Appliance Defiance!

Posted on September 29, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

If you’ve been with me a while, you already know about my boundary-challenged microwave, and how the washing machine nearly pushed me over the edge. Now, if you can believe it, I have taken to arguing with my car’s navigation system.

The nav, which I like to call my GPS Escort — “GypsE” for short — is built into the dash. GypsE has a pleasant, unaccented feminine voice. I simply push the voice-command button, ask for Navigation, and she invites me to share my goals with her. “What state, please? For Canada, please say a province.”

GypsE then hands my request off to an assistant, who has prepared by making voice recordings of every possible syllable, plus numbers and such, and put them in a file. When called upon, she grabs the pertinent syllables, lines them up in order and plays them back. I refer to her as GypsE’s ReOrdered Syllable Enunciator, or “GypsE ROSE.” She probably means well, but besides having a mechanical-sounding voice, she sometimes has trouble understanding me.

First, before ROSE says anything, I give her the name of a state, town or street as GypsE directs. ROSE listens to my request and shows a list of names that I might possibly have meant. Often, the one I want is at the top of the list, followed by other reasonable choices. Like when I say “Dallas” The list will show “1. DALLAS,” and then “2. ALICE.” So far, so good — GypsE tells me to say a number, I tell her “One,” and we go from there. But some names are less straightforward. Many are of Spanish origin, or German or Czech. Unfortunately, GypsE ROSE is a bit of an “ugly American” — non-English words completely flummox her.

One fine morning I started out for an on-location interview at Fort Parker. I knew how to get there, but thought it might be nice to have a reminder when I got to the highway leading from the Interstate toward Mexia (pronounced “meh-hay-uh”). Since I never go that way, I was afraid of lapsing into auto-pilot and missing my exit.

GypsE and I established that, as usual, I was going somewhere in Texas. Then: “Please say the city name.”

“Meh-hay-uh,” I replied, with some foreboding but perfect diction. ROSE accepted the challenge and came up with:

1. NATALIA
2. MAGNOLIA
3. ROCKDALE (How’d that get in there?)
4. McDADE

I could feel my eyebrows go up as I glanced at the screen full of irrelevant names. “Please say a number from the displayed list…” GypsE, the boss, prompted me.

“What? No,” I sputtered. “I said ‘Meh-hay-uh!'”

GypsE tried to intervene. “Please say again.”

ROSE had me pinned, and she knew it. I backed up to “Please say the city name.” It felt all wrong but finally I gritted out, “Mex-ee-uh.”

ROSE smugly offered a list topped by “1. MEXIA” and “2. LEXINGTON,” which sound nothing alike once you know how the locals pronounce Mexia, whatever language it might come from. “One!” I barked. “Just remind me to exit.”

For another example, take the Spanish word “Grande,” correctly pronounced “Grahn-de.” If you tell ROSE you want “Grande Avenue,” she will think for a moment, then offer options like “1. ANDRE, 2. COTTONWOOD, 3. GARLAND.” If you ever in your life want to find Grande, you have to pronounce it “Grand.”

ROSE can’t even read her own writing. Sometimes she emphasizes the wrong syllables, pauses in the middle of a word or runs two words together, until you can hardly make out what she means.

Once when the directions called for a turn onto “Walnut Grove Road,” ROSE garbled out something like “Waaahll… nutGROVEroad.” When driving with friends, I have requested an address on this road, just to get her to say the name for them, like a stupid pet trick.

“Uhl,” pronounced like “Yule,” comes out “Eeeuhghrll.” Every time.

I’ll close for now. I have to go see what GypsE ROSE does with the city of Natchitoches, Louisiana–which is, of course, pronounced “Nack-uh-dish.”

I’m not actually going there, and I don’t need ROSE to guide me. Now I’m just messing with her.

Thanks for reading,


Jan

Posted in Maladjusted Mondays | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

For Women Only (Book Review)

Posted on September 27, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

Welcome, Ladies! (But the guys can join us if they want to.)

I must admit, I read this book a couple of months ago but just remembered that I had not yet put it on my virtual shelf, under the “…And Writers Read” tab. (Forehead slap.) I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I did!

Feldhahn, Shaunti. For Women Only: What you Need to Know About the Inner Lives of Men. Multnomah, Sisters, Oregon, 2004. It all started when Shaunti Feldhahn asked her husband a few questions about his thinking. She hoped this Q&A would help her realistically portray a male character in a novel she was writing. Instead, his answers shocked her as she realized “there were many things I thought I understood about men–but really didn’t.” Intrigued, she started interviewing hundreds of men and even took a professionally-prepared survey of many more to identify “normal” vs. “exception.” In this book, Feldhahn shares her insights with women who would like to understand and support their guys better. A couple of her seven revelations include a man’s need for respect over love (to him, the two are inseparable anyway), and most men’s desire to be romantic, though they may hesitate for fear of failing. Whether you are committed to a man or just want to write about one, I highly recommend this book.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

Posted in Everybody Has a Story, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

A Good Time for some Bad Writing

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I love to write and have a passion for communicating. Since I started back to college in 2005, almost all my writing has been non-fiction: research papers, literary analyses, creative non-fiction, other people’s memoirs and, more recently, my magazine features. I’m no genius, but a learning curve is a learning curve, and I have had time to travel around that curve to at least a point of competency. (Some might say instead that I have “gone ’round the bend,” but that is neither here nor there.) In short, non-fiction is my comfort zone. A nice, factual, rational comfort zone with clearly defined right and wrong ways to proceed. I don’t have to come up with stories; the people I write about have been living their stories and all I have to do is present them with appeal and fidelity.

Here are some of the skills at which I have gained some competency:

Sentences: Use correct grammar and spelling; make sure longer sentences are easy to follow– Check (usually).
Prose: Vary sentence length, use apt word pictures, limit adverbs and passive constructions– Check.
Scene: Show action on the page, bringing reader into the scene– Check.
Dialogue: Make it lean and crisp, with characters (or magazine subjects) speaking naturally– Work In Progress.

Now I have somehow acquired the bug to write fiction. Problem? There is one fiction-specific skill set that I find sadly lacking: I really don’t know how to make up a story. You’d think anyone who reads as much as I do would have absorbed that by sheer osmosis, but it’s harder than you might think if you haven’t tried it. And so I have continued to stall around in my comfort zone, too competitive to want to attempt something new unless I can do it pretty well on the first try.

I think I’m onto something now, though. Actually it was an insight that I had picked up in August from a Novel Rocket blog post, about pushing past a plateau. One idea finally percolated down to where I could apply it to my own situation: “One must first write ‘all right’ before crafting some killer Pulitzer Prize-winning prose. It’s a rite. An initiation. A common ground that all authors share at one point or another” (Michelle Griep, Novel Rocket.com, 08-20-2011).

Logically, “all right” writing is not even the first step. “Bad” writing is, unless you’re some kind of genius, which I’ve already said I’m not. And that’s what critique groups are for: they patiently read your bad writing and tell you what’s wrong with it, so you will know how to make it better. It’s humbling to think of letting anyone read a poorly-written piece that I wrote, sort of like seeing your kid running around the front yard dressed in clashing colors and with Magic Marker scribbled all over his feet, not that either of mine ever did that… necessarily.

Anyway, all that to announce publicly that I am committed to branching out and writing some fiction, which I’m sure will be quite bad. I promise to swallow my pride, show my bad fiction to a critique group or partner, make note of what they say, and revise accordingly. As near as I can figure, that is the only way I will ever learn to write good fiction.

And this is as good a time as any to start.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

PS: I’m linked up with Rachel Anne and the Company Girls and Jen’s Soli Deo Gloria party. Everyone is welcome!

Posted in Near As I Can Figure... | Tagged , , | 13 Comments

When Words Grow Obsolete…

Posted on September 13, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson


I’m a writer. Words are what I do.

But of all people, writers know that human language has its limits. There are things that words just cannot convey. People often describe a time when they were “speechless.” Or something huge happens, and we reel with emotion and finally gasp, “Words fail me!”

The discussion following my August 15 post, “What I Did on my Summer Vacation, Part 3: Immigration” got me to looking forward to the day when those limits (and others) will be no more.

A friend who hails from South America read the post and emailed me: “I can definitely relate to the immigration experience every time we travel outside the US. And also thinking about how we are citizens of Heaven and there won’t be any racism or differences in skin color or accents, etc…”

She is right. Already — in fact since the first century AD — the things that divide people have lost their power. Oh, we still sometimes let racial or economic or speech differences keep us apart, but although those differences exist, they are not really important for those who trust in Christ. The apostle Paul pointed this out in his letter to the Galatian church…

So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus (Galatians 3: 26-28).

Most of the comments revolved around how we citizens of Heaven will all enjoy each other’s company, once we get there (with or without waiting in line!) Our unity will transcend all differences. And as near as I can figure, I believe our language barriers will fall too, and I will no longer need my limited English vocabulary. Words as we know them may even grow obsolete…

…if so, then human beings “from every tribe and tongue and people and nation”* can all communicate in pure meaning. No longer will we have to try and force glorious, ineffable, shimmering thoughts into clunky words of perhaps two or three syllables. Again, I can only speculate, but this pure communication may be part of what Paul refers to in his letter to the Corinthians (chapter 13, verse 12), “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” (emphasis mine)

I’m no expert. For all I know, in Heaven we may all speak ordinary Hebrew or Aramaic or Greek. But I do like to think about how it might be.

Have you ever found your language inadequate to convey something that you desperately wanted to say?

This week I am linking up with Jen and our Soli Deo Gloria friends, AND with Rachel Anne and the Company Girls over at Home Sanctuary.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

*See the Book of Revelation, chapter 5, v. 9.

Posted in A Page From My Journal, Near As I Can Figure... | 12 Comments

Average Speed 6.7 mph; Or, Why Every Cyclist Should Know How to Change a Flat

Posted on September 6, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

“Hubris” would be much too strong a word. Let’s just say that my lack of soreness after the Hotter’n Hell 50, combined with a great 15-mile ride last Monday, had further boosted my natural optimism.

So as I planned a short, 45-minute ride for 6:30 PM last Thursday, I wasn’t worried. When Brent told me my front tire had a slow leak and that he had left me a spare front wheel that I could swap out if my tire felt too soft, so be sure to check it before starting out, I wasn’t worried. Even after I pottered around and suddenly realized it was 6:50 (less than an hour before sunset) and I hadn’t even pulled on my bike shorts, I wasn’t worried. I’ll just go shorter, I decided, filling a water bottle.

It didn’t take long to get ready, and my front wheel still felt pretty firm, so off I zoomed with about 45 minutes of daylight left. Rather than risk losing light, I opted for a half-hour ride. My phone was charging in the kitchen so I just left it. I wasn’t worried; I would be no more than 3½ miles from home. What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out my selected turnaround point is somewhat farther from home than I thought. But that’s what the extra time is for, to allow for these little glitches. I wasn’t worried as I turned around and started back. The bike computer showed my average speed as 13.6.

A few minutes later, my bike started clattering and the ride felt bumpy. Odd… the pavement looks smooth, for chip-seal. Then I remembered the leaking front tire. Surely it hadn’t… Nope, the front looked normal. I rode a bit farther but the clattering continued. So I looked down again, this time at the rear tire.

Flatter than a road map. And me with no phone, of course.

🙂 Good news: A little toolbag strapped to my bike carries tire levers, a spare tube and two CO2 cartridges for inflating it. Everything you need for changing a flat.
😦 Bad news: Having only watched Brent change a tire perhaps once per decade, I really can’t do it myself. Knowing this, I figured I’d get home quicker on foot.

Off I went, walking my bike. My thick metal cleats gave me an awkward, rather lumpy gait, not to mention slipping on the hard road surface. Pretty soon I took my shoes off and carried them in my other hand. This was when I learned that the “flat” pebbles making up the chip-seal surface aren’t. Aren’t flat, that is. Within a quarter mile my feet were a mite tender.

Everything you need to change a flat ... ummm... assuming you know how...

When I came to a nice sturdy gate across a gravel drive, I decided to just see if maybe I could figure out how to change the stupid flat. I leaned my bike against the gate, put my shoes back on, emptied the bag of tools and looked from them to the rear wheel. Inspiration failed me. The first step, I finally recalled, is to shift gears so the chain is on the last cog. But… last one toward the inside or the outside? I’ll spare you the gory details. Suffice it to say that I could not get the wheel off. And, as anticipated, the effort had done nothing but waste minutes of fading daylight.

What’re ya gonna do? I latched my shoes and kept going, this time crossing to the left side of the road and walking just off the pavement in the much-less-slippery grass. I wasn’t worried.

A mile or so later, some big ol’ dog with a muscular jaw and suspicious nature loudly questioned my right to the road in front of his house. Sweet-talking him didn’t work, as it sometimes doesn’t, but at least he ran off toward the house. Aaaaand brought back reinforcements, in the form of two even bigger, louder dogs. Crud. I quit worrying about being eaten and got bossy. “No!” I scolded them. “Stay in the yard!” They eased off after it occurred to me to cross the road, away from their property.

Turning onto the road that leads to our neighborhood felt nice, even though I was still 1.25 miles from home. It got darker by the minute and though I passed a few friends’ houses, none showed any lights. Oh well, I’m nearly there.

Dusk deepened as I entered the neighborhood. Within moments some kids approached me with school fund-raisers. Bless their hearts, I couldn’t even see the brochure. That’s when Brent drove by en route home, saw me and offered a ride. When we loaded the bike into his car, the computer showed 7.2 miles and an average speed of 6.7.

And that is why every cyclist should know how to change a flat.

Thanks for reading!
Tailwinds — and no worries,
Jan

PS: I’m linking up with Jen at Soli Deo Gloria. Please pray for Texas as our drought drags on, especially for areas threatened by wildfires, like the city where Jen lives.

Posted in Thoughts on Two Wheels | 7 Comments

Hotter’n Hell: Camelbak and AirEvac in Wichita Falls, Texas

Posted on September 3, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I am linked up with Rachel Anne and the Company Girls today.

I felt like a doofus cruising around before dawn in sunglasses. I could hardly see where I was going because it was so dark. (Problem is, they’re prescription sunglasses so if I had taken them off, I still couldn’t have seen where I was going because I’m nearsighted.) Brent (Mr. Wonderful), Greg (the “Kid”) and I made our way to the downtown staging area for the 30th annual “Hotter’n Hell Hundred” bike ride.

Even though I was well trained, I still had that jittery, jumping-off-the-high-dive feeling in my stomach. After all, the forecast high was near 110. We were only doing 50 miles and would be done before noon, but it would be mighty hot when we finished.

Finally, the National Anthem / military flyover / cannon shot signaled the start. The first of 10,000 or so riders passed under the Start-Finish banner. It took us 20 minutes just to get to the banner, half a mile from our spot near the front of the 50-milers. Then we were off through town and into the prairie.

Despite my nerves, the ride itself turned out to be way easier than I expected because it was so flat and NON-windy. I wore a 50-ounce Camelbak® backpack full of ice water and carried a bottle of electrolyte drink and an extra one of water. Brent, Greg and I started off pretty fast as the sun — and temperature — rose behind us.

We stopped to regroup at the first rest stop. I’m glad we did because that’s where we ran into Jerome, a cyclist who lives in my hometown, and his son. It’s always fun to see someone you know in a mob of strangers.

Moving on, we soon split away from the longer routes, so there were only 50-milers around us. The level roads and calm winds kept me feeling stronger than I really am. It was weird riding such a flat course. Sometimes I geared up and stood out of the saddle on very slight inclines, just to rest my rear a bit. It grew hotter and hotter.

After crossing over to the north side of US-287, I noticed a helicopter flying slow and low, just a few miles away. I figured it was a news chopper, getting some video of the ride. But then it hovered and eased down to a landing, as our road turned right toward it. This couldn’t be good.

Sure enough, it was an AirEvac ambulance, airlifting an injured rider to the hospital. When we coasted to a stop, three or four hundred cyclists were already standing between us and the helicopter. It had landed right on the road, the only place possible. We stood around for ten minutes before the chopper took off.

We made one more rest stop, about 10 miles from the finish. By then, I was really feeling the heat. Bless those volunteers! I thankfully accepted an ice-cold disposable towel and downed a pint of PowerAid in short order.

But we weren’t done standing around in the sun. This last rest stop was plagued with zillions of awful, thorny burrs. Volunteers warned people to keep their bikes on the pavement, but as we left, we passed dozens of people changing flats. Next thing we knew Brent’s rear tire went flat, too. He’s a good mechanic, but it still took a few minutes to get the thing changed.

I was rapidly losing energy. In fact, at one intersection I offered to trade bikes with the motorcycle cop… with predictable results. I finally perked up as we rode through Sheppard Air Force Base. I mean, they let us ride right past the flight line. Airmen and cadets lined the course to cheer us on (and perhaps to make sure we didn’t mess with the planes). After leaving the base, we could see the city, which encouraged me that I could finish this shindig.

In the last couple of blocks, I developed a bit of tunnel vision. Crossing the finish line, my first triumphant words were “I have to get out of the sun. Right Now.” Too drained to walk over to the refreshment counter, I lay down right on the pavement, in the shade of a parked trailer, and let Brent ferry a series of Cokes and ice water to me. Greg, who had finished about four minutes ahead of us, helped by sprinkling water on me. Soon I felt up to walking into the Convention Center and schmoozing around the air-conditioned Expo with my guys.

All in all, the Hotter’n Hell was one of the best organized, most awesome rides I have done. I hear it is the largest bicycle event in the world, and I believe it. I feel no need to do it again, but it was great to be part of it with my husband and son.

Besides, the family that sweats together… sticks together!

Thanks for reading!
Tailwinds,
Jan

Posted in I Remember When... (my OWN stories), Thoughts on Two Wheels | 10 Comments