Post 8.5.0.0 sorting and scanning photos

It's been awhile, hasn't it.  A couple of weeks back, I counted up the photos I had sorted and labeled that weekend, both in the computer and in  hand.  That is, they were the same photos.  They had been previously scanned, and I labeled and sorted the photos while also labeling and sorting the scans in my computer.

There were 454 of them.  It had been a three day weekend on one hand, but on the other, I hadn't worked continuously.  That finished all of the photos that had been scanned over Christmas break.

At that point, the old scanning sleeve was scratched enough that the scanner was scanning the scratches more than the pictures, so I had to stop.  I haven't been able to pry replacement sleeves out of either the manufacturer or Kodak.  Their online customer service sucks. 

I tried buying a new scanner, but can't find a simple one, like the old one at any local store.  I tried online and found a larger version of the little scanner I was using.  I just sent it back.  The note I made on Facebook about it reads:

Bought a new scanner. Was all excited. Had hundreds of photos queued up to be scanned. Sucker doesn't work. Sending back. Repacking photos. Damn.

There is a picture.  The problem with the scanner was that it wouldn't pull the photos through.  So my Dear Son tried pushing them through, to see if that would work.

At least if they ever get the rollers to work, the scan part works fine. 

I still have no scanner, so I've been pre-sorting and sometimes labeling more photos.  There are still boxes and boxes in the garage. 

The good news is that I've discovered that the best way to store the pictures is in index card archive boxes.  The bad news is that I now have a box full of unscanned photos and no scanner.  And for most of it, what I really need is just a new sleeve. 

But that's not what I came here to say.  I came to share the glee of finding 9 packets of pictures that could be thrown away with only the mildest of guilt.  Wheee.  They were Gerry's photos.

Gerry was my Mom's second husband.  The photos didn't get thrown away automatically just because they were his.  They got tossed because he would take a lot of pictures of, say, the view from someplace he had visited or from the property where he would build his house.  But it wouldn't be labeled, so it would just be a bunch of overexposed trees, with a few fronts of trucks thrown in.

No people + no labels usually gets chucked no matter who took them.  Oh, there was also a dead deer on a mule and what looked like damaged furniture.  I'm guessing the first was from a hunting trip and the second was evidence for a claim against a moving company.  Not much use for posterity, especially with no smiling hunters in any shot.

The pictures of fish all have smiling fishermen holding them.  The ones with Gerry in them are being kept for now.  I may toss them later, but I won't be able to toss them with guilt-free glee.  And that's what I experienced last night, folks.  Nearly guilt-free glee. 

Post 8.2.6.0 Current Events: Writing Group, Back from Christmas, DIL Cytology Certificate

I'm back in Stockton and at the Empresso again.  The rumor is true, it IS cold in Minnesota in the winter.  The cold and the Minnesota comments are a comment about my recent visit to Beloved Son and Daughter in Law in Rochester MN. She's taking a one year certificate class in Cytology at the Mayo Clinic. He's working from home, doing IT management for an engineering company with offices around the world.

I got a behind the classroom tour of the Mayo Clinic.  The cytology classes get to look into microscopes that are tube and mirror connected to the instructor's microscope, so that students can see what she sees, or a mirror image of it.  Each iteration reverses for the six slaves, three on each side.  Mirror, same, mirror, right and mirror, same, mirror left.

The stains used to make collected epithelial cells turns the new ones blue and the old ones pink.  They look pretty on the slide.   Suitable for fabric. 

I asked my Daughter in Law, who was giving me a tour and who was showing me a stack of slides, whether she would use such cloth for nursery curtains.  She said no.  Gave me the evil eye.  Well, not exactly evil.  The exasperated and endlessly disapproving eye.  She's had practice with it.  Has it on speed dial when she knows she'll be talking to me.  Sees it as necessary protection. 

She doesn't want to risk starting to think of me as normal.  She also doesn't want to risk me thinking that she might accept any suggestion that I might make.  Well, not ANY suggestion.  If I were to make a Normal Suggestion, she would be amiably ready to consider it.  It's not that she intends to be unreasonable or protective, it's just that my ideas are so likely to be odd, from her point of view. 

I prefer whimsical.  She prefers Dammit Woman, where do you come up with these weird things?  No offense meant.  She is pleased to be honest and upfront and spirited.  It does keep misapprehensions to a minimum.  I'm nearly used to it.

Are you crazy?  I mean, I love you dearly, but, damn.  That is some industrial grade crazy.  Normal people don't think of things like that.

She trained the middle boy to keep the apartment clean, including doing dishes more than once a day.  That is so much fun to watch that I would forgive a lot more than a loud statement of things I know that other people are often thinking.  I'm an acquired taste.  That's one of the benefits I have noticed to having children.  Children, being raised around you (general you - One), become contaminated by you (one) and for at least a handful of years think you're normal. 

As long as you don't try saying or implying that everyone else out there is abnormal and wrong, they'll tend to at least stay indulgent to your (one's) idiosyncrasies.   I've learned to appreciate that.  (I'll tell you about Parental Arbitrariness, sometime.) 

 

Post 4.8.1.3 Dad's Memory / An Experiment With a Path

That reminds me of another of Dad's experiments.  Not that he set out to make an experiment, just that it ended up being one and he told us about the result because it was a valuable thing to know.

I've previously mentioned that Dad was moved around a lot as a child.  I have a vague idea that this might have happened in Rolling Hills, back before there were many houses up there.  Wherever he was located, there was a field along the route between his home and the grocery store.  

As the oldest boy, he was the one sent to the grocery store to get random things.  If he cut across the field it was a shorter route, so that's what he did.

Other people also cut across the field to that store.  There was a meandering pathway through it.  To start with he followed the path.  Then with the inspiration of a kid having to do a chore and wanting to do as little as possible (not his words), he started to wonder why the trail didn't go straight.  It wouldn't be as far to walk if it was straight.  

Perhaps the trail was avoiding rocks or holes.  He explored that idea.  No.  There seemed to be nothing for the trail to avoid.  He considered.

Then he decided that it was better to cut straight across the field, even if he had to push through tall grass, than to meander for no particular reason.  At first, there was no lingering sign that he was doing that.  The grass bounced back.

Then the grass started to be pressed down, so that you could see an impression of a path, if you looked.  Later, it was obvious that the grass had been tramped down.

Within a few weeks, other people had started to use his shortcut.  Additional feet meant that the grass became worn quicker.  The more worn the grass became, the more people would take the new path instead of the old one.  As soon as both paths were worn to bare dirt, the majority of the foot traffic traveled the straight path.

Dad watched as slowly the grass in the meandering path grew and eventually hid it from view.  Now people didn't even think of it as an option.  

Telling the story, you could hear pride in his voice.  Pride for his younger self, and pride at recognizing that this was a memory that was important enough to keep and pass down.  

Post 4.8.1.2 Dad's Memory / An Experiment in Knuckle Cracking

A Youthful Experiment.

My Dad often talked about his memory and how good it was.  He stated that he remembered things back to two years old.  He often complained about how his mother, sister, brother, and other relatives did not remember, or claimed not to remember, things that he remembered clearly.  He resented this because he remembered many times when they had been wrong, or had done something that harmed or upset him, that they did not, themselves remember.  This allowed them to keep presenting themselves as knowledgable and kind people.

Father presented his memory as a beacon into his family's past.  He told us about these old transgressions that everyone else ignored or left behind so that we could see the family illuminated in his memory's light.  

But I was going to talk about his experiment cracking his knuckles.  The warmup paragraphs are here because it is a memory about a time when people were wrong, but it's not an unpleasant memory for him.  

His family had, and still have, for the ones that are left, a standard operating procedure of Stating Things.  Usually these were Things That Everyone Knows.  Sometimes they were Things That I Remember.  Sometimes they were aphorisms.  They would state and counter-state in an ongoing competition to be The Authority In The Room.  Admitting that something you had said might not be totally accurate was just not part of the game.

Dad's mind didn't work that way.  He was introverted and also didn't like arguing.  But most important, he though that things were either true or not, and that when a person made a statement, what counted was wether or not it was true, not how well a person could use it to chin themselves up over anyone listening.

So when his mother and her sisters all told him to stop cracking his knuckles because it would make them grow big and knobby, he decided to test it.  How, you might ask, would a child do that?  If he cracked his knuckles, they could all say that they would have been smaller if he hadn't, no matter what size they were.  And if he used a friend as a control, they could argue that the two were just growing differently.  

What he did was start only cracking the knuckles on one hand.  I don't know if he ever let them know that the experiment was ongoing.  He could have done it completely for his own information and satisfaction.  He did it for years and there was never any difference between the knuckles of his two hands.

This proved that Those So-Called Experts On Everything were simply parroting bad information.  He told us the story so that we would know that he had proved that they were wrong at so basic a level that we should always assume that they were probably wrong, especially if they were sounding particularly sure of themselves.  We didn't need to argue, but  it was good for us to know.

I thought that it was a clever experiment for a child.  I'm still a little pleased with it by proxy.  

Post 4.8.1.1 Dad's Memory / Bee's in Berry Bushes

In my last post I talked about memories my Dad had that were not unpleasant, not harrowing, and that did not cause him to simmer in bile and resentment.  Most of them were about his children (us) growing up.  But one was about his own childhood.

He resented having to move around as much as they did.  And when I say he resented it, that was probably him resenting it as an adult, looking back.  As a child, things were probably more complicated.  But that's a story for another post.  

For this post, the pertinent thing is that there was a mound of overgrown berry canes near one of the places that he lived as a child.  I have no firm idea where that was.  And he would have found when he was exploring a new neighborhood and thought of it as a nice thing that had to be appreciated while it was available.

The nice thing about it, as far as he was concerned, was that when he found it, it was swarming with bees.  These weren't just honey bees:  generic, small, pale, striped things.  These were conglomerations of other species.  Some were large and black and velvety.  Some had shiny blue backs.  Some were tiny.  

He would catch them in an old jam jar.  Turn the jar, lidless, upside down.  And cover the open bottom with his hand.  The bees would explore the jar as he watched, looking for a way out.  They would land on his hand and tickle as they walked around.  

He told us about this as part of his explanation of why there was no reason to be afraid of bees.  Be respectful, yes.  But don't assume that just because you see bees, they're going to come after you.  If you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone.  

Post 4.8.1.0 Dad's Good Memories Were of Our Childhoods

I've mentioned before that my Dad tended to gunnysack.  That's a pop psychology term for carrying around a bag full of old resentments, for use in the present time.  

So it was unusual for him to share memories that were pleasant ones.  Most of his pleasant memories were of us when we were younger.  He really enjoyed watching us grow up.  It's nice to be able to make someone happy just by being there and being yourself.  

One story he had about my sister, S-2, illustrated what he thought of as her superior attunement to nature.  When she was about 3, she walked up to a fly that was sitting on the wall.  Now flies are skittish.  It's just their nature to flee if they see movement.  So he was surprised when she slowly and calmly held out her finger near it and it crawled off of the wall and onto her finger.  It didn't stay there long, but while it was there, she just calmly observed it.

He had another story that illustrated what he thought of as her emotional intensity.  At probably about the same age, something made her sad or angry and she stood and dried.  The standard response of adults to crying children, in our house, was to politely ignore the trespass until the child regained control.  

Dad was therefore standing nearby while S-2 cried.  I picture him standing with a cup of coffee and a cookie, but he probably didn't describe the scene that thoroughly.  That's just the way I picture him, when I think of him standing around.

Dad watched as she cried.  It hadn't been a big thing that set her off but, being emotionally intense, she was desolated.  The house we lived in at the time was the house that he and Mom had built themselves, with the help of other relatives.  The floors were hardwood, throughout.  As he watched, her tears hit the hardwood floor.

He wasn't paying particular attention.  He was just relaxed and in the area.  (Which is why I think there was a cup of coffee and a cookie involved.)  Slowly he noticed that the tears weren't falling at her feet.  They were jumping out nearly a foot in front of her.  This was mildly amazing to him.

I can picture him sliding quietly to the side for a better view as they arced from the top of her cheeks to the floor ahead.  I'm sure he never said a word to her at the time, but he remembered it and talked about it later.  More than once.  He always told it with fondness.

That was another sign that he enjoyed and loved us.  Because a person can't help being born with emotional intensity, but they need to learn to control it.  Yet I never heard any trace of disapproval in his voice when he told the story.

Post 4.8.0.0 Back Rubs and Toe Popping

Some things my family did right.  Or, at least, they did things that weren't particularly wrong that I'm able to look back to in fondness.

I particularly liked the back rubs.  I think they started out as back scratches and morphed into rubs when Dad decided that scratching was inferior to rubbing because while scratching feels good over an itch, it can sometimes provoke the itch into spreading or remaining.  Rubbing, while feeling less like it's fixing the itch, will slowly soothe it.  So although it takes longer, and you have to be more patient, rubbing will fix the problem more thoroughly, and is therefore the superior method.

Dad made a series of such decisions, expecting them to be the Answer For All Time.  But that isn't what this post is about, I'll let that short note be a reminder to post about that later.  Assuming I read back through the posts, it should work.

I never told Dad, and at the time he was pontificating about rubbing vs. scratching, I might not even have been aware, but when I asked to have my back scratched, it wasn't because I had a particular itch, really.  

Oh, I might have felt a prickling when I saw an adult relative sitting on a couch with space available beside them.  But that would have been a prompt from my subconscious.  What I wanted was the contact.  And rubbing worked as well as scratching did.

In my family, in our family, any kid who sat next to an adult and laid across their lap could ask for a back rub.  Not in the middle of the adults talking, necessarily.  And not when Dad had a cup of coffee.  But in general.  It was a soothing and bonding thing.

Even if there was conversation and coffee, it might be possible to lean over and settle in.  Which might possibly lead to desultory rubbing, without asking, if you were lucky.  The desultory rubs were never as good as the deliberate ones, but they were better than nothing if you were in the mood.

On a more active level, Dad, and a couple of the younger uncles, used to pop our toes.  Sometimes a big play would be made about trapping the bare foot of a sitting child and slowly pulling on each toe, one by one, until each joint cracked.  Of course, sometimes we asked for it, too.  We'd lay on the floor near a seated adult and wave a bare foot.

As we got older, we started doing it to each other.  And to ourselves.  We learned that tipping the joint sideways would often crack the joint with less effort.  But you had to be more careful using that method, because it would hurt if you cranked down too sharply.  

So, back rubs and toe popping.  Two things that my family did right.