and the bottom won't hold. In their flailings, they grab a self-help book like it was a seat cushion on the Titanic.

   I picked up a book in the store the other day entitled Mumbling Through Paradise, subtitled Is it ok to talk to yourself? Flipping through the pages I saw it was typical of all books in the self-help genre. There's an introductory chapter on the history of TTY (Talking To Yourself). Plato talked to himself. But then, so did Caligula.  The history takes the reader up to the present day - W, yes, 47, no. 

   The book has 18 chapters of anecdotes about people who talked to themselves. The chapter titled Saint Anthony lays out the science proving people who say the name of the missing object aloud as they search, find their object 18% faster than those who remain silent. 

   The chapter Silicon covers people in the tech industry. According to a pair of small studies, employees who talk to themselves changed jobs 10% more frequently than lips-sealed coworkers.  There were tangential chapters that interested me and also helped fill the two hundred pages of the book. Mañana features the journal article that suggests that our internal monologue is really more like a parliament filled with dozens of voices clamoring for attention than it is like the single entity we imagine ourselves to be. If the member from Doitlater is the loudest voice then things won’t get done in a timely manner. Poor Due-Diligence will just give up.

   Another peripheral chapter features the philosopher who wondered how he came up with his deepest ponderings. Every ten minutes he wrote down what he was thinking at that moment. In the end he discovered his thinking was shallow and boring - time for lunch...who's that new guy....very high..electric bill...

   The final chapter brings together all the insights of the book and offers several more or less practicable recommendations for moving forward. This particular book says it's okay to talk to yourself. Just don't drool.

It's a beautiful day, lads. Let's blow this joint!

Manga Manga

 

   On our recent trip to Paris I was curious what would impress our grandchildren as we walked around the city. There had been debate about going to Paris with Isla, who would turn 12 while there, and her brother Nash (9). Were they old enough to appreciate it? They had already flown from Boston to California to visit their other grandfather and to the island of Grenada to visit their grandmother who winters there on a catamaran. And to a couple of other countries.

   Isla, Nash and their father Joe arrived in Paris a day ahead of us. They were able to drop their bags at our Airbnb apartment, but wouldn't be able to check in till 4:30, so they spent the day walking around the neighborhood near the Bastille Monument. Our apartment entry was at 6 Boulevard Beaumarchais. Next door was a small theatre showing rom-coms and on the other side was a shop called I❤️Mooviz. This shop sold movie related paraphernalia and was to prove the kid's Louvre and their Arc de Triomphe  

   By the time Teresa and I arrived, Nash had acquired two Playmobil figures from the Mooviz shop. Isla and Nash both love these flexible three inch tall figures. Wikipedia says the figures can be used for "free-form play and miniature wargaming ". Isla bought a non-movie related stuffie which she named Manga Manga. The scandal of Manga Manga was that she cost 9 euros, about $11. And Isla wanted another Manga Manga to keep the first one company. She said Manga Manga was lonely.

Manga Manga - Too young to appreciate Paris?

  

Nash handed me one of the Playmobil figures and said I should give him a name. He looked like a Kevin to me. Nash named his figure Max. There ensued a couple of days of heavy free-form play and wargaming in which Kevin's head and arms were torn off repeatedly. A big-headed Spider Man also joined the crew. 

The Bastille boys, Kevin and Max

   These figures got to see as much of Paris as we did. The other big Paris attractions for the kids were the outdoor crepe griddles, often attached to the front of a cafe. Isla's favorite topping is whipped cream. Nutella is ok too. On this trip both kids started ordering strawberries, proof that travel is broadening.

  Some of the things the kids wanted to see were not available. The catacombs containing the bones of six million Parisians were closed for refurbishment. The puppet theatre in the Luxembourg Gardens was also closed, probably due to the puppeteers being on the Costa del Sol in Spain for the winter. It's good to have things to come back for.

   Nash spent the rest of his trip allowance on a boxed set of PlayMobil figures and lost interest in the Kevin/Max fight club narrative. Isla had enough money to buy Manga Manga's twin but she didn't do it, showing a new maturity. That proved to me that foreign travel is educational and good for kids. For adults too.

Spidey made it to the top in a single bound

Festina Lente

 

   Fesrina Lente is a Latin phrase which means make haste but slowly. This morning I hastened to see the lunar eclipse, but I was too slow. And clouds had slowly moved in during the night so I wouldn't have seen anything. I might have chartered an airplane to rise above the clouds but it was too late for that.

   I've seen lunar eclipses before. I remember my first from the back porch of my childhood home. It was slow moving and I didn't appreciate its awesomeness. I watched TV during the eclipse and checked on the moon during the commercials.

   My cousin Liz in Chicago reported she had clouds moving in. My brother Steve said he expected clear skies and sent this photo of the moonrise on Monday evening.

   Steve was proud that he had captured the setting sun in a nearby stop sign.

   He sent this picture this morning showing where the eclipse had been. Steve is a bit of a joker, but it's a nice photo nevertheless.

The view from Steve's house

Conventions

 

   On February 26, Teresa and I attended the Kittson/Roseau County DFL Convention in Greenbush. The local DFL Party (Democratic-Farmer-Labor) has been moribund for years but has revived since the re-election of Donald Trump. Present this evening were 31 delegates elected from the county precinct caucus meetings held earlier in the month. 

   This evening I was helping with registration. A striking thing about the caucus meeting and the convention was the amount of paperwork necessary. Not only did the delegates have to sign in, they had to be given six pieces of paper plus a ballot for voting for resolutions that had been forwarded from the caucus meetings.

  Another striking thing was all the candidates or their representatives who had traveled to Greenbush (pop. 682) to present their cases to us delegates. Tonight's convention would choose four delegates who would attend the district and state conventions. These four were the people who really mattered to the candidates.

   We delegates sat at tables and listened to our chairperson and to the various three minute speeches of the candidates or representatives. A delegate would hold up a red card when a candidate exceeded the three minute limit, which they all did. The candidates milled about the back of the room during the proceedings. They all knew each other. They had done this at previous conventions and they would be doing it at many more. There was coffee available. Coffee that tasted like it had been made with old stogies.

   The candidates reminded me of something or someplace and it took me a few days to remember the pub our family had visited one evening on the west coast off Ireland. I think it was in Clifden. The pub was crowded because there was music and because it was the night of the lotto drawing. Grand prize was a hundred pounds. This was in October right after 9/11, so there weren't many American tourists, though our daughter-in-law Heather chatted with four young American women at the bar.

  As the evening came to an end, I noticed a group of tall, thin young men, farmery looking, whatever that means, lined up along the back wall. As the bell for closing rang, the men moved in on the young women. The women took it well. They seemed to know the routine and gently rebuffed their suitors. The suitors must have luck on occasion otherwise what was the point of risking this humiliation.

   So it was the hungry suitors who I was subconsciously remembering as I watched the candidates. The suitors at least had Guinness to drink rather than bad coffee. Also, our son Matt won the hundred pounds, much to the chagrin of the locals.

Rapala

 I received an addition to my knife collection this Christmas. Becky and Jack, my sister and brother-in-law, gave me a Rapala fillet knife. I like knives. They're simple and handy. When I was a blue collar worker I always carried a hefty knife. When I went white collar I had to leave the knife at home. But then I read a story about a man who rescued a couple from their burning car by cutting their seatbelts. The hero said he grew up on a farm and always carried a knife.

  I realized that without a knife, I would have had to stand by helplessly while the people in the car burned to death, so I made sure there was always a sharp knife in the glovebox. I haven't had to rescue anyone since then (c.1997), but the knife comes in handy for cutting up apples when on the road.    

  The knife Jack chose for me caused some bemusement among the crowd gathered around the Christmas tree as I looked over my new Rapala 4" Fish 'n Fillet knife. I have caught a handful of fish in my time but no one would call me an avid fisherman. Jack said, "He can use it in the kitchen. Put it in the knife drawer. As I say, I like knives and now that I'm retired I could wear it on my belt for any emergencies that pop up.

  I encountered some problems with my  new knife which I left under our Christmas tree for a couple of weeks. The knife and sheath came in a thick plastic case which requires heavy shears to get through, with the risk of cutting into the product within. Second, there's no room in our knife drawer for more knives. This gave Teresa a chance to bring several knives we never use to the Food Shelf's "free stuff" table in Roseau. And third, in small print the packaging says, "Use only for filleting fish and for no other purpose." It says the same in Spanish. The French version does not say use only for filleting. Rapala has probably learned that if you tell a French person to do something, they'll do the opposite.

  The knife comes with a little sharpener. It's one of those V shaped jobs that you draw the knife through. I'm not trying to be difficult but the instructions say, "Insert the knife at a 90° angle to the sharpener," which makes no sense at all. Same instructions in Spanish and French. What language were these instructions translated from? Now another more existential question arose. Where was this knife made? I'm so used to seeing everything made in China that I was heartened to see the blade and sheath both said Finland. But the packaging said made in Estonia.

  I searched Rapala Fillet Knife online and found a 20 minute YouTube video about the factory where the knives are made. I hoped to get some tips on sharpening. The video was from Made for the Outdoors hosted by a good old Minnesotan who goes behind the scenes to show how outdoor equipment is made.  The knife factory is in Rovaniemi, Finland just south of the Arctic Circle. The business was started by a J. Marttiini in 1928. He made and sold knives and ran the business from his bike. He sounds like the guy who started IKEA next door in Sweden.

  He eventually got a truck and started exporting his knives. According to the Minnesota video host, two guys from Minnesota asked Marttiini to make a fillet knife with a flexible blade. The knife was a big hit.  The little factory near the Arctic Circle with fewer than 50 employees has sent millions of fillet knives all over the world. In the video we see the blade grinding process, the birch handle making process, the attaching the handle to the blade process. There are plenty of machines in the factory but a lot of the work is done by hand. The factory's only robot has the job of putting the 22 degree angle on the blade. Apparently the stress of getting this right drove too many employees to drink.

  So what's with the "Made in Estonia" thing on the packaging. I googled Rapala moves fillet knife production to Estonia, hoping I'd get no hits. But I did find a story saying that in 2022 Rapala moved production to Estonia. The article did not give a reason for the move. The union shop steward at the factory said the employees were very disappointed with the outcome of the negations. Finland and Estonia have similar languages and cultures. Both peoples love the outdoors. Both have endured domination by Russia. The big difference is that Estonia has a more attractive corporate tax climate. Rapala, another Finnish outdoors company had acquired the Marttiini brand in 2005. Finland has an income tax rate near 50%. Estonia's is around 20%, yet Finns are among the two or three happiest peoples in the world. Well, maybe not the former knife factory workers.

Warranty voided if used to cut seat belts.

Some Incidents from the Life of Mark McDonnell

 Tomorrow my brother Mark turns seventy. He's the first of my brothers whose arrival I remember. I was about to turn eight. Brother Bill, my nemesis, had arrived when I was two, and Steve slipped in a couple of years later. In another six or seven years Mary-Jo would arrive.

  When I got a few years older I liked taking the subway downtown to explore and Mark was amenable to riding along. He remembers me taking him to restaurants and as soon as the water was poured and the waitress left us to peruse the menu, I would make him get up so we could sneak out of the place I had discovered was beyond my means. I only remember this happening once, or twice. I made three dollars a week from my paper route and had to watch the pennies. I've since learned to judge a place from the outside, but I recently forced Teresa to slip out of a restaurant in Venice on our most recent trip abroad.

  As our family grew I was moved to the attic. I had a finished room in which my father built a built-in bed with drawers underneath, like on a ship. With the addition of a desk and some bookshelves I had all I needed. The view over the city was great. The only bad thing was that the unfinished room adjacent had a ladder leading to a trap door down which imaginary men with knives were always climbing.

  Mark used to come up for visits and I always welcomed a break from homework. We did some creative work developing games for children. Mark would get into my bed and I would go to the landing below, cover myself in a quilt and slowly creep up the stairs making crocodile sounds. My object was to dislodge Mark from the bed but all he had to do was brace himself against the wall and kick. I couldn't see what was going on and the game would end once I received an unintentional kick to the head. That game was called "Crocodile".

  Next day we'd play "Pushing Off the Bed." In this game I'd be lying in bed doing my homework. Mark would insinuate himself between me and the wall and use his legs to push me off the bed. I would spin towards him to stay on the bed, but again, with his strong position against the wall, I always ended up on the floor.

    There was a huge expanse of woods outside Boston where I liked to go hiking. Getting there involved a couple of bus rides and a long walk. One time when Mark and I were hiking there, we came across an old guy checking his muskrat traps by a pond. My map said the pond was named Ponkapoag Pond. The trapper said the correct name was Ponkapaponkapaponkapog Pond which in Algonquin means He who runs through woods with broken leg pursued by pack of wolves.

  When we were a little older a cousin gave us a 16' sailboat, the Gull. Our father was a good carpenter and replaced a couple of rotting planks. One time Mark and I were sailing among the small islands outside Boston Harbor. I always insisted on a hot lunch so we landed on Spectacle Island, climbed to the top of the hill and then up into the old concrete lookout tower from WWII. I gathered some twigs and soon had the tomato soup heating. Just then I noticed the tide was going out under our boat. The Gull was a heavy boat for its size and if we got stranded there, it would be several hours before we got afloat again. I told Mark to watch the soup, slid out of the tower, rushed through the thick underbrush, and anchored our boat in deeper water. Mark had the soup and butter sandwiches ready when I got back.

  The tide has risen and fallen many times since those jolly days. Mark now owns an ocean going sailboat and has invited me on a cruise Down East. I expect that will happen some time in the near future and I'll stand as many watches in the galley as he likes.

Mark, second from left, at Union Oyster House, Boston. 
Happy Birthday!!

What Could Go Wrong

 Whenever I go somewhere new, there's always the nagging feeling something will go wrong. In the best case scenario everything goes according to plan. Minor bumps in the road such as a late bus, a suitcase gone astray or finding a stranger sleeping in your room are inevitable. Worst case scenarios such as major injuries or death must be insured for. Coffin shipment home from overseas is expensive.

  One step below death or dismemberment is having to spend the night in an airport. I've only had to spend the night in an airport once. It was at O'Hare, an airport so big that when your flight is cancelled, no one has any idea why. They just give you a cot and some food vouchers and send you to Terminal X. Two hundred of us lost souls set up our cots in the abandoned terminal. There was a line all night for the one small M/W bathroom. The overhead announcements stopped at 1:00 am and at 4:30 a retired drill sergeant rousted us out of the terminal.  I can recommend the Wolfgang Puck Mediterranean breakfast omelet if you're ever stuck in O'Hare. 

  You can try to prepare yourself for a new place when traveling but life is unpredictable. Take getting to Venice. Venice is an island so the trick with Venice is getting from the airport to Venice itself. According to my research, the best way would be to take the ferry from the airport. We could supposedly buy ferry tickets from machines near baggage claim in the airport. We've had trouble buying tickets from machines in the past. It's always better to buy from a ticket counter, though there's generally a line to wait in as your bus, train or ferry pulls out.

 All my research did not reveal any ticket counters. Could we buy our tickets on the ferry? The internet was silent. So we confronted the ticket machines. There were several of them, no waiting. I could see other people getting tickets and moving on. After struggling with a couple of machines we finally got our tickets and started the long hike to the ferry. A half mile in an airport feels like two miles in the country. It took about twenty minutes to reach the ferries and the counter selling tickets. Now I know for next time, though we risk finding a closed for renovations sign at the counter. We boarded the ferry tickets in hand and were soon on our way to Venice- piece of panettone. 

  Yes everything worked fine getting to Venice. We had a couple of free days in the city then joined our tour group. If we had arrived in Venice the same day the tour started then the tour director would have met us at the airport, bought our ferry tickets, and escorted us to our hotel. That service is one of the main reasons people join tours. The tour company makes the rough ways smooth.

  Take the case of Angie (not her real name), one of the members of our group. At our first group meeting, we learned that Angie had missed her flight that morning in Los Angeles. Please remember there's a nine hour time difference between LA and Venice. Angie had arrived at LAX at 4:30 am to catch the first of her three flights that day. Her first flight was on an obscure airline the tour company had booked for her. These little airlines use bigger airline's counters and Angie went where she had been told to go but no one knew where her airline's check-in desk was. By the time she found out, her 6:30 flight had left. 

  Now the tour company support team sprang into action and rebooked Angie on another airline. Nevertheless Angie would be getting to Venice Airport much later than planned and our tour director was worried that Angie would miss the last ferry to Venice. It is the policy of this company that none of its customers will ever spend the night in an airport. Our director was prepared to hire a private motor boat to get Angie to Venice at great expense to the tour company. I understand now why tours are so expensive. It's not cheap to rebook flights and hire private transport. Fortunately Angie made the last ferry.

  Troubles are going to happen. That's life. The tour company holds your hand and makes them go away. Is this service worth the extra cost? Lots of travelers think so, especially older ones who have the money and hate sleeping in airports. Another benefit of being on a tour is the people you meet.  Angie had an interesting tale to tell. She was an excitable person so you could see why she might go astray at 4:30 in the morning. But she had been a psychiatric nurse in a jail for 20 years so she must have been a capable person. Despite having been up 33 hours the day before, she was raring to hit the tourist trail with the best of them, God love her.

 Airport ferry to Venice--Where's Angie?