[2/7/2003 12:37:08 AM]
In spite of the terrible tragedy of the Columbia, I must say what's even worse is the knowledge lost with it. And by that I mean, they can't build it again.
"They" lost the plans, and this country no longer manufactures or can manufacture the materials needed to build it again. Just like we could never build the Panama Canal again-- we lack the means and the engineering skill to do it. It urks me greatly when kids (why does that word refer baby goats and to children?) tell me "people are smarter now than ever before because of technology!"
We have forgotten much more than we know. We are losing knowledge faster than we acquire it. We are coming to a dark age.
Sheesh what a damned depressing thing is that to write? And it's sunny and warm and I am headed to the store to buy a bottle of wine (there's $10 extra in the checking! hooray! necessities! wine and mushrooms!). Eat, drink, and be merry. Rave on.
[2/6/2003 9:27:35 PM ]
When I was a child I had some black shoes my Dad called "elf shoes" because of their somewhat pointy toe and high sides, like old boxing shoes. Except they were heavy leather with a good solid sole, sort of like paddock boots. I could run, jump, dance, skip, etc in those shoes.
The only problem were the laces, which were cheap thin cotton, and kept breaking. When I ran they would flutter like black wings, and they looked kind of cool except they got caught on everything, gathered stickers and brambles and burrs, and broke all the time. Their disintegration was noticed by my Grandma, who took me in her Dutch no-nonsense manner to the cobble-smith downtown by the river, near the train station. She often would take her purses to him for repair.
He was a kindly old man who smelled like pipe tobacco, with big bushy eyebrows and quick, clever, gnarled, discolored hands. He used a sharp knife to cut the tattered laces from my black shoes, and then pulled from a spool some dark grey, waxy thin cord. He held it over the counter to me, and as I touched it, he leaned forward and said, "This, young lady, is made from camel hair. I bought it from a man in Egypt about five years ago. I can't find the stuff anywhere anymore. It makes the best laces."
He clipped little metal tags on the end (no plastic shoelace end for camel-hair shoelaces!) and laced my shoes.
I swear those shoes with their camel hair laces made me feel like I had crossed the Sahara, seen the pyramids, slept in an oasis under palm trees and a desert moon.
In spite of the terrible tragedy of the Columbia, I must say what's even worse is the knowledge lost with it. And by that I mean, they can't build it again.
"They" lost the plans, and this country no longer manufactures or can manufacture the materials needed to build it again. Just like we could never build the Panama Canal again-- we lack the means and the engineering skill to do it. It urks me greatly when kids (why does that word refer baby goats and to children?) tell me "people are smarter now than ever before because of technology!"
We have forgotten much more than we know. We are losing knowledge faster than we acquire it. We are coming to a dark age.
Sheesh what a damned depressing thing is that to write? And it's sunny and warm and I am headed to the store to buy a bottle of wine (there's $10 extra in the checking! hooray! necessities! wine and mushrooms!). Eat, drink, and be merry. Rave on.
[2/6/2003 9:27:35 PM ]
When I was a child I had some black shoes my Dad called "elf shoes" because of their somewhat pointy toe and high sides, like old boxing shoes. Except they were heavy leather with a good solid sole, sort of like paddock boots. I could run, jump, dance, skip, etc in those shoes.
The only problem were the laces, which were cheap thin cotton, and kept breaking. When I ran they would flutter like black wings, and they looked kind of cool except they got caught on everything, gathered stickers and brambles and burrs, and broke all the time. Their disintegration was noticed by my Grandma, who took me in her Dutch no-nonsense manner to the cobble-smith downtown by the river, near the train station. She often would take her purses to him for repair.
He was a kindly old man who smelled like pipe tobacco, with big bushy eyebrows and quick, clever, gnarled, discolored hands. He used a sharp knife to cut the tattered laces from my black shoes, and then pulled from a spool some dark grey, waxy thin cord. He held it over the counter to me, and as I touched it, he leaned forward and said, "This, young lady, is made from camel hair. I bought it from a man in Egypt about five years ago. I can't find the stuff anywhere anymore. It makes the best laces."
He clipped little metal tags on the end (no plastic shoelace end for camel-hair shoelaces!) and laced my shoes.
I swear those shoes with their camel hair laces made me feel like I had crossed the Sahara, seen the pyramids, slept in an oasis under palm trees and a desert moon.
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