A Few Scribbles – just for fun
I'm not a regular Facebook guy, but I like to occasionally use it as a story-telling medium. Here are some of what I think are my better attempts, but you can be the judge of that. They range from being humorous to quite serious. All are true stories, albeit with an occasional touch of embellishment.
Dead Santa
from December 6, 2016
EVER FIND A DEAD GUY IN YOUR CRAWL SPACE? - True story. But first a bit of background. In the spring of 1978, we bought our starter house in Doraville, about a crow-flies mile from the intersection of I-285 and I-85 that Atlantans would later admiringly dub Spaghetti Junction. It was a "California contemporary" split level with a flat roof, skylight, fireplace, carport, and two bathrooms upstairs that shared a "Hollywood" tub. That's right. Step out of the tub on one side and you're in bathroom #1, step out on the other side and you're in #2. Weird, I know, but a good use of space.
We bought the place from a couple of guys who had done an astonishing amount of yard work on their three-quarter acre lot. They planted all sorts of wondrous and costly vegetation and landscaped it into something that would have swelled Frederick Law Olmsted's heart with admiration. Not too many years later, my own admiration would turn to fear and loathing for this yard because of the insurmountable - at least to me - amount of work required to maintain its splendor. But, the conversion from park to jungle under my stewardship is another story. The owners were eager to sell so that the older of the two, who was about to retire, could participate in the younger's catering business, to which they wished to move closer. Sounds reasonable, right? Within a few months, I came to think they instead wished to flee a crime scene.
My discovery of the body resulted from my brilliant idea of installing a grill connected to the house's natural gas line. I'd had it with charcoal, cheap hibachis (remember those things?), and scorched burgers. The first step was to find out where the gas line ran underneath the kitchen. That research required venturing into a crawl space accessed from the unfinished laundry area of our daylight basement. Oddly enough, I hadn't gone into that nether world until then, but I tell you now that I'd never buy another house without performing due diligence myself. I'd also be sure to have a good flashlight in one hand and maybe a Glock in the other. On this occasion, though, I only had a crappy flashlight with wimpy K-Mart-brand batteries.
I stooped into the musty 4-ft high, dirt-floored space conscious of my silly dislike of walking face-first into spider webs. I promptly located the gas line attached to overhead joists and could see it running over toward where the gas meter was mounted on the daylight side of the wall. Just as I'd anticipated, I could punch a copper line into the house and have some qualified technician attach it without burning down the neighborhood. Since that issue was happily settled, I thought I'd inspect the rest of this semi-subterranean world and scanned my poor excuse for a flashlight into the gloom.
Bad idea.
There, off in the farthest corner, were the soles of a pair of toes-up dark shoes. That startling development would have been okay, I suppose, had there not been the dim hint of panted legs emanating from those shoes and vaguely culminating into a largish human torso. So there it was - a dead body sprawled on his back, feet toward me. My heart bucked like a bronco as my scientist brain spit out some emergency directives. First, this was why those guys gave us a good deal on their house - being nearer the catering business was a ruse. Second, scuttle the flashlight and evacuate the area pronto. Third, while tossing the flashlight, call out loudly to Susan without sounding like a terrified ten-year old girl. Fourth, dial 911 asap.
Slowly, I got control of myself and resolved to investigate up close before calling the cops. I crept toward the corpse, the dud of a flashlight gradually transforming the gray-toned scene before me into dim colors. The shoes emerged from this Stygian underworld as black boots, the pants as red, the man as fat. He wore a heavy red jacket with thick white fringe to match his long beard. His open, dead eyes stared accusingly at me from under a pointy red hat.
Then my brain kicked in again. The dead guy was a life-sized, worn-out, fully-retired yard Santa ingloriously chucked under the house rather than put out on the curb with the withered tree the Wednesday following some Christmas past.
It was Dead Santa.
My composure returned, and the ole brain asked "What's next?" The answer was obvious. I emerged from the crawl space and went to the foot of the stairs. My mood lifting, I called up to Susan, "Hey, Honey. You'd better come take a look at this?"
Dead Santa was still there when we sold the place in 1986. I've occasionally imagined the new owners first venture under their house.
We bought the place from a couple of guys who had done an astonishing amount of yard work on their three-quarter acre lot. They planted all sorts of wondrous and costly vegetation and landscaped it into something that would have swelled Frederick Law Olmsted's heart with admiration. Not too many years later, my own admiration would turn to fear and loathing for this yard because of the insurmountable - at least to me - amount of work required to maintain its splendor. But, the conversion from park to jungle under my stewardship is another story. The owners were eager to sell so that the older of the two, who was about to retire, could participate in the younger's catering business, to which they wished to move closer. Sounds reasonable, right? Within a few months, I came to think they instead wished to flee a crime scene.
My discovery of the body resulted from my brilliant idea of installing a grill connected to the house's natural gas line. I'd had it with charcoal, cheap hibachis (remember those things?), and scorched burgers. The first step was to find out where the gas line ran underneath the kitchen. That research required venturing into a crawl space accessed from the unfinished laundry area of our daylight basement. Oddly enough, I hadn't gone into that nether world until then, but I tell you now that I'd never buy another house without performing due diligence myself. I'd also be sure to have a good flashlight in one hand and maybe a Glock in the other. On this occasion, though, I only had a crappy flashlight with wimpy K-Mart-brand batteries.
I stooped into the musty 4-ft high, dirt-floored space conscious of my silly dislike of walking face-first into spider webs. I promptly located the gas line attached to overhead joists and could see it running over toward where the gas meter was mounted on the daylight side of the wall. Just as I'd anticipated, I could punch a copper line into the house and have some qualified technician attach it without burning down the neighborhood. Since that issue was happily settled, I thought I'd inspect the rest of this semi-subterranean world and scanned my poor excuse for a flashlight into the gloom.
Bad idea.
There, off in the farthest corner, were the soles of a pair of toes-up dark shoes. That startling development would have been okay, I suppose, had there not been the dim hint of panted legs emanating from those shoes and vaguely culminating into a largish human torso. So there it was - a dead body sprawled on his back, feet toward me. My heart bucked like a bronco as my scientist brain spit out some emergency directives. First, this was why those guys gave us a good deal on their house - being nearer the catering business was a ruse. Second, scuttle the flashlight and evacuate the area pronto. Third, while tossing the flashlight, call out loudly to Susan without sounding like a terrified ten-year old girl. Fourth, dial 911 asap.
Slowly, I got control of myself and resolved to investigate up close before calling the cops. I crept toward the corpse, the dud of a flashlight gradually transforming the gray-toned scene before me into dim colors. The shoes emerged from this Stygian underworld as black boots, the pants as red, the man as fat. He wore a heavy red jacket with thick white fringe to match his long beard. His open, dead eyes stared accusingly at me from under a pointy red hat.
Then my brain kicked in again. The dead guy was a life-sized, worn-out, fully-retired yard Santa ingloriously chucked under the house rather than put out on the curb with the withered tree the Wednesday following some Christmas past.
It was Dead Santa.
My composure returned, and the ole brain asked "What's next?" The answer was obvious. I emerged from the crawl space and went to the foot of the stairs. My mood lifting, I called up to Susan, "Hey, Honey. You'd better come take a look at this?"
Dead Santa was still there when we sold the place in 1986. I've occasionally imagined the new owners first venture under their house.
Just "One of Those Days," I Suppose
from October 14, 2016
It was this past Tuesday afternoon, and I decided to go do some grocery shopping while Susan went to visit her Dad who's recovering from a stroke several weeks ago. So I collected some cloth bags, tossed them in my car, and headed off to "Your Dekalb Farmers Market," one of the Seven Wonders of the Produce Shopping World, to locate items among the frigid interior acreage of the place and tick them off on the AnyList app we share on our iPhones.
All was going smoothly. The patronage density was moderate, so buggy driving was only like I-285 at noon rather than at rush hour, and I soon had my cart stuffed with goodies ranging from asparagus to zucchini. In front was a goodly supply of wine - YDFM wine prices are remarkably good - which will figure into what's coming. My list was pretty well all checked off, and I decided to head back toward the distant horizon to the meat and cheese section to look for their great mac-and-cheese, a forbidden item that would never legally make it to our AnyList.
Only 15 minutes later, or so it seemed, I arrived at the freshly prepared foods case, and there it was - the lovely mac-and-cheese. To lessen my guilt, I sorted through their stock to find the lowest weight container and returned it to my cart - at least I assumed it was my cart. As I was yet again heading back across YDFM's vastness to look for chicken bullion (they don't carry it) and turbinado sugar (I never found it), I glanced down at my oddly light buggy and realized that, in fact, it wasn't my buggy! Yeah, it had a couple of cloth bags it in and there were plenty of veggies, but the wine wasn't there. My brain went into self-defense mode - 'who stole my buggy?' it offered. Then it gave up and admitted I was the thief.
So, I put it in reverse and headed off to where I vaguely remembered having parked my actual buggy while in pursuit of mac-and-cheese. I felt like an absent-minded Old Fart trudging back to the scene of the crime expecting to find a frustrated shopper frantically looking around for her/his cart while muttering mild obscenities. Well, there was my cart, but no frustrated shopper was in sight. I waited what I thought was a decent interval with a prepared apology all ready to offer. But there was no taker. Had the shopper given up in utter disgust and exited the place with fumes coming out of the ears?! I guess I'll never know, but I sure felt rotten about it.
Turning around again to cross YDFM for the umpteenth time - I would have made my steps that Tuesday if I hadn't given up on my FitBit some time ago - I was ready to hunt down the bullion and sugar. Moderately depressed by the buggy episode, but feeling better with the increasing distance between me and the mac-and-cheese bin, I targeted the aisle where I suspected bullion might be hiding.
On the approach, I saw that the relevant aisle was pretty crowded, so I decided to park my cart by a display stack in the main broad central aisle for a minute while I darted off for the bullion. That's when things went from bad to worse - much worse.
Now, I have a background in physics. I know about momentum and stuff like that. As I pivoted my cart to park beside the display, which turned out to be stacked cases of beer - yes, you can see what's coming - I neglected to compensate for the cart's increased angular momentum from the wine stashed at its front. The cart pivoted nicely, but my effort to stop it was less than sufficient. It crashed cleanly into one of the topmost cases, and then all went into slo-mo.
The box with four six-packs of long-neck bottles tilted slowly while I dumbly watched. As it turned, beer bottles lifted out of their slots and arced out toward the okra bins like a launch of two-dozen V2s headed across the Channel to London. Each bottle crashed over what seemed like minutes with the cumulative sound you'd expect from 24 full beer bottles hitting a concrete floor. The resulting two gallons of beer Orinoco-flowed toward a drain beneath the okra. A small crowd formed, aghast at the damage done by the OF, i.e. me, and a startled staffer headed off to find support troops to clean up the mess. The scene resembled the back yard of a frat house on Sunday morning. I bent over to try to move broken glass out of the now-blocked arterial highway of YDFM, and a very kind young man pitched in to help. While I stood up to pick a glass shard out of my thumb, the troops arrived, and I stepped back to get out of their way, thanking the young man for his calming efforts.
I wasn't as embarrassed as I expected I'd be. I mostly felt old and stupid. The stolen cart business was distressing, but the beer debacle was intolerable. Bad had indeed gone to worse. Would shopping at YDFM ever be the same for me? Had Susan made the latest payment on my long-term care policy? Would I have a nice roommate on the locked memory-care floor? More immediately, would Susan burst into laughter when I related my woes?
So that was my Tuesday afternoon. As I should have known, Susan was very comforting when I finally confessed my experience to her.
By the way, the mac-and-cheese disappeared during last night's supper, but the chicken bullion and turbinado sugar remain on our AnyList.
All was going smoothly. The patronage density was moderate, so buggy driving was only like I-285 at noon rather than at rush hour, and I soon had my cart stuffed with goodies ranging from asparagus to zucchini. In front was a goodly supply of wine - YDFM wine prices are remarkably good - which will figure into what's coming. My list was pretty well all checked off, and I decided to head back toward the distant horizon to the meat and cheese section to look for their great mac-and-cheese, a forbidden item that would never legally make it to our AnyList.
Only 15 minutes later, or so it seemed, I arrived at the freshly prepared foods case, and there it was - the lovely mac-and-cheese. To lessen my guilt, I sorted through their stock to find the lowest weight container and returned it to my cart - at least I assumed it was my cart. As I was yet again heading back across YDFM's vastness to look for chicken bullion (they don't carry it) and turbinado sugar (I never found it), I glanced down at my oddly light buggy and realized that, in fact, it wasn't my buggy! Yeah, it had a couple of cloth bags it in and there were plenty of veggies, but the wine wasn't there. My brain went into self-defense mode - 'who stole my buggy?' it offered. Then it gave up and admitted I was the thief.
So, I put it in reverse and headed off to where I vaguely remembered having parked my actual buggy while in pursuit of mac-and-cheese. I felt like an absent-minded Old Fart trudging back to the scene of the crime expecting to find a frustrated shopper frantically looking around for her/his cart while muttering mild obscenities. Well, there was my cart, but no frustrated shopper was in sight. I waited what I thought was a decent interval with a prepared apology all ready to offer. But there was no taker. Had the shopper given up in utter disgust and exited the place with fumes coming out of the ears?! I guess I'll never know, but I sure felt rotten about it.
Turning around again to cross YDFM for the umpteenth time - I would have made my steps that Tuesday if I hadn't given up on my FitBit some time ago - I was ready to hunt down the bullion and sugar. Moderately depressed by the buggy episode, but feeling better with the increasing distance between me and the mac-and-cheese bin, I targeted the aisle where I suspected bullion might be hiding.
On the approach, I saw that the relevant aisle was pretty crowded, so I decided to park my cart by a display stack in the main broad central aisle for a minute while I darted off for the bullion. That's when things went from bad to worse - much worse.
Now, I have a background in physics. I know about momentum and stuff like that. As I pivoted my cart to park beside the display, which turned out to be stacked cases of beer - yes, you can see what's coming - I neglected to compensate for the cart's increased angular momentum from the wine stashed at its front. The cart pivoted nicely, but my effort to stop it was less than sufficient. It crashed cleanly into one of the topmost cases, and then all went into slo-mo.
The box with four six-packs of long-neck bottles tilted slowly while I dumbly watched. As it turned, beer bottles lifted out of their slots and arced out toward the okra bins like a launch of two-dozen V2s headed across the Channel to London. Each bottle crashed over what seemed like minutes with the cumulative sound you'd expect from 24 full beer bottles hitting a concrete floor. The resulting two gallons of beer Orinoco-flowed toward a drain beneath the okra. A small crowd formed, aghast at the damage done by the OF, i.e. me, and a startled staffer headed off to find support troops to clean up the mess. The scene resembled the back yard of a frat house on Sunday morning. I bent over to try to move broken glass out of the now-blocked arterial highway of YDFM, and a very kind young man pitched in to help. While I stood up to pick a glass shard out of my thumb, the troops arrived, and I stepped back to get out of their way, thanking the young man for his calming efforts.
I wasn't as embarrassed as I expected I'd be. I mostly felt old and stupid. The stolen cart business was distressing, but the beer debacle was intolerable. Bad had indeed gone to worse. Would shopping at YDFM ever be the same for me? Had Susan made the latest payment on my long-term care policy? Would I have a nice roommate on the locked memory-care floor? More immediately, would Susan burst into laughter when I related my woes?
So that was my Tuesday afternoon. As I should have known, Susan was very comforting when I finally confessed my experience to her.
By the way, the mac-and-cheese disappeared during last night's supper, but the chicken bullion and turbinado sugar remain on our AnyList.
Another Piece of the Endless Puzzle
from April 3, 2018
On a flight more than a decade ago from Atlanta to DC, the fellow who stuffed himself into the seat next to me produced a Sudoku book from which he never came up for air until the 737 set its brakes at a Reagan National gate. I regarded his absorption in scribbling numbers in a matrix a weird undertaking, but that's just me. Instead, I'd spent my hour and a half flying over the southeast Atlantic states glued to my laptop, reconciling new information into my Family Tree Maker file. Yes, I'm a genealogy geek.
It later dawned on me that, like the Sudoku guy, I was also working on a puzzle. Among the many appealing things about genealogy are its mystery-solving aspects for which we amateurs fill in boxes with such things as birth dates, spouse names, and burial locations rather than simple integers. Frustratingly, there's no certainty that all these pieces are correct and not just bum steers or self-delusions.
Still, there are those precious moments when you feel the parts snap together, and a moment of deep satisfaction ensues. One such instance occurred on the return to Atlanta, by car rather than by Delta, from another trip to DC. I had warned Susan that I wanted to stop en route at several cemeteries in the North Carolina counties of Lincoln and Gaston. My dirt poor and mostly illiterate Scottish ancestors had settled there in the late 18th century, probably shortly after the Revolutionary War had concluded and the sea lanes re-opened. I had research leads that motivated me to look for the tombstones of a few of my ancestors. Susan wryly calls this "visiting the dead relatives."
A specific goal on this visit was finding the resting place of one Jacob McAlister, a brother of my great-grandfather James Harvey McAlister, who was a prominent Nashville builder in the late 19th century. I had first learned about Jacob from a 1915 compilation of genealogies of a number of western North Carolina families including my McAlister line. I found that the author had gotten some of his facts wrong, so there was no guarantee that he hadn't blown it again when he wrote: "Jacob, d.s. of fever at Joseph Rhodes, in 1854."
That's it. Nothing else of Jacob. On the previous line was a similarly depressing statement about Jacob's brother, "Martin, d.s. of wounds in Confederate Army." I caught on that "d.s." stood for "died single," so no need bothering to look for wives and children. But, in that entry was another mistake. "Martin" was actually "Maben," a Scottish surname that, for some still unknown reason had been used as a given name for a couple of my ancestors. I had already discovered that Maben had likely died from gunshot wounds inflicted while he was a POW at the infamous Point Lookout, Maryland, prison camp, a destination that would have been as infamous perhaps as the Confederacy's Andersonville camp had the Confederacy won the war. Which, thank God, did not happen. So far, so good. But when exactly did Jacob die and how old was he? I found no records of his death, but a statement by my great-grandfather in 1908 memoir, written at his daughter's request, described Jacob's virtues and demise: "My brother Jacob, a fine young man with much talent, good education with good prospects, died with typhoid fever and is buried at Long Creek Baptist Church near Dallas at Gastonia. A nice bit of white marble marks the spot. Call and see it if you ever go that way."
As we were now going "that way," I was determined to search for Jacob's resting place. No one had transcribed this particular cemetery, so, picturing a quaint little church graveyard, I was hopeful of finding Jacob's memorial in short order. I worried that the passage of a century and a half would have heavily eroded the inscription and was only mildly optimistic of success.
Swinging into its parking lot, we saw that it was indeed a small country house of worship. Contrary to expectation, however, a sea of tombstones flowed from behind it to a distant tree line! My heart sank. I'm the guy who can't find that bag of frozen peas that his wife knows is there in the freezer. How could I possibly find a heavily-eroded memorial amongst that locust cloud of headstones?! As they say, the longest journey begins with the first step, so Susan and I began walking up and down the rows looking for Jacob. Too many of the stones were indeed worn to oblivion, and it seemed that even those were 50 years newer than Jacob's. None of them was of "white marble" as my great-grandfather had promised. The prospects seemed slim to none, but we pressed on.
As I reached the end of the older section, I was about to throw in the towel when I noticed a light-colored stone lying flat on the ground and mostly hidden with fresh grass clippings. I brushed aside some of the grass with my foot and saw the letters "ister." Eureka! A second later, there he was — "Jacob McAllister"! The inscription was crisp and clear on the astonishingly well-preserved tombstone, which truly is a "nice bit of white marble."
Jacob's family had done well by him with such a high-quality and handsome stone. It must have cost a small fortune to so beautifully and enduringly memorialize their love of this young man.
After a few still moments of studying the ground below us, Susan and I both looked up and surveyed the surrounding scene. Silently together, we'd both understood that this was the one exact spot on the planet where we would ever stand precisely where my great-grandfather had once stood. And, as we now did, he had admired and pondered this memorial to a young man - his brother; my great-grand uncle - who had died far too soon.
Jacob's family had done well by him with such a high-quality and handsome stone. It must have cost a small fortune to so beautifully and enduringly memorialize their love of this young man.
After a few still moments of studying the ground below us, Susan and I both looked up and surveyed the surrounding scene. Silently together, we'd both understood that this was the one exact spot on the planet where we would ever stand precisely where my great-grandfather had once stood. And, as we now did, he had admired and pondered this memorial to a young man - his brother; my great-grand uncle - who had died far too soon.
My Father
from January 3, 2018
Harold Joy McAlister, passed away on a Sunday morning 46 years ago today at age 59. Earning his MD degree from the UT College of Medicine in Memphis in 1932 at the tender age of 21, he became what we nostalgically refer to as a general practitioner whose daily routine included such things as delivering babies, making house calls, and caring for old people as their lives faded away.
While a medical student, he bought the microscope shown below manufactured by Spencer Microscopes of Buffalo, NY. He thereafter kept it in his office protected by a bell jar and would use it from time to time. It now resides in my home office where I've festooned it with an LED string to serve as a night light and a frequent remembrance of my father. For my novel Sunward Passage, I wrote the following interlude between chapters based upon an experience I had with him when I was very young.
While a medical student, he bought the microscope shown below manufactured by Spencer Microscopes of Buffalo, NY. He thereafter kept it in his office protected by a bell jar and would use it from time to time. It now resides in my home office where I've festooned it with an LED string to serve as a night light and a frequent remembrance of my father. For my novel Sunward Passage, I wrote the following interlude between chapters based upon an experience I had with him when I was very young.
It was a steamy June afternoon, a few weeks shy of his sixth birthday, and he waited alone outside the house where his father had been making house calls every few days lately. He passed the time turning knobs and imagining he was in a rocket ship off to the planets. Fat drops of rain began splatting on the car windows and roof. Walker used both hands to crank up the stiff windows of the New Yorker as the splats became a sizzling crackle, like bacon in a hot skillet.
He saw bright headlights pull up close behind him just as the rain eased off. Two men in black suits and white shirts slowly got out of the dark, gleaming vehicle and walked to the rear of their car. They reappeared with a long rolling table and guided it up the path to the door of the house. Some minutes later, his father appeared in the doorway, pausing with his right hand gripping his black bag and his left holding open the screen door. Water dripped from worn-out gutters along the old house's decaying eaves. Walker rolled the window down again, but he couldn't make out any of the conversation except for a muted "Thank you, Doctor" as his father turned away from the house, letting the screen door close quietly. His father walked to the car and put his bag in the back seat. As he opened the front door, Walker's curiosity couldn't wait. "What happened in there, Daddy?" "The old lady passed away, Son." "What's that mean?" "It means she died." "Did those men in that black car kill her?" "No," and his father almost smiled. "She died all on her own. She was very old and was sick for a very long time. I'm surprised she lasted as long as she did." "Who were those men then, Daddy?" Walker asked bug-eyed. "They're the undertakers who'll take old Miz Clayton away for burial at the cemetery." Walker stopped asking questions, pondering the thought that this old lady had died just inside that gloomy house while he sat outside flying the Chrysler to Mars. His father glanced at him occasionally as they drove back home for supper. Finally he patted Walker on the knee and said, "Don't worry about anything, Walk. She was a very, very old lady. Much older than your Mother or me." Walker felt a little better after that. He scooted over closer to his father, who asked him if he wanted to steer the car. Walker hopped up to put his legs under him to get some elevation and put his left hand around the steering wheel. He knew his father was really steering with his own left hand, but it was still a fine thing to sit next to this wonderful man and help him drive home. |
Brainerd Junior High School & My $2000 Home-Made Table
from December 20, 2016
It dawned on me years ago that the most important subjects I'd taken back in the early 60s at Chattanooga's Brainerd Junior High School were typing and shop. I can still touch-type at a pretty fair clip and have utilized a skill almost every day of my professional life (and even now as I type this) that I learned from Miss Spivey half a century ago. I took that class because we had an old Underwood manual at home that I liked to play with as a kid. My sister Ellen, now a retired legal secretary, loved Miss Spivey and took two years of typing from her. When computer-based word-processors arrived, Ellen's 100 words-a-minute pound on a standard keyboard resulted in their recurring destruction and replacement on a short time scale. For the lucky attorneys she worked for over the years, that was a small price to pay for her excellence.
Shop was team taught by Mr. Jones and Mr. Dicus who skillfully managed to drill the basics of woodworking into the heads of a bunch of boys in their early teens. After the first semester, Mr. Dicus sent me home with a note to my parents suggesting they buy me a drafting set for Christmas that I could then use in a mechanical drawing class he was planning on teaching to a group who apparently passed muster the first semester. So, I found a drafting set, T-square, and drawing board under the tree that year and reported to Mr. Dicus' class after the Christmas holidays. Mechanical drawing really resonated with me, and his instruction instilled in me a neatness that actually helped me get through grad school by recopying the notes I took in my most challenging astrophysics classes using drawing techniques Mr. Dicus had taught us. I still have those notes, and I must say in all modesty that they are a beauty to behold.
Of course, there's nothing more obsolete than mechanical drawing, a skill euthanized by CAD programing. But, it gave me much more than just the ability to neatly put dimensions onto drawn shapes as it brought a level of logic into planning and visualizing outcomes I wouldn't have gotten elsewhere. That carried through my involvement in the CHARA Array development and construction that required a lot of review and approval of construction drawings. All this because a junior high shop teacher took a pro-active interest in me. In a very real way, that mechanical drawing class led to the word's highest-resolution astronomical telescope.
My shop class experience has been resurrected in my retirement. I've commandeered space in our garage to create a modest woodworking shop, spent a few dollars on tools (I particularly like the Makita CXT line of cordless power tools), and have undertaken a few woodworking projects that turned out pretty good. Plus, I still have all ten fingers. My first project was refinishing the lamp made under Mr. Jones' direction wherein I learned how to glue boards, bend metal, sand, stain and varnish wood, and wire a lamp. One incident from long ago that instilled in me respect for power tools was carelessly letting my thumb drift onto the surface of an operating belt sander. Not a pretty sight.
Subsequently, I've made a folding table for Cisco (our RV), refinished a Winchester Model 1906 .22 caliber rifle that belonged to my grandfather and father (including re-bluing the barrel and other metal parts), refinished a century-old lantern-slide box that had belonged to my mentor Karel Hujer, built a handrail for a flight of stairs at our Fannin County cabin where building inspection was a fiction when we bought it, and a few other random odds and ends.
Shop was team taught by Mr. Jones and Mr. Dicus who skillfully managed to drill the basics of woodworking into the heads of a bunch of boys in their early teens. After the first semester, Mr. Dicus sent me home with a note to my parents suggesting they buy me a drafting set for Christmas that I could then use in a mechanical drawing class he was planning on teaching to a group who apparently passed muster the first semester. So, I found a drafting set, T-square, and drawing board under the tree that year and reported to Mr. Dicus' class after the Christmas holidays. Mechanical drawing really resonated with me, and his instruction instilled in me a neatness that actually helped me get through grad school by recopying the notes I took in my most challenging astrophysics classes using drawing techniques Mr. Dicus had taught us. I still have those notes, and I must say in all modesty that they are a beauty to behold.
Of course, there's nothing more obsolete than mechanical drawing, a skill euthanized by CAD programing. But, it gave me much more than just the ability to neatly put dimensions onto drawn shapes as it brought a level of logic into planning and visualizing outcomes I wouldn't have gotten elsewhere. That carried through my involvement in the CHARA Array development and construction that required a lot of review and approval of construction drawings. All this because a junior high shop teacher took a pro-active interest in me. In a very real way, that mechanical drawing class led to the word's highest-resolution astronomical telescope.
My shop class experience has been resurrected in my retirement. I've commandeered space in our garage to create a modest woodworking shop, spent a few dollars on tools (I particularly like the Makita CXT line of cordless power tools), and have undertaken a few woodworking projects that turned out pretty good. Plus, I still have all ten fingers. My first project was refinishing the lamp made under Mr. Jones' direction wherein I learned how to glue boards, bend metal, sand, stain and varnish wood, and wire a lamp. One incident from long ago that instilled in me respect for power tools was carelessly letting my thumb drift onto the surface of an operating belt sander. Not a pretty sight.
Subsequently, I've made a folding table for Cisco (our RV), refinished a Winchester Model 1906 .22 caliber rifle that belonged to my grandfather and father (including re-bluing the barrel and other metal parts), refinished a century-old lantern-slide box that had belonged to my mentor Karel Hujer, built a handrail for a flight of stairs at our Fannin County cabin where building inspection was a fiction when we bought it, and a few other random odds and ends.
A few weeks ago, I finished my latest project - a primitive table for the cabin's screen porch fabricated from a 3-ft diameter slice out of a 130-ft tall, 80 year-old white pine that died on us a couple of years ago. This old guy leaned ominously over our cabin, and so we paid the $1850 to have it taken down in sections. Although I don't admit it to Susan, I like to take on projects that necessitate buying more tools. (Don't worry - she never reads these.) This particular undertaking required an electric hand-held planer and sander. As a result, this gangly creation resulted from a total expenditure of about $2K, hence the title of this posting.
Early this year, that tree's neighbor and contemporary, perhaps out of loneliness, was diagnosed by me to be deceased. After many middle-of-the-night imaginings of the catastrophe resulting from gravity's demands on the corpse if it keeled over towards our cabin, I called in an expert. Following careful examination and considerable explanation, the still-standing giant was declared to be unclimbable by Bo, the CEO of Bo's Tree Service of Fannin County. It had to be felled from the base rather than taken down from the top in 15-ft chunks like its sibling. Mind you, there are many other trees in the forest on our property, so I envisioned a massive domino effect at the violent end of which was our precious weekend getaway place. As if reading my mind, Bo expressed his utmost confidence in success that was quickly undermined but him then casually admitted that things can always go wrong and that maybe we shouldn't be in the cabin during the tree felling. He'd done a couple of other trees for us over the years without mishap, so, much to Susan's dismay as the light was diminishing following sunset, I said "go for it." So, Bo went for it. Seconds later, he dropped that 13-story monster within, I swear, one degree in azimuth from where he said it would hit. Its conversion from vertical to horizontal and the accompanying suspense and noise were almost worth the $2K Bo charged for his expertise, which, of course, included removal of the corpse and cleanup of the grounds.
So far, I haven't finagled any new tools out of that deal, but I'm working on it. In any event, that exercise brought my attention back to the slice from our previous tree casualty, by then nicely dried out and awaiting the touch of an artisan. There being none, I took it on. So, that slice rode back to Atlanta with us to be planed, sanded, re-sanded, stained, polyethylened, and otherwise transformed from a decaying tree slice into a rustic porch table. Susan, in her patting-me-on-the-head manner, told me I'd done good, and that's sufficient reward for exercising my Brainerd Jr. High shop skills. To bring things full circle, I point out that Miss Spivey's instruction led to the creation of this latest rambling.
Curious about the three teachers who left me with invaluable life-long skills, a few minutes of Googling led me to find that Mr. David E. Dicus passed away at his home at age 89 on 15 Feb 2009. He'd been a tool-design engineer at Boeing in Seattle before coming to Chattanooga to teach shop in our school system. He left behind his wife, two daughters, three granddaughters, and five great-grandchildren. Miss Willa Deanne Spivey died on 1 Aug 1972, just short of her 43rd birthday. She'd never married. Miss Spivey is buried in Crest Lawn Cemetery in Cookeville, Tennessee.
I've yet to find anything about Mr. Jones, but I'll keep looking.
Early this year, that tree's neighbor and contemporary, perhaps out of loneliness, was diagnosed by me to be deceased. After many middle-of-the-night imaginings of the catastrophe resulting from gravity's demands on the corpse if it keeled over towards our cabin, I called in an expert. Following careful examination and considerable explanation, the still-standing giant was declared to be unclimbable by Bo, the CEO of Bo's Tree Service of Fannin County. It had to be felled from the base rather than taken down from the top in 15-ft chunks like its sibling. Mind you, there are many other trees in the forest on our property, so I envisioned a massive domino effect at the violent end of which was our precious weekend getaway place. As if reading my mind, Bo expressed his utmost confidence in success that was quickly undermined but him then casually admitted that things can always go wrong and that maybe we shouldn't be in the cabin during the tree felling. He'd done a couple of other trees for us over the years without mishap, so, much to Susan's dismay as the light was diminishing following sunset, I said "go for it." So, Bo went for it. Seconds later, he dropped that 13-story monster within, I swear, one degree in azimuth from where he said it would hit. Its conversion from vertical to horizontal and the accompanying suspense and noise were almost worth the $2K Bo charged for his expertise, which, of course, included removal of the corpse and cleanup of the grounds.
So far, I haven't finagled any new tools out of that deal, but I'm working on it. In any event, that exercise brought my attention back to the slice from our previous tree casualty, by then nicely dried out and awaiting the touch of an artisan. There being none, I took it on. So, that slice rode back to Atlanta with us to be planed, sanded, re-sanded, stained, polyethylened, and otherwise transformed from a decaying tree slice into a rustic porch table. Susan, in her patting-me-on-the-head manner, told me I'd done good, and that's sufficient reward for exercising my Brainerd Jr. High shop skills. To bring things full circle, I point out that Miss Spivey's instruction led to the creation of this latest rambling.
Curious about the three teachers who left me with invaluable life-long skills, a few minutes of Googling led me to find that Mr. David E. Dicus passed away at his home at age 89 on 15 Feb 2009. He'd been a tool-design engineer at Boeing in Seattle before coming to Chattanooga to teach shop in our school system. He left behind his wife, two daughters, three granddaughters, and five great-grandchildren. Miss Willa Deanne Spivey died on 1 Aug 1972, just short of her 43rd birthday. She'd never married. Miss Spivey is buried in Crest Lawn Cemetery in Cookeville, Tennessee.
I've yet to find anything about Mr. Jones, but I'll keep looking.
A Rainy Afternoon at the Movies
from March 14, 2017
Written while on an RV trip to the Georgia coast in our 25-ft motor home "Cisco," named for our daugther Merritt's imaginary childhood friend.
The crummy weather yesterday sent us to the movies to pass the afternoon. We intended seeing "Hidden Figures" and found a theater on the island up the road from us a bit. We left around noon - the movie was at 3 - looking for a lunch place and intending to do some shopping for staples and other items. All that was done by 2, so we drove over to the little mall home to the theater and parked Cisco, consuming four parking spaces in the process. I took a cat-nap while Susan made coffee and talked to her sister Sandi. At about 2:40, we unloaded ourselves from Cisco, strolled over to the movie house and found it to be one of those that sells tickets at the concession stand. So, we went inside and discovered we weren't the only ones on Hilton Head who decided to see a movie that day.
There were about ten couples and small groups ahead of us who, in addition to specifying their movie selection, seemed to be discussing the nutritional value of popcorn and Sugar Daddies with the uninterested folks behind the counter. Finally, we made it up to the front to get our tickets. As is our habit, we had contraband snacks in Susan's pocket book. As I opened my mouth to request "two seniors for "Hidden Figures," the manager came on the PA system and announced that our movie had just sold out. So, we had been lounging outside in Cisco while others came in and grabbed "our" seats! We frantically looked at the alternative selections, which consisted mostly of things we wouldn't see at gunpoint. Then, Susan said, let's see "La La Land." I protested that we'd already seen it, and on second thought I figured I could just expand my nap while Susan vicariously sang and danced her way through LA. Then I saw that "A United Kingdom" and remembered for some reason that it had good reviews and had something to do with Africa. Susan agreeably said OK, so we got out tickets and headed for the theater.
There were about ten couples and small groups ahead of us who, in addition to specifying their movie selection, seemed to be discussing the nutritional value of popcorn and Sugar Daddies with the uninterested folks behind the counter. Finally, we made it up to the front to get our tickets. As is our habit, we had contraband snacks in Susan's pocket book. As I opened my mouth to request "two seniors for "Hidden Figures," the manager came on the PA system and announced that our movie had just sold out. So, we had been lounging outside in Cisco while others came in and grabbed "our" seats! We frantically looked at the alternative selections, which consisted mostly of things we wouldn't see at gunpoint. Then, Susan said, let's see "La La Land." I protested that we'd already seen it, and on second thought I figured I could just expand my nap while Susan vicariously sang and danced her way through LA. Then I saw that "A United Kingdom" and remembered for some reason that it had good reviews and had something to do with Africa. Susan agreeably said OK, so we got out tickets and headed for the theater.
We go to movies pretty often, but we'd never seen a theater like this. All the seats were like you'd buy for your home theater if you had one. They were huge and fully reclinable, no less. Now I knew there was no way I could avoid sleeping. So we settled in while the room gradually filled with people, all of whom - I swear - made us look like youngsters. At least that's what I tell myself. Everyone proceeded to operate their recliners to yield the strangest audience scene I've yet encountered. I sneaked a photo of our row on which we were near the center. I only wish it had been a 3-D movie. A sea of Medicare recipients, fully reclined and wearing 3-D glasses, would have been quite a sight!
By the way, "A United Kingdom" turned out to be a wonderful and moving film. You should see it if you haven't.
By the way, "A United Kingdom" turned out to be a wonderful and moving film. You should see it if you haven't.
There is Was Again Last Night
from October 21, 2016
Susan finds this one a little too weird...
Several nights this week during my insomniac perambulations around the house, I've heard some nutcase sitting outside in a tree blowing on a coke bottle. Or, maybe it's an owl. Nah, that's very unlikely. We live in a compact urban neighborhood next to what had been a mostly vacant strip mall where one of the last tenants sold what I swear were used mattresses. Believe me, we looked in there one time and evacuated the place in seconds. In any event, that site is now home to a shiny-new Walmart, complete with underground parking, which any self-respecting owl would most certainly avoid. Besides that, we live in one of those skinny three-story houses with a sickly ring of property surrounding it that forces you to turn sideways to walk between you and your neighbor's place. Not exactly a wildlife preserve. So, I favor the Crackpot-in-a-Tree theory.
And yet, this does make me think of my very limited owl encounters. The first was some 40 years ago in Charlottesville while I was in grad school at UVa. I was developing an instrument that was then a candidate for incorporation into what would be known as the Hubble Space Telescope. Turns out the instrument didn't make the cut. Mercifully though, it did get me my degree, but I digress. I was working on the contraption in the basement of the marvelous old Leander McCormick Observatory. Leander was a member of the famous mechanical reaper family whose company became known as International Harvester, hence the dough to build an observatory. But, I'm getting digressier.
One afternoon up on Observatory Hill, the astronomy department electronics engineer came to my little cave and said he wanted to show me something outside. Susan must have been visiting me there - perhaps a Care Package lunch since she worried about my forgetting to eat. (She's since long ago learned that that's the last thing I'd forget to do, i.e. eat lunch.) Anyway, for whatever humanitarian reason, she was there.
Anticipating adventure, we allowed ourselves to be led to the edge of the woods. Our escort pointed to a large and gnarly tree just a few yards off the narrow road up Mount Jefferson, and there, to our utter astonishment, was a gigantic owl perched on a limb suavely doing his owl thing. It was as if Sean Connery had gotten lost going to a dress-up Halloween party. I must emphasize that this guy really was huge, maybe even qualifying for a Bernie "'yuge." Not being owlers (owlists?) or even birders, we elected him a great horned owl (who knows?).
Whatever its subspecies, this was one impressive bird-dude. He stared erectly and owly at us. Undoubtedly, the microprocessor between his ears was computing the feasibility of toting off in his talons the smallest of us, i.e. Susan, to supply the nutritional needs of the wee owls back home. After due consideration, he judiciously jettisoned that notion in favor of giving us a demo of his marvelously articulated neck, punctuated by occasional and studiously deliberate blinking of one eye and then the other, slightly reminiscent of some desperately-nerdy guy in a bar looking for companionship.
This monstrosity of a bird did not strike me as "wise" as the old saying goes. Rather, he exuded intensity, ferocity, and danger. I was momentarily grateful for not being born a rabbit. It was a stare-off of sorts with him getting extra points for doing the 180 tricks with his neck while we mere humans are lucky to manage a quarter turn to the rear without a lot of audible grinding and snapping (you know what I mean, right?).
He was there again the next afternoon, and, sadly but not surprisingly, disappeared thereafter. I assume he lost interest in astronomy and returned to his more natural calling as scourge of the order Rodentia wherein the job opportunities are immensely more promising.
Our next close-encounter-of-the-owl-kind took place maybe ten years ago in Fannin County, Georgia outside Blue Ridge, while Susan and I were sitting on the deck of our cabin in the woods alongside mighty Stanley Creek. This was to be another afternoon sighting. I thought these guys were strictly nocturnal, but apparently they're on the job 24-7. Or, maybe they do shift work. Who knows? (Perhaps the Department of Labor?)
Anyway, one of us looked out towards the creek and jabbed the other. There, standing on a rock in the middle of the creek, was one impressive Owlous Giganticus (I'm not a biologist, so I'm making these names up, not that you need to be told this.) He probably watched us come out on the deck, but he didn't give a hoot about us (my apologies for this inevitable pun). Instead, he was the sole entranced customer of the Stanley Creek Sushi Boat Restaurant, for which exquisitely fresh crawfish are the Specialite de la Maison. Mr. Owl clearly had means, for his was the best seat in the house, and he seemed to pay no attention to the huge bill he was running up. One after another, he'd pluck one of the micro-lobsters from the cold creek water with an enviable and ominous bird claw. Simultaneously lifting his lethal appendage with its squirming goodie while lowering his head to peer at same, you could almost see a nod of approval just before he tore into it with his razor-sharp beak. Yum.
Attempting to overlook his atrocious table manners, I was unsure I could eat live crawfish without a bottle of Trader Joe's Seafood Cocktail Sauce (enhanced with extra horseradish), but he was clearly unconcerned about condiments. Nor did he apparently miss what would have been the appropriate Sauvignon Blanc wine pairing, appropriately and conveniently chilled in the mountain creek water. Acting like a lifer inexplicably pardoned by President Obama and dropped off at a Captain D's on an all-the-crawdads-you-can-gorge-yourself-on-Tuesday (they don't do this, but they should), he proceeded to decimate the crustacean population of our little stretch of creek to an extent likely still unrecovered. Recklessly inconsiderate of the mammoth cholesterol load he'd taken on, Señor Owl (who knows, maybe he was an illegal immigrant from the south) appeared to have at last scratched his crawfish itch. He looked around (and I do mean "around") to see if management was looking and suddenly took to wing to successfully beat the check. There he went, negotiating his five-foot wingspan through the century-old white pines and hemlocks like a DC-3 flying "over the Hump," casually slaloming through the treacherous Himalayan peaks.
That was our last owl experience.
Which brings me back to my concept of the arboreal crazoid with the Coke bottle. I've discussed this with my better half - okay, my better three-fourths - and she assures me that sound was issued by an honest-to-goodness, U.S. Forest Service certified owl. So, I've had to further develop my theory. The breakthrough of acceptance came when Susan reminded me about the latest urban renewal news. Just catty-corner to the Walmart, a stretch of car dealers has given up the ghost to a terrific new development centered around - drum roll, please - a Whole Foods. Can you believe it, a Whole Foods within walking distance!
In his wisdom (and apparently his ability to read Creative Loafing), Herr Owl (again, I haven't seen his papers) was aware of this wondrous outcome and decided that our neighborhood did merit his continuing residence after all. Walmart, heck, there's a Whole Foods in the offing!
So, I concede that the noise I've heard this week is very likely an admittedly wise old owl hanging around in anticipation of the countless mice, rabbits, rats, whatever, being put to the run by those big Caterpillar D9s as they knock down the Nissan dealer to make room for Whole Paycheck. And yet, transmitting animal sounds at night as if you were a sort of acoustic marauder admittedly has considerable appeal. I'd go about it by mounting speakers in my attic vents including those grossly enormous subwoofers contributing to the deafness of American youth. I'd gently start off with cricket sounds on summer nights, maybe some pre-dawn wood thrushes, and a bit of rolling thunder on heat-lightning evenings. Nice stuff like that.
Then I'd graduate to more exotic effects.
So, if you are ever settling down for bed and hear the delicate sounds of distant elk bugling, elephants trumpeting, wolves howling, or hyena laughing, likely as not we've recently moved into your neighborhood.
Or, you've made a seriously flawed real-estate decision and moved into ours.
And yet, this does make me think of my very limited owl encounters. The first was some 40 years ago in Charlottesville while I was in grad school at UVa. I was developing an instrument that was then a candidate for incorporation into what would be known as the Hubble Space Telescope. Turns out the instrument didn't make the cut. Mercifully though, it did get me my degree, but I digress. I was working on the contraption in the basement of the marvelous old Leander McCormick Observatory. Leander was a member of the famous mechanical reaper family whose company became known as International Harvester, hence the dough to build an observatory. But, I'm getting digressier.
One afternoon up on Observatory Hill, the astronomy department electronics engineer came to my little cave and said he wanted to show me something outside. Susan must have been visiting me there - perhaps a Care Package lunch since she worried about my forgetting to eat. (She's since long ago learned that that's the last thing I'd forget to do, i.e. eat lunch.) Anyway, for whatever humanitarian reason, she was there.
Anticipating adventure, we allowed ourselves to be led to the edge of the woods. Our escort pointed to a large and gnarly tree just a few yards off the narrow road up Mount Jefferson, and there, to our utter astonishment, was a gigantic owl perched on a limb suavely doing his owl thing. It was as if Sean Connery had gotten lost going to a dress-up Halloween party. I must emphasize that this guy really was huge, maybe even qualifying for a Bernie "'yuge." Not being owlers (owlists?) or even birders, we elected him a great horned owl (who knows?).
Whatever its subspecies, this was one impressive bird-dude. He stared erectly and owly at us. Undoubtedly, the microprocessor between his ears was computing the feasibility of toting off in his talons the smallest of us, i.e. Susan, to supply the nutritional needs of the wee owls back home. After due consideration, he judiciously jettisoned that notion in favor of giving us a demo of his marvelously articulated neck, punctuated by occasional and studiously deliberate blinking of one eye and then the other, slightly reminiscent of some desperately-nerdy guy in a bar looking for companionship.
This monstrosity of a bird did not strike me as "wise" as the old saying goes. Rather, he exuded intensity, ferocity, and danger. I was momentarily grateful for not being born a rabbit. It was a stare-off of sorts with him getting extra points for doing the 180 tricks with his neck while we mere humans are lucky to manage a quarter turn to the rear without a lot of audible grinding and snapping (you know what I mean, right?).
He was there again the next afternoon, and, sadly but not surprisingly, disappeared thereafter. I assume he lost interest in astronomy and returned to his more natural calling as scourge of the order Rodentia wherein the job opportunities are immensely more promising.
Our next close-encounter-of-the-owl-kind took place maybe ten years ago in Fannin County, Georgia outside Blue Ridge, while Susan and I were sitting on the deck of our cabin in the woods alongside mighty Stanley Creek. This was to be another afternoon sighting. I thought these guys were strictly nocturnal, but apparently they're on the job 24-7. Or, maybe they do shift work. Who knows? (Perhaps the Department of Labor?)
Anyway, one of us looked out towards the creek and jabbed the other. There, standing on a rock in the middle of the creek, was one impressive Owlous Giganticus (I'm not a biologist, so I'm making these names up, not that you need to be told this.) He probably watched us come out on the deck, but he didn't give a hoot about us (my apologies for this inevitable pun). Instead, he was the sole entranced customer of the Stanley Creek Sushi Boat Restaurant, for which exquisitely fresh crawfish are the Specialite de la Maison. Mr. Owl clearly had means, for his was the best seat in the house, and he seemed to pay no attention to the huge bill he was running up. One after another, he'd pluck one of the micro-lobsters from the cold creek water with an enviable and ominous bird claw. Simultaneously lifting his lethal appendage with its squirming goodie while lowering his head to peer at same, you could almost see a nod of approval just before he tore into it with his razor-sharp beak. Yum.
Attempting to overlook his atrocious table manners, I was unsure I could eat live crawfish without a bottle of Trader Joe's Seafood Cocktail Sauce (enhanced with extra horseradish), but he was clearly unconcerned about condiments. Nor did he apparently miss what would have been the appropriate Sauvignon Blanc wine pairing, appropriately and conveniently chilled in the mountain creek water. Acting like a lifer inexplicably pardoned by President Obama and dropped off at a Captain D's on an all-the-crawdads-you-can-gorge-yourself-on-Tuesday (they don't do this, but they should), he proceeded to decimate the crustacean population of our little stretch of creek to an extent likely still unrecovered. Recklessly inconsiderate of the mammoth cholesterol load he'd taken on, Señor Owl (who knows, maybe he was an illegal immigrant from the south) appeared to have at last scratched his crawfish itch. He looked around (and I do mean "around") to see if management was looking and suddenly took to wing to successfully beat the check. There he went, negotiating his five-foot wingspan through the century-old white pines and hemlocks like a DC-3 flying "over the Hump," casually slaloming through the treacherous Himalayan peaks.
That was our last owl experience.
Which brings me back to my concept of the arboreal crazoid with the Coke bottle. I've discussed this with my better half - okay, my better three-fourths - and she assures me that sound was issued by an honest-to-goodness, U.S. Forest Service certified owl. So, I've had to further develop my theory. The breakthrough of acceptance came when Susan reminded me about the latest urban renewal news. Just catty-corner to the Walmart, a stretch of car dealers has given up the ghost to a terrific new development centered around - drum roll, please - a Whole Foods. Can you believe it, a Whole Foods within walking distance!
In his wisdom (and apparently his ability to read Creative Loafing), Herr Owl (again, I haven't seen his papers) was aware of this wondrous outcome and decided that our neighborhood did merit his continuing residence after all. Walmart, heck, there's a Whole Foods in the offing!
So, I concede that the noise I've heard this week is very likely an admittedly wise old owl hanging around in anticipation of the countless mice, rabbits, rats, whatever, being put to the run by those big Caterpillar D9s as they knock down the Nissan dealer to make room for Whole Paycheck. And yet, transmitting animal sounds at night as if you were a sort of acoustic marauder admittedly has considerable appeal. I'd go about it by mounting speakers in my attic vents including those grossly enormous subwoofers contributing to the deafness of American youth. I'd gently start off with cricket sounds on summer nights, maybe some pre-dawn wood thrushes, and a bit of rolling thunder on heat-lightning evenings. Nice stuff like that.
Then I'd graduate to more exotic effects.
So, if you are ever settling down for bed and hear the delicate sounds of distant elk bugling, elephants trumpeting, wolves howling, or hyena laughing, likely as not we've recently moved into your neighborhood.
Or, you've made a seriously flawed real-estate decision and moved into ours.