The Local Yarn

∞ · Wed Feb 25, 2004 · 1 Notes

One spring evening in Minnesota, after a meager dinner, I sat at the table with my books and my notes, daydreaming. I lived alone, surrounded by miles and miles of farmland. It was very quiet, one of those awkward silences when you are in an embarassing situation and have no idea what to say…except I was the only one in the room.

Then, I heard him coming, Mr. Edwin Nathaniel Dowdley, like a specter, like a meddling apparition in a horror movie that can’t keep to itself. He was always surrounded by an aura of little noises—rattling his spoon in his coffee cup, squeaky shoes, sniffing & clucking. He was easy to detect at any distance. He would have been different if he had married.

“Hallo,” he said. “Are you bored?”

“I don’t know. I have a few options yet before it comes to that.” I was thinking of the oatmeal cookies and whole milk in my fridge.

“Well, I came to tell you: we’re having a meeting tomorrow.”

“I heard about it already.”

Somehow a pretentious, progressive minority in Pequod county had managed to open a debate about converting over to the metric system. I value my feet and inches, but I liked to stay out of politics. I didn’t think it would get anywhere anyway.

But he would not be put off. “Come on, it’s just what you need to rouse yourself out of this shrinking world of yours. Get involved with a cause.”

“I don’t want to get involved in a cause. Getting involved with causes can only end in Disillusionment.”

“Only if you take it too seriously. Anyways, if you hang around in here all the time you’ll end up like me.”

“I’ll be there.”

---

The meeting was on a windy day in spring, a brisk day, and the leaves had just turned out. Of course we all had cabin fever, and we all felt the whole business was a nasty distraction, but no one said so, because we were supposed to be All Fired Up about it. It was hot in the town hall.

Mr. Wasserman, to whom I have elsewhere alluded, was there, his points all memorized and his electric old mind ready for debate. He always wore a bow tie, and he had white curly hair, but the main point about his appearance, as I have said before, was his very thick glasses, which made his eyes look somewhat big. And he had (we all said, you could tell just by looking at him) a very clear conscience, so that he could look you right in the eye, and those eerie optics would bore down on you like heat-seeking missiles.

The leader of the Metricrats looked to be a man named Mr. Graaf. He had gone to the university in Duluth, and had seen the light, and now he had returned and was going to save our backwards culture and revive our sagging farm economy by reason of the metric system. His uncle Bud was also there, but from the fact that he was wearing his feed cap indoors, I guessed that he was trying to avoid attention; perhaps he was kind of embarrased to be related to the guy. Truly, a prophet is not without honour, but in his own county, and in his own home.

“All right, sit down, let’s get started,” I said loudly. As I hoped, people continued conversing, or looking out the window. I grabbed the gavel.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

WHACK!!!

Everyone sat down as I discarded the pieces of the gavel. As it turned out, I would not need it for the rest of the meeting.

Mr. Graaf rose and began to speak at us.

“Folks, it is hot in here and it is nice outside. Thankfully, the question before us is a simple one: whether we will stumble along in our use of the English system of measurement, which is clumsy, outmoded and mediocre, or embrace the Metric system, which is simple, elegant, and in widespread current use.

“I know most of you are asking, why should we bother with the hassle of switching the county over to the meter? Well, the advantages to us are threefold. First, there is the obvious increase in efficiency. The craftsman’s task is greatly simplified by the use of meters. Additions and subtractions in metric can be done easily, and with fewer errors, because metric units are decimal, not fractional. This may seem like a small thing, but our local tradesmen’s minds are exercised to the tune of hundreds of small calculations every day. To make all of those—”

Mr. Wasserman interrupted. “Mr. Graaf, what is the name of a third of a meter?”

“Eh — a third of a…what are you talking about?”

“A third of a meter! What is it called?”

“Mr. Wasserman, will you let me finish??”

“No, I want an answer. Now speak up.”

By now, the question had taken root in some of the men’s minds; they too began murmuring for Mr. Graaf to reply.

“A third of a meter is simply 0.33 meters, Mr. Wasserman.”

“Zero point three three meters. I see. And what is a third of a kilometer?”

Mr. Graaf thought for about eight seconds. “333.3 meters, Mr. Wasserman.”

“I see. Mr. Graaf. A third of a meter is zero point three three, and a third of a kilometer is three hundred and thirty-three point three meters.”

“Will you be quiet and let me finish?”

“Mr. Graaf, do you know what a third of a foot is?”

“Ahm…four inches.”

“Mr. Graaf, what is a third of a yard?”

“One foot of course, but—”

“Mr. Graaf. What is a third of a mile?”

“I don’t know offhand, and besides it doesn’t—”

“1,760 feet, Mr. Graaf! 1,760 feet, and no decimals! Mr. Graaf, which is simpler, which is more exact: four inches or 0.333 meters?”

“Well, if you put it that way, four inches, but suppose you want to add—”

“Gentlemen, Mr. Graaf is proposing that our county cease to use Feet, Inches, Yards and Miles. He has further proposed that we convert to a more elegant system of meters and centimeters and decimeters and millimeters and kilometers and thisameters and thatameters. Of course, unlike the foot or yard, none of these units can be divided into thirds or sixths; but I’m sure Mr. Graaf, with his vast training, can explain why this is not a detriment to his wonderful system.”

Murmers of agreement. Mr. Graaf’s voice rose. “Mr. Wasserman, you have not allowed—”

“Have you been to Europe, Mr. Graaf?”

Mr. Graaf pursed his lips in an almost feminine manner. Meanwhile, Ed Dowdley was cracking his knuckles with fiendish excitement.

“The lumberyards: what dimension do you think the lumberyards use to size wood in Europe, Mr. Graaf?”

By now, Mr. Graaf knew better than to try to respond, so Mr. Wasserman responded for him.

“The meter, you would think. Right? No! European lumber is sized in units of 120 centimeters. 120! Does that number ring any bells for you, Mr. Graaf? Of course it does, I know you’re a smart fellow. It’s a multiple of twelve, which is how many inches are in foot. The carpenters over there must find it very handy to be able to divide into thirds and sixths, wouldn’t you say? Otherwise they would simply use the meter.

“And what dimension do they use for the thickness of their wood? The centimeter, of course! But no! They have a new dimension which they call the ‘thumb,’ equal to 2.4 centimeters! A thumb is an unusually imperial-esque name for a metric unit, is it not?”

Still, Mr. Graaf was silent. Mr. Wasserman sat down, but he was not quite done. He looked out the window for a few seconds…then looked at us. “There are a lot of deeper issues we could raise here, gentlemen. But as I see it, it comes down to this: Our feet and inches remain unchanged; but people in meter-land are having to adapt the meter to better suit the needs of the common man. Mr. Graaf claims that the meter will simplify things for our tradesmen, but he is unaware of how foreign tradesmen are having to cope with that system. That’s all I have to say for now. I’m going outside.”

Several of the fellows loudly commented in agreement, and suddenly the discussion was over. There was nothing more to discuss; our minds were made up. Everyone got up to leave as though moving with the herd. Hats disappeared off the rack. People crowded and milled through the door and held it open for the people behind them, and then they were outside in the sunshine and wondering what use a ruler was anyways on such a beautiful day.

Maybe it was stubborn and stupid of me, but I couldn’t put the meeting hall scene out of my mind. “It sure wasn’t very professional of Mr. Wasserman to trample all over Mr. Graaf like that, without giving him a chance to finish speaking,” I said aloud.

I looked back over my shoulder, and there was Edwin Dowdley standing behind me, putting his hat on. “Exitus acta probat,” he said, as if in reply. He strode off down the windy sidewalk.

—JD

“Exitus Acta Probat”
—Latin, “the end proves the means.”

Continue reading…

∞ · Tue Feb 24, 2004

Topic of conversation at the Dueck dinner table the other night: how to simultaneously become elected President of the United States and Prime Minister of Canada. It would be the ultimate prank. No ultimate conclusions were drawn, but the plan involved falsified records, incredible personal charisma, money (American dollars, thanks), radio & satellite interference, and off-hour elections.

∞ · Thu Jan 29, 2004

There he was. How many times had Irene watched, in rapt attention, as he had calmly and knowledgably predicted a cold front moving in on the ten o’clock news? And there he was, fumbling for the keys to his ’88 station wagon. All she needed was a pretext.

∞ · Sat Jan 24, 2004

Now, the manner of November in Minnesota is on this wise: you awake at five o’clock and in two hours you are at work. It is still dark out. You pull the vehicle up close to the jobsite and leave it running with the headlights on. This allows you to see the vapour of your breath as you attempt to set up tools and extension cords. You have five layers of clothing on, not counting your jacket. Your gloves render you utterly void of dextrous ability, yet somehow fail to prevent your fingers from getting numb.

At ten-thirty, there is a break. It is still dark out. The lowest man on the totem pole is sent to the nearest gas station to get a snack for everyone. He is inevitably a fellow of extremely poor taste, and usually brings back a 12-pack of Mountain Dew and a box of cheap, white powdery donuts. We stand around and eat them in front of the headlights, watching our vapourous breath curl up and vanish away, robbing our bodies of precious heat.

At eleven o’clock, the sun rises. There is a lot of mad dashing about, as everyone scrambles to make the best use of the limited sunlight. Measurements are called out. Power tools are fired up. Small tools, such as chalklines, pencils and screwdrivers, are scatted hither and yon all over the jobsite. Neatly stacked piles of lumber are reduced to discombobulated and clumsy piles, all lengths and sizes mixed together. Sawdust accumulates rapidly.

At twelve thirty, a late lunch is taken. When everyone returns, they are full, lethargic, and not inclined to labour or quick action. But as the cold air works its magic, everyone is soon moving quickly again in order to stay warm.

At two o’clock, the sun sets. Extension cords and air hoses lie in a great confused net that may wander through two stories and parts of the roof system. In the failing light, the carpenters struggle to maintain the illusion that they are making reasonable progress. At two thirty, the headlights are turned back on as dark sets in again.

Punctually at three o’clock, a crisis occurs. It usually involves either a large mistake being discovered that requires immediate fixing in preparation for tomorrow’s work, an early delivery of either trusses or shingles (both of which require immediate placement while the boom truck is still on hand), or complications involving large amounts of freshly poured concrete. There is a lot of hollering while the crisis is in progress. The vehicles are running, the power tools are still going full tilt, and it’s hard to hear what anyone’s saying. And of course it’s hard to see in the dark, and four out of five men have lost their tape measures. A large amount of quick, spur-of-the-moment tool “borrowing” takes place.

The crisis lasts until four-thirty or five, except twice a month when it may go as late as eight in the evening. But on normal days, the men stop at four-thirty, wind up the hoses and scare up whatever missing tools they can find. As the skill saws and compressors are turned off, the wind can be heard moaning through the trees as everything is packed up. We can hear each other too, although usually everyone is quiet by this point. We head home for dinner. It has been a good day, unless it has rained or snowed, in which case our tools are ruined, and will require care & maintenance after dinner in the garage.

—JD

“It is a sign of mediocrity when you demonstrate gratitude with moderation.”
—Roberto Benigni (1952– ), in Newsweek

∞ · Wed Dec 24, 2003

You may be surprised to learn, as I was a couple of years ago, that angels do not actually sing. At least, there is no biblical record of them ever doing so.

What, you say? What about the shepherds’ heavenly vision? What about the angelic praises sung in the book of Revelation? That’s exactly what I thought, so I looked it up:

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” ¹

“…And all the angels stood round about the throne, and about the elders and the four beasts, and fell before the throne on their faces, and worshipped God, Saying, Amen: Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, be unto our God forever and ever. Amen.” ²

As you will no doubt notice, where cultural imagery has trained us to expect “singing,” the text reads “saying.” It’s the same in every angelic reference to which you might care to refer.

The theory, of course, is that singing is a form of expression reserved for humans; that people were created with a creative intellect with which angels are not imbued. God created man in his image, but we read nowhere that he did likewise with the cherubim & seraphim.

However, I mentioned this to Mr. Bernie “Grandpa” Nyhof in Michigan last winter, and true to his custom of Knowing Everything, he had an answer, referring me to this verse:

“…when he had taken the book, the four beasts and four and twenty elders fell down before the Lamp…and they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book…for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation; And hast made us kings and priests: and we shall reign on earth.” ³

In that one instance, “saying” is used to describe the words to a song. For me, this creates what is known as Reasonable Doubt. There is no longer any reason to assume that the angels weren’t singing to the shepherds, etc. End of discussion.

—JD

“A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.”
—Garrison Keillor

∞ · Sat Dec 20, 2003

Roger arrived home to find the wallpaper peeling off the top of his kitchen wall, a startling example of the law of entropy. “More glue,” he thought grimly, as he tripped on the threshold. When he came to, it was dark outside, & his soup was quite cold.

∞ · Sun Dec 14, 2003

Thus far, no one has volunteered a solution.

9(e g…eee(a. 4aa m2g *£4(,,e “ ” g13m 5 ,@@8+
17gggwEa. Ox “,”,6(“+”* xO@wg 2aa wO“+”O(aagg 3aa
“ ”( eeeqqg+ “g”aa(** g+6(“e”(, xO@@¶¶@
9EO…+ 4 “a”++aa “g”a¶¶@ +2Eaa 4(e
aOO“µ”(, …qO( “ ”+ 23(e O( +££ +2Eaa
+££@@ mm@@ “a”++aa “x”,…@@g
“a”µµ *££ggww( m£O mm(+ +O 2(e x@O e“O”(,
+“£”g 5(e +£42+ 8(e “ ” µ((m
+£32+ 3*£ *££ggw3( m64g +££ “
”eOa…w O@ q…qqq+ @@q@@gg(+4“+”¶¶ Ox gOww Ox
+££ ,@@8+ q@@gg(**g +£2+ g+OOe E. 3(e +££ 3*+g 2(e
wO“+”O(g Ox 3*£ *££ggw3( mm@@ 9 wO“¶”(,
qO@+@“6”+ 7 “w”“w”*@. O@ q16(+O“w”ww
m“£”*£ ee“a”((2++e +££ “ ”(wOg+
(4+…@@ Ox “£”g “,”3(+ w17g++@ 7(e
+££gg *££ggww( 2@@ ww( 7(e mOww( 33g +££.
8qqq3@ +O +££wgga¶¶g 5(e +O O(( 5(O+££@ “ ”(
+“£”g mO@ae 3(e +££ “g”a¶¶@
+23Eaa “ ”g “+”ww 6(e +£Ogg m£O g+7(e 4(e
m3+*£ 3@@ +££ “ ”wwO@+2a gO…ag Ox +£Ogg g2ww ww( 2(e
mOwwn 

+££ aO@e g“4”e mm mm@@ ,Oeg    
£Om aO(, *O…ae .. EE61@ +O aOOµ [“m”+£O…+
“+”ww's aa(g] O( +££ ,@@8+((gg Ox .O…@ Om( gO…a 4(e
+££ +++@(8a @@2“a”+. Ox ££@
*£“O”**?

*g aa“m”g

∞ · Sat Dec 13, 2003

When winter really hits, we are on a different planet. The landscape changes completely. Traveling and outside motion involves a new set of equations. With no clouds in the sky, every last bit of warmth vaporizes into outer space. It is usually dark outside.

This is our planet with the veneer pried off. Look at all those stars, distant furnaces blasting away into the night. By the time their light reaches us, it is only an icy gasp, a breath of death. On nights like this, many a deer out in those woods will lay down and give up the ghost. (Not us. Down in the basement, the zone valves are stuck open again, sending scalding hot water coursing through the radiators, heedless of the thermostat’s guidance.)

Further viewing:

• Coca Cola’s polar bear
• Shackleton and the voyage of the Endurance
• The woods, the wolves, and the wide view

∞ · Tue Nov 18, 2003

It was in a grey October that I worked on my first house under Mr. N. The house went up somewhat slowly, by professional standards. Each step of carpentry was described to the group, then performed. The basement walls. Floor system. Plywood decking. Stairs, main floor walls, and so forth. I struggled to try and remember all the little steps. Being a thinker and kind of a daydreamer, I don’t believe I was very productive on that house.

Then, in the rapidly darkening November, came the second house. The mountain of little steps that we had painstakingly hacked through on the first time around now had to be repeated all over again, with numerous variations.

“…Horrible myths and doctrines stirred in my mind. I thought how the gods had punished Tantalus. I thought of the place in the book of Revelation where it says that the smoke of Hell goes up forever in the sight of the blessed spirits.” ¹

I remembered Mr. N.’s comment that a home consists of around a hundred thousand possible parts & pieces. I began to wonder if, in attempting to really learn construction, I had betrayed my natural aptitudes and had attempted a task too great for mere mortals. I could never eat, drink, and breathe building and design the way the Nyhofs did. I kept swinging my hammer and tried not to think too much about the long future.

Out of the wreck I rise

Very early on in my forays of carpentry, I guessed that construction is not a matter of memorizing a thousand procedures, but of memorizing a few general principles, and ten or twenty more specific concepts based on those principles. I guessed correctly.

Gradually these principles and patterns became discernible out of the mess of procedures endlessly reiterated. I wish they would have been shown to me right at the start; but most who know them are not consciously aware of them; I suspect they thought it was too obvious to bear mentioning. Off the top of my head, I can name four that encompass nine tenths of everything I do.

1. Square, Level, Straight: Almost nothing is straight or square by default. Trusses are bowed, studs are crooked, foundations are cockeyed. You must ensure that everything is level, square, and straight²
2. Secure: Likewise, nothing is secure by default. Everything has to be braced somehow. A properly framed house is self-bracing and secure.
3. Spacing of framing members: Two things affect the spacing of studs and joists: structural needs and sheathing. The first ensures a solid building; the second reduces waste of time & material. You want the edges of those 4×8 sheets of plywood to land right in the middle of framing members, otherwise you will have to cut every piece.
4. Watershed: In considering window, door, roof and siding details, water should be continually directed towards the outside of the building.

When enlightenment comes, you find that, faced with an unfamiliar task, you can figure out a way to do it, and later you will find that that is the way everyone does it. Everyone takes the same principles into consideration. Everyone eventually arrives at the same solution.

But on a bad day…

You know you have become proficient in a thing, when you resort to it for stress relief. The stereotypical farm boy of the silver screen resorts to chopping wood, and is usually quite good at it. Melville’s Ishmael said he counted it high time to put out at sea whenever he found his hypos getting the upper hand of him, thus giving you some idea of his skill as a sailor.

When you see me punishing my nails, rather than merely pounding them in, you may be pretty sure that although I am not getting much done, I have reached a plateau of skill that admits of my using carpentry as a vent for my frustrations.

— JD

“Die my dear Doctor? That’s the last thing I shall do!”
— Henry John Temple Palmerston, last words, Prime Minister of GB (1855–1865)

∞ · Mon Nov 17, 2003

Ed Dowdley and I were having coffee downtown and ended up discussing a series of stories he had written. Now you must understand that Mr. Dowdley is a relic of the bygone age. His books are self-printed, devoid of blurbs or cover art, and rarely read by anyone I knew of. I think he shipped them to college bookstores in Canada or something; certainly he never made any effort to publicise them locally. It doesn’t matter if anybody ever reads his books; but history will record him as their author, and whoever may care to look will find copies sitting in the Library of Congress, their generic covers attracting dust and generally doing everything they can to avoid attention.

“There is something about having it printed in a newspaper that cheapens it, though.”

“You’re putting it in a paper? I thought you were printing it yourself.”

“I would, I would; but the newspaper pays my expenses, whereas the print shop incurs them.”

A fellow with as lean a face as you, I thought, really ought to incur more expenses, with a special attention to culinary expenses.

“I once believed it was destined to be an epic narrative tapestry, with a whole chapter devoted to our mutual friend Wasserman’s rise to power in the Imperialist party. Instead it has degenerated into a loosely connected series of anecdotes, to be wasted on some twenty-odd Saturday editions of the Conifer & Gazette.”

“It’s the story of my life,” I muttered. Mr. Dowdley gave me a look. “What was that? You can’t say that. You’re not nearly old enough. If your whole life were a book you’d only still be in the introduction by the author’s friend.”

“Still,” he said, as he stirred his cup with an annoyingly loud rattle, “your remark may prove remarkably prescient.” I was suddenly and briefly impressed with the virtues of an early death.

Our mutual friend Wasserman was an innocent old fellow whose glasses were thick enough to stop a bullet. He was bald, cheery, and utterly without any concept of guile. This last point proved to be his downfall in the world of small-time politics, into which he was unwittingly thrust. He was, it was widely opined, a victim of his own gift of brilliant oratory, which had led him into paths for which he was never destined. I agreed his story would have been worth at least a whole chapter, maybe a book of its own. He deserved, maybe, his own biographer. As it now stood, Wasserman would probably end up as little more than a name in the ‘W’ section of an index somewhere. But we knew him and appreciated him; and besides, there is no lack of great and curious personalities. They are always being born somewhere.

Silence.

“I almost hit a deer the other night,” volunteered Mr. Dowdley. So had I, and I said so.

“I just missed him. Nicked him with my rear bumper.” A slurp of coffee. “I won’t be so lucky next time. There’s no shortage of deer.”

Was he in reading my mind? or had they put something in the coffee? They might call it “Fatalspresso,” or perhaps “Dark-Roasted Reverie Grandé.” In any case, we had exhausted our capacity for conversation, and I knew it, and he knew it, and we both knew it. At length we put on our gloves and left.

— JD