Fiction Friday: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
These days, my reading is fairly short on classic fiction, so I’ve resolved to read more of those kinds of titles. I have several of them on my To Be Read list, both the 2010 version and the ongoing one.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain, wasn’t on the list, but we got several classic titles for Christmas, so I’ve resolved to read them all, and read them to the Boy if possible.
We started doing Tom Sawyer as a read-aloud, and I hate to say it, but it’s just not meant to be read aloud. Between the 
heavy dialects and rather slow story-telling, it just didn’t work for us.
So, I set it aside until I didn’t have another book in progress, and proceeded through on my own. And while the action may not, for the most part, be fast enough for a read-aloud, it’s plenty engaging as a read-silent. And of course, we can forgive Mark Twain for the written-in dialects, because he’s Mark Twain. It’s a no-no for anybody else, though.
The interesting thing about Tom Sawyer is that it’s not really a beginning-middle-end kind of story. It’s really aptly titled The Adventures. We don’t experience Tom as a character who wants something and overcomes struggles to get it. Instead, we just tag along with Tom while he does some stuff.
I think most of us have probably read at least a few parts of Tom Sawyer. I remember reading excerpts, including the white-washing incident and Tom and Huck doing their treasure-hunting. In fact, this brings up perhaps the truest line in the book:
There comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.
In my case, it was dinosaur bones, and we dug a hole behind the shed where Mom and Dad wouldn’t see it. Of course, they did see it eventually, and well before we unearthed any thunder lizards or their bones. Still, it was worth the effort.
I think one of the other reasons it was a difficult read-aloud is that the book seems to be more targeted at men who used to be boys, rather than boys themselves. A grown man can’t help but identify with the questionable logic and decision-making and think, “Yep, that’s how I’d have approached that issue.” And the book certainly brings up a bit of pining for the days of youthful indiscretion.
So I think that, at this point, it’d be appropriate to delve a bit into some of my boyish exploits.
My friends and I used to enjoy taking our bikes down to an undeveloped part of the neighborhood where there were a bunch of dirt hills that were fun to ride on. What with our extremely creative minds, we called the place “The Dirt Hills.”
The whole place was basically a large loop of packed trails (packed by years of bicycle treads), with smaller loops in between. So you had a few options:
- You could ride around the outside and just go for speed. Oh, and watch for the man-sized pothole (perhaps an archaeological dig?) into which bicycle tires went in and grievous gonadal injuries came out. (I can tell the story without blushing, but I’ll spare my readers. Or you could just ask my mom.)
- You could ride to the closest loop and enjoy the gentle but still fun washboard effect of the bumpy run. And attempt to avoid collisions while re-entering the main loop.
- You could ride to the second loop and grab some air on the moderate-sized trio of jumps. And attempt to avoid collisions while re-entering the main loop.
- You could ride to the third loop and take your chances with the Death Jump. And attempt to avoid collisions while re-entering the main loop.
Notice there was a lot of attempting to avoid collisions. We also got a good deal of practice at recovering from collisions.
Of course, the Death Jump was only scary the first time and nobody ever died on it. And we found that taking it in reverse was actually better. (But led to more head-on collisions if everybody wasn’t onboard with the whole going in reverse thing.)
There were two ways to get to The Dirt Hills. We could just ride past Chris’s house and down until the dead-end of his road (Stanley Drive), then squeeze through the barricade and into the Hills. Or you could ride down toward School (Rovenna St.) and hit the back way. But it was the long way around. It was usually the way we took only if we were coming back from somebody else’s house. (The main entrance had lots of raspberry bushes, too, so there was usually a lengthy pause there. Mmm…raspberries…)
But occasionally we’d ride out the second entrance and head to another venue. You see, we’d found a pond. I’m still not convinced it was anything but an Industrial Drainage Pond, and I often feared my children might be mutants due to overexposure to it.
But we found a pond! And it had water beetles and frogs!! And there were rabbits over there, too!!!
It. Also. Had. Several. Large. Slabs. Of. Styrofoam.
In short, it had boats. These things were six feet long, two to three feet wide, and at least eight inches thick. Each one could just safely bear the weight of at least most three boys. Add in a six-foot long branch, and we were good to go. Did we ever consider what would happen if the styrofoam decided to crack or split? Nope. We were pirates on the High Seas. Yaargh!
The great thing was that we could see the bottom of the pond, and it only looked about two feet deep. Of course, I’m now convinced that the apparent bottom was actually eight feet of algae and moss, but since nobody actually ever fell in (still shocking to me), I guess we’ll never know. That, and the fact that my Alaska family’s church now sits on the site of that pond. The Dirt Hills are long gone, too. Developed into townhomes.
I swear there were mutant fish in that pond, though. Wow…I’m totally smelling the algae-frog-water-critters smell right now. Good times.
And that’s about it for that stroll down memory lane.
Next up is The Black Cauldron. Lesson learned already: Don’t get your son the audio-book before you finish the read-aloud. He skips ahead and gets bored with the reading.
Trivia Hunt, One-Time Activation, Knee
This is your monthly reminder (though I didn’t remind you last month) about MentalFloss.com’s “How Did You Know?” 5-Day Trivia Hunt. It swings into action tomorrow, and it’s really tons of fun, with little bits of extremely frustrating mixed in. But if you work on it and I work on it, we can team up. Seriously…teamwork is encouraged. So be there!
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And now, a new feature: Things which make life unbearably entertaining. Today’s thing is this: When I go into the FIOS TV Central thingy online to set up a program to record (like, for instance, a Mariners game), I have to click this “One-Time Activation” button for Remote DVR. Every time. But they assure me it’s One-Time Activation, but what it means is one-time-every-time. It’s a new way of using the English language. Which probably shouldn’t surprise me, having spoken to their tech-support people.
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Well, it’s once again time for me to go in and have a doctor tell me what’s wrong with my knee. But it’s the other knee this time. Not the knee I bent the wrong direction while playing broom hockey (in high school) and snowboarding (ten years ago). So this is progress! But being able to exercise without pain would be a nice change.
A Hyper-Sharp Pencil, and the Dishwasher
I was thinking of writing a blog post about the strange, strange, strange dream I had last night, but I have to first get approval from the other party to the strangeness. And even then, it’s not going to happen. But it was boring anyway, having mostly to do with mundane stuff like running and swimming and fishhooks…and public nudity. How could that be a good post?
Instead, I wanted to ramble about something that occurred to me last night. I was watching The Pancake Eater sharpen a pencil, and it reminded me of how particular a certain best friend of mine used to be about getting his writing instrument just perfectly sharp. I’m talking “edge so sharp you can’t see the tip without a scanning-electron-microscope” sharp. In fact, his obsession with perfect sharpness got him into all kinds of trouble with Mr. Hellenga. “Dolezal, take your seat!”
(He also got in hot water for his walk-running to the drinking fountain. As background, perhaps you recall that if you want cold water from the fountain, you pretty much have to be one of the first kids to use it. Otherwise, you’d end up with a 
very tepid drink. My friend could make the fountain in about four seconds, but his race-walking qualified as running with basically all the teachers. But he could move!)
I’m not sure why I got to thinking about this, other than the fact that I have a piece of perfectly sharp pencil lead embedded, to this day, in my left hand. It was an accidental puncture, and it happened in seventh grade. I once tried to dig it out, but it wasn’t worth the pain. Ask me to show it to you next time you see me. It’s a nice, concrete memory of youthful obsessions.
I’ve never been a particularly obsessive person, other than as regards general hygiene and hand-washing. But that doesn’t count, because of the whole “next to godliness” thing. But I think if I had to pick an issue, I’d go with the loading of the dishwasher. There’s a right way to do it, and only I have the secret to it. Which might be why The Fair Elaine doesn’t enjoy sharing the duty with me. She’s gotten too used to me just saying, “Back away. Just back away.”
What about you? Any strange obsessions? Or lingering puncture wounds? Or dreams of running in the buff? (Oh, I wasn’t going to write about that.)
Everything I Needed to Know about Oregon Flora I Learned While Throwing a Frisbee with Three Boys
- Aerobie "The Astonishing Flying Ring" discs go a long way. And if you throw them the wrong way, they go a long way that way, too. Boys of ages 7-10 tend to do the latter.
- Sometimes one has to traverse a large amount of blackberry bramble to retrieve a wrongly-thrown disc.
- Blackberry bushes, though producing a very tasty fruit, are not recommended (by me) as things to grab onto when
falling. Falling would be better. Fewer lacerations. - The Aerobie can also be thrown high. And its ring shape makes it perfect for catching on high, very high branches of trees.
- A baseball that's been drilled through, then had a thin rope fed through it and tied off, is useful for retrieving high-stuck-in-trees Aerobies.
- Said baseball is also useful for removing large dead branches from trees.
- Dead branches can break unexpectedly.
- My reflexes are still good, and useful for evading falling dead branches (and grabbing blackberry brambles while falling).
Best Gig, Russell, Bleak House, Cranford, Blocks
Now that I’ve had my last Fireside Carolers gig of my first year, I can report that I plan on doing it again next year. For one thing, the time investment alone in learning the 50+ songs needs to be paid off. For another, I just love singing Christmas songs, and I really like the other folks in the group.
Saturday I participated in the shortest and best gig of the year for me. It was less than half an hour, but it was in a home, and we were a surprise for the guests. We sang to a room of appreciative and festive people, and if I might say, we sang brilliantly. I really wish I’d recorded it.
Sunday I was in my longest gig, singing at the Woodburn outlet stores for two hours, both in an octet and strolling with a quartet. It was a cool experience, but that house gig was just the kind of thing that really makes it worthwhile. Getting paid for it didn’t hurt, of course, but knowing we elevated the evening was even cooler.
It was a slow year, so I’m told, in terms of the number of gigs we had. At first, I was fine with this, because I thought it’d let me ease into things. But once I got into the swing of it, it was kind of a bummer that I didn’t get to sing more. There’s always next year, though.
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I’m not a rabid, crazy Survivor fan. I’ve even basically skipped a couple of seasons. But I know what I know. And I know Russell should’ve won last night. I’ve tried to see my way clear to Natalie winning, and I’m not saying she’s not at all deserving, because she was a beast in a couple of challenges, but Russell ruled this season. But I guess nobody should expect a Survivor jury to be objective.
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As I wrote a couple of weeks ago, we’re on a BBC trip right now. After thoroughly enjoying Little Dorrit, we took in Bleak House, which was written for the screen by the same writer as Dorrit.
On the whole, it was a good production. The acting was still terrific, and there were definitely memorable characters. But I definitely preferred Little Dorrit. In part, I think it’s because I loved the main two characters in it, and in Bleak House there was really only one character who provoked anything like the same affection.
(By the way, I was very impressed with Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock. At times I actually had to remind myself she’s not English.)
One thing about Bleak House that we found distracting was the directing. There were so many fast cuts and weird sound effects during transitions. Not sure what the director was going for, but it didn’t always work. (The sound effects reminded me for all the world of the popping sound preceding the Flame Spurt in the Fire Swamp in The Princess Bride. And when you’re watching Dickens, you don’t necessarily want to be thinking of ROUSes. Just saying.)
I should dutifully point out that regardless of our impressions of the series, “Oh, my bones!” and “Shake me up, Judy!” have made it into the Heasley lexicon.
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So we enjoyed Bleak House, though it didn’t measure up to Little Dorrit. On the other hand, Cranford was simply wonderful. I loves me some Dame Judy Dench, so the production had some built-in Seth-appeal. (See what I did there? Seth-appeal. It’s the new Internet buzzword. Or not. But “baby fishmouth” is sweeping the nation. Now, did you recognize not one, but two When Harry Met Sally references there?)
I will say that Cranford is somewhat, shall we say, estrogeny? Which makes it fairly hilarious for a guy who grew up in a household with four women in it. Actually, it was entirely hilarious in a few places. “There’s lace at stake!” It was also profoundly sad in places, so I don’t recommend it if you’re averse to sad. But it’s not Summersby or anything, so don’t worry about it having a bad ending.
Oh, and if you haven’t heard of Alex Etel, you probably will in the future, because he’s an amazing child-actor. Just incredible.
I just found out there’s another Cranford series out there, so we’ll be taking that in just as soon as my Library Hold Request goes through.
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Somehow, we’ve resisted getting a game console system, even though it seems most folks have one. I can think of a few reasons.
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We have a computer, and we can always get games for it.
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I’d rather not spend the money.
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I really don’t need to want to play video games more, and I’d rather read.
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I never had one growing up. Uphill. Both ways!
On the other hand, it might be fun to play with the Pancake-Eating Son sometimes. But then I’m reminded that sometimes, it’s the simplest kind of interaction that works best.
The other day, Ethan and I got out the wooden blocks. We made the Taj Mahal. Or at least that’s what we called it. Then we took turns running a die-cast car through the bottom of it, seeing how long it would take before we accidently took out a key support member.
Sixteen minutes, by the way.
(Ethan also made the Eiffel Tower, which he called the France Tower. Pictures of our wooden block creations can be viewed over on the Fair Elaine’s daily picture gallery.)
And now the boy frequently asks to build stuff and knock it over. We have approximately a bazillion Legos, and he wants to build with wooden blocks. So I guess we won’t be getting that Wii anytime soon. I don’t grieve over this.
Potluck, Shopping in a Tux, Robbie the Reindeer
Another week, another Fireside Carolers report. This weekend I got to drive out to Camas, WA, in questionable weather. (Though not so questionable as the onslaught of local weather coverage had hoped predicted.) It was my first quartet gig, and it could hardly have been less intimidating. We were basically background music at a party, and only a few people seemed to really notice we were there. So we got to sing some of the more challenging pieces and not worry about if there were some rough spots. So it worked as a rehearsal of sorts.
Sunday, I sang in an octet for Potluck in the Park, and that was awesome. It’s one of our outreach events where we volunteer our time, and it’s definitely a worthy cause, providing some cheer while anyone who shows up gets a hot meal. The place was packed and both the volunteers at the potluck and those being served were very appreciative of us. What a privilege to be involved in this kind of event. (BTW, it’s every Sunday that Potluck in the Park is put on.)
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After both the Saturday and Sunday gigs, I did some shopping in a tux. It was part, “it’s on the way home,” and part social experiment. And here’s my conclusion from the experiment:
Non-whites are just more friendly and open.
Seriously, if I think back to all the people who made comments about how I looked, I think there was only one white person over eighteen who made a comment who wasn’t actually working in a shop I was in. And the folks working in the shops might be expected to chat up the customers a bit.
I did get a few questions, mostly from teenaged girls, about whether I was getting married. But mostly, it was non-whites who just came right out and told me I was lookin’ good. It made me want to make sure to shake off some of my own interpersonal inhibitions and pay a compliment when one’s called for, even if the target is a total stranger.
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Somehow, movie lines are funnier when spoken with British accents. Such is definitely the case with the animated film Robbie the Reindeer in Hooves of Fire. I should warn at the outset that there’s another version of the film in which the voices are provided by such luminaries as Ben Stiller and Britney Spears. Nothing against Ben Stiller (Dodgeball cracked me up), but I can’t imagine the American version is anything but dreadful.
The story, and there’s not much to it, but who cares, is that Robbie, son of the famous Rudolph, joins up with the sleigh team, much to the chagrin of Blitzen, who feels that Rudolph gets too much press that should rightly go to him.
He doesn’t think much of Robbie, either, and expresses his feelings to the rest of the crew in these terms:
“I say we…crush him! Grind him into dust! Then feed the remains of the dust to the wolves! Then…blow up the wolves!”
This has to be one of my favorite movie lines ever. And on that topic, perhaps I should lay out a few of my other faves. (Unattributed, so it’s a fun game to play at home. Movie/Character/Actor if you really want to show your skilz.)
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“Say…that’s a nice bike.”
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“Crush your enemies, see them driven before you and to hear the lamentation of their women.”
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“Man, now that’s a real shame when folks be throwin’ away a perfectly good white boy like that…”
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“Yeah, vision is highly overrated.”
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“Lane, I’ve been going to this high school for seven and a half years. I’m no dummy!”
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“Alright, we waste him. No offense.”
As a couple of hints, two lines are from the same film. Two other lines are from the same director, and he’s got a new film with blue people in it coming out soon.
Anyhow, the film was funny and silly. And done in stop-motion, Wallace and Gromit kind of animation. There was a bit of innuendo, so adults might want to preview before showing it to kiddos, although I think it’d mostly go over the heads of the younglings.
MM: Carolers, Award, Recipes
Well, my first performance with Fireside Carolers went as well as I could’ve hoped. We did our free concert at the church that hosts our rehearsals, and I didn’t flub anything in a way that could’ve been noticed. The Fair Elaine snapped a picture of me singing, looking like I was maybe a wee bit tentative. Guilty. (She also posted some pictures from our Thanksgiving Weekend on her blog.)
Next weekend I get my first real Carolers experience, as I’ll be going out in an octet on Friday and Saturday. Today’s singing actually gave me a bit of a confidence boost.
Oh, and I think I looked pretty good in my tux. Is it weird that I have a tuxedo, but don’t own even so much as a sport jacket?
BTW, for anyone needing a budget tuxedo and living in or around Portland, head over to Mr. Formal Clearance Center on SE 7th in Portland.
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So, it’s weird enough having readers of my blog whom I don’t personally know. (Like the time the other Seth Heasley’s mom dropped by.)
It’s even stranger when they like my writing enough to lob an award at me. Yes, it’s true. My Orthodox reader, DebD (of Deb on the Run), has awarded me with the Superior Scribbler award.
It’s both an award and a meme. I don’t do much meme-ing, because I’ve just gotta be meme…heh. But I’ll do my best here. First, the rules:
- Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
- Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
- Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
- Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
- Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.
I’m fine with all these steps except for the first one. Because I simply don’t have that many Bloggy Friends that I don’t know personally. And I’d feel funny linking them, like there was a conflict of interest. So I feel that I should choose from people I’ve found online and started following.
But I haven’t done all that much of that. I’m more of a window shopper, and I know it’s wrong and all, but I click through to a lot of book review posts from Semicolon Blog’s Saturday Book Reviews, and I haven’t managed to look back at many of the authors’ non-book-review work. Except for DebD’s, and that’s because she’s posted interesting comments on my Theology Thursday ramblings.
In short, I know I must mend my ways and be a better blog commenter/follower.
But I’ll attempt to fulfill at least the spirit of the meme. I’m not planning on notifying all these folks, because a couple of them are already Big Time, so why would they care what I think?
JonV at Into the Darkness. I’ve known him since he was just a pup (Read: when he was twelve and not yet taller than me. And when he called me Mr. Heasley). Now he’s doing engineering work for the Mennonite Central Committee in Mozambique, and writing extremely verbose posts about his life there. I know I’m not really entitled to be proud of him, but I was the worship leader for the youth program way back then… (Yes, I know him personally, but he’s in Africa!!!)
Apostrophe Abuse. I’ve written quite a bit about the signs of the Apostrolypse on this here blog. But Apostrophe Abuse has pages and pages of evidence. It’s serious, folks.
Keith Law at Meadow Party. Baseball writer, food critic, book reviewer. Good work if you can get it (though I think he mostly gets paid for the baseball stuff). He inspires me to read more, and I already feel like I read a lot.
Amos at The Amateur Entymologist and Outside the Camp. His musings on English, as a non-native speaker, are always interesting. And while I don’t agree with his Calvinism, I still enjoy his theology thoughts on Outside the Camp. (BTW, I initially found him while searching “A While vs. Awhile”.)
Michael Brooks at Aetherwatch. I very much enjoyed his book, Thirteen Things that Don’t Make Sense last year. On his blog, he posts other such weirdities and his general musings.
Hey, I managed five awards! Whee!
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We had a great Thanksgiving feast, with actually a lot of vegetables. We had Marinated Vegetable Salad, which is a favorite of mine, and Roasted Carrots, Asparagus, and Brussels Sprouts.
Yes, Brussels Sprouts. Seriously. Actually, I’ve always liked them, but after reading about how much my niece and nephews enjoyed them, we had to try the recipe.
It’s a deep, dark, secret. Very complicated.
(Toss the veggies in olive oil and sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper. Bake at 400-ish until done. Half-hour or so. Longer for the carrots, shorter for the asparagus.)
Yes, I used the word Recipes up in my title, so I should give a couple more away.
My sister made this killer Sweet Potato and Apple Casserole at Christmas last year, so we had to try it. (Layer sliced sweet potatoes with thinly sliced Granny Smith Apples, sprinkle some pecans over it, add some butter, orange juice, and brown sugar, and dust with cinnamon. Bake at 400-ish and take it out before it burns. Yes, it was a close call but still delicious.)
Well, we had leftovers of that dish, so I made Leftover Sweet Potato Casserole Pancakes!!!!
I threw the leftovers in the food processor (probably one and a half cups total after pureeing), then mixed in about a cup and a half of flour, a couple of eggs, a cup or so of soymilk, a tablespoon of baking powder, a dash of salt, and some orange zest, and threw it on the griddle.
Awesome! BTW, my opinions of apple desserts are well known and acknowledged by all as wrong. (Weirdly, they’re recorded in that post Other Seth’s mom commented on.)
But the Sweet Potato and Apple Casserole is seriously good, and the pancakes were, as My Son the Breakfast Appetite would say, “ridiclius.” Unfortunately, it only made eleven small pancakes, which is just not enough for five people including the Breakfast Appetite.
(BTW, I’ve been thinking I need a nickname for the Offspring, and I think I have it. The Breakfast Appetite just fits so perfectly. Or maybe The One Whose Spiritual Gift is Breakfast Eating. Or just the Breakfast Eater. Or Ethan the Breakfast Eater. Or maybe a Dances with Wolves-style name like Eats Many Pancakes. Votes? Suggestions?)
We also made from-the-hip Turkey Soup, using the leftover giblet stock and pan drippings that I didn’t turn into the world’s greatest gravy in the world. Yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to be redundant when talking about gravy. Especially when you’re a semi-veg family.
(Oh, the Turkey Soup recipe. Some of the amounts are approximate.)
- Some Turkey, chopped.
- A few carrots, chopped.
- Some celery, chopped.
- Some potatoes, chopped.
- An onion, executed in a food processor until dead, then kept on bread and water for two weeks, then beaten roundly with sticks. Please, someone get my clumsy literary reference…
- Garlic, a truckload, to taste.
- Leftover green beans (yes, we had those, too), chopped
- Spices of various kinds. One or more of the bay/basil/marjoram/thyme category.
Sauté the veggies in olive oil until you stop. Then add liquids. Like stock. Or gravy. Or a partial box of Pacific Foods Chicken Broth. (Add leftover mashed potatoes if you somehow managed to run out of gravy before potatoes. It’ll thicken the soup nicely.)
Add fresh cracked pepper and consume with leftover Non-Hockey-Puck Rolls.
MM: Birthday, Size
If my math is correct, I turn 37 today. Hard to believe, really. Especially with the amount of tree-climbing I did as a kid. In trees taller than the power lines. Through the branches of which the power lines passed. Around which power lines I climbed to get to the top.
(We were really bummed when the power company finally came along and cut the top off that tree. We could see everything from up there!)
Somehow I’ve managed to never do a birthday post before. Oh, I’ve posted on other topics on my birthday, but never one about my birthday. Strange. So I thought I’d share some deep thoughts. Or just ramble. My blog, my birthday, my rules.
Warning: this will be quite random.
I remember when I had my birthday in Kindergarten that we had a piñata. I wonder if they still allow five-year-olds (well, six in my case) to swing long wooden poles in class? Kinda doubtful, considering that most schools don’t even let you bring cupcakes anymore.
(I had this wicked-cool Star Trek jumpsuit I remember wearing on my birthday. Oh, yeah!)
Is it a sign of getting old when there are long periods of my life in which my only substantial memory is watching The Empire Strikes Back over and over? Well, there was some The Last Starfighter mixed in there, too. (BTW: First line of Starfighter: “Mmm…gonna be a sparklin’ day. Sparklin’!”)
I quote movies, therefore I am. When I read the lovely list of positive attributes The Fair Elaine wrote about me, my initial thought was “Who’s scruffy lookin’?” Anybody care to provide the movie for that quote? Or explain why it popped into my head? Because she didn’t call me half-witted or a Nerfherder. (D’oh! I gave it away, didn’t I?)
(By the way, I’m sure she wanted to do a full list, including negatives, but couldn’t think of any. Right, honey?)
As I’ve aged, I’ve found I’m an increasingly gifted sleeper. Oh, I’ve got some years to go and some skilz to develop before I’m my Dad’s equal, but has he ever fallen asleep while riding a bike? So let’s just say I have the potential to surpass him. (Bike-sleeping: Caused by morning paper route.)
And maybe the sleeping thing is just to make up for all the hours of lost sleep from college. I once fell asleep in an apartment full of people. It was my apartment. I’d been up for forty hours or so. The sacrifices one makes for an engineering degree.
I often wonder why I didn’t discover my love for reading and writing before I declared my major. Maybe it was God’s way of making sure I’d get a good job. Plus, maybe I wouldn’t love writing if I did it for a paycheck. And I’m glad I have my job.
(I had inklings about both reading and writing before I graduated, partly evidenced by the amount of extracurricular reading I was doing when I probably should’ve been paying attention in Thermodynamics.)
One thing I definitely know, with my acquired wisdom: When you’re lighting firecrackers and then throwing them, sometimes you get a Quick Fuse. And you have to get rid of it quickly. And sometimes it lands on the guy-next-to-you’s head. I was the guy-next-to-you, and I can’t remember who you were. So email me if you remember the incident. My lawyer will be contacting you. (Okay, I don’t have a lawyer.)
You know, a lot of my memories involve head injury. Like the time my wet swimming clothes caught in my spokes and sent me end-over-end. In twelfth gear, full-tilt-boogie. I held on to the handlebars admirably. In hindsight, choosing to land on my hands might’ve redirected the point of impact a bit.
And yet again, a head-injury lesson: When hurrying over to render aid to a small plane that’s just crashed on a sandbar, don’t crash your boat. Sometimes the kid at the back of the boat becomes an Undignified Flying Object and ends up with a nasty gash through his eyebrow.
(The folks in the plane were fine, BTW. And it’s not like I needed that part of my left eyebrow, anyway. It actually evened them up since the previously mentioned bike crash involved the grating off of part of my right one.)
Finally, my favorite birthday wish so far. (Apart from hugs and kisses from my wife and son, of course.) Jay McKenney instructed me to learn the baritone part to “Happy Birthday” and sing it to myself.
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Okay, from Birthday ramblings to actual fun linkage!
You’ve probably seen those cool graphics that show how small the Earth is relative to a bunch of other planets and stars, right? No? Well, check one out:
Of course, size isn’t everything. What about how small small stuff is?
The University of Utah has a cool demonstration of the relative sizes of really small stuff. Unfortunately, I can’t embed it, so you’ll have to just go check it out for yourself.
Monday Musings: Moustache, Ticket Refund, Pumpkin Recipes
Evidently, there are some people who would now characterize me as having a moustache. And it’s true, to some extent, as my current facial hair involves both a goatee and moustache, also known as the very arcane “moutee” (or Circle Beard). “Van Dyck” is another possible name for it.
(These days, most people just call it a goatee.)
My antipathy for the moustache alone can hardly be overstated. I agree with the statement I once read in the local fish-wrap that “a moustache is no less than a man’s admission to being unable to grow a full beard.”
By the way, for those in my family who may be wondering about the new facial foliage (perhaps seen over on The Fair Elaine’s blog), it was for my Halloween costume. (Dressing up as a coworker who shares my first name, whom we sometimes – affectionately? – call “Evil Seth.”)
I like having less beard to shave. And I’ll enjoy it for a while, then probably tire of the beard and let it go.
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I don’t believe I blogged about the speeding ticket I got on the way to go camping at Fort Stevens. A coworker advised me to mail the fine in along with a letter asking for leniency (or is that lenience?)
Well, it apparently worked, at least a little bit. Because I got a Ticket Refund (25% off, which doesn’t hurt).
However, I’d like to amuse myself, and perhaps some others, by reporting that my name, in full, was written on the citation itself. It was also written on the outside of the envelope in which I mailed the letter. It was further written on the letter itself, in TWO PLACES (business format, you know). So that’s a good four occurrences of my name.
So why, exactly, is my refund check made out to one Seth Morgon Hedsley? (Admittedly, I didn’t include my middle name, so I’ll give them a pass for that and be relieved it didn’t say “Moron.”
Evidently, typing instruction in Clatsop County is somewhat lacking.
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Since I referenced Pumpkin Carving, I figured I’d pass along a few Pumpkin Recipes.
If you’re just the carving type, you can at least roast the seeds:
Roasted Seeds
- Rinsed, dried seeds
- a bit of cooking oil (I used olive)
- seasoning, to taste (I used Mama Garlic – garlic salt)
Mix the seeds and seasoning in a bowl or zip-top bag, then spread out on a cookie sheet and bake for ~30 minutes at 300 degrees, until they begin to brown.
(check on them about halfway through and give them a stir/flip)
By the way, seeds from most varieties of squash can be done this way. Butternut Squash seeds are delicious, but there aren’t many of them in a typical one.
Roasting the actual pumpkin is reeeeeeeaaalllllly easy.
Roasted Pumpkin
(Best done with a pie pumpkin)
Cut the pumpkin in half and scoop out the seeds and orange gunk (roast the seeds!).
Place the pumpkin halves face down in a shallow pan (jelly roll pan) with about a quarter inch or so of water.
Bake at ~425-450 degrees until a fork goes in easily. (Figure about 40 minutes to an hour, depending on size.)
When cooled, the skin will peel off pretty easily. (Or you can scrape the pumpkin out with a spoon.) If you want to use it in recipes, puree it in a food processor or blender until smooth. Freeze it in small amounts (a cup or two) for use in other recipes.
(You can also just serve it with butter, without pureeing it. It’s got a nice, sweet flavor.)
My favorite way to use cooked pumpkin?
Pumpkin Pancakes
(substitute where desired)
- 2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
- ¼ cup brown sugar
- 1 Tbsp baking powder
- ½ Tbsp cinnamon
- ½ tsp ground ginger
- ¼ tsp ground cloves
- ¼ tsp ground nutmeg
- ¼ tsp salt
- 1 ½ cups milk (or soy milk)
- 1 to 1 ½ cup pureed pumpkin
- 2 eggs
- ¼ cup butter, melted
(The original recipe calls for 4 eggs, separated, and then whipping the whites and folding them in. Too much work, IMHO, and it works just fine with fewer eggs and no extra work.)
Combine flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and spices in a large bowl.
Combine eggs, pumpkin, milk, and melted butter in a small bowl.
Add wet to dry and stir until just combined. Allow the baking powder to start working for a few minutes (also lets the flour hydrate a bit). Ladle onto a 350 degree skillet.
Serve with maple syrup (don’t even think about using the fake stuff or I’ll take the recipe back).
The Fair Elaine also makes a killer pumpkin bundt cake, but I’ll let her share the recipe if she so chooses.
True Love Tuesday
I'm sending this message out into the blogosphere, where it will be read by ones of people, I'm sure. But there's only one who really matters.
Happy Birthday, Elaine! I love you more than I can say. But here’s a short list of things I love about you:
I love that you persist in trying to talk to me while brushing your teeth, even though you know it bothers me. (And I get that you do it just to tweak me, and I'm cool with that.)
I love that you watch sports with me. I figure I owe you a few Chick Flicks by now.
I love that you mow the lawn. I’ll keep doing the dishes…(well, I do know the optimal way to load the dishwasher…)
I love that you love my pancakes and encourage me generally in my cooking (and I've gotten better since we were first married and I thought chicken had to be cooked for twenty minutes and basically turned into shoe-leather).
I love that you don’t complain about how hairy I am. That can’t have been high on your list of husbandly traits to look for.
I love that you haul around that heavy (and expensive, but we won't mention that) camera equipment and document our lives, and especially the life of our Little Man. Even when sometimes that means just documenting our getting take-out for dinner.
I love that you enjoyed it when Ethan discovered armpit music.
I love that you encourage me to write, and to even be a writer, even though you’re the English Major. And even though I want to write about bathrooms and theology.
I love that you nod politely when I talk about science fiction. And allow Ethan and me to enjoy Star Wars even though you’re not into it.
I love that you occasionally do random movie quotes, and don’t complain that I do it way too much.
I love that you have vision. For our home, for our yard, for our family.
And I love that you stretch your comfort zone. That you pour yourself into Ethan. Into homeschooling him, even though you don’t feel up to it. Even when you don’t feel good about how it’s going.
I love that you rebel against the “I could never homeschool” line we hear so often. That you do it even when it’s hard.
I love that you found something that worked and taught Ethan to read even though he wasn’t always into it. (You’re a big reason he loves to read now.)
I love you. I hope you have a great Birthday Week.