Tell Me About the Man

Tomorrow would have been my father’s 90th birthday. I find myself thinking about him, of course—but also, oddly enough, I find myself thinking about tape recorders.

I find myself remembering the coolest gift my parents ever gave me: a Craig Model 212 7-transistor portable tape recorder—the exact same model Jim Phelps used to play his self-destructing taped messages on my favorite TV show, Mission Impossible.

Craig Model 212

I loved that tape recorder. I used it to record music off the radio, my favorite TV themes off the television (including, of course, the theme from Mission Impossible) and the god-awful comedy sketches my friends and I improvised in my room (most of which were based on Mission Impossible).

I remember the day Dad brought the Craig home with him on the train from Chicago—a box wrapped in plain brown paper with a wire handle attached—and presented it to me as an early thirteenth birthday gift. He couldn’t wait to see the look on my face when I unwrapped it. You know that scene in A Christmas Story where Ralph’s father gets excited as he watches Ralph unwrap the BB gun? I’m pretty sure that’s how it was with Dad when he gave me that tape recorder.

You see, I inherited my obsession with audio equipment from him.

Dad also had a portable tape recorder: a Webcor Royalite. At fifty pounds, it was anything but "lite." However, it did have a handle on it, so it qualified as portable. (In those days, you could put a handle on anything and call it "portable." We had a portable television that weighed almost as much as a refrigerator.) About a decade older than my Craig, Dad’s Webcor used vacuum tubes instead of transistors. It had all sorts of knobs, levers, and push-buttons, and a fluorescent green bar that indicated the volume level.

Webcor Royalite

It was this beautiful machine that made me yearn for a tape recorder of my own. I was mesmerized by the turning tape reels and the green light that pulsed to the sound of my voice. Dad used it to record music, and occasionally in his work as an attorney or his hobby as a genealogist. He also used it to make recordings of his kids.

I have written about how my father loved to tell stories about us ("For Dad"). One of his favorite stories involved an interview he recorded of me, shortly after I had begun to talk, concerning "the man"—my name for the small bronze bust of Abraham Lincoln he kept on his desk. I had no memory of the incident. I didn’t even remember hearing the recording, and at times I suspected that my father made it up. However, when I visited my sister in Virginia last year, she played me the CDs she had found on which Dad had lovingly preserved all of the recordings he ever made of us on that old Webcor. Suddenly, I heard the barely intelligible babble of a child, and my father's voice, unbelievably young:

Dad: Why don't you tell me about the man?
Me: No.
Dad: Who is this man?
Me: Um.
Dad: Didn't I tell you who he was?
Me: Um.
Dad: President Lincoln?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Can you say President Lincoln?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Would you say President Lincoln?
Me: Uh-uh.

Both my Craig and Dad’s Webcor are long gone—replaced by cassette recorders, which in turn were replaced by digital recording. But it should come as no surprise that both these marvelous old machines can be found on the Internet, in good working condition and for a reasonable price. (The Webcor only costs a little more than the cost of shipping it.) I must admit that I was briefly tempted to buy both of them, but I don’t need them. I don’t even need the CD of those old recordings.

I'm happy just to have the memories.

Confessions of a Book Addict

For as long as I can remember, I have been a book addict. One of my earliest and best childhood memories:

I'm three years old, walking with my mother from our apartment in downtown Warsaw to the public library. Along the way, we stop to look at baby chicks in the feed store window, and on the way back, we may visit the bakery, and if I'm good, I may get a cookie. But the important thing is that we are going to the library, and I will be allowed to pick out one book (usually Dr. Seuss) from the children's section, which, later on, my mother or father will read to me.

Imagine the thrill when I was old enough to get my first library card, and could check out any book I wanted—from any section of the library—and read it myself!

Of course, what I really wanted was to own books. They were my favorite gifts, and I spent much of my allowance on them: beginning with The Hardy Boys, Tom ("Tom said Swiftly") Swift, and paperbacks from the school book club, eventually moving on to grown-up mysteries, thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.

When I was in college, I discovered my first used bookstore. For a fraction of the cost of a new book, I could buy a used one. I soon did my book shopping almost exclusively at used bookstores—each one unique, depending on the personal taste and character of its owner. I could browse for hours, searching for works by my favorite authors. I craved the thrill of the hunt.

I was addicted to used bookstores.

Then along came e-books. For years, I resisted them. I thought nothing could ever compare with real books. One of my favorite authors, Ray Bradbury, felt the same way. He refused to allow his books to be published electronically. "Those aren’t books," he said. "You can’t hold a computer in your hand like you can a book. A computer does not smell. There are two perfumes to a book. If a book is new, it smells great. If a book is old, it smells even better. It smells like ancient Egypt. A book has got to smell. You have to hold it in your hands and pray to it. You put it in your pocket and you walk with it. And it stays with you forever.”

I completely agreed with Ray—especially the part about the smell of books. To me, new books smell like fresh paper, glue, and ink, and remind me of the excitement of the first day of school. But old books are the best; their fragrance brings back memories of childhood trips to the library and happy hours spent browsing favorite used bookstores.

Then, a couple of years ago, Loretta gave me a Kindle. Suddenly I was a convert. Are you kidding me? Think of any book you want to read and—presto!—you've got it on your Kindle! An entire library you can carry in the palm of your hand! And best of all, some of my favorites—classics in the public domain—were free!

Fortunately, just before he died, Ray Bradbury changed his mind about e-books, too. He allowed Fahrenheit 451—his cautionary tale of a future society where books are outlawed and firemen burn them—to be published in electronic format. Since his death, more and more of his books have been released as e-books. A few days ago, I purchased half a dozen of them at $1.99 apiece as "Kindle Daily Deals." In case you hadn't heard about this, every day Amazon lists several e-books for just $1.99. (These days, it's hard to find a used paperback for that price!) Of course, you have to check every day. Otherwise, you might miss a deal on a book you really want.

I've become addicted to Kindle Daily Deals.

I still love libraries and used bookstores, of course, and I certainly hope electronic publishing doesn't put them out of business. Because, with all of the convenience, there is still one thing you can never get with an e-book—

That smell.

Warsaw Public Library

Magical, Amazing, Firefly Lights Are Magical and Amazing!

There is something magical about fireflies. When I was a kid back in Indiana, they were as essential to summer as the ice cream truck, trips to the lake, and drive-in movies. We called them "lightening bugs," and my friends and I spent many a summer evening catching them and imprisoning them in empty peanut butter jars to keep by our beds at night.

Magic in a jar.

As I grew up, I lost interest in fireflies and magic. Grown-ups don't have time for such things. Then, thirteen summers ago, while in Indiana for a celebration of my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary, I saw hundreds, maybe thousands of them, dancing and twinkling along the shore of a lake at night. Never in my life had I seen so many.

Talk about magic.

In that moment, I realized how much I missed fireflies. We don't have them here in Southern California—at least I've never seen any.

Two weeks ago, while in Chicago, we toured a bioluminescence exhibit at the Field Museum of Natural History. There were fireflies in the exhibit, of course: one real, dead firefly (which produced no light at all), and lots of electronic fireflies (which produced the same slowly pulsing, greenish-yellow light as real fireflies). As we left the exhibit, all I could think was, "I have got to get some of these things!"

When we got home, I got on the computer and found the Firefly Magic website, with the following description of their product:

Fireflies, also called Lightning Bugs, light up a magical evening and are truly 'Magical Fireflies'. Welcome! You've just discovered the amazing Firefly Magic® Firefly Lights that have been developed to accurately recreate the life-like flashing, flickering, and fading of Mother Nature's real fireflies in your yard or garden, all year long. So special and realistic are these patented firefly lights that they're used by Universities for conducting their firefly research. In addition, Firefly Magic® Firefly Lights are used in theme parks, natural science museums, zoos, hotels, restaurants, on stage, and in movies to accurately replicate the look and feel of Mother Nature's real fireflies. 

I ordered a set, and they were delivered within a couple of days. I installed them last weekend, wiring them into our low-voltage lighting system and strategically placing them in the shrubbery and lower tree branches in one corner of the back yard.

I could hardly wait for the sun to go down.

And I am happy to report that Firefly Magic® Firefly Lights are every bit as amazing and magical as advertised. In fact, I think I'll order myself another set. After all, you can never have too many fireflies.

Or too much magic.

(Photo from www.firefly.org. Visit their website for more information about fireflies, including some disturbing news about their dwindling numbers.)

Sounds in Space

Yesterday my sister sent me this picture, taken over fifty years ago, of my mother playing me a record* on my parents' brand new stereophonic hi-fi phonograph.**

I had two LPs at the time: Disney's Alice in Wonderland and Let's All Sing with the Chipmunks. However, I suspect that the LP my mother is about to play is the stereo demonstration record that came with the phonograph: Sounds in Space.

I loved this record. I asked my parents to play it for me again and again until I'm sure they were sick to death of it. I loved the way the sound effects filled the room, and the sound of the narrator's voice and footsteps moving from one speaker to the other. But most of all, I loved the music—especially Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kijé and Lena Horne's spectacular live recording of Day In, Day Out, both of which I still love and now have on my iPod.

In this age of instant digital music, iPods, and ear buds, it's hard to imagine the excitement of a four-year-old boy hearing this album for the first time, having previously only heard recorded music from the tinny speaker of a portable record player or transistor radio. Here's a link to the first track on the record. Listen to it, and try to imagine that you are a four-year-old child hearing recorded stereophonic sound for the first time.

(By the way, that distinctive, resonant voice explaining stereophonic sound is Ken Nordine, who was pretty famous in the day for his recordings of beat poetry over jazz background music. He also served as Linda Blair's vocal coach for The Exorcist.)

Footnotes

*Years and years ago, in the last century—before the Internet or iPods—music used to come on vinyl discs, also called "records." A small disc, called a "45" because it played at 45 revolutions per minute, held a single song on each side. Larger discs, called "LPs" for "long-playing," played at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute and held an entire album. There were also "EPs," which were...oh, never mind. Look it up on Wikipedia, if you're really interested.

**A "phonograph" was a device for playing records. "Hi-fi" meant superior, or "high fidelity" sound, and "stereophonic"...never mind. You can look that up, too.

iVomit

Nearly everyone has experienced the literally gut-wrenching horror of the norovirus, otherwise known as the "stomach flu." It doesn't last long—usually less than twenty-four hours—but while you are experiencing it, you feel like you are dying. Dying, in fact, seems like a preferable alternative.

The norovirus is highly infectious. You hear countless horror stories of it decimating schools, retirement homes, and—worst of all—cruise ships. (The plumbing in cruise ships is notoriously sensitive. Imagine the strain put on it when everyone on board suddenly begins spouting from both ends. Talk about horror stories.)

I have personally encountered the norovirus a number of times over the years, and, while my memory is not the best, I remember each encounter in vivid detail: fever, chills, aching joints, and miserable hours spent in the bathroom.

There was, for instance, that time when I was about thirteen. Our family was living in a big, old, two-story house in Goshen, Indiana. Behind the house was a detached, two-story garage that had once been a stable. My Aunt Vonna was visiting from Fort Wayne, and she had taken us kids to Olympia Candy Kitchen—an old-fashioned, family-owned diner/soda shop/candy store on Main Street—and allowed us each to pick out a bag of our favorite homemade candy. I chose chunks of white chocolate, which I immediately devoured. It tasted delicious going down. It was nowhere near as good when it came back up a couple of hours later.

We were just sitting down to dinner when it hit me. I asked to be excused and raced to the bathroom. I did not receive much sympathy at first—the general opinion was that I had simply eaten too much candy—but when it became apparent that I was really sick, my mother put me straight to bed. I spent a feverish, hallucinatory night filled with strange noises—loud voices, banging doors, the wail of sirens. When I arose from my sick bed in the morning, weak and shaky, I discovered that our garage had burned down during the night. The fire department had been called; everyone had gone outside to watch; the entire neighborhood had turned out. It was positively, hands-down, the single most exciting thing that had ever happened to our family.

And I missed the whole thing.

Not only that—to this day, I cannot stand the taste of white chocolate.

There is no cure for the norovirus, and there is no vaccine against it. You simply have to ride it out. However, there is some good news. Some extremely clever scientists have devised a robot to help them study the way the norovirus is spread. The video below shows the robot in action. They call it "Vomiting Larry."

Much as I admire scientists, I will never understand them. Here they have the genius and imagination to build something as marvelous as a vomiting robot, and the best name they can come up for it is "Larry."

Did none of them think to call it "Ralph?"

Pictures that Pop

I must have been only four or five years old when my grandparents gave me my first View-Master viewer, an old Bakelite "Model E." With it came a packet of picture reels from "Beautiful Rock City Gardens" in Tennessee—a souvenir from one of their vacations. Unfortunately, the viewer broke long ago (Bakelite is brittle and easily shattered), but I still have two of the picture reels, with photos of scenic mountain views, people with 1950's clothing and hairstyles, and weird statues of gnomes and fairytale characters. Nothing special.

Except that they're 3D.

I acquired more picture reels—most of them Easter or Christmas gifts from my parents—and, eventually, a lighted Model H viewer to replace my old broken Model E. Back then we didn't have DVDs or VCRs. The only way to re-experience a favorite movie or TV show was to purchase the paperback, comic book, or View-Master version. My chosen medium was View-Master, of course.

Because it was 3D.

Model H and Some Favorite Picture Reels

I loved 3D pictures. It didn't matter what the subject of the picture was. Some of my picture reels were pretty lame (Why do I even have a packet of pictures from Greece?), but I still loved to look at them, simply because they were 3D.

It never occurred to me that I could create my own 3D photos. I thought it must require special (not to mention incredibly expensive) equipment. Then, several years ago, we took a cruise to Alaska with Garrison Keillor and the cast and crew of A Prairie Home Companion. Aside from the many sightseeing excursions on land, there were plenty of activities to keep us entertained on board the ship: daily performances by the musicians and cast, lectures by naturalists, choir practice and story-telling sessions with Garrison, radio acting lessons from actors Sue Scott and Tim Russell—

And a class in 3D photography taught by Fred Newman, the show's "touring SFX guy."

It turns out that Fred, aside from being a master of funny voices and sound effects, is also a very good amateur 3D photographer. And he taught me that anyone can be a 3D photographer. No special equipment is needed. All you need is a digital camera. Take a picture, take a step to the left (or right), and take another picture.

I took my first 3D photos when we got to Glacier Bay. I didn't need to take a step to the left or right—I simply let the motion of the ship move my point of view. The great thing about digital cameras is that you don't have to worry about wasting film. With a high capacity memory card, you can afford to take lots of pictures, and I did.

When we got back from the trip, I found a company on the Internet (PokeScope) that sells software that makes it easy to line up pairs of 3D photos, as well as a viewer to make it easier to view them. (It's possible to "free view" them without a viewer; if you're good at those "Magic Eye" pictures, you may be able to do it.)

Of course, many of my experiments in 3D photography didn't turn out well at all. I found that anything moving—birds, waves, falling chunks of ice, etc.—ruins the 3D effect. I posted some of the best ones in a set on Flickr, and I've added several more since then. If you'd like to take a look at them, here's the link.

Now if I could just figure out how to get them into View-Master reels...