Memorial Day

Most Memorial Days, my thoughts are with my deceased parents, both of who served in the European Theater of Operations during WWII. This year, I’m thinking of Ron, primarily because his son came across me on the web and made contact last week.

Most of my hanging around back when had been with Earl, Ron’s older brother by a year and in my grade. But Ron ran with us often, usually over Earl’s objections. There was a weird family dynamic that even I could detect in my feckless youth.

Their father had served 20 years in the Army, exiting with the rank of sergeant and going to work for Sears. His manner did not indicate he acknowledged the transition. He ran the home tyrannically and his wife and children lived in fear of his disapproving eye. Occasionally, he would try to engage my father in war stories, just as though he hadn’t spent it safely in Ft. Dix, NJ, but my dad would have none of it. Silver and bronze stars and a purple heart were what he came out with, and no need to recall the horrors.

Ron was a sweet guy and Earl was more like his father, currying preferential treatment accordingly. Why I associated with Earl is somewhat a mystery in retrospect. It probably had something to do with us acquiring motor scooters about the same time. I resurrected mine from a junk yard and his father got him one from Sears with the employee discount.

He perceived our relationship, and I’m using his stated analogy, like “Of Mice and Men.” In his mind, he was George (intelligent and cynical) and I was cast as Lennie (brutish and dull-witted), our relative test scores withstanding. Earl saw things the way he wanted them to be and I didn’t care what movies he played in his head. Many years later, we rediscovered each other and got together. Our relative outcomes flew in the face of his scenario and he broke off contact immediately after our visit.

After graduation, Earl and I went off to our separate colleges. I stayed in touch with Ron, who graduated a year later and enlisted in the Army.

Ron was stationed in Viet Nam. Two weeks before the end of his tour, he stepped on a mine and lost both his legs and was otherwise seriously injured. He returned to the States for rehabilitation and eventually found work as a police dispatcher. We were still in touch at that point and he was still typical Ron. That is, upbeat and a great guy.

However, all of this did leapfrog him in the competition for his father’s approval, which was more than Earl could take. He engineered an appointment to West Point, which probably put him back in contention for his father’s favoritism. That is, until he got kicked out. At that juncture, he severed relations with Ron, which hurt him significantly. It appeared Earl was oversensitive to comparisons and denial was his method of dealing. I tried to assure Ron he held no fault in this.

Ron was not the type to whine about the continuing health problems resulting from his wounds, but I could read between the lines. When he married, I hoped that would help his situation. It appeared to but we lost touch and I never heard anything for years until he eventually succumbed. And then, not until his son contacted me last week, having recognized my name from old stories his father had related. We did have some wild times.

So, this Memorial Day, I’m thinking of Ron and how unfair life can be. How a great guy like him could be so damaged in what appears to be a political ploy more than a defense of our country. Or how he might’ve been driven to his fate by a fanatic parent or recruiting or political propaganda.

Life isn’t fair. It’s neither good nor bad that it isn’t, just the way it is. Doesn’t mean I have to like the parts that deal such a hand to the likes of Ron.

Another aspect is a loss of innocence thing. I recall the carefree and fun times I had with Ron and the other friends of my youth. That was the last of it before the harsh realities of life manifested for all of us. There’s no going back from that point. But, at least we have the sweet memories.

And today, one of them is Ron.

Bubble Bursting

The end of the last blog reminded me of another experience (surprise!). It had to do with protection but, in this case, a patent. To protect the innocent, I’ll change some of the details.

It was about ten years ago that I received a call from a former client to a consulting business I had. Things had gone very well with that and he referred me to someone else who was experiencing problems. While I was no longer in that field, I agreed to help out. He arranged the meeting.

I recognized the names associated with this. There had been a newspaper article about this guy’s booming start-up, how successful it was and how additional investors were lining up. According to the friend who referred me, it wasn’t doing well and the owner was struggling to find new money to pump into it. Yeah, the newspaper bit on the hype and was unwittingly abetting him in attracting new investment dollars. Hate to burst your bubble, but that happens. A few companies that were listed on the Fortune and Inc. 500 lists never even existed.

I showed up at the opulent offices (so that’s where some of the investor money went) a little early, spruced up in a dark blue suit, as was still the custom of the time. About 40 minutes later, a disheveled looking guy in a leather jacket walked in, picked up the mail from the front desk, cast a disinterested glance in my direction and sauntered down a hall. About ten minutes later, the receptionist’s phone buzzed and I was escorted to his office.

He slouched in his lavish chair and eyed me with something approaching irritation. This was the idea of one of his investors (my former client) and he really didn’t need any help. But, he was willing to listen. Yeah, I can see that.

I asked him to give me a summary of his business model. He sighed in bored resignation and talked to me in a manner you might use to describe nuclear fission to a beagle.

The basic idea was that his target market was car dealers. He’d video a “tour” through selected products on their lots and post it on his site so their potential customers could shop without leaving their homes. The easier it was to shop that dealer, the more likely it would be for business to gravitate that way.

The fundamental hurdle I saw in his plan was that his service would be somewhat easy to replicate in one variant or another, and that he was charging a premium price, providing more incentive for the prospect to find a do-it-yourself alternative. He was emphasizing the video service when I thought he should stress that his one-stop shop would pull in more prospects than individual dealers could do on their own.

That was the quick and dirty analysis. If he wanted me to go further and solve his problems, he’d have to pay me. He had all the earmarks of someone who would pump you for free advice and then bail.

He asked what made me think I could pull off what he (the genius) had not, clearly seeing no remote possibility of that. I gave him my reasons and track record, being careful not to bruise his ego. He dismissed the probability of that and me with a flick of his hand, which was fine with me. It obviously wouldn’t have worked out.

A few months down the road, I noticed an article that he had pulled in a new round of investment. Shortly thereafter, the company went down, taking the investors with it. But, that isn’t the end of the story.

At some point, whether before or after our meeting is unclear, he patented “his method” of marketing cars on the web. He apparently wrote the application in broad and nebulous terms, but still managed to obtain the patent.

Now, he re-emerged with a new business. He was going after every dealer on the web, seeking a royalty because he “invented” marketing cars on the internet. Shades of Al Gore.

As you might imagine, he was told to shove his patent up his tailpipe. But, someone who sucks in investors to a cruise on a sinking ship is not going to be deterred by that.

He made up stationery to look like it came from a federal enforcement agency (non-existent) and sent it via registered mail to dealers, ordering them to pay the royalty or suffer severe sanctions. The money began to roll in.

But, car dealers are a canny breed and some tough customers. It didn’t take long for some to pull aside the curtain and report his shenanigans.

I know what you’re thinking. Mail fraud. Extortion. Impersonating a law enforcement agent. Some kind of federal offense. He’d do hard time. Again, prepare to have your bubble burst.

Some time back, I wrote about how people imagine that there are dozens of government agencies poised to spring into action whenever a ne’er-do-well surfaces to hoodwink them and smite the offender. Blame television and government propaganda. What we finance is well-paid bureaucracies with limited efficacy. The fact that any action was taken in this case approaches miracle status and is attributable only to the significant collective influence of the auto industry.

All that happened was that he was issued a cease & desist order. No jail time. No huge fine. Just a don’t-do-that-anymore. That’s it.

I lost track of him after that, which is just as well. I don’t like to think about the people like that who are out there in significant numbers, much less that they operate with relative immunity.

Copyright this!

A friend in a group I belong to asked me about copyright protection. He was hesitant to post photos because he had noted that there have been a few instances of our pictures being misappropriated. I told him to just label them as copyrighted anywhere he posted them if that was concerning him.

He asked about registering them with the copyright office. I told him I didn’t think it was worth the trouble because it wasn’t necessary for whatever protection the copyright actually provides.

That was pretty much that. Except, it elicited a memory.

It was my first job in publishing. “Writer’s Digest,” the magazine for aspiring writers. I had no experience in the publishing business, but they couldn’t afford to be too picky. The magazine had been around for fifty years and the numbers had been flat for some time.

The challenge was twofold. Magazine revenue usually comes from advertising, which means you must have strong and efficient access to a market someone wants to reach. Our “typical” reader was described to me as a middle-aged housewife pecking away at a typewriter on the dining room table and hoping to sell the great American romance novel. Who wants to invest any amount of ad budget to reach her?

The makers of household products, prepared foods, cosmetics, etc. you might think. Think again. They were already covering that market with much more efficient buys in mass media. They weren’t going to spend the higher per-thousand rate to appear in a niche publication that wasn’t relevant to their products.

Meeting that challenge is fodder for another blog. The second problem was acquiring subscribers, for which direct mail was the primary vehicle. Where do you find a mailing list for aspiring writers? If we were a camping magazine, I’d get the L.L. Bean catalog list. Sports car publication? Buy a list of car registrations, screened for targeted makes and models. But, what purchase identifies someone who goes home at night and raps out a story for a true confessions magazine? Answer: none.

They had been trying subscription lists of “intellectual” magazines and losing their butts in the process. Hiring me was, especially at my then-tender age, probably the equivalent of throwing their hands in the air. Get someone cheap and tell him to control the bleeding as best he can.

I don’t buy into low expectations. There’s always a way.

I pulled some of the veterans into a room and asked for every modifier that described our typical reader. I kept them in there until we hit triple figures. Not the best way to make new friends.

Ninety-nine answers were of no help. Didn’t matter. I found my one. Paranoid.

Even though most of these hopeful authors could barely write well enough to fill out a rebate form, they shared a fear that unctuous editors would reject their manuscripts, steal their ideas and make millions with them. I suppose that’s possible. But, in all my subsequent years in publishing, I never met an editor who was that industrious.

So, why did that jump out at me and how does it help? If my preamble registered with you, you’re way ahead of me.

A spinster in Keokuk hammers out a steamy novel about a sultry spy who plies her trade by seducing every highly placed government official between Paris and Moscow. Who would know better about that stuff?

More to the point, what’s the first thing she does to protect her potboiler? She registers it with the copyright office. And how does that help me? Those are public records, including the names and addresses of the writers.

Understand, this was just my theory at that point. I needed to confirm it by testing the list or, at the very least, eyeballing it. I called the U.S. Copyright Office and asked for a list of the last 10,000 people to register manuscripts. There was a pregnant silence.

They didn’t have list, just the records, on paper. This was the 1970s. No computer had found its way into their offices. I asked a few more questions to assess the precise nature of the situation, but it became apparent there was only one way to accomplish this. I booked a flight to DC.

I entered the building, stated my business and was led into a cavernous space. It was like the government artifact storage scene from “Indiana Jones.” Miles and miles of high shelves and boxes, or so it seemed. Okay, give me a hint. Where do I find what I need?

“What are you looking for?” Easy, manuscripts. Not so easy. “You want text. Would that be published or unpublished text? Manuals, advertising, scripts, recipes….” Whoa, whoa. I gave a concise description of what I was looking for to the woman who looked like everyone’s idea of a high school librarian. She rolled her eyes to the high ceiling to contemplate this for a few seconds and then motioned me to follow her with a brusque wave of her arm.

She strode purposefully for maybe half a mile (okay, maybe a little less), stopped abruptly and pointed at a long shelf of file boxes a bit higher than eye level. I yanked one out and gravity caught me by surprise. It was densely packed.

I popped the lid and pulled out the first file. It was a thesis on applying multivariant analysis to something I didn’t know or care about. “This isn’t it.” I described something a little more “flowery,” for lack of a better term. She wordlessly indicated that I should first replace the carton, which weighed a little less than a Buick, and led me and my hernia down some more dark passages.

Mercifully, this shelf was waist high. The first file was the copyright for “Ode to the Poor Skunk I Ran Over on the Way Home from Bingo.” I had found my people. Now, how do I capture the data?

I ask Ms. Prim if I or my designated agents could use her copier. She said it was government property and electricity, and the expenditure couldn’t be made for private usage. I offered to pay for the copies. No. I offered to overpay for the copies. No, again. I offered to bring in my own copier. No, I would still be using government electricity and taking up government space. I’d overpay for that, giving them a net surplus. No. I tried a dozen more creative solutions. No dice.

So, I went over her head. That led to less listening and more emphatic rejections. Okay, there’s no problem that can’t be solved.

All I needed at this point was a test list. I went around to local colleges and posted money-making- opportunity flyers. This is no small feat to pull off because not a lot of students of DC colleges feel a need to work. But, it worked. I amassed a small army to go in, hand copy the data and get paid by the name. The information came to me in Cincinnati where I had it keystroked into a usable file format. The test list worked gangbusters and the rest, as they say (whoever they are – and, the expression isn’t copyrighted), is history.

One sidebar, if you will permit. While I was there, I wandered the stacks, amazed at the variety of materials that was copyrighted. Wallpaper patterns? Who knew? Certainly not me. Had never given it a thought.

So, I made a bunch of money off that adventure. Which gives me an idea. I just registered sign copy: “Stop,” “School Crossing, “etc. Should make millions!

Play

I just posted video from a kayak trip we took over the weekend. Someone already added the message, “You guys know how to have a good time.” A leader from another paddling club emailed me, “You always hit home runs.” I also received an email from a former classmate, “Still rockin’ after all these years.”

No doubt about it and no secret, either. It eludes some, but I think the key is play. Kids have fun because they play. Many adults don’t because they lost that inclination. As I’ve written before, each day is a brick in the house that is our life. You build a happy life with happy bricks. You can have fun every day with the right attitude and by surrounding yourself with people who are like-minded.

I was having the discussion about adults losing that capacity with an acquaintance. He responded with, “I play golf.”

No, he practices golf, or whatever verb might describe it. He might even enjoy it. But, he surely doesn’t play or he’d be a happier person. There is an element of child-like that’s required. Whatever component of that is playful, that’s it.

I grew up with some people who never had it and were old well before their time. Me, I never intend to lose it.

Lead me not into temptation

A couple weeks ago, an article ran concerning the huge amount of money owed to the city from unpaid parking tickets. A highlight of it was that some of the biggest culprits worked in city hall.

Today, I was emailed by someone from the mayor’s office about a meeting with him. I recognized her name from the article. She told me the time for the meeting and asked if I had any questions.

I started to keystroke, “Where do you recommend parking?” but backed off. Probably wouldn’t see the humor in it.

Redfacebook

Few things generate more LMAOs than some internet libeler having his own dung heap blow up in his face and wind up the subject of the revulsion he intended to create for someone else. The practice is usually associated with adolescents and addle minded, so it comes as a bit of a surprise to find Facebook in headlines and reeking of excrement. They’re some pretty smart people, aren’t they?

It all began when Facebook hired a PR firm to plant a negative story about Google. The firm, Burson-Marsteller (soon to be renamed Anything-for-a-Buck?) approached Christopher Soghoian, a well-known blogger, to enlist him to spread the manure under his byline, distancing Facebook from the process. Ironically (or hypocritically), this violates Facebook’s own policy on anonymity. Here’s where the wheels begin to come off.

Burson-Marsteller selected Soghoian because of his stances on privacy and security issues, making him a credible source for criticizing Google’s ethics. If his focus was internet ethics, why would they think he’d go along with this?

Instead of taking the bait, Soghoian went public about the ruse. Burson-Marsteller also pitched “USA Today” on the story. They also turned it around and reported on the PR firm’s sleazy attack. Doh!

Okay, here’s a chance to come clean and salvage some vestige of decency by acknowledging that you do know better. But, Facebook issued a statement that they never authorized or intended to run a smear campaign against Google. Doh again!

Here’s where the line is crossed into stupidity. Soghoian published the email exchange soliciting the article. It included phrases like “Google…has a well-known history of infringing upon the privacy rights of America’s internet users…,” “…Google rolled out its latest tool designed to scrape private data and build deeply personal dossiers on millions of users – in direct and flagrant violation…,” and “…intrusions into their deeply personal lives Google is cataloging and broadcasting every minute of every day…” Who would think that language connotes an intent to smear Google? Deeply. Delete “stupidity” and insert “insanity.” When you put forth something as true when there’s documentation, photographs or other hard data out there refuting your misrepresentation, you’ve got more serious problems that just being a mudslinger.

In a classic too little/too late, Facebook acknowledged that they could’ve handled it better. Ya think?

On a related topic (PR), I helped out a youth organization over the weekend by giving paddling lessons to their adult supervisors. The leader said they let the young men lead their own outings, but stay around the fringes to catch the strays. “Our guideline is that we look at the boys as our sheep.”

Not a phrase you want to print in the manual.

The word pictures of MM

I’ve been reading Michael Marshall books for a few months. They’re a bit dark for my taste and he is prone to going off on tangents, but the man is a keen observer and paints some interesting pictures.

In one book, he compares a venture for the protagonist to a new spouse, job or car. They’re all things you approach with great joy and anticipation. Then, he says, you move into the phase where you have to work to maintain them. Finally, you arrive at the phase where it’s just not worth it to continue.

In another, he draws a demented character who obsesses with grudges and is prone to hateful behavior. He likens him to a mad dog chained to a metal stake in a yard. The dog keeps circling the stake and snarling at it with endless fury, unable to divert his attention to almost anything else. It occupies his every thought and he’s oblivious to what goes on beyond that. By the same token, those outside his circle pay little attention to him and he carries on his futile quarrel in a vacuum.

Elsewhere, he observes that people are immersed in themselves so deeply, that they really just regard others as bit players in their lives. They seldom ponder that these people also have hopes, dreams, relationships, significance or lives of their own. They only exist as a supporting cast.

Many things in life are like beer. The first time you experience it, it's a heady and potent sensation. Later in life, it's just watery.

There are two kinds of decisions or actions in your life that can be illustrated by the difference in numbers. The difference between two and three is the same as the difference between one and two. One. But, it isn't the same as the difference between zero and one, which is infinite. The first example is an increment; more of the same. The second, you become something you weren't before and there is no going back (like losing virginity). It's a life changer from which there is no return. Recognize these before you act.

The reader may or may not agree with his observations. But, he’s not dull.

Rolling Your Own

I’ve been toying with the idea for a while. It’s been rolling around in Don’s head, too. When we communicated the harbored thought, it was enough to catalyze action. We’re going to build some boats!

Sea kayaks to be precise. Of the skin-on-frame (SOF) variety, as the originators of the craft paddled. Don’t worry, no animals will be harmed. The “skin” is a tough fabric in this case.

Why do it? There are plenty of ready-made boats around (and I may own most of them). Hull design details that can be molded in plastic or composite are impossible with SOF. And, let’s not forget the investment of time and toil.

SOFs take you back to the roots of classic paddling. I’m not a purist, but it does have some appeal. Like driving a Model T or pedaling a Schwinn Hornet. And, in building the kayak, you can size it and vary some design aspects to suit your preferences. But, those aren’t compelling enough to motivate me to take this on.

There’s something about piloting what you built. I’ve experienced that only twice and would relish doing it again. The first time was the emergence of the Stingray bike in 1963. Those were the way cool small framed bikes with the banana seats and ape hanger bars. They skyrocketed in popularity and price. No way I could afford one.

One day, I was walking to school on garbage day. Wedged between two trash cans for pickup was a rusted over bike of the 20” wheel variety. Hmmm. I hurriedly pushed it home on flat, dry-rotted tires and spent the school day constructing a plan in my head.

First, I stripped it down to the frame, which was all that was salvageable and the only thing I needed. Then, it was long hours with paint remover and steel wool. That was followed by a nasty rust removal gel. The initial investment was in spray cans to do a candy apple paint job. Voila! The foundation of a masterpiece.

I was able to scavenge and recondition wheels and crankset. I did have to buy the seat, bars and tires, including a slick for the rear. I now had a replica of a Stingray to ride. Better yet, I had built it.

Not long after that, I acquired a battered 1952 Chevy for $19, which I wrote about in a previous blog. I was well below driver’s license age, but that didn’t matter. This would be a project that spanned years. Like the bike, it began with a total strip-down and would end up with a candy apple finish. And, was my pride and joy to drive.

It’s been a long drought since then. So I’m thirsty to get it on.

I venture into interactive video

I had heard of interactive movies, usually of the type where an audience votes for which ending will be shown. Yesterday, a friend emailed me a link to one on the internet.

This held greater interest for me as there were decision trees along the way, providing more permutations. I blocked out some time to pursue this.

Having no exposure to this genre, I had few assumptions or expectations. However, there was a surprise right off the bat. I had thought that choices would be based on information provided in the scenario or at least implied. That was not the case in this one. The decisions were blind, based upon symbolism that revealed little or no information (at least none that I could discern).

For instance, I met a waitress working in a greasy spoon. She pulls out a box and tells me to select from among the three objects it contains. There’s a pen, miniature toy xylophone and spoon. What am I supposed to read into that?

I write, play musical instruments and eat. What are the implications here for my selection? I opt for the pen. The outcome is that the waitress takes it from me, writes her phone number on my wrist (or, that of the person playing me) and tells me to call her. Who saw that coming? Worst of all, I can’t see the number.

However, this shows promise, so I eagerly continue. Unfortunately, the tidal currents of the plot separate me from the comely little tart and I find myself in a doughnut shop. Not what I was shooting for, but an éclair isn’t a bad consolation prize.

Except, I am to be denied even that. The owner is no ordinary pastry peddler and I get swept up into his shenanigans via choices that have no apparent relevance to that. I am abducted at gunpoint, taken to an alley where I am beaten for information I do not possess. Wonderful.

Surely I can noodle my way out of this with some more intense evaluation of the forthcoming decisions. But, I go from bad to worse and wind up dodging bullets and shrapnel from a car bomb. Nice work.

I do escape the situation relatively unscathed but never manage to reconnect with the waitress. Or get rich, move to the south of France or anything else remotely like that. Where I wind up (and I suspect everyone does) is with the opportunity to order the product of the company that produced the video as a promotion tool. I decline.

Now, had the waitress come with it…

Prediction

Within months, a movie will be released about the tracking down of Bin Laden. It'll be made by some anti-war Hollywood types who will deny being hypocritical about leapfrogging their principles to make a buck.

I admit to one superstition

I’ll admit to harboring an irrational belief. But, is it irrational if it always proves out to be true? Once again, today it manifested as more of a law of the universe than a superstition.

The Bible prophesizes a time when the sea shall give up its dead. This is built into a number of mariners’ prayers, which is where I first encountered it. My version is a juncture when the hidey holes cough up the lost objects that have been bedeviling you. That happens shortly after the third object disappears.

Hallelujah! Today was one of those days. Since the third escapee disappeared a week or so ago, I was expecting it.

The first two vanished subsequent to a camping trip I took a few weeks ago. As previously noted, there are those who get through entire weeks in the wild, maintaining the organization of an operating room. I am not among them.

It isn’t like I didn’t try. Fun things to do kept cropping up when I was in the midst of cleaning and stowing each day, leading to a dump in the tent as I ran off to surf my kayak, climb a dune to enjoy a sunset or whatever. At the end of each day, I should’ve reorganized. But, that was time for sitting on the beach, sipping wine and viewing the heavens late into the night.

By the end of the week of beach camping, the floor of my tent resembled a sandbox with ends of “toys” protruding here and there. When it’s time to go home, I’m more than ready to go. I enjoy getting away, but there are too many things near and dear to me here for me to dally. I scooped up the loose items, stuffed them into whatever bags had room and hightailed it for the highway.

By the end of the return journey, everything has amassed into a sodden heap. The day after arrival at home base, I begin to pry that apart and hose out the remnants of the foreign terrain. I’m not fully recovered at that point and lack attention to detail.

Once everything has dried out, I begin to allocate gear to storage. I am more alert at this point and able to detect missing objects. I don’t really mind breaking things in my adventures, but I do hate to lose them. That lacks closure and is a nagging irritant. In this case, there were two items missing.

One was a component of a camping cook set. I could live without it or replace it, but it was still regrettable.

The other was more devastating. During a trip last year, I stopped into a hard core outfitter located at our destination. His stock befitted the magnitude of the type of trip we were on, which is to say, mostly over our heads. However, he was having an end-of-season sale.

One discounted item caught my eye, a featherweight wind shirt of European origin. That description is inadequate because it was configured to serve in paddling, bicycling and about anything else you wanted to do, just short of scaling Mount Everest. It would also compress and stand by for duty in less space required for a deck of cards. And, it was just plain cool. Now, it was also MIA. That hurt.

I tore the place apart looking for it. The effort was futile and I knew it would continue to be until the third item disappeared. I didn’t have to wait long.

The stars came together a couple weeks ago, presenting me with the opportunities to dispose of my car and acquire a new one, both under unusually favorable terms. I had to act fast, which included emptying the vehicle I was getting rid of in the space of less than a half hour. Cognizant that this is where people often err (leaving CDs in the audio unit, sunglasses in the overhead bin, etc.), I set about it deliberately, covering every nook and cranny in order of from stem to stern.

It was not an inexpensive car. Upon purchasing it, the dealer bestowed upon me two kits; one for first aid and the other for road emergencies. These were very nice items and I would want them for the new vehicle. They were deposited in my garage in the heap of stuff coming out of the car. I tend to accumulate.

When the new vehicle arrived at its new home, the first order of business was learning its many functions. It has a few less electronic gadgets than Bill Gates’ office. With that accomplished, to the degree my technical acumen allows, it was time to stock it with my own accoutrements. I sorted through the pile, either discarding or transferring, as warranted.

At the end of this process, one thing was apparent. The road kit was missing. I combed the garage, but to no avail. Drat! However, the good news was that the third item had made its exit. Could recovery be far behind?

Today was the day. I knew that at breakfast. I dug into an opened box of breakfast bars I had salvaged from the camping trip and came upon the missing cook set component. In my heart I believed that everything would be recovered by nightfall.

Today’s to-do list included cleaning out a kayak for an impending trip. In the day hatch, a small compartment, I discovered the wind shirt. I then recalled stowing it there one day on the previous trip in anticipation of a possible pop-up shower.

Likewise, the uncovering of the road kit evoked the memory. When I had been emptying the old car, I heard the house phone ring. I dashed inside with what I had in hand (the kit) and placed it on a book shelf near the phone.

So, equilibrium has returned to my world. At least until the next thing disappears.