Categories
Photography Places

In and around Missouri

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

The best time to go for a drive in the country in Missouri is late Sunday afternoon, and yesterday I spent several hours wandering around Highway 94. This road is a mix of old and new, and very unique — from the open bar that attracts bikers in Defiance, to the old clapboard housing in so many of the towns.

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Highway 94 is narrow and curvy and hilly and if you want to see the scenery, you have to go slow. However, if you want a fun kick ass ride, try going over the speed limit — I can guarantee you’ll go airborne.

Unfortunately, this happened with a biker as I discovered when I rounded a corner to a scene of police cars and a large motorcycle smashed into the hill along the side of the road.

You pay for your thrills.

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The scenery was incredible, small towns and rolling green hills, thick impenetrable forests, with here and there pretty churches dotting the hillsides, each with their associated old time cemetary.

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I spent way too long on the highway, and by the time I got to my Katy Trail destination of this weekend, it was heading towards late, late afternoon/early evening. Again, the only people on the trail are bike riders, and I had much of the trail to myself. Well, except for the wildlife, and there were birds. And birds.

The special treat yesterday was a golden eagle that took off not ten feet in front of me. Too quick for a picture, unfortunately. It was joined by blue birds and red-winged blackbirds and cardinals and meadowlarks and mockingbirds — my own personal chorus and feathered escorts. We birds, we flock together.

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Not sure if I can do justice to the moment: late Sunday afternoon light, warm humid air, walking along a country trail with trees on one side, fields of grape and corn on the other, and bird song filling the air. Two rare red squirrels are chasing each other among the trees, and the only human sounds are my own footsteps crunching the limestone gravel on the path. It would on occasion echo against the limestone cliffs, creating an earie double sound, which was a bit unnerving. Here’s me always looking behind for the other walker.

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I started my walk in Augusta, a beautiful small town in the middle of Missouri’s thriving wine valley. But all the towns I talk about are beautiful, aren’t they? Want me to vary this a bit, find a real pit and describe it? I’ll try this next weekend.

Anyway, I bet there’s not a one of you that knew that Missouri had vineyards — we assume these are only in California or New York or perhaps in the Northwest. Ha! Little do you know.

Augusta’s also famous for its old board buildings, including a bed & breakfast that caught my fancy near Katy Trail (a lot of quaint bed & breakfasts in this town), as well as other less well kept, but far more interesting buildings.

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I don’t about anyone else, but I love old buildings, especially ones that are falling apart. There’s so much history in them — you can imagine the town when it was a railroad that went through it and not a hip trail, bringing in all the tourist bucks. Before so many of these towns lost over 10% or more of the population, in a mass exodus of youth to the city and other states.

Did I mention there’s a popular beer garden in town?

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I wasn’t too long on the trail before I noticed that the limestone cliff on the one side had fallen back from the trail, but the trees along it were so overgrown with vines that they formed a hidden overgrown glade that was impossible to get to. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before, mysterious and a little surreal. Real Alice in Wonderland stuff.

I am aware that there is no real inimical life in Missouri, but the presence of that hidden world just on the other side of the bushes and vines and trees was — intimidating. I could hear sounds, and see movement out of the corner of my eye, and it felt as if I was being watched by a thousand eyes. I probably was: birds and insects and squirrels and the like. Still, I had a good work out walking crisply back to the car as the sun started to drop into mid-evening light.

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If there’s ever a place to inspire a story, that place is the one. In fact, I find stories wherever I go. No wonder Mark Twain loved Missouri.

I tried to take a photograph of the hidden glades, but did poorly. You’ll just have to take my word about them, and I’ll try again later.

On the way back, I stopped at the Busch Wildlife preserve — this place of larger ponds with water lillies and bull frogs and geese, fish, and insects. Lots of insects. However, to control the insect population, the rangers posted several bat boxes about in the forest and greens.

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I watched as the evening mist rolled in off the water, and the geese finished their evening feed, taking off across the lake.

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I feel like a tour guide sometimes, talking about this road and that park and this scenic view, but there’s much that happens on these late Sunday afternoon drives, when I roll the windows down and turn on the music and drive the winding roads, thoughts only half on the beauty. It’s times such as these, away from computer and phone and other people, that you just flow along — no cares, no worries, no thoughts about yesterday or tomorrow.

You’re completely in the moment.

Each time I experience this living within the moment, I think what a wonderful, magnificent place Missouri is, and I ask myself how could I ever leave this state? The green and the gold and the water and the birds and the life and all which I’ve come to love.

But then, I’ve said this same thing to myself about every place I’ve lived for the last 30 years. I guess for people like me, home exists in a moment rather than in a place.

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Categories
Writing

The Trees have Eyes

The weather was fine, just right for biking along the Katy Trail. The heat spell earlier in the week had broken, just a little, and though sweat was still forming a track down her back, a slight breeze sent cool fingers up her spine.

Unlike the first two days of her trek, when the heat and the humidity actually spurred her to ride faster just so she could get to that evening’s B & B, today was so pleasant that she set a leisurely pace, stopping frequently to enjoy the scenery. Now the sun was starting to set and according to the milestone makers along the way, she was still a long distance away from the night’s lodging. She should push on, but convinced herself that a few minutes of walking wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

On her left a field of new corn waved as far as she could see, when she could see it through the cracks in the trees along the path. The late afternoon light highlighted the bugs flitting about among the wild flowers by the side of the road, and a dragonfly would occasionally hover in front of her face as if to tell her to have a care, fragile things were underfoot. All right little bug, she told it. I’m not going to step on you or your kin. On the right were the typical Missouri limestone cliffs, with a thick, dark picket of trees, bushes, and vines hiding the base of the cliff from view. She tended to avoid that side of the road because of the overhanging branches and the very real threat of ticks, though the shade yesterday would have been welcome.

She came to an old, abandoned dirt road that led to a surprisingly sturdy looking rust and wooden bridge over a stream near the path. She never could resist a bridge and walked onto it a little ways, peeking over the sides into the clear waters. The trees grew thick and wild along the water, and the colors were a dark blue-green mixed with lighter green, tipped ever so slightly with gold, colors common for late summer in Missouri. Returning to the path, she grabbed her water bottle and started to drink, wishing she could stick her face in the stream and open her mouth like a fish, swallowing the cold non-plastic tainted liquid from its tempting depths; but she knew that the water likely contained god knows what contaminants from the nearby farms.

With her mind focused on pesticides and a rare steak at journey’s end, a movement to her right caught her eye and what she saw caused her to choke mid-swallow. For a moment, a hasty half-experienced moment, it looked like one of the trees had eyes.

After she recovered from her coughing, she looked more closely at the tree but there wasn’t anything unusual about it. No eyes looking back, no waving arms or menacing air. Just an ordinary tree. She moved closer to peer through the thick vines next to and surrounding the tree and caught glimpses of hill leading down from the trail; at the bottom of the hill, a glade had formed between it and the limestone cliffs. Just as she reached out to push the vines aside for a better look, a golden brown shape burst through the trees, startling her again, and almost making her fall over backwards. She turned around and just got a glimpse of a large bird, a hawk or an eagle, taking off across the field, sun shining on its feathers. Well, that explains the eyes, she thought. The breeze picked up and she shivered a bit, though the weather was still very warm. Chastising herself for her foolishness, and suddenly aware of how much the sun had gone down, she grabbed her bike and headed off fast, much faster than she normally would ride on the loose crushed limestone that covered the path.

She didn’t get far, though, before a shadow moved out of the forest and directly in front of her bike — a squirrel from the looks of it, but she couldn’t really tell because she was too busy trying to brake and maneuver around the creature. She lost control of the bike and hit the solid green wall next to the path at a fast rate, fast enough to break through the vines, sending her flying out, down the hill and into the glade she’d just looked at a few minutes before. The bottom came quickly, too quickly, as she desperately tried to maintain control; somewhere along the way she hit a branch or a rock or a bush, who knows, and she flew over the handles of the bike and felt pain, too much pain, and then darkness.

When she woke she was in bed at the B &B, curled up under a lavender sprigged down comforter, looking out through the lacy windows at the sun just starting to break through. She could smell bacon cooking and faintly hear others stirring and knew she should get up; but it was pleasant lying in the soft mattress of the antique bed, warm and drowsy, listening to the birds just starting their morning sounds. However, she had to get up if for no other reason her kidneys were telling her she needed to relieve herself, now. Throwing the comforter back she ran to the bathroom, sitting quickly on the surprisingly cold seat and began to pee.

The warm urine pooling underneath her woke her suddenly and she lay there astonished and ashamed that she had wet herself while in bed, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. She made a move to sit up, but her body wouldn’t respond. At first she thought she was still dreaming, having that classic nightmare where you’re running and running but not really moving. Gradually, though, she became aware of the darkness around her and could smell the musty smells of earth and grass, and knew this was real and wasn’t her bed. Where she was, she wasn’t sure, but her head hurt, pounding in time with her heart.

She could feel pain in other parts of her body so she wasn’t paralyzed, or at least, paralyzed completely. However, when she tried to move again, the most she could do was shift her arms about and lift her left shoulder a little off the ground. She was afraid to try much more because if her spine was injured she could paralyze herself permanently from the movements.

As her mind continued to clear, she became aware that night wasn’t completely dark; there was a sliver of a moon in the sky somewhere and faint signs of its light trickled through the dark shapes around her. She could see outlines of trees and bushes and a brighter glint showed her twisted pieces of metal not far from where she lay. She recognized it as her bike and assumed that somehow she must have been in a bike accident, but she couldn’t remember what caused it or even where she was.

Gradually she became aware of sounds in the woods around her, the slight rustle of a breeze through the leaves and what sounded like small night creatures searching for food. She wasn’t that worried about in the woods at night, but she was anxious for morning to come, bringing people with it, and hopefully help.

She drifted in and out of sleep, or perhaps unconsciousness, but eventually the light increased and her surroundings became more green than black. She could see she was in some kind of small glade, with a hill on one side and a cliff on the other. She wondered if she’d fallen off the cliff, but careful searching showed a faint break in the vines that covered the top of the hill and disturbances in the bushes along the hillside to her location. It was the sight of the hill that began to stir the fragments of her memory and she recognized enough of her surroundings to know she was on the Katy Trail, and this led to fuzzy recollections of her deciding to take a week and bike the Trail. She still had no idea of how she got there, but that wasn’t important as long as she could get help. The Trail was widely used. There would be help.

Her head hurt a bit less, but she was thirsty and she kept her eyes on the break in the vine, waiting to see the shadow of someone walking past. The morning came and went and the only movement was in the glade itself, birds and squirrels going about their business as if she didn’t exist. Her thirst became stronger and she looked to see if her water bottle had fallen near her but couldn’t see it in the weeds.

As she waited, she tried moving from time to time to see if the temporary paralysis had let up but she still couldn’t shift more than her arms, and one shoulder. Trying to do more caused pain sharp in her back and shoulders, enough to make her almost black out; it also left her legs feeling numb, which scared her and her fear just made her more thirsty.

In the afternoon she awoke from a half sleep by voices faint, but moving closer. Relieved that she was finally going to be found, she started calling out but her voice was so weak from lying there for so long. Still she kept calling out, pleading with the people to help her but as they got closer she could hear the sound of bicycle wheels and know that there was no way that bike riders would either see her or hear her.

Their shadows passed quickly, too quickly, and still she called out, desperate to be heard. She kept calling long after they were gone. She was still calling as the night drew in and the shadows become longer, stretching to cover her in a blanket of chill darkness.

She was thirsty, so thirsty, and beginning to panic a bit about how long she was going to be lying there before being found. She knew she’d be found. Quite probably the next day, when she didn’t show up wherever it is she was supposed to be for the night. She knew it. She really did. Another night of dark shadows, except this night the normal sounds of the forest seemed more deliberate, as if it had just become aware of her presence. No breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, but they rustled just the same — from tree to tree, moving in a circle around her. There was no menace to the sound, but there was a calculated deliberateness about it that was more frightening then the sound of a slavering bear would have been. She felt around until her hand touched on a rock, which she grabbed and held tightly in her fist. She tried to keep her eyes open, peering into the gloom at every fresh noise, but she dozed sometime before morning and when she woke, it was full light again.

That day the surrounding green seemed thicker, more vibrant. Rather than a single shade of green, she began to pick out subtle differences of color in the bushes and trees, the weeds, and grasses around her. Rays of sunlight filtered to the forest floor, motes of dust floating about in the light. Birds would land on the branches of the trees near her and cock their head from side to side, looking at her with shadowed eyes. It should have been an idyllic scene but there was an otherworldly feel to it that made her uncomfortable. The feeling grew as the morning ran into afternoon and eventually towards evening and no shadows came to darken the break in the vines.

It was just as the light was beginning to fail that she realized that her surroundings weren’t the odd note in that glade. She was. That night she didn’t try to sleep or stay awake and drifted in and out, without being able to tell the difference. She’d long ago dropped the protective rock and her thirst was so great, she’d grab at blades of grass to suck and chew, hoping to get a drop or two of moisture from them. But the grass near her was more brown then green, and the bitter taste just made the thirst worse.

Morning came and she was only dimly aware of her surroundings but it seemed as if the forest was drawing near her, closing her in. She lifted a blurry eye to the top of the hill and noticed that vines had filled in the break she’d made when her bike had crashed through. She knew that somewhere inside she was alarmed, but it was as if another person was experiencing the fear and the desperation, and she, her aware self, was a detached observer. Mid-day, a sound broke through her filtered awareness — a harsh, ringing sound foreign to the glade. At first she thought it might be her imagination or another bike rider going by too fast to see either wrecked bike or rider behind shadows and weeds. As it continued, though, she recognized the sound — Beethoven. Ta-ta-ta-dum. Ta-ta-ta-DUM. Over and over again, the four familiar notes sounded. It was her cell phone, which she’d programmed to play Beethoven when it rang to impress her friends but secretly, she would have preferred Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild.

Born to Be Wild, she laughed to herself, looking around at the tangled and frenzied growth surrounding her trying to catch a glimpse of the phone’s silver color, struggling, weakly, to move, to find the phone. Just like her water bottle it was buried in the bushes far out of reach, too far to help; useless for anything other than providing a break in the forest noises. When it stopped ringing, she sank back, too tired to be frustrated, and only mildly curious about the identity of the caller and if they would leave a message. She mimicked her voicemail recording, faint, hoarse sounds coming through dry and cracked lips, telling the other person, so sorry, but she wasn’t available at the moment. Yes, I’m lying at the bottom of a hill surrounded by trees and wild things that don’t like me much, and I’m hurt, and I want to go home. The call was really important to her, so please, leave a message. And while they were at it, could they also send an ambulance, pizza truck, and beer wagon?

More birds gathered around her that afternoon, as if their weight would force her to get to her feet and leave. This glade was their space, their tiny bit of land carved out from the reach of man, hidden by cliff and thick growth. Her being there was a disruption, an abomination. I’d leave my friends if I could, she whispered, her voice barely more than a wisp of sound soon vanished.

I’d leave if I could. I’d leave if I could. I’d leave if I could. I’d leave if I could. Again and again she repeated the words out loud, and finally in the silence and stillness of her mind.

That night as darkness fell she found her leg twitching, first one and then the other. Slowly, carefully, she found she could move and she pulled herself to her feet, and eventually, haltingly, up the hill until reaching the white path shining in the moonlight. She was tired and sore but could walk and she moved down the path for what seemed like a long time until she saw a farm with lights on. She would have cried with joy but there was no water for tears so all she could do was stumble to the door and knock weakly against it. The farmer opened the door, eyes wide with shock when he saw this disheveled, exhausted woman in front of him, begging weakly for water. Please, water.

He led her into the kitchen, his wife helping, and poured her water from a pitcher on the table. The pitcher was glass, she noticed, and the water so cool that beads formed on the outside from the warm humidity coming through the open kitchen window. She was too weak to hold the cup, so the farmer held the water to her lips and the first sweet wonderful drops fell into her mouth and down her throat. She sucked at the water desperately and when he took the glass away, she almost screamed in frustration.

More, she cried. More, please.

Again, he held the glass to her lips and again she tasted the moisture. Again he would draw away and again she would beg, but at some point her thirst lightened just enough, barely enough, and she began to think that she might live, after all.

She woke with a start, and with the faint hint of moisture on her lips. When she saw by the light of a new day that she was still in the forest, she beat at the ground with her fists and swore at the trees and the birds until she ran out of words strong enough, but neither the forest nor the birds seem moved by her anger.

In the tree just above her, a flash of gold, brown color showed a large hawk perched on a limb, peering down at her intently from cold brown eyes located above a nasty looking beak. She thought about finding the rock again, but what was the use? She was going to be dead by morning. Her injuries and the lack of water and food were going to kill her and the birds might as well have what was left—she wouldn’t need it anymore.

She lay still, completely still, only her eyes moving — from tree to rock, from bird to flower. She could see the veins in the leaves nearest her, and marveled that she hadn’t noticed how delicate a leaf was. How many times had she stepped over leaves or walked on them, or pushed them impatiently out of her way without really seeing their beauty? As she breathed in the scent of the forest no longer seemed so musty or stale. There was a bright freshness to the green around her, a smell of life in the dirt.

As the day wore on, she also looked at the birds that hoped about, flashes of color from gray feather and red, and the brown feathers of the hawk never leaving the perch above her head. She could see the edges of his feathers, tipped with a light white. She could make out each individual hair. The sun fell on her face, and it seemed softer somehow; warm and comforting. She thought about her life and her family and friends and how she’d miss them, and hoped they’d miss her, but any grief or regrets were tempered by a growing weakness that brought a tranquility she seemed to project and which echoed back at her from her surroundings.

I never knew that dying could be so peaceful, she thought. With a sigh, she looked one more time around the glade, the place that had seemed so foreign but now seemed to welcome her as one of its own. As the darkness in her mind grew, she could feel blade of grass and feather on wing move close beside her, as if to provide her comfort on her trip.

She was remembering that moment in the glade two months later, as she was packing her purse with belongings from the table near the hospital bed she’d occupied for so long. Her movements were still stiff, unsure, and the doctors said her recovery would be a long time coming, but everyone agreed that it was a miracle she was alive.

A bike rider out for an early ride had spotted her hand just barely piercing the shadow of the vines that surrounded her. He’d knelt down and touched fingers to her wrist, expecting to feel nothing but cold from the blue-tinged skin. When he’d felt a faint pulse he’d been astonished, but no more than the paramedics and the doctors when they realized that she had somehow crawled up the steep hill where she’d fallen, in spite of her serious injuries. Yes, it was a real miracle she was alive.

She looked one more time around the room and smiled at her mother who was packing a suitcase with the rest of her items. Among them was the dirty, torn shirt she’d worn when she’d been found and which the hospital had stuffed into a bag when she’d been brought into the emergency room.

“Dear, should I throw this away?”

“No. No, I’d like to look at it.”

She held it in her arms and breathed in the faint musty smell of dirt and grass. As she pulled it closer to her face, lost in memory, something scratched at her cheek. Putting her hand into the folds of the collar, she pulled out a feather. A single feather, golden brown, lightly tipped with white.

Categories
Just Shelley

Kristof

Coming home from the park tonight, I had the windows rolled down to catch the evening breezes, and the music cranked loud, enjoying being out of the house and away from the computer. I was on autopilot, not really paying attention to my surroundings until I pulled up behind a dark green car at the spotlight. The license plate read KRSTOF.

KRSTOF. Kristof. A name that evokes images of dark gypsies with mysterious ways, brilliant red sashes holding hair back from unnerving black eyes. I peered into the back window of the car but the glass was too dark and the sun against it to bright to see anything more than a shadow of a head. A male head. Of course.

When the light changed and as we drove, I thought about this man in the green car, with the name that rolls across your tongue like fine chocolate or the merest wisp of fine cognac.

Kristof is a hiker, like myself, but unlike me, with my walks along the Katy Trail and Powder Valley, he’s traveled all throughout the world, hiking the fjords in Norway and the hills of Scotland. He speaks with a slight accent, the product of his early youth spent in Europe, as the son of a university professor who taught medieval history.

His face is lean and dark from the sun, and wrinkles formed grooves down his cheeks and a single line between his eyes. He’s is in his 50’s, but age sits on Kristof as lushly and caressingly as the dark, sable soft mustache sits over his thin lips.

His hands grab the leather wrapping of the steering wheel, fingers long and slender but strong; gentle hands with calloused fingertips, a legacy of years of playing classical guitar. Around his neck he wears a silver necklace, weighed down by an extraordinarily carved amber leaf, held in place by intertwined silver vines. The pendant was a gift on his 40th birthday from his mother, an artistic and eccentric woman who used to make him soft boiled eggs sprinkled with chives and dotted with caviar for Sunday breakfast.

His parents are separated, and have been for years; though apart, they still remain close. There is love between them and always will be, but it’s not enough to overcome their need to be free — a need that chafes at the bonds of daily cohabitation. As soon as Kristof was old enough, they talked with him about this need to be apart and from that moment he alternated his time between them, content with his odd but satisfying family.

Kristoff’s father is retired, living in Denmark and doing research for a book on Margaret, Queen of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Margaret, a queen in a land dominated by men, was gifted enough to capture the hearts of the people and keep peace in her homeland of Denmark; strong enough to extend that peace through marriage and alliance to include Denmark’s neighbors, a rare moment of unification for an area with strong regional ties.

Kristof’s mother is visiting Russia, searching for fine specimens of Baltic amber, the stone she uses for all of her jewelry. At one time she used other stones, such as onyx and opal and Lorimar, but after her first creation with amber — the very pendant on her son’s necklace — she would work with no other material. In Moscow, she meets with an old friend and over cups of strong tea served in tall glasses held by delicate silver filigree, they talk of rumors that another piece of the famous Amber Room has surfaced. Entirely crafted of fine amber in different hues, the Amber Room was a gift to Peter the Great from the King of Prussia, and they say to walk within it was like bathing in pure sunlight. The room disappeared during the War, stolen by the Nazis and some said destroyed in a fire, others said at the bottom of Baltic Sea when the ship carrying it was sunk.

As much as he loves his parents, though, Kristof’s mind is not on them, Margaret, or amber. He’s thinking of a trip two weeks ago when he was visiting a close friend who lives in Maine. They had spent a fine day out on a boat owned by his friend’s brother, sailing about the bay with the Atlantic breezes cool as they blew through Kristof’s thick, dark hair; the sun warm as it touched upon the glint of silver at his temples and in his mustache.

The boat was trim and sleek and the gathering of friends and family was warm and friendly, made more so by another guest, the cousin of his friend’s brother’s wife. He had noticed her as soon as he stepped on to the boat, a woman with chestnut hair down to her shoulders softly framing a face lovely, but not beautiful. She had a light dusting of freckles across her nose that he only noticed that evening when they walked along the beach and he bent down to meet her face tipped up to meet his. The moonlight and the golden glow of the antique streetlight next to the beach picked out her soft grey/green eyes, a hint of laughter and something else, something more subtle, reflected back at him.

In the morning, they shared strong, rich coffee made smooth by sweet creme, and spread blueberry jam on fresh, still warm muffins. The day promised to be another fine one, with only faint wisps of fog curling around the trees by the shore. They ate on the porch, sitting in rockers worn grey from years in the salt air and smooth by the bodies of past visitors, occasionally tossing crumbs to the seagulls that shamelessly begged at their feet.

Kristof remembered her soft curves and generous mouth and the blue-green tang of the ocean, always the ocean behind and around them; but more, he remembered her laughter and how well their words met and melded into crystaline phrases he could still recall. He told her about autumn in St. Louis, looking at her from the corner of his eye as he spoke about the deep greens of the hills turned into the same brilliant colors of his mother’s collection of fine amber. He also made sure to talk about nights filled with delicately fried catfish accompanied by dark beer, and cool, blue jazz. His words were both a promise and a lure, and he wondered whether he should wait until he got home, or pull over then and there and call her on his cell phone.

At that moment, Kristof turned into the left turn lane, and I pulled up beside him and then passed, eyes forward and on the traffic surrounding my car.

Categories
Technology

Kindle Versions

On Groundhog Day, I’ll have had my Kindle for a year. I’ve been working on an anniversary review of the device, which will get posted either to the Frugal Algorithm or Secret of Signals. Or perhaps a bit in both, not sure.

The buzz about the Kindle now is that a 2.0 version is coming out, February 9th. I imagine a new version is likely, but contrary to what people have been saying, there has been more than one Kindle variation released in the last year.

Currently, there are Kindles running the following operating system versions: 1.04, 1.08, 1.1, and 1.1.1. Amazon has stressed that all provide the same functionality. The only thing to account for the difference, then, is variations in the device. Not a simple swapping of parts, either, because one doesn’t need to update an operating system when one swaps identical parts.

I have a 1.04 version of a Kindle, and must admit to some curiosity about what improvements went into the 1.08 and 1.1 models. I know that one always takes risks buying version 1 of anything, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a case where an item’s internal architecture has changed three times within one year. Changed enough to force a new version of the operating system. At a minimum, I have to wonder what will happen when new software functionality is rolled out. Do we 1.04 owners get the same goodies as, say, 1.1 owners?

To add further to the confusion, some people have reported in the owner forums seeing an OS version of 1.2 in their devices, and there are differences with this OS, but Amazon has stated this operating system has not been released. So rumor runs rampant in the forums, because we have no other source of communication about what’s happening with the devices. To be blunt, Amazon does not communicate with Kindle owners.

Regardless of lack of communication, and despite being an “old” Kindle owner, I do still like my device, though I really wish we had folder capability. However, I’d really rather that Amazon support ePub, and release its AZW format to other ebook readers. And I’ll have more to say on this later, too.

Categories
Social Media

Hiring the critic

f I had known Sitepoint would be hiring I may have held back from telling the lead designer that he’s full of bull. He was full of bull, though, with his exhortation to XHTML users to grow up. Still, another opportunity lost.

There is no room in this economy for the critic. At least, not unless one is already employed. The wind is blowing towards sweetness and light. Desperately blowing, caught up in the maelstrom of fear and uncertainty.

What should I do? Continue to criticize, until I can no longer afford my web space? Or shut up, and hope that someone safely employed takes the time to respond? I guess I pick my battles. Perhaps only criticize those who can’t do me any good, or have no power.

Fah, I sneer at my own words.