For those of you who received a Christmas Card from me this year and didn't solve the puzzle included. Here is the key... Write the alphabet backwards and underneath write it forwards and you'll be able to solve the puzzles.
Sorry about the lateness of this solution and yes, I know I forgot the "H".
Happy New Year--Bill
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Christmas 2006
As I have related before every year I do a limited edition custom Christmas card. The year after I put it on my blog as a Merry Christmas to all my readers. This is the first story of all the cards. See the previous posts for my other cards, all poems. Hope you enjoy it. -- Bill
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
Friday, December 14, 2007
LA Conference Part 4
Friday, I get to go to dinner with Bob Higa, Mark Holstein, and Sue Holstein. These are old friends from home and I don’t see them often enough. They have all been very kind to me and good to my career for at least the last twenty years. After a few false starts, we end up at this wonderful Italian restaurant. One terrific meal and a fun waitress, who also was from the hometown Chicago area, later we wend our way back to the hotel and the evening program.
I like to sit in back. You give up very little in view. There is the advantage of being able to move about and talk a little when things get difficult. Luckily, with the night’s program, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Jules Fisher is a legend on Broadway. Eight Tony awards, many more nominations. He is arguably the best lighting director in the world. He is also an amateur magician and friend of Ricky Jay. He discusses the science and aesthetics of lighting. The thing that struck me is that while he did talk about certain technical issues, candlepower, red lighting for thread work; he spoke about lighting as feeling emotions. A wonderful concept for magicians.
Peter Lamont was one of the highlights of the last conference. He is a historian for the parapsychology unit at the University of Edinburgh. Look for his books; he has a light and humorous touch, which make for enjoyable reading. His talks take on that same quality. This year’s talk was on W. J. Vernon, a phrenologist, a mesmerist, and, finally, a radical political activist.
Mike Caveny finished the show in his typical easygoing manner. He performed Charles Carter’s Astral Hand and Einstein’s Problem. The Astral Hand is a rapping hand routine with predictable results. It fell flat and, probably deserved a more dramatic presentation. Einstein’s Problem is Carter’s version of the Million Dollar Mystery. It is a cool piece that plays more like a puzzle. I wonder if it has been talked about so much that, it just didn’t do much for me. Usually, Mike’s style is enjoyable, but it didn’t work with these pieces.
I like to sit in back. You give up very little in view. There is the advantage of being able to move about and talk a little when things get difficult. Luckily, with the night’s program, I wasn’t going anywhere.
Jules Fisher is a legend on Broadway. Eight Tony awards, many more nominations. He is arguably the best lighting director in the world. He is also an amateur magician and friend of Ricky Jay. He discusses the science and aesthetics of lighting. The thing that struck me is that while he did talk about certain technical issues, candlepower, red lighting for thread work; he spoke about lighting as feeling emotions. A wonderful concept for magicians.
Peter Lamont was one of the highlights of the last conference. He is a historian for the parapsychology unit at the University of Edinburgh. Look for his books; he has a light and humorous touch, which make for enjoyable reading. His talks take on that same quality. This year’s talk was on W. J. Vernon, a phrenologist, a mesmerist, and, finally, a radical political activist.
Mike Caveny finished the show in his typical easygoing manner. He performed Charles Carter’s Astral Hand and Einstein’s Problem. The Astral Hand is a rapping hand routine with predictable results. It fell flat and, probably deserved a more dramatic presentation. Einstein’s Problem is Carter’s version of the Million Dollar Mystery. It is a cool piece that plays more like a puzzle. I wonder if it has been talked about so much that, it just didn’t do much for me. Usually, Mike’s style is enjoyable, but it didn’t work with these pieces.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
LA Conference Part 3
Friday, I wake up. Early. Too early. I am going to the early opening of Ricky Jay’s exhibit of broadsides at the Hammer Museum. He has been kind enough to open early for the convention and be on hand to discuss the pieces. But first, breakfast...
In my traveling group are Tim Felix, Mark Kaschube, and Bob Higa. Tim and Mark insist we go to Jack-in-the-Box for our meal. This will be the first time for Bob and me, but Tim and Mark would eat at Jack’s for every meal while they are in California. The deep-fried tacos and only the deep fried tacos to be specific. I do not have a delicate system, but it is a mistake I will not make again.
After my trip to the bathroom, the broadsides amaze. If you have seen the book, Extraordinary Exhibitions, you’ve seen the pictures. They do not do the pieces justice. The depth and vibrancy of the colors, the textures of the papers, they can only be appreciated in person. One former Davenport, now Kellar and Fay bill, one I’ve only seen in black and white, was in full color. The blue shading had such a depth it looked like it was a separate transparency laid over the print.
After the museum, we head back to the hotel. Mostly I hang out talk to friends, make one of my many visits to the exhibit room and dealer rooms. The afternoon program begins at 2:00.
Diego Domingo talks about Ronald Coyne and the religious revivals of the 1950s. Coyne was able to see with his artificial eye as clearly as his real eye. Diego gave a lively talk on this nutball’s life including one smart Chicago doctor who examined and Coyne’s power were found lacking. This same doctor is also a magic enthusiast and now visits Tim Felix’s Midwest Magic often. I surprise to Tim and I, who never know this chapter of his life.
Bill Liles added to an earlier presentation he gave on Houdini and the Mirror cuffs. To be honest he had nothing particularly new or relevant to say and spent a lot of time saying it.
Peter Reveen finishes up with an informal talk about his life and career. I would have preferred a more structured approach to this presentation with, perhaps, a question and answer session or interview format. I do see how Peter commanded the stage. He is full of charisma.
Now it is off to dinner with some great old friends and the Friday night program.
In my traveling group are Tim Felix, Mark Kaschube, and Bob Higa. Tim and Mark insist we go to Jack-in-the-Box for our meal. This will be the first time for Bob and me, but Tim and Mark would eat at Jack’s for every meal while they are in California. The deep-fried tacos and only the deep fried tacos to be specific. I do not have a delicate system, but it is a mistake I will not make again.
After my trip to the bathroom, the broadsides amaze. If you have seen the book, Extraordinary Exhibitions, you’ve seen the pictures. They do not do the pieces justice. The depth and vibrancy of the colors, the textures of the papers, they can only be appreciated in person. One former Davenport, now Kellar and Fay bill, one I’ve only seen in black and white, was in full color. The blue shading had such a depth it looked like it was a separate transparency laid over the print.
After the museum, we head back to the hotel. Mostly I hang out talk to friends, make one of my many visits to the exhibit room and dealer rooms. The afternoon program begins at 2:00.
Diego Domingo talks about Ronald Coyne and the religious revivals of the 1950s. Coyne was able to see with his artificial eye as clearly as his real eye. Diego gave a lively talk on this nutball’s life including one smart Chicago doctor who examined and Coyne’s power were found lacking. This same doctor is also a magic enthusiast and now visits Tim Felix’s Midwest Magic often. I surprise to Tim and I, who never know this chapter of his life.
Bill Liles added to an earlier presentation he gave on Houdini and the Mirror cuffs. To be honest he had nothing particularly new or relevant to say and spent a lot of time saying it.
Peter Reveen finishes up with an informal talk about his life and career. I would have preferred a more structured approach to this presentation with, perhaps, a question and answer session or interview format. I do see how Peter commanded the stage. He is full of charisma.
Now it is off to dinner with some great old friends and the Friday night program.
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