Everything new is old again

It's a beautiful day

Back in 2008, starting a blog seemed like table stakes for a freelance writer. I jumped right in and stated my intent to “share interesting and thought-provoking articles, sites, and ideas.”

I was never going to be someone who posted daily or even weekly. I just wanted to publish something every now and then so readers (and potential clients) would know I hadn’t fallen off the grid. A twice monthly schedule seemed reasonable.

That was then. Now social media has become so crowded, with virtually everyone on the planet vying for attention and hashtags and viral posts, that my enthusiasm for the space itself has cooled. I’m reminded of Cracker’s 1992 Teen Angst song, paraphrased here: “What the world needs now is another blogger like I need a hole in my head.”  

And so I’m on sabbatical from blogging and, to a lesser extent, tweeting. For those of you who already spend too much time in front of screens, you’ll now have one fewer blogger to read. (You’re welcome.)

Who knows? I may return. Or maybe some next-generation thing will capture my attention. At any rate, you can always find me at AmyInk.com.

As my mother used to say when I was a kid: “It’s a beautiful day, go outside and breathe some fresh air.”

Things I didn't need to know

The internet is full of statistics and information. Not all of it is true. Not all of it is useful. And some of it is downright irrelevant.

Consider namedat.com, which offers "Facts and Stats about your Name." Just plug in your name and discover all kinds of things you really didn't need to know.

Here's the lowdown on my name, according to the website. Most people named Amy are born on a Tuesday and die on a Friday. Most people with the surname Binder are born on a Friday and die on a Monday.

Truth is, I was born on a Wednesday. As for dying, I don't know whether to fear a Monday or a Friday--or any day in between or after.

Beyond mortality statistics, I learned:

• There are about 37 people named Amy Binder in the U.S.  
• The average age for all those named Amy Binder is 36. (Ahh, sure, I'll take it.)
• As a baby name, Amy was most popular between 1970 and 1980, reaching peak popularity as the 2nd most common newborn name in 1977. (Might that have something to do with Amy Carter, whose father was the 39th president from 1977-1981?)  
• There are roughly 24 Amy Binders on Facebook--and none are me. 
• Maine is the state with the most people named Amy per capita. (I've only visited.)

OK. So you get the idea. Data mining makes a lot of assumptions possible. Some are almost interesting. Some are dead wrong. And too many are used in target marketing. (Today's mail brought a no-cost offer for a burial or cremation space at the local cemetery...and it's not even my presumed dying day.)

If you have some time to waste, try namedat.com and see what trivia interests you. Or if you really want to waste time, check out the Top 51 Free Time Waster Sites. It's all there waiting for you on the internet.

When the internet goes down

Live by the internet, die by the internet. Well, maybe that’s too dramatic a paraphrase of “live by the sword, die by the sword.” Still, when the internet goes down—as it does from extreme weather, service interruptions, or other unexplained reasons—life comes to a deadly standstill.

At least I have 4G, so my iPhone works even when I can’t. I see emails coming in, but can’t fully address the requests if they require desktop work. Sure, I can camp out with my laptop at a coffee shop, but that's often more trouble than it's worth.

I’ve learned to deal with the forced mini-vacations, but now there’s another level of anxiety to internet outages. My mother resides in a senior-living community, and my brother and I keep testing new internet-based services to keep an eye on things. 

• One service, Nest Cam, allows a real-time look-see with streaming video.
• Another, Alzcom, is a remotely managed calendar with interactive reminders that display on a tablet in her kitchen. This free and awesome technology answers the perennial question for people with memory issues: “What’s on my calendar today?”
  

• We’ve also tried Alexa to help answer a broader range of questions, such as “What’s today’s date?” and “What time is it?” and “What’s the weather?” But Alexa isn’t always perfect, as this SNL skit so aptly demonstrates: Amazon Echo Silver.

When everything works, it’s a wonderful thing. But March nor'easters have knocked out my mom’s internet, and it will be a while before we can get it up and running again. In the meantime, there’s no streaming video, Alzcom reminders are stuck on the last date of service, and Alexa speaks unbidden to complain about being disconnected.

The suggested course of action, offered by everyone from the cable company to Nest to Alexa, is to go online and search their help pages for a fix. See the problem? Without internet, it’s kind of hard to get on the internet. While I do have access through my iPhone, navigation is both cumbersome and useless for trying to resolve a remote issue in my mom’s apartment. 

After the current nor’easter clears, I will go visit and shift into troubleshooting mode. And I will pester the service provider until everything is fixed.

The irony is that as much as I have come to rely on the internet for any and all services, I need it now more than ever for my mom, who doesn’t own a smartphone or computer. And she doesn’t have to. All these tech-heavy and interconnected services are transparent to her—that is, they are when the internet is up and running.  

Why would you bother?

Every once in a while, I conduct what I consider a science experiment. There is no real science involved. It’s just me attempting something new, without any surety of the outcome.

Several experiments have taken place in the kitchen, as cooking is like a second language to me. I get the basics, but I’ll never be fluent. 

Among my bench tests are these:

• Roasted peppers—Easy peasey, so they say. Ingredients? One: peppers. Process? “Blister” the peppers and let them cool. Then magic is supposed to happen, as the skins just peel away. In reality, fingers blister, pepper skins turn stubborn, and cursing ensues. My result was edible, but I spent way too much time on what is essentially a condiment. Never again.
  
• Bagels—New York-style bagels are the gold standard. So what makes them different? The care put into each of three cooking steps: boiling, baking, and broiling. Some recipes leave out the last step, but broiling adds a delicious golden crisp to the crust. I’ll admit I didn’t mind the process, but buying bagels is so much easier and tastier, at least in my kitchen.
  
• Wheat bread—I have come to the revelation that I will never get along with yeast. It’s too temperamental. Yeast is the Goldilocks of baking; it can’t be too hot or too cold—it has to be just right. I can’t be bothered, which is how my loaf of wheat bread became a wheat brick.
  
•  Fingerless gloves—Escaping the kitchen, I turned to YouTube to learn how to knit with circular needles. Then I tackled a pair of fingerless gloves. The pattern I chose was adorable. The instructions claimed ease and simplicity. The result was wearable. Then I wore them. Word to the wise: If it’s cold enough to need gloves, you really need gloves with fingers.

Why do I keep pursuing my version of the scientific process? 
—If producing items fit for purpose is the benchmark, then I’m barely making the mark.
—If we learn more from our mistakes than successes, then I’ve earned an advanced degree.
—If the journey is truly more important than the destination, then there was value gained.

If trying something new and different is what’s important throughout life, then it certainly is worth all the bother.

How much would you pay?

Twice in recent weeks I’ve heard from organizations that want to help me sell my business. Not that AMY INK is for sale. But firms are out there encouraging me to plan my exit strategy. One asks:

• Are you tired of the day-to-day grind of running your business?
• Are you interested in new challenges?
• Do you want to spend more time with your family?

If I can answer “yes” to any of these questions, it’s the start of the end. They don’t want me to risk burning out or face a declining business that hurts a final selling price. How thoughtful!

So I checked another source, “4 Signs That It’s Time to Sell Your Business.” Apparently, you’re primed to sell if:
…You’re on 4 or 5 different medications.
… The company has outgrown your skill set.
…The market might be moving against you.
…A lucrative opportunity presents itself.

With that last thought in mind: How much would you pay for AMY INK? Granted, there is nothing really to buy. It’s just me. In my home office. Tapping away on my computer. Helping clients tell their stories.

If you wanted to buy the business, would you move into my house? Use my well-worn equipment (my printer can send faxes!). Try to mimic my writing style.

I do have an exit strategy. It's just not one any outside consultant can help plan or execute. It’s me deciding when I can no longer string two thoughts together to write a cogent story.

That may not be the most profitable way to monetize what so far has been 18 successful years of AMY INK. But it works for me.
 _____
UPDATE 2/7/18: Now I'm getting followup calls from these business-sales consultants. They would be better served by doing more homework on their prospect list.

What’s next?

3-setting seat control: warm, hot, sear.

Products often tout “New!” and “Improved!” versions of themselves. It’s the nature of marketing and commerce to always look for the next new thing to bring in revenue.

My nature is to favor reliable go-to products—things I consider tried and true. Even so, I find myself smitten by things I never knew I wanted and now don’t want to be without.

My car is a prime example.

• I once laughed at heated seats. “I don’t drive naked, so why would I need them?” Now I know. They feel wonderful, especially on chilly days.
• Heads-up display? Brilliant! I didn’t know this existed until I test-drove my late-model car. The information I want to see is projected onto my windshield. I can keep my eyes on the road and still have in my line of sight info on speed, navigation directions, and radio station.
• Mastering the stick shift is a badge of honor, but I’ll take hill hold assist every time. Now there's no reason not to drive a manual transmission car. Hill hold adds the few seconds needed to go from brake pedal to gas, without fear of rolling backward when stopped on an uphill.   

Less technically oriented innovations have also captured my loyalty. Take Greek yogurt, for example. I used to live on the regular kind, with lots of sweet fruit filling on the bottom. But one bite of the creamier, protein-packed, and tastier Greek variety, and I switched for good. Most mornings I share a spoonful with the cat, who also is hooked.

I’ll share one final discovery, this one mine. Like many eureka moments, it was accidental. I woke a little groggy one morning and began pouring a glass of vanilla soy milk when I really wanted orange juice. So I decided to top off the milk with OJ and, voilà, I now had a Creamsicle. What could be better than mixing two tried-and-true beverages to create something even better.

No one would ever accuse me of being an early adopter of New! Improved! things. But once I stumble upon the next thing I really like, I can be the most loyal of customers.

Save me

As the digital world advances, so do choices for how to backup all those selfies and videos—and, of course, work and personal files. For the brave and trusting, there’s always the cloud. But for those of us who want to keep things in-house, what’s the best option?

My early career dates back to the Age of Diskette. Specifically, the 8” IBM Displaywriter Diskette, or floppy disk. What innovation! Forget punch cards, this was the wave of the future. I could store 80 kilobytes of documents on a single diskette and, as long as I didn’t bend or crease it, gain access again with a few keystrokes. 

As diskette size shrank to 5-1/4” and then 3.5”, capacity grew to 1.44 megabytes. What would I do with all that space? I made backups of all my files all the time, and soon found myself awash in diskettes. At least these weren’t as fragile as the 8” kind—but they soon were superseded by CDs and then DVDs. With optical media, thin silver discs could store much, much more and do it more reliably.

When computer manufacturers began phasing out floppy disk drives, I said a final goodbye to diskettes and hello to discs, now able to save gigabytes of data. Then the next technology innovation came along. For my one-person office, that took the shape of USB flash drives. Easy to use, small in size, and growing ever larger in capacity.

But wait, there’s more. Last year I began using the cloud, with a twist. Now I’m backing up all my files, photos, and other digital tidbits to a cloud station that sits on my desk. Basically, it’s my own personal cloud, which can take me into terabyte territory if need be.

I expect backup technology to continue leapfrogging ahead, and I will follow along. While computers have become more reliable, I remember too vividly blue-screen-of-death crashes. Fearful of losing hours of work, I learned to save documents frequently, using the shortcut Ctrl+s. The habit is so ingrained, I once found my fingers doing Ctrl+s motions while writing longhand on a legal pad.

I guess I’m just programmed to save. And, because I’m a belt-and-suspenders kind of person, I save in duplicate, with redundant systems, in case one fails.

In the digital world, it's better to be saved than sorry.

Lighting up the night

Holiday lights illuminate more than nighttime neighborhoods. They honor as well as continue and reinvent the annual tradition.

In seasons long past, houses were outlined in single strings of large, multicolored bulbs. Then bulbs got smaller and started blinking.

Suddenly, white lights became all the monochromatic rage. Then came icicle lights, now available as LED strings with falling snow sequences.

This year, more houses have stepped into the digital age, with lighting and color changes programmed by computer and even synchronized to music.

There also has been rapid adoption of holiday projectors to supplement or supplant strings of bulbs. Instead of climbing on rooftops, homeowners just plug in and aim a laser to create a captivating light show of virtual reality decorations. No muss, no fuss, and no emergency trips to the hospital after falls from ladders.

By night, holiday displays are magical. By day, well, it depends on the house. Those with airblown inflatable lawn decorations can look pretty sad. After a night of colorful characters waving and bobbing, the deflated forms of morning are a stark contrast. It’s as if someone rampaged a polyester village and took no prisoners. Thankfully, a flick of the switch at nightfall brings everything back to life.

Years ago, I visited Colonial Williamsburg at Christmas. Everyone I told about my plans mentioned how wonderful the holiday decorations would be. It didn’t occur to me that 18th century celebrations would be everything but electric. Think candles and wreaths and, well, more candles.

Ironically, I have never decorated my home for the holidays. Lighting a menorah is about as close as I get. Still, I do enjoy the efforts of others—from candles in the window to big commercial displays. Seeing bright lights on cold, dark nights never fails to lift my spirits.

Can you be too secure on the internet?

I practice safe surfing on the web and good digital hygiene. Still, news of widespread hacks and security breaches at formerly rock-solid institutions had me wondering whether I was safe enough.

When my internet security provider offered a special deal on its SecureLine VPN, or virtual private network, I decided to give it a try.

Setting up the VPN on my computer and iPhone was easy. Understanding it wasn't. But I don't understand exactly how most technology works. I just know how to get it to work—or who to call.

Everything was going swell at first. Then strange things began to happen. I couldn't access my bank account online or through the mobile app. After a few calls to customer service and some false fixes, it occurred to me to disconnect the VPN. Voilà! I was back in business.

A few days later my credit card provider called—twice, from headquarters and a local branch. There was an issue with my online login. Someone from Seattle was trying to gain access to my account. Actually it was my east coast computer being routed through a west coast VPN server that was the problem.

So...what's a cautious internet user to do? For now, I'm keeping the VPN on for most of my work. And I now know to turn it off when too much security gets in the way.

Fall clearance

Leaves are powerful things. When they change colors in the fall, they become an industry in themselves. Leaf peepers flock to New England and other parts of the country to see the vibrant colors. And they are spectacular.

For years, I pressed fall leaves to send to my folks in Florida. There they enjoyed the warm weather year-round, but palm trees have nothing on fall foliage.

I lived in New Hampshire for a time, which gave me a front-row seat on prime leaf season and its devotees. Even moving back to the Philadelphia area gave me enough colorful falls to fully appreciate the change of seasons.

Now there’s another reason I look forward to fall: I can hear satellite radio again.

I am a SiriusXM subscriber. My go-to stations are Laugh USA, BBC World Service, and E Street Radio. When I’m driving my mom, I tune to Siriusly Sinatra. When I need a change of pace, I can surf the 100+ stations available.

And when I drive tree-lined backstreets, I switch to terrestrial radio to hear local FM public radio stations.

More than just liking public radio, channels on the FM band come in loud and clear wherever I drive around town. Not so with satellite radio. There are constant dropouts driving through wooded areas, such as the state park, shortcuts into town, and various backroads that bypass the highway. Dropouts are particularly annoying when listening to satellite comedy channels, because I always miss the punchline.

All that changes when the leaves fall. Clear reception returns. It’s hard to believe something as thin and flimsy as a leaf can effectively block radio signals.

Consider how satellite radio works. A ground station transmits a digital data signal from earth, traveling more than 22,000 miles to reach two satellites in geostationary orbit, which then bounce the signal down to radio receivers on the ground. The signal is unscrambled and sent to my car radio, with instantaneous channel changes whenever I press a button.

It’s a perfect setup, until it isn’t. I don’t have a scientific explanation for the dropouts I experience under leaf cover, I’m just putting forth my observational theory. More leaves, more dropouts.

For now, all is well. The fall foliage was again spectacular this year. Now that the trees are bare, it's my satellite radio reception that's awesome.

Stand and deliver

It seems I have spent my whole career sitting on my butt. Tied to a desk. Typing on a keyboard. Telling stories.

The work of a writer is largely sedentary. The better to immerse oneself in background materials, research, and blank screens waiting for words to magically appear.

Now it’s time to take a stand. Literally. And I am doing so, thanks to my new height-adjustable sit/stand computer riser.

Standing computer desks have been around for years, but I never seriously considered one. I already had office furniture, and I didn't like the idea of standing all day. As a solopreneur, I figured I had earned my seat at the table, er, desk, and I was going to take it.

Don't even mention treadmill desks, which were a thing a while back. You don’t hear too much about them anymore; maybe it’s because better sense prevailed. Writing and walking are too dissimilar activities, with each one seeming a distraction to the other. 

So what changed my mind about working on my feet?

Sitting is being called the new smoking. “There's no running away from it: The more you sit, the poorer your health and the earlier you may die, no matter how fit you are,” reports an article in Runner’s World. While The Active Times website presents a sobering slideshow of “Ways Sitting is Shortening Your Life.” Evidence also suggests the effects of long-term sitting are not reversed by exercise or other healthful habits.

The decision to stand up for myself was further helped by product innovation, which made the choice less an either/or thing and more affordably priced. There are so many sit/stand options available today, one is surely bound to fit any specific circumstance.

I'm still getting used to my new position--and the flexibility I have to work sitting down or standing up. Just a touch of the desktop, and my computer keyboard and screen rise and fall at my command. If only my writing projects were as easy.

Boo on you

Halloween comes early in my neighborhood. September barely fades into October when mystery goblins set the Boo-ball rolling.

They wait until dark to creep to an unsuspecting neighbor's front door, where they deposit a small bag before running away undetected.

This is the start of an exponential spread of seasonal treats. Each bag contains three elements:

1. A ghostly “Boo” sign
2. Candies and other Halloween-themed items
3. Directions for what to do next

Recipients are instructed to post their Boo sign and, within two days, deliver similar treat bags to two others on the street. Within our small circle of houses, it takes no time at all before every door bears evidence of being booed.

I don’t know where or when the tradition started, but it’s been going on in my neighborhood since before we moved here 17 years ago. Many of these years have coincided with election cycles, and while lawn signs promote candidates from opposing political parties, boo-meisters pay no mind what side you're on.

When it comes to Halloween, everyone gets into the spirit. Twix becomes more important than Twitter. Butterfingers over pointing fingers. Snickers instead of snickering.

Being booed is a welcome distraction at Halloween. It’s a sweet reminder about good neighbors, especially in today’s increasingly scary and gremlin-filled world.

* * *

Many websites have variations of the Boo sign and directions, including...

• Pinterest
• PicMonkey 
• OrganizedHome

It’s all yoga

Yoga used to seem so exotic. So unknowable. Often undoable. Now it’s everywhere, in everything. And everyone is doing it, goats included.

I was clueless when I walked into my first Power Yoga class 15 years ago. I didn’t know what to expect or what to wear. My heavy cotton T-shirt and sweatpants proved almost fatal after the instructor turned up the heat. A friend confided she cried after every class until, a few weeks later, her body adjusted to the routine.

Now, yoga seems commonplace. It has crept into our culture, much like kale into cooking.

I stumbled across my first Laughter Yoga class while running on a Florida beach. Since it was a beach I visited every so often, and Laughter Yoga was there every Friday morning, I soon followed my curiosity and joined the group. On one occasion, I dragged along my traveling companions for what turned out to be mustache day. We all had a good laugh and, in following directions to keep our fake mustaches on, so did the waitress serving our post-class breakfast.

Yoga is an ageless pursuit. Kids yoga uses fun and simple poses to get children moving and more comfortable in their bodies. At the other end of the age spectrum, there’s Chair Yoga, which is catching on in senior communities. Kinder and gentler on the body, practiced either sitting on or against a chair, Chair Yoga is becoming a thing—and not just for senior citizens.

Then there’s Toe Yoga, not to be confused with YogaToes, the product worn to passively stretch and strengthen toes. Toe Yoga has the same purpose, but there are a series of exercises to perform, as I’m learning from physical therapy for heel pain.

Last but certainly not least—and hardest to believe—is Goat Yoga. It, too, is a thing. And it’s sweeping the country, from Oregon to Arizona to New Hampshire.

I gotta admit, I don’t quite get the allure of Goat Yoga, but then again it took me some time to acclimate to Power Yoga.

All I can say to those trying any kind of yoga is this: Namaste.

Running on empty

I have been running for about 40 years. This summer, I stopped. Heel pain made it so.

When my doctor banned running, I wasn’t unhappy. The mindless pounding out of mile after mile was getting to me. It certainly wasn’t as much fun or as free of aches and pains as it used to be. What running had become was a habit, one that lacked motivation.

On my approved exercise list were yoga, cycling, rowing, and any strength training I could do while sitting. So I trooped to the gym and reworked my workout.

I also renewed my practice in sitting meditation, and this has been the hardest exercise by far. Two years ago, I took an eight-week course in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR). I continued my meditation practice faithfully, but soon life got in the way. I eventually resorted to app-based guided meditations to keep me somewhat connected.

Then, earlier this month, I went on a week-long retreat led by the founder of MBSR, Jon Kabat-Zinn. We engaged in sitting meditations, followed by walking meditations, followed by more sitting. There were a few sessions of lying down meditation and yoga, but sitting predominated.

What we were really doing was paying attention, on purpose, in the present moment, non-judgmentally. We were cultivating awareness through non-doing, even though, we learned, nothing important was left undone.

After a week of relatively little movement or exercise, I felt rejuvenated. I realized I had been running on empty in the larger sense. Sitting and paying attention brought clarity, helping to identify what truly was on my mind—and watching these thoughts come and go.

Mindfulness is something I can apply to everything I do. Even running. All I need now is the doctor’s go-ahead, and I’ll be off exploring miles of mindfulness. Step by step. Moment by moment. On purpose.

Seeking comfort in good bakes and adorable reality

The harder it is to watch the daily news, the more I seek the TV-equivalent of comfort food. Real people making real cakes, biscuits, pies, cupcakes, tartlets—or even the French ham-and-cheese sandwich known as croquet monsieur.

All these and more are the stuff of comforting programs like “The Great British Baking Show,” which in the UK is known as “The Great British Bake Off.” Each season 12 amateur bakers compete in three areas per episode, with signature, technical, and showstopper challenges. At program’s end, one competitor is named Star Baker, and one goes home, with the process continuing over 10 weeks until a single winner emerges.

USA Today has called the show “one of the most adorable reality shows on-air today.”

Food writer and TV presenter Mary Berry and celebrity chef Paul Hollywood set the challenges, then taste and judge the results. Hosts Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins provide structure, comic relief, and the beloved countdown “One, two, three—BAKE!”

The settings are as gorgeous as the confectionery creations, always on the grounds of some castle or manor, with a large white tent providing shelter for all the action. And, yes, there can be quite a lot of action in baking shows, with cream to be whipped, eclairs to be filled, berries to become jam, dough to prove, and dozens and dozens of identical sweets to present for judging.

All the while, the clock ticks, hosts and judges hover, and proven recipes prove fickle and difficult to reproduce. Bakers can’t help but watch their creations through the oven door, often sitting on the floor and willing them to rise or crisp or lightly brown. It’s the kind of gentle tension necessary to at least temporarily forget the hostile tensions erupting all over the world.

Helping to make “The Great British Baking Show” so comforting is how pleasant and supportive everyone is: competitors to one another; hosts and judges to everyone under the tent. For bakers who shine and those who go pear-shaped (a British idiom for failing) there are hugs all around and words of encouragement.

Even when Mary finds pastry with the reviled “soggy bottom,” she praises some other element: a flavor, the presentation, a topping. Likewise, Paul will declare something a “good bake” even if the flavors don’t wow him.

Now that the current season is done, changes are underway. The series is leaving the BBC for a rival UK station, taking Paul with it—but not Mary or hosts Mel and Sue. The good news is viewers can catch up on previous seasons, both on PBS and Netflix.

And for those of you who like a little more American flavor to your bakes, watch the spin-off series “The Great American Baking Show” (previously called “The Great Holiday Baking Show”). Mary judges alongside celebrity pastry chef Johnny Iuzzini, with hosting duties shared by Nia Vardalos (“My Big Fat Greek Wedding”) and husband Ian Gomez (“Cougar Town” and “Supergirl”).

Whichever version you watch, the show reverses the old adage about staying out of the kitchen if you can’t stand heat. With the way things are heating up these days, the kitchen has become a comforting place to be—especially as a spectator watching tasty treats rise to perfection.

Eclipsing terrestrial strife…temporarily

Double-eclipse image using binoculars

One of the best things about the solar eclipse on Monday was it also eclipsed all the troubling news that has become a staple of our world. Instead of bombast and confrontation, there was wonder and awe.

While not in the path of totality, the Philadelphia area experienced a partial solar eclipse—79.9 percent, to be precise. And, thanks to streaming video from NASA, I was able to clearly see the sun’s corona, the eclipse “diamond ring,” and the effect known as Bailey’s Beads.   

Later, I saw photos of International Space Station silhouetted against the sun, in perhaps the best example of photobombing in our solar system.

I didn’t have the requisite solar eclipse glasses, but people on the streets of Media were generous in sharing. And even though I had seen bigger and better images from NASA, putting my eyes on the small orange disk with a bite missing was an awesome experience.

So was seeing people spilling out of offices into impromptu gatherings. One law office I passed looked more like a tailgate party, with family and friends gathering in the parking lot—all wearing their eclipse glasses. One man called to me, cautioning against looking up without the right eyewear, so I’m guessing he was the personal injury attorney at the firm.

Once home, my husband and I broke out the cardboard boxes, white cardstock, and pins. We made all sorts of pinhole cameras, which worked amazingly well. As did using binoculars to reflect a double image onto cardboard.

The short window of the partial eclipse in my neighborhood lasted about two hours and 40 minutes. Enough time to remind me about the importance of putting daily distractions into perspective and keeping the long view. Think of the expression “can’t see the forest for the trees,” then take it to an astronomical level. Or, as my mother used to say, “This, too, shall pass.”

Three’s a crowd

Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Manny, Moe, and Jack. This, that, and the other thing.

The rule of three proves itself time and again. In writing, sets of three characters or events are more effective for engaging readers and telling a story.

More broadly, three examples are frequently used to prove a point.

Three things set a cadence, making the overall idea more interesting, memorable, and enjoyable. At least that’s the theory. But there’s always someone who doesn’t get the memo.

I recently received a donation thank-you letter from a local charitable organization involved in literacy. As a freelance writer, I tend to read such written materials more closely than others might. I pay attention to phrasing, grammar, and the rhythm of the language.

There was nothing wrong with the one-page letter, but it felt jarring to my ear. The rule of three went out the window. Instead, it hit hard on a diminished version—the rule of two—as excerpts below show:

• With your involvement and backing…
• …providing open and free access
• …to information and enlightenment.
• …variety of materials and programs
• …that you and your fellow patrons
• …our lively and exciting summer schedule
• …utilizing and supporting

And there are more examples, but you get the point. None of these, individually, sends up a red flag. But after a half-dozen, they begin to stand out. At least to me.

I don’t know why the writer so heavily favored pairs of examples instead of the more common sets of three. Maybe three really is a crowd. Or maybe I’m overthinking this. I'm guessing the latter.

So, here is my delayed response to the thank-you letter: You’re welcome.

Call me a victim

I am happy never to have been a victim in my life. Except for the two times when I chose to be. And those I thoroughly enjoyed.

As a non-medical volunteer for the Medical Reserve Corps, my greatest contribution has been playing a victim in emergency training exercises. So far, I’ve been in an airplane explosion and a train wreck—at least those have been the scenarios. I’ve also had some nasty-looking but not life-threatening injuries, thanks to the moulage makeup added for high-fidelity realism.

My first experience had me laying on the tarmac at Philadelphia International Airport, in 2014, waiting for medical attention. The critical patients were carried away first, by stretcher. Then it was my turn. With my dislocated shoulder, abrasions, and crushed hand (with third-degree burns), I was strapped onto a stretcher and loaded in an ambulance. Inside, I was miraculously cured and scampered away. 

Most recently, I spent a beautiful Sunday morning at the SEPTA Media station in a scenario where a train and a car met on the tracks. There were bad outcomes for the dummy in the car (an actual training dummy) and several passengers. I was lucky, just suffering burns and abrasions on my arms. With a mix of silicone, pigmented creams, and fake trauma blood, my arms soon looked like they’d been through the wringer. My only discomfort was minor, and that came when it was time to pull off the silicone-backed wounds.

The hardest part of playing the victim is all the moaning and groaning. I can do it for a few minutes, but after a while it gets tiresome. So I wait until I have someone’s attention before I turn up the misery volume.

For me, being a volunteer victim involves a lot of hurry-up-and-wait to be rescued. For emergency responders, they get to train in somewhat realistic conditions. The point, I’ve been told, is not just to get it right; the point is to practice until they can never get it wrong.

These exercises take on a greater sense of urgency the more the world tilts off its axis. Emergency responders have a hard road ahead, and I appreciate their service more than ever, having seen what they do from the center of these training events. I am happy to play my small part—and to see everyone walk away safely afterward.

If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there

Even with dashboard GPS, Google maps on smartphone, and an old fashioned paper foldout map, we still missed driving one of the National Tourist Routes on our Norway vacation. We took what we thought was the right turn, but ended up on a single-lane windy road into a mountainside neighborhood. We might have been in the right place, but could have walked the route faster. So we turned around in favor of the two-lane "highway."

My husband took the wheel for the three days of driving around the fjords, and I was navigator. Actually, I was joined by GPS and Google maps in this task. And, for some reason, he didn’t mind three women telling him where to turn.

While GPS technology is marvelous, it isn’t perfect. It asks if you want to go the fastest route or the shortest route. I couldn’t find the option for scenic routes. And so if I hadn’t been following along on my Hele Norge Kart (Entire Norway Map) we would have missed two ferries and possibly the most spectacular scenery ever.

Apparently, GPS doesn’t like water crossings, and goes out of its way to take you out of your way to avoid them. When it eventually recognized our non-compliance with its directions, ours recalculated itself enough times to get back on track with our planned agenda.

Overseas isn’t the only place where GPS is not to be followed blindly. I recently went back to my old hometown for a visit, after decades away. I had both a dashboard GPS and Waze on my iPhone. You would think both would recommend the same route—and you would be wrong. Several times, I was left to arbitrate between the two. And when neither route seemed appropriate, I had to dig deep into my memory to find a better way.

What I have come to realize is that you need to know where you’re going before you can trust GPS for navigational guidance. Only then can you determine whether the prescribed route through town hits every stoplight or finds the bypass. Waze has the added bonus of showing traffic jams and speed traps, but it too can lead you on strange routes through even stranger places.

I have come to rely on GPS technology, but not solely. I will often check  Google maps or paper maps before I set off somewhere new. I agree with Sindre, the travel consultant from Nordic Visitor who provided us with our much-needed and well-used Hele Norge Kart, who said, “I feel that a good old map can come in handy to get a better overview and see what´s up next and it has some useful side information as well.”

And, as our trip proved, it’s especially helpful when traveling the fjords of Norway.

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For my previous post on GPS, see "Why I don't quite trust my GPS."

I can’t run metric miles

#ThrowbackThursday: After recently returning from vacation in Norway, where conversions of currency and metric distances were a daily exercise, I was reminded of the following column I wrote in December 1996. It was  published in “Keeping Contact,” then the newsletter for members of the Delco Road Runners Club.
 
On a recent Saturday, I was sitting down to breakfast with my running buddies after finishing an easy four-and-a-half-mile jog. The topic of discussion was the Philadelphia marathon and its companion race, an 8K. The question was asked: “Hey Amy, why don’t you run the 8K tomorrow?”

“No way,” I said. “That’s too far for me. I can’t run 8 kilometers.” Or could I? I was stumped. What’s 8 times .62? Who’s got a calculator? After doing some mental figuring—I can run a 5K, which is 3.1 miles; a 10K is 6.2 miles, so an 8K is...is....well, it’s somewhere in between—I finally decided to bag the race. I could do the miles, but not the math.

Later, I did my homework and found an 8K equals 4.96 miles; a distance I can handle. But the thought of running in metric was another story. One that didn’t really interest me. Would I have to run on the other side of the road? Would I start running with an accent?

It was beginning to get complicated. I run to relax, not to practice metric conversions. I’m more of a words person; I just tolerate numbers.

In the lexicon of our language, miles rule! The beach resort of Avalon, New Jersey, advertises itself as “Cooler by a mile.” If you know a little bit about a lot of things, you’re said to be “A mile wide and an inch deep.” If you want to really get to know someone, you’ve got to “Walk a mile in their shoes.” If you do much more than is expected, you “Go the extra mile.”

It just wouldn’t be the same in kilometers. There’s no frame of reference. Is winning by a kilometer better than winning by a mile? Do condemned prisoners gain or lose time by walking the last kilometer? Nobody knows. At least not without thinking it through.

The very question causes people to scratch their heads and wonder why metric measures never caught on in the United States anyway.

In running circles, the only rationale I can think of for using kilometers in races is so entrants can set more personal records. They can have both a 5-mile PR and an 8K PR. Never mind that they’re virtually the same distance. There are sticklers who will argue that the .04-mile difference really matters!

For the rational runners among us—and that may be an oxymoron—why don’t we join together and start a movement to “deep-six” kilometers and go back to miles.

Who are we trying to impress anyway? A marathon will always be 26 miles and 385 yards. What’s THAT in kilometers? Quick. Who’s got a calculator?