September 11, 2015--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Algebra

"Why did we have to spend three years studying the Revolution?" Rona seemed agitated by her own question.

John quipped, "Maybe because it took that long to win the war."

"Actually it took longer," I murmured, "But that still is a good question though I'm sure it didn't literally take three years. You didn't like history in high school and it probably felt like three years."

"They spent at least six months telling us about what kind of clothes people wore at that time. Mainly the women."

"Probably under political-correctness pressure they needed to find something to say about the roles women played. They were likely trying to get the girls in class interested. The boys probably got into the battles and weapons."

"I'm sure they did," Rona grumbled.

"But while we're at it," she continued, "why did they require so much history--American History, World History, Non-Western History?"

"Or for that matter," John joined in, "so much literature--American Lit, English Lit, and . . ."

"And," I added, "don't forget Non-Western Literature."

"Then there was all that science and a foreign language," Rona said, "And I went to a non-traditional high school."

"State requirements. I'm sure that's the answer."

"I'm sure you're right, John, and in addition," Rona said, "Once something gets into the curriculum as a requirement it's hard to dislodge it, assuming anyone wants to. There's a whole infrastructure and industry that surrounds all the academic fields. There are jobs at stake. If they stopped requiring foreign language, what would they do with all the French and Spanish teachers?"

"Make them teach gym," I said. "I mean it. In my high school, they had a surplus of social studies teachers and since they couldn't get rid of them turned them into gym teachers. I'm sure you can imagine how well that worked out."

John was nodding, "True for me as well."

"While we're on the subject, tell me why they require everyone to take at least a year of algebra? I mean, you John are an accountant and own a manufacturing company that makes precision steel products. Do you ever use any algebra in doing people's taxes or in your manufacturing work?"

"Never once," he said. "My memory is half shot but I can't remember one thing, not one thing I learned in algebra. Maybe that equations have to be balanced. But how to do that and why that's important I think escaped me then (if I could only remember) and now--forget about now."

"When I was at the Ford Foundation," I said, "I attended a board meeting of a big deal education foundation. In Cincinnati. The meeting was devoted to how to more effectively teach inner-city kids science and math. There were a lot of good ideas around that table from very high-powered people, including Dick Riley, who was Secretary of Education.

"About a half hour into it, I said, 'I know this is going to sound crazy, but before we talk about how to teach, say, algebra more effectively, maybe we should ask ourselves why we require it of everyone in the first place.'

"All there stared at the table top. I thought, 'Boy, did I blow it. They probably think I am crazy.'"

"So what happened?" John asked.

"No one had a good answer. The dean of the school of ed there said it's partly for exposure. To see which kids gravitate toward math, maybe even have a talent for it."

"'Good point,' the school superintendent said, 'but you know, you really don't have to spend a year frustrating 99 percent of the kids to maybe find one turned on to math. In fact, anyone with math aptitude by the time he or she gets to high school would already know algebra and even calculus. Those kids teach themselves.'"

"So where did things wind up?" John asked.

"Not resolved. No surprise there. It was just too hot a topic, too potentially disruptive even though later that night, after everyone had had a few drinks, pretty much all the board members said we as a nation, as educators should probably talk openly about this because we're turning more kids off than on by requiring so much math and probably other stuff as well."

"Like three years about the Revolution," Rona said under her breath.

"What about civic education?" John added. "Since schooling is a required public enterprise, on which we spend many, many billions, isn't one big justification the preparation of well informed citizens who, because of Civics and American History, can participate more knowledgeably as voters and maybe even as public officials?'

"Excellent point," I said, "That is if it works."

"Works?" Rona exclaimed, "And where does it lead? To Donald TRUMP."

"I'm getting depressed," John said. "Did anyone see Stephen Colbert last night?"

August 28, 2015--Friday at the Bristol Diner: The Universe In a Suitcase

"Look," Al said, "I really don't know what I'm talking about but--"

"That never stopped you," Ken said half under his breath.

"Touché," Al said, "But someone who knows about cosmology told me the other day that before the Big Bang, if you were around and strong enough, you could have carried around in a suitcase, a small one, everything that after the Big Bang became the universe."

He paused to let that take effect. "And my friend meant everything--all the stuff needed to form atoms and molecules from subatomic particles like protons and neutrons and quarks and also all that was needed, when things cooled down and coalesced, to create billions and billions of suns and solar systems and black holes that are now swirling about out there 13, 14 billion years later."

"Actually," I said, "It's even more amazing than that."

"How could anything be more amazing?" Ken asked. "I mean was everything, everything compressed enough to fit in a carry-on bag? Is that true? If so, that's amazing enough for me. Of course that's if Al knows what he's talking about." Ken tends to be skeptical about everything. Especially anything coming from Al

"But what do you mean?" Ken asked, turning to me.

"I mean, from things I've read, all the energy and ultimate mass that constitutes the universe, including the earth and us, was so densely compressed that it was the size of a subatomic particle. Which, to say the least, was infinitesimally small."

Now Ken was staring at me. "I'm not making this up," I shrugged, "Just passing along what I read."

"So forget the suitcase," Ken said, "You mean everything could have fit in a thimble?"

"The smallest one imaginable," smiling, I said to Ken.

"What's more," Al said, wanting to again take control of the discussion, "No matter the size--suitcase, thimble--some theorists say there's evidence that our universe is not unique. That it's not the first one to have existed."

"I once heard something like that," Ken said, now getting into it. "On Nova or somewhere."

"That the previous universe more than 14 billion years ago collapsed into the largest mother black hole ever and that when it got to the size of that subatomic particle Steve mentioned, it re-exploded. And so here we are, maybe again, sitin' in the Bristol Diner havin' coffee."

"What's this again business?" Ken picked up that Al had emphasized that.

"Think about it," Al said, "Not that I'm a Hindu mystic or anything, but if those scientists are right about a succession of universes, one universal black hole after another, what they call the Big Crunch, followed by one Big Bang after another, it could be, considering how complicated and strange all of this is, that we may have been here, say, 28 billion years ago or 42 billion years ago. In the same booth, drinking the same godforsaken coffee."

"You know, Al," Ken said, "Once in awhile you manage to come up with something interesting to think about."

All acted all humble. Not his usual demeanor. "So that means you'll be paying for my coffee?" He roared with laughter so hearty that it felt as if it stretched across all of time.

I reached out to slide Al's check across the table to where Rona and I were sitting. She already had the money out to pay it.

August 21, 2105--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Volvos

“We sure can use this rain,” an old-timer said, not looking up from his coffee. “If it keeps up this way for a few more hours it will do us a lot of good.”

“True,” I said. “We haven’t had any for, how long has it been now?”

“’Bout 16 days by my count. The last one we had was the first of the month. Everything‘s sort of parched.”

“Compared to last year, things have been real dry,” Rona recalled.

“True enough. One thing that makes no sense is . . .”

“The weather,” Rona said, completing his sentence.

“That too,” he said with a smile and a wink, though clearly not liking having his thought appropriated. “But don’t tell me about global warming.”

“We weren’t going to,” I said to assure him that things weren’t going to turn political so early in the morning.

Ignoring me, he said, “I know it’s going on and it isn’t any good, but not when it comes to the day-to-day.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” I said in spite of knowing that I might be entering tender territory, “Just the other day I was reading in the Times that . . .”

Rona was poking me under the counter and so instead of hurtling forward I took a big gulp of coffee.

“Read that too he said,” surprising me. I wouldn’t have taken him for a New York Times reader. “They did make a case for that. That some of the weather we’ve been experiencing lately—the storm and floods and in other places the droughts—might be caused by that. But not that it hasn’t rained here, in how long has it been?” He smiled at Rona.

“I think 16 days,” I said, also smiling, relieved not to have to get myself all riled up so early in the morning.

“Quite something,” he said, nodding toward the window, “Where the sun is low in the sky is over Monhegan Island. Lots of artists made their way there. The Wyeths and Winslow Homer and even old Ed Hopper. Did I tell you I knew him?” We shook our heads. “Not all that well, but well enough to run him back and forth when I had my boat. I did some line fishing in my day. Lots of cod out there then. Pretty much all fished out by now. Sort of like what’s happenin’ with global warming when you think about it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I stammered.

“That’s OK,” he said. “You and I are pretty much on the same page about that.” And with that, with some difficulty, he lifted himself from the stool. “That arthritis gets me every time,” he chuckled, “But got to get going anyway. Too much to do to linger with you folks. Though I enjoyed talking with you. Have as nice a day as you can.” And with that he was gone.

“I like him,” Rona said. “A little cranky but that’s how I generally am before I’ve had my coffee.”

“I agree,” I said, “We’ve been running into so many people like him up here. Friendly, but they also keep a bit of a distance.”

“As I would,” Rona said, “If I was a ‘native,’ so to speak. They have a long history here of having mixed feelings about people like us. ‘Cottage people,’ is how they refer to us. They depend upon us for the money we bring to the local economy but see them, or truthfully us, as also not always respecting their way of life. Wanting to do things our way.”

“Too often insensitively. I was reading the other day that along the coast here in many towns, including ours, there are now more outsiders than local people. And that this is even changing some town governments. Seasonable people register to vote here and manage to get recent residents elected to town boards and things like that.”

“Which often means,” Rona said, “that they want to keep things the way they are—rural and rustic and ‘charming’—while some who have been here for generations want to see the economy modernize so their children can find good jobs and be able to buy houses and stay here rather than feeling they have to leave and go to Portland or out of state to find work. It’s complicated.”

“True enough. On the way here this morning I saw a car in the parking lot with a bumper sticker that said:

Save A Lobster
Boil A Tourist.

"A little hostile but I guess it captures what some feel.” Rona nodded as she paid the check.

Back in the parking lot, based on our conversation about local people and outsiders, I said, “Let’s look at license plates to see who’s here.”

Even a quick survey revealed mainly Massachusetts, New York, and New Jersey cars.

“And look,” Rona said, “Look at the kinds of cars.”

I glanced around. “Mainly Subarus and Volvos and various kinds of SUVs and pickup trucks. But Subarus are clearly the vehicle of choice. Everyone seems to need, or want, four-wheel drive. It’s better in the snow.”

“How many of these people do you think are here in the winter? Who from New York is going to trek up here at that time? I’ll bet none. I think it’s an affectation.”

“An affectation?”

“Yeah, as a way of seeming intrepid. You know, ‘We have this place up in Maine and it’s so rural and remote and rugged that we need a 4WD to get up the road that leads to our place.’ I can just hear that.”

“Probably true. Look, even when we were looking for a car last year a Subaru was on my list of ones to consider. But then we reminded ourselves that we’ll never be here in the winter and though our cottage is on a dirt road we hardly need four-wheel drive.”

“So, what did we consider? Volvos of course. The other car of choice. And the one we finally bought, the Volkswagon.”

“Didn’t we agree at the time that we didn’t want to look like flatlanders? Folks from out of state? Or too yuppified? So that took Volvos off the list.”

“We even debated getting an American car. A Ford, which most of the locals drive.”

“But I said, we’re not locals and shouldn’t even think of trying to pass ourselves off as that. And I think American cars still have a ways to go before they’re as reliable as European or Japanese cars.”

“So we got the VW, which is working out well.”

Feeling good about ourselves we headed toward our Passat. “Look,” I said. “See how it’s getting all muddy. Talk about fitting in. Which cars here aren’t a mess? Interesting how when we’re other places we can’t wait to get it washed and detailed but up here the muddier the better.”

While I was opining about the virtues of mud, Rona whispered to me, “Look at that. Over there. Look what’s going on in that Volvo. The one between the two Subarus.”

I assumed she was pointing out a summer-peoples’ vehicular trifecta—a massing of Subarus and Volvos. “No, not the kind of cars but what that women from New York is doing on the back of her Volvo wagon.”

The hatch was up and from what I could see she was trying to load something into it. “I should go and help her. It looks as if she’s alone and struggling with something.”

“Not with what you think. Decidedly not an antique chair, if that's what you're thinking.” In fact that’s what I thought was going on. “Take a closer look. She’s far from alone and I don’t think she’d welcome your help.”

I moved past Rona so I could get a better look and saw that on the floor of the open hatch she had set up a changing mat, and wiggling on it was an infant whose soiled diaper she had just expertly removed.

“How clever,” I said. Rona nodded in agreement and I sensed she was tempted to go over to help or take a closer look. “If you’re going to have one of these kind of cars put it to good use.”

“And she surely is,” Rona added.

“But still,” I said, “I’m glad we didn’t get one of them.”

“A baby?” Rona was not understanding me as she was so engrossed in what was going on.

“You’re being silly,” I said. “Of course not. I mean a Volvo. Though I can now see its virtues.”

First posted August 18, 2010

July 31, 2015--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Vic Firth

With her face in the paper, Rona asked, "Does anyone know Vic Firth?"

We were talking about the collapse of the Red Sox and ignored her. Baseball in late July will do that to you.

"He was from Maine. Newport, wherever that is."

Ever the gentleman, Bill looked over at Rona, "I think it's somewhere in the middle of the state. North and west of here. I don't think it's much of a port. It's on a lake of some sort."

"I mean heard of him. Not know. Vic Firth."

"Do you think they'll make a deal before the end of the trading deadline?" Jim asked.

"What good it'll do for 'em?" Tommy said and shrugged in exasperation. "They're hopeless."

"It says here in the paper," Rona pressed on, "That he died the other day."

"You don't say," Jim said. "I didn't even know he was sick." Tommy stifled a laugh.

"You guys have no respect. Even for a fellow Mainer."

"OK. So how old was this what's-his-name?"

"Eighty-five. Vic Firth. Like I said, from Newport."

"He's in the papers? Someone we never heard of?" Tommy laughed at his version of black humor. No one else did.

"So what's it say?" I finally asked.

"That he built a better drumstick."

"Built?" Jim said. "You build chickens?"

"Not that kind," Rona said with a sigh. I sensed she was about ready to want to leave.

"Is there another kind?" Jim pressed, having fun. "I mean . . ."

"Not chickens. Drums."

"Drums?"

"For drums. Drumsticks for drums."

"For this they put you in the paper?"

"Let me read you a little of his obituary."

"From the New York Times, no less. Only they would make a big deal out of drumsticks for drums."

"If you'd only simmer down for a minute and let me read."

Bill shushed everyone.

"'If you build a better drumstick, the world will beat a path to your door.'"

"I like that," Tommy said. "'Beat a path.' Like you beat a drum. Nice."

Ignoring him, Rona continued, "'That more than 50 years ago, is precisely what Vic Firth did, in the process becoming, almost inadvertently, the world's most prolific drumstick manufacturer."

"Inadvertently, prolific. Very impressive. Do they ever use words like those in the Portland Press Herald?" Everyone chuckled.

Undaunted, Rona continued--"He was the chief tympanist of the Boston Symphony Orchestra for more than 40 years. It says here that some felt he was, let me quote from the paper, 'the single greatest percussionist anywhere in the world.' Seiji Ozawa, the Boston's conductor said that. Of the orchestra."

"We know who he is," Bill said. "We may be from the sticks--pun intended--but we know about our Sox and our Ozawa. Japanese, I think."

"Listen to this. Here's the best part. In the 1960s he grew frustrated with the drumsticks that were available on the market. They weren't balanced enough and whatnot. It says here that he was 'seeking sticks that were fleet [whatever that means--everyone shrugged], strong, perfectly straight, of even weight in the hands and able to produce the vast range and color [again, whatever that means] of sounds he desired.' I like this part--'from the patter of raindrops to the rattle of bones ["That's real fancy writing," Jim interjected] to the thunder of cannons--he was forced to jury-rig a pair.'"

"And so?" Bill asked, making a hurry-up gesture. Checking his watch dramatically, he said, "Some of us still have to work for a living."

"I hear you," Rona said. "One more minute. Here's the part you'll like."

"No more rattling of bones, I hope," Tommy said.

"I promise," Rona said. "He turned this jury-rigging into a business. A big one. A multimillion dollar business. With a factory up here in Maine. I think in Newport. Here's what happened. And I know, real quick." Bill was reaching for money to pay his check.

"Here's something you'll like, Tommy, considering all the stuff you have in your garage." He smiled. "He, Vic Firth, worked in his garage to perfect his drumsticks. He built a prototype that the obituary says had the 'lightness, versatility, and equilibrium' he was seeking. And the next thing you know he had a business going. As I said, a big one. All kinds of drummers and tympanists started clamoring for his drumsticks. They were made mainly from hickory, maple, or birch."

"All three are ideal for what he wanted," Tommy, who is a talented woodworker said. "That is, if I'm understanding about the fleetness and stuff."

"He sells them, sold them from between $7 to $60 a pair to all kinds of drummers from those in symphony orchestras like Boston and rock and rollers like Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones. And listen to this--his company sells about 12 million drumsticks a year. Amazing, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll be old Charlie gets the $60 dollar ones," Tommy said.

"He can afford it," Bill, nodding, added.

July 24, 2015--Friday at the Bristol Diner: Pozidriv

For someone who until recently didn’t know that to remove a screw you need to turn it counterclockwise, what Rona said came as quite a revelation.

Over coffee, Ken and I were talking about screws. Rona and I had been working together on an old table, to cut the legs about four inches shorter so it could serve better as a side table, when we discovered, after chipping away some paint, that the screws the table maker used had square drives.

“I hadn’t ever seen square screw heads,” I said, “until the other day when we were removing a rotted plank from our picnic table.” Ken smiled at me and at my still naive sense of wonder. “I was glad there was a square-shaped screwdriver in the shed.”

“The fellow who built that table of yours must have been among the first to use them. They came out not too long ago since the square slot takes a power drill nicely. The bit doesn’t jump around as much as it does with the traditional slotted drive or the Phillips for that matter.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” I confessed—in fact until this year I hadn’t thought much about screws or screwdrivers of any type—“I’m used to the old-fashioned ones, those in common use before the advent of power tools.”

“You go back that far, do you,” Ken said, playing with me. I nodded that indeed I do. “I’ll bet then that you never heard of the Pozidriv drive.”

“To tell you the truth, no. Sounds sort of Russian to me. How do you spell it?”

“I’m not that good a speller,” Ken said. “Ask Rona. She’s always doing her New York Times crossword puzzle. I’m sure she’s come across it.”

“Not really,” Rona said. I was surprised that she was even listening in on our chatter. As I said, she has been uncertain about which way to twist a screwdriver when driving or removing screws. “What’s unique about the Pozidriv?” She gave it a full Eastern European pronunciation.

“Best I understand it,” Ken said leaning across the table to ignore me now and give full attention to Rona, “it’s patented by the Phillips Screw Company. And to some of us it looks like a modified Phillips drive. I’m sure you what a Phillips looks like.”

Rona rolled her eyes to indicate that of course she does. “The head has a sort of cross on it so it must be twice as secure as your basic slotted head, which is like half a Phillips.” Ken now was doing the nodding.

“If you look at one closely," he said, "I wish I had one in the toolbox in my truck so I could show it to you—if you looked right down on a Pozidriv you’d see they cut four more little incisions in the head so there are eight all together as opposed to four for the Phillips.”

“I suppose the advantage must be,” Rona suggested, sounding now like quite the expert, “that it handles a power bit even better than a Phillips drive or a square one for that matter.” She was grinning across the table, especially toward me.

“The name, Pozidriv, is thought to be an abbreviation of positive drive,” Ken said, putting on display his expertise. “Its advantage over the Phillips’ drive is its decreased likelihood to cam out, which is a fancy way of saying the tool doesn’t slip out easily. This means you can apply greater torque, which is important when using those newer heavy-duty power tools. Pozidrivs haven’t caught on here that much. They use them more in Europe. But for driving screws into wood decks I’m sure more contractors will be discovering them.”

This was moving pretty fast for me and so I asked Crystal to refill my coffee cup. She had been standing nearby to take this all in, enjoying every minute of Ken’s initiation of Rona into the world of screws.

“I’m learning a lot about tools this year,” Rona wasn’t ready to change the subject. “Especially how having the right one can make all the difference in the world. You know in cooking there’s a gadget for everything—to make lemon zest, to pit cherries, to shave butter, literally hundreds of tools—but Steven and I are quite minimalists when it comes to kitchen gadgets. We like to use our cheese grater to make our lemon zest and on those very, very rare occasions when we need to pit some cherries . . .”

“Which is never,” I said, happy to join in a new subject.

“When that never-time occurs, I’m sure we’ll figure out how to pit our cherries without a special tool.”

“Which costs ten dollars,” I said.

“Even if it costs $2.95, which is probably more like it, who needs it?”

“You know what,” I said, “I’ll bet we could punch out cherry pits using the end of a chopstick. Chopsticks we have.”

Rona rolled her eyes again. “But about carpenter or painting tools—I’ve been doing a lot of painting this summer—I feel quite different. I want my one-inch and my two-inch brushes. I want my bristle brushes and those newer-fangled sponge ones. There’s a specific purpose for each and it’s best not to use a bristle brush when you’re painting between the narrow slats of some of our outdoor furniture. Am I right, Ken?”

He smiled back at her and nodded. Thus encouraged, she continued, “You wind up ruining the brush and the job doesn’t turn out as well as it does if you use one of those sponges.”

Ken turned to wink at me as if proud of his best student. He has been tutoring Rona since last year and was clearly feeling good about her new knowledge and confidence.

“One more painting story,” Rona said. “Since I’ve been doing a lot of painting obviously I’ve needed to open cans of paint quite regularly. Until a few weeks ago I was using a screwdriver for this—the one for slotted and not square or Pozidriv screws. It was working pretty well until Steven showed me this tool we have in the shed designed just for opening paint cans. It’s got a curled end that fits perfectly under the lid and with just the simplest application of pressure it pops it right off. Even when there’s lots of dried paint around the rim.”

“In the old days,” Ken recalled, “they used to give you one of these for free when you bought a can of paint. Now-a-days I’m sure they charge for them. But I agree that it’s a great tool.”

“I’m coming to think that using the right tool for the right job is the way to do a job the right way. Don’t get annoyed with me,” Rona quickly glanced my way, “but the other day when we were working on the picnic table, to get to the screw head he,” meaning me and looking at Ken, “he had to chip away some paint. I saw him using a screwdriver to do that. I can’t believe I even noticed this considering how unmechanical I’ve been all my life, but it didn’t seem right.” I was feeling a bit embarrassed to be thus exposed. “I mean to use a screwdriver that way as a chisel. I assume there’s a tool for that too. But not a screwdriver. The way I’m looking at things these days you need to be fair to your screwdriver.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My Rona talking about being fair to a screwdriver? What’s next, I wondered.

Ken just kept smiling.

First posted July 20, 2011