Secret Aging Man: What a Catch!

It was a dark and stormy night...but at least the redfish was biting!

You won't find redfish in Southern Illinois or Tallahassee (at least not live ones still in the water), and Secret Aging Man was sure chomping at the bit to catch one after our Christmas visit with Daughter and her husband. As soon as we dropped anchor (the Lance camper) at our spot in Navarre's Santa Rosa RV Resort, SAM hightailed it to the end of the fishing pier so he could drop some bait (live shrimp) in the Sound and try his luck. A few other hardy souls (including yours truly) joined him there as it began to rain. The rain held on and so did his luck. He caught the only fish of the evening and asked around if anyone had a cleaning table? No luck there, so he took matters into his own hands and used the bed of the trusty Dodge truck to filet the fish.

After our tasty supper of pan-fried fish, I asked him what he intended to do with the bloody remains on the bed of truck? Surely not let the rain wash it off? This RV resort is kind of classy. We felt like the Jed Clampetts (in reverse) of the camping world with our crater-dashed Dodge truck and little Lance truck camper. I'm surprised they even let us stay, what with all of the fancy rigs parked there. SAM just smirked a little and left me to tidy up our tiny camper kitchen. He was back a few minutes later and assured me that there would be no tell-tale signs of the redfish slaughter for any of the other campers to see come morning. This kind of camping comes with the convenience of a car-washing place nearby. My Secret Aging Man--what a catch!

A view of Navarre Beach from the fishing pier at Santa Rosa RV Resort

'Music of the Spheres': Blueberries and Other Things That Make Me Sing

We are enjoying almost the final harvest of this year's crop of blueberries, and the last ones to be ripe are the sweetest of all for some reason. This morning as I filled my container with these large blue spheres, a song that's been stuck in my head since yesterday evening kept me company in the blueberry patch.

Just before SAM and I headed for bed last night, we   were listening to the Spa channel on XM Radio, and lo and behold, this familiar song began to play. Secret Aging Man recognized it right away. "This is My Father's House," he said confidently. Are you sure? I asked. "It's an old Baptist hymn. I'm pretty sure." Wrong. Sorry, honey. I looked it up in an old hymnal we somehow ended up with from a church (not Baptist) that we attended in Kentucky. This is My Father's World. Not house. A building could never contain Him.

This is my Father's world
And to my listening ears
All nature sings,
And round me rings
The music of the spheres...


(Words by Maltbie D. Babcock, music by Franklin L. Sheppard, 1901)

Thanks to Stratoz, whose latest post about a saint got me thinking deep thoughts this morning.

The Significant Other Blogfest--Walk2Write's SAM

“A writer is a terrible thing to waste.” At least that’s what I keep reminding myself when at 2:00 A.M. I roll over to find an empty bed. I don’t worry because this has happened several times before – the brainstorm of creativity my wife is compelled to pour out of her soul and mind, no matter the time of day or night. And I’m the primary benefactor of all her skill at mixing poetry, prose, history and thoughtful insight into our world’s current state of affairs, and putting all those complexities together in a story that reflects the simple day-to-day living of our lives. I am usually the very first person to read her latest blog posting. This way when the inevitable question is posed by me, “What exactly does this mean?” my enlightened-self delights that I know the answer before almost anyone else, and have figured it out almost all by myself!

Getting back to the first statement about a wasted writer, I must say that to prevent this tragedy, encouragement must be presented consistently and honestly. Can my dear wife-writer get absorbed at the keyboard or go through the bog of writer despair when the flood of ideas are sealed up in the gray clouds of her mind? Of course. These are the times I most try to lift the fog and play “let’s make up funny character names for your first novel.” I can’t reveal any of the character names because one day they will be famous. Also, I like to encourage her by offering up silly parodies of famous stories or limericks (some decent and some not so). One thing is for certain; I am blessed to be married to an awesome writer. Seeing her joy at completing a story and then reading those marvelous letters of the alphabet, strung together better than any pearl necklace ever seen at your local jeweler, encourages me that life is good, and my wife-writer knows how to keep it that way.


This Blogfest encourages us "significant others" to give a glimpse into the character of our spouse, best friend, or person who inspires us the most. Yes to all of the above! My wife, who is also my best friend and inspires me to reach beyond my comfort zone, has the patience of Job, but will not hesitate to speak her mind if I stray from the course set by hands much more capable than ours. She loves to garden, cook great meals, and spend time with her family. She works harder than should be necessary to keep our marriage going strong. She can be a clean freak, but has surrendered a little ground to me through the years (hooray for five pairs of shoes by the front door!).

I don't want to sound too sappy, but I don't know how I would make it in this world without her. She gets annoyed at the "entertainment news" fed to us Americans on the networks and is fed up with politicians' shenanigans, like most everyone else I know. Another major irritant for her is people too full of themselves or those who do not treat everyone with respect. She fights this negative energy surrounding us by studying history, observing the world around her, and putting her thoughts down in print. In a way, writing is her coping mechanism and her way of dealing with a world gone a bit nuts. I have to say that I did not always recognize that her literary journals were in reality a method of making sense of the big picture, and ultimately her way of making our world a better place. But my wife and best friend has this gifted way of opening eyes not quite focused on truth and redirecting sight to a place of light and seeing. This thing called blogging is pretty cool, and a cyber-family can be a real social benefit and community. In conclusion, to all you writers, poets, and philosophers - keep doing what you do because your efforts are never in vain.

Here's a link to the hosting site for this blogfest: Cruising Altitude.

A Man of His Word

 

Secret Aging Man on the road again in his Ford pickup truck sometime in the late 1970s



SAM's fluorite story card

Having finished Carolyn Haines' Greedy Bones over a week ago, I decided to write a little review before details started fading. If I get something wrong maybe SAM will point it out to me. He's reading the book at my request, though he's never been much of a fiction reader or writer, for that matter. That's not to say he doesn't know how to write. As you can plainly see above, he's pretty good at putting words together. Most of the writing he's done over the years has been work-related, technical stuff that's all in a day's work for a professional geologist. From oil prospects to environmental assessments, he has produced enough reports in the last 30 years to fill a small-town library. (I've edited quite a few of them.) Somewhere along the way, I guess about 15 years ago, he got the urge to break out of the mold and came up with some story cards to go along with rock kits he had assembled. One side of each card describes a mineral's physical and chemical attributes, and on the other side SAM applies what he has learned over the years. I think it's pretty amazing what he's learned.  

SAM on duty, after work, at his other job--as Daddy, 1982

While SAM has been reading Greedy Bones, I decided to take on Anna Quindlen's novel, Every Last One. Click on this link to a review of it in the New York Times. The two novels don't have much in common, except for a few details. For one thing, they're both written by women, probably middle-aged or at least with some experience under their belts. Then there's the fact that men are secondary characters in these novels. They're more like props than anything, definitely not prime movers, muscle bound though they may be. If you want to think in anatomical terms, they might even be considered antagonistic, resisting the female protagonists and throwing monkey wrenches into their lives--marriage, kids, and that sort of thing. I tend to do that--think anatomically, not throw monkey wrenches--when I'm dissecting a novel. It's probably a good thing I never became a surgeon. You would think that female protagonists in this day and age would be, though. Instead, they're amateur sleuths/actresses (Greedy Bones) or professional landscapers (Every Last One). Not that there's anything wrong with those occupational choices. It's just that according to what pundits from the last few decades would have you believe, they're a few bricks short of a full load of ambition, a half a bubble off the feministic ideal of a woman. But don't expect to find any air heads in these novels. Even the female villains/victims are canny.

SAM, the Prime Mover, behind the wheel of our once-upon-a-time, 15-passenger van. We bought it for transporting the church youth group in the mid 90s when gas was still cheap!

Holiday social event, December 2009

I don't know what to make of novels these days, especially those written by women. They're difficult to pigeonhole, even if you do manage to dissect them. I've tried, believe me. Is Haines' protag, Sarah Booth Delaney, today's version of Nancy Drew, now empowered by the sexual revolution and a hefty inheritance?  SAM's comment about her tendency to hop on a plane or jump into dangerous/awkward situations at the drop of a hat: Unrealistic. Okay, that's coming from a conservative businessman/bureaucrat's perspective. I shrugged it off as just another supernormal power that socialite heiresses enjoy, besides the ability to communicate with dead family members/friends. Calgon, take me away!

I'll admit that Quindlen's novel worked me over emotionally. Its subject matter is pretty intense from anyone's perspective--anyone that has a heart, that is. Besides the M&MM (murder and maternal mayhem that follows), I had the wind knocked out of me when I thought: what's really at stake here, literally and figuratively? Fatherhood/philosophy, sanctity of marriage, music, poetry--Glen; Glen/MaryBeth, et al; Max, Ruby. All of them on the chopping block at once. Scary!

It seems that some authors are beginning to take Deleuze and Guattari to heart: Write a rhizome. Let it become more than the sum of its parts. We are working on it.


SAM's rock kit, disassembled, outside of the box.

"We are no longer ourselves. Each will know his own. We have been aided, inspired, multiplied." (Deleuze and Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus)

This Little Piggy Went to Market Days in Tallahassee

Every other weekend or so, now that the Bahia grass and other weeds lie dormant at home in Santa Rosa County, Secret Aging Man and I spend our time and other limited resources in and around Tallahassee. We found plenty of things to spend them on this weekend at Market Days, a major source of revenue for the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science. The event also affords an opportunity for shoppers weary and wary of the mall and its collection of imported, cheap-yet-overpriced gifts to look for handmade holiday bargains. This little piggy went to Market Days with the rest of her piggies in tow. Now a resident of Florida, she doesn't drive anymore in all that ice and snow.

She loaded up on fresh produce like navel blood oranges, turnip greens, field peas, green beans, and potatoes. And let's not forget that item most important to her soul nutrition--fresh flowers to fill the planters, aka the apartment garden. Pansies aren't as wimpy as their name implies. They're hardy enough to withstand the occasional cold blasts of arctic air our neighbors up north are more than willing to share. You know who you are; bare your toes if you dare!

After going to market on Saturday, this little piggy stayed home the next day and cooked up a mess of fresh veggies to go along with SAM's grilled chicken. Somehow knowing there's a limit to too much of a good thing, this little piggy had roast beef (prime rib) Saturday night at Julie's Place, one of her favorite Tallahassee restaurants, and wanted something different to eat on Sunday. She had planned on preparing a cozy dinner for two at the apartment after shopping, but then she and SAM got stuck in traffic because of a Christmas parade downtown. Those two dollars a glass drinks of happy hour house wine (yes, please, Burgundy) washed down the beef and fixin's just fine.    

Besides the fresh stuff for sale at market, there were plenty of other things to buy, and some were even "green," like this used tire turned into a bird feeder/watering bowl. It's a clever, attractive way to re-purpose and keep at least some junk out of the landfill. Lauri Hall and her husband design and craft all kinds of things out of tires for their business, Tire Swings and Garden Things. One Florida blogger I know, Julie (not associated with the restaurant but also a fine cook as well as artist and creator of A Succulent Life), isn't afraid to use tires in her garden. Why not take advantage of stuff that's already used and give it new life? It's the sort of attitude that my grandparents and parents had, and it served them well, saving money and the planet from a lot of unnecessary waste.  

Mrs. Hall didn't mind posing with some of her waste-preventing handiwork. After reading The Florida Blogger's post regarding a St. John's River tour (offered free if he blogged about it), this little piggy had none of her usual shyness asking a favor from a stranger. Wanna be featured on my blog, Mrs. Hall? There really is no danger. (For that bird feeder I did pay and for another one, someone's gift for Christmas Day.) 

We might not have gone to Market Days if not for the invitation from one of SAM's co-workers. Her mom, owner of Simply Elegant by Michelle, LLC, was one of the many talented artists and craftspeople who took their wares to market. SAM hates to shop, but he does like to show support for friends and their families. I do too.

One thing I didn't buy on Saturday was a poinsettia. I'm not sure why, but I've lost my appetite for it as a holiday plant. Maybe it has something to do with learning about its association with the conquest of Mexico. Luckily, this vendor had other plants for sale. Remember the pansy? It's no shrinking violet, though it does share some characteristics and a genus name with Viola. Pansies in some form have been cultivated for hundreds of years but were given their common name not long after the 4th century by someone who spoke French. The word pensee means thought or remembrance. It's no wonder I like them so much, especially now that I've learned something about their history. After making our last Market Days' purchase from the flower vendor, as you might imagine, SAM was fed up with shopping. He asked me if I wanted to take a hike, and this little piggy went "Oui, Oui, Oui!" all the way home--after a short drive to Leon Sinks Geological Area, after the long wait in downtown traffic, and after a satisfying meal with wine. If ever you come to Tallahassee, I'll advise you on where to walk and dine: with me, of course, and mine.



Dry "swamp" at Leon Sinks Geological Area

'Beggar to Beggar Cried': After Thirty Years of Give and Take? MOTS!

'Time to put off the world and go somewhere

And find my health again in the sea air,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And make my soul before my pate is bare...'

Thirty years have come and gone, and Secret Aging Man said he's ready to try for another thirty, as long as I am. Okay, but promise me we will always take long walks together. This one happened earlier this week in Gulf Breeze at Shoreline Park South.

'And get a comfortable wife and house

To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'

Daughter went along for the walk and spotted this mushroom-and-child before I did. I guess I was too engrossed in the man by my side to notice.

'And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely--let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'

'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich

Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'

Buildings by the score have sprung up along Pensacola Beach in the last several years and continue to do so, as you can see by the presence of that massive crane. More and more high-rise behemoths now obscure whatever view of the Gulf the residents of Gulf Breeze might have had in years past--and maybe even some of that famous Breeze. Their solid, dearly-paid-for presence replaces those shifting sand dunes that once formed a barrier between the Gulf and the Sound. Some people might argue that it's better to rely on the protection of these new barriers along the horizon that are fixed in place, anchored to the bedrock by beams of steel and pillars of concrete. What do you think?

'And there I'll grow respected at my ease,

And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'

A poem, this one by W. B. Yeats, shared with you by two beggars. (And I do mean beggars. I put myself at the mercy of the copyright holder by sharing it here on the blog. It's not in the public domain yet so I hope I'm not in trouble here. I do tend to invite it, though. Can we say the poem has been shared for scholarly purposes?) I don't pretend to understand it fully, anymore than I understand how a shifting-sand-dune, give-and-take marriage can last for thirty years in this day and age. All I know is that I want More of the Same.

Happy Birthday, Secret Aging Man!

An Ode to the "Old-But-Young-At-Heart" Chap

from Daughter (photos c.1994)

You're a jolly good fellow, Daddy-O!!

You deserve the best

Oh, don't you know?

You may think your life

Has been misspent,

But there you're wrong.

You did your best,

And with good intent.

Don't let the past be a bully

Who taunts and beats at you.

But, instead, stand up for yourself--

You're still strong at 52!

I want you to know

How proud I am

Of who you are

And what you've done!

You haven't lost anything at all--

You've already won!

You have a family

That loves you

And a God who provides.

We're the rocks

That stand firm with you

Even in the highest of tides.

So, just remember,

You're admired and loved

More than you know.

You may be old,

But you're young at heart...

As the "old" saying goes.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY-O!!

I LOVE YOU!!!!

NOW CHEER UP, YOU OLE COOT!!!!

Disclaimer: Let it be known that Walk2Write is neither responsible nor liable for the content of this post or the opinions expressed therein.

Let Me 'Fluor' You

Well, as promised, this post will include more pictures of my favorite mineral – fluorite (aka fluorspar).

The many colors and hues are tremendous!
Glimmering honey...yummy!



Above is a light purple cube on top of a plate of sphalerite.


This piece of green fluorite is actually from Mexico, but occasionally, specimens of green were found in Illinois and Kentucky. A small region in extreme southeastern Illinois and extreme southwestern Kentucky, known as the Illinois/Kentucky fluorspar district, once supplied the nation with 90% of its need for this strategic mineral. After WWII, the supply chain changed dramatically, as will be discussed below.

This dark brown is actually from a thin coating of petroleum. Maybe one day a big oil discovery will be made in that area of the Midwest.

This specimen of amber-colored fluorite shows different stages of crystal growth. Cubes growing inside cubes are commonly called phantom crystals.

This being my second guest posting, a little background information may be appropriate. Do you wonder why my “handle” is Secret Aging Man? My wife, W2W, gave me this nickname for the blogosphere because of two watershed events -- a short essay I wrote in the fifth grade and a job search I did a couple of months ago. My essay, entitled "What Will I Be?," describes my future occupational aspiration, at the ripe age of 10 years. I ended it by prophetically stating… “I will either be a secret agent man or a geologist, but I think I will probably be a geologist.” Fast-forward 41 years later and I am in the middle of a new employment search. After four months on the hunt, an article on Yahoo! catches my eye. “The CIA and FBI are now hiring all positions! Start your new career, today!” After a few minutes of surfing their respective web-sites, the answer echoed loudly in my head - Dude, you are too old, way too old to even apply. I thought out loud “Hey! What about Sean Connery? If he can shave the world, sho can I!” After this little episode, my wife of great wit proclaimed me the Secret Aging Man.

I can’t talk about fluorspar without mentioning my parents, especially my father. My parents initially visited the Southern Illinois Earth Science Club to appease my curiosity about rocks, but soon their interest and passion for the hobby were just as high, if not more intense than my own. About the same time, my father started having heart problems and had to retire from his profession as a carpenter at SIU. He had lots of time on his hands and devoted most of it to his hobby and his club, serving as President, on more than one occasion. After his death in 1974 due to heart surgery complications, my mother, who had previously served as Secretary/Treasurer, took up the torch and served one term as President. The reason I mention all this is because my father was President of the club when legislation was enacted declaring fluorite as the Illinois State Mineral. This event would not have happened if not for the efforts of my dad and other members of the Southern Illinois Earth Science Club.

This large specimen of purple fluorite and white dogtooth calcite came into our collection in an interesting way.

My father and I were somehow introduced to an Ozark-Mahoning company geologist. Accumulated in his front yard were several large and attractive specimens from the fluorite mines, gifts from various miners trying to make a good impression and perhaps hoping for a little job security. My dad proposed a trade for the piece pictured above and presented several fine, hand-made pieces of jewelry, brought along just for the purpose of barter. The guy picked the tie-tac, and even though we insisted he take more jewelry in trade, he refused. We probably had $5 in that tie-tac. My ultra-antique road show appraisal of the piece pictured above is now $3500.

Monthly trips to visit our primary supplier, a preacher/miner friend in the back country of the Shawnee National Forest, were needed to feed our addiction. I haven’t a clue how to find his place now. I remember traveling for what seemed forever up and down hilly gravel roads, with clouds of dust following and sometimes overtaking our vehicle. We were always graciously welcomed and personally escorted to ‘round back of the old shed, where sheets of tin roofing graced the tops of concrete blocks, creating the entrepreneur’s store shelving. Upon the shelves, a virtual jewelry store of minerals sparkled like candy in the eyes of this young pebble pup. We never asked, but, according to common knowledge, the minerals were daily hoisted up from the mines in the miners’ lunch boxes. The mining company reluctantly went along with this practice until some overzealous miner broke an elevator, attempting to hoist a specimen of several hundred pounds. After that incident, the flow of new mineral specimens came to an abrupt halt. Anyway, we bought all we could afford for 25 cents per pound. W2W did a post a while back about a walk-about we did in the Shawnee Forest. We stopped by the American Fluorite Museum, in Rosiclare, and took a few pictures you may want to check out in her post.

So, is there any value to fluorite, other than as a nice collectible for the mineral enthusiast? Fluorite is comprised of Calcium and Fluoride (CaF2) and the 97%+ pure CaF2 mineral is used in the production of hydrofluoric acid. Ceramic-grade fluorite, containing 85%-95% CaF2, is primarily used for the production of glass and enamel, to make welding rod coatings, and as a flux in the steel industry. Less pure grades of fluorite are also used by the steel industry. And of course, we have all heard of fluoride in our toothpaste and drinking water. For many years, the addition of fluoride to our municipal water supplies has been hailed as a benchmark by public health advocates, who claim that it has drastically reduced the number of cavities in the overall population. However, critics of this policy have emerged, citing potential serious health threats from long-term ingestion of fluoride. Personally, I’m just not sure which side is right or if both have merits, but think the issue should be discussed and appropriate health studies conducted. The Illinois/Kentucky district supplied about 80-90% of the nation’s needs until a slow death spiral of the industry began sometime around 1950. Foreign imports from China and India, priced below our own production costs, eventually wiped out the domestic fluorite industry. The last domestic fluorite mine, located in Southern Illinois, closed in 1995.