The Stare

I don’t remember much about my kindergarten year in Yokohama, Japan, but I do recall I enjoyed every minute of it. That’s where I played hooky for the first time (I went fishing), and that’s where I was served my first fish that still had its head on it.  Minutes before the meal, I was lead to the restaurant’s indoor trout pond and waterfall, where I was given a bamboo pole with a dough ball neatly wrapped around a tiny hook. Three seconds after dipping the line in, I yanked a pan-sized trout out of the water. Zip, zang! The trout – - MY trout – - was clipped with a double, V-shaped identifying tail-notch. Flipping and flapping, the trout was quickly carried off into the restaurant’s steamy kitchen.

Thanks, kid -- I see you!

After a while, a waiter delivered the very same fish to our dining table. He pointed at the double, V-shaped tail-notch and grinned, but I was more interested in the fish’s head end, where a single, crispy-fried eyeball stared up at me from a bed of fluffy, white rice and lettuce.

I fiddled with my chopsticks.

“What’s the matter, young man?” asked my father. “You love fish.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But this one’s LOOKING at me!”

Mom reached across the table and sliced off the fish’s head with a knife. She wrapped the head in her napkin and placed it beside her plate. “There,” she said. “Just like the way Grandpa cooks them.”

Wink, Wink!

I ate the fish, but had a difficult time keeping my eyes from wandering to Mom’s folded napkin. The trout’s nose was sticking out of a corner, and I knew the rest of the head was waiting for the napkin to slip just so it could sneak another peek at me.

Soon, the meal was finished, the table cleared, and Mom’s napkin forgotten. Later that night I laid awake and thought about the trout.

I think that was the first time I realized there was a difference between the fish I caught back home — the headless and anonymous kind that Grandpa cleaned when nobody was looking — and the more personal one I had yanked out of that Japanese Restaurant’s trout pond. No doubt, if I had been that fish, I, too, would want to stare at whomever was eating me.

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Simply Tim Splits the Atom

One day Mom and Dad bought me a chemistry set. The outside of the box boasted “101 SAFE PROJECTS FOR CHILDREN”. I think Mom, Dad, and the manufacturer underestimated me.

For my first experiment I decided to make sulfuric acid. Although “How to make Sulfuric Acid” was not listed in the kit’s table of contents, the Athens, Greece library supplied me with more than enough information to get started. I carefully bubbled sulfur fumes through an Erlenmeyer flask containing water I had distilled in the first half of the lab session. This produced a weak solution of H2SO4 (sulfuric acid), which turned the litmus paper the proper color.

Oh, boy!

Mom poked her head into my bedroom. “What are you making?” she asked. “That smells HORRIBLE!”

“It’s just sulfur dioxide, Mom.” I responded. “Smells just like rotten eggs!”

Later, I distilled the weak acid solution, producing a thick syrup. A fresh piece of litmus paper turned bright RED even without submersing it in the fluid. Just the FUMES turned it red.

Oh, BOY!

About a week later Mom noticed a dime-sized hole that had been burned through my bedroom laboratory’s carpet. “What’s THAT?” she asked, pointing the way only mothers can do.

“I must have spilled something on the rug,” I said. “You know, something nasty from that chemistry set.”

Mom was shocked. “Where is the chemistry set now?” she demanded.

“Don’t worry. I threw it away. What I REALLY want is a Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab!”

Quote from above link: “The set came with four types of uranium ore, a beta-alpha source (Pb-210), a pure beta source (Ru-106), a gamma source (Zn-65?), a spinthariscope, a cloud chamber with its own short-lived alpha source (Po-210), an electroscope, a geiger counter, a manual, a comic book (Dagwood Splits the Atom) and a government manual “Prospecting for Uranium.”‘

Sure enough, several weeks later Dad brought home a Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab. He was obviously pleased with my continued interest in science, and possibly hoped for a budding nuclear physicist gracing the family tree.

The first thing I did was put some of the uranium powder into the sample of the sulfuric acid I had made…

Those were the days.

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HO Trains

Fleischmann makes the best.

While my family was stationed near Athens Greece in 1960, I convinced Dad that I was serious about collecting “HO” trains. HO trains are tiny, scaled down versions of the more familiar “Lionel” trains. Within a week Dad was hard at work constructing a train “layout” in one our spare rooms. I knew I was in for a treat—  Dad never did ANYTHING half way.

Realism at its finest.

Over the span of a few months, the layout grew to astronomical proportions. Tunnels, round-house switching tables, push button roadway switches, whistles, tiny towns complete with people, street lights, trees, ponds, cows— you name it. The control panel looked like a nuclear reactor’s control room. Six different engines could be operated at the same time. An engineering degree was required just to turn the power on. Great stuff!

Issue # 1

But eventually we had to move back to the States. By then the train table was so large it couldn’t fit through the door. And FORGET shipping! Dad convinced me the best approach was to SELL the whole setup. One of his Greek coworkers agreed to buy the contents of the room. With tears in my eyes I watched a reciprocating saw slice “ANYTOWN USA” into four separate pieces.

A couple of years ago I picked up a model train magazine, and nearly ALL of my six German “Fleischmann” HO trains (circa 1959-1960) had become collector’$  items. But that’s okay. During that same move back to the United States, I lost my entire comic book collection, including the “Fantastic Four” Issue #1 (1961).

Flame ON!

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Vapor Lock

I started three different Simply Tims yesterday with an eye towards the Tuesday RDJ deadline for today’s Simply Tim column. After a while, I realized I had absolutely nothing of interest to write about; that after nearly 13 years of writing Simply Tim columns, I had entered into that nefarious fog-shrouded twilight zone known as “writer’s block”.

“Writer’s block” is not an accurate description of the affliction. “Brain Dead” is much more definitive.

Our family Buick was 2-tone. Orange and cream. It became my first car. Looked great with a surfboard on top.

Back in the day, I remember our 1956 Buick Special suffering bouts of what was then called “vapor lock”,  and one time in particular, my family coasting some 20 miles down the side of Mount Olympus while enjoying an entertaining two-week Greek vacation. “Coasting” — because (according to Dad) — “vapor lock” prevented the Buick from starting, and was caused by the lack of a proper mixture of oxygen and fuel being sucked into the mysterious chambers of something called a “carburetor”, whatever THAT was. Apparently, carburetors were already on their way out back then, but we just hadn’t realized it yet, because nowadays they aren’t used in new cars.

So, I think I’m suffering from VAPOR LOCK rather than a temporary case of “writer’s block”, because — as you can see — I have no problem writing about something even when I don’t know what I’m writing about.

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Watch It

Alarm set for 9 o'clock

I always admired my father’s Benrus alarm watch. He used the alarm to remind himself of everything. It was the neatest watch in the whole wide world.

“BUZZZ!” I can still hear that sound and see Dad glancing at that Benrus, remembering an important meeting or something he needed to do. How cool was that?

Dad and I lost our watches somewhere next to a lifeboat in-between those two stacks, while learning an important life lesson.

On our way back to the States after assignment in Greece, our ship — the SS United States — docked briefly in Naples, Italy, where we were accosted by a young urchin selling watches on a street corner. Dad ended up falling in love with a gold-gilded beauty, and bought it on the spot. Later, as the ship passed through the Straits of Gibraltar, he said, “I want you to have this.” He gave me the Benrus alarm watch. “Don’t wear it until we get a chance to shorten the band.”

For two days I was in ecstasy secretly wearing that watch. It eventually slipped off my arm and fell overboard. Dad found me crying on the top deck that night, staring out at the cold Atlantic and our ship’s churning, phosphorescent wake. I explained what had happened. He removed his new watch and tossed it over the side.

His wrist had already begun to turn green from wearing it. “We both learned a lesson,” he said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

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A Letter from Sendai

Tim says: I am pleased to be able to post this uplifting letter sent to a friend of mine from Sendai, Japan. At a time when horrific images fill television screens worldwide, it is a “blessing” to see humanity working at its best. Perhaps there is a valuable lesson to be learned here. I certainly hope so. I was asked to remove all name references, which I have done.

–Tim

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A Letter from Sendai

3/14/2011

Things here in Sendai have been rather surreal. But I am very blessed to have wonderful friends who are helping me a lot. Since my shack is even more worthy of that name, I am now staying at a friend’s home. We share supplies like water, food and a kerosene heater. We sleep lined up in one room, eat by candlelight, share stories. It is warm, friendly, and beautiful. During the day we help each other clean up the mess in our homes. People sit in their cars, looking at news on their navigation screens, or line up to get drinking water when a source is open. If someone has water running in their home, they put out a sign so people can come to fill up their jugs and buckets.

It’s utterly amazingly that where I am there has been no looting, no pushing in lines. People leave their front door open, as it is safer when an earthquake strikes. People keep saying, “Oh, this is how it used to be in the old days when everyone helped one another.” Quakes keep coming. Last night they struck about every 15 minutes. Sirens are constant and helicopters pass overhead often. We got water for a few hours in our homes last night, and now it is for half a day. Electricity came on this afternoon. Gas has not yet come on. But all of this is by area. Some people have these things, others do not. No one has washed for several days. We feel grubby, but there are so much more important concerns than that for us now. I love this peeling away of non-essentials. Living fully on the level of instinct, of intuition, of caring, of what is needed for survival, not just of me, but of the entire group.

There are strange parallel universes happening. Houses a mess in some places, yet then a house with futons or laundry out drying in the sun. People lining up for water and food, and yet a few people out walking their dogs. All happening at the same time. Other unexpected touches of beauty are first, the silence at night. No cars. No one out on the streets. And the heavens at night are scattered with stars. I usually can see about two, but now the whole sky is filled. The mountains in Sendai are solid and with the crisp air, we can see them silhouetted against the sky magnificently.

And the Japanese themselves are so wonderful. I come back to my shack to check on it each day, now to send this e-mail since the electricity is on, and I find food and water left in my entranceway. I have no idea from whom, but it is there. Old men in green hats go from door to door checking to see if everyone is OK. People talk to complete strangers asking if they need help. I see no signs of fear. Resignation, yes, but fear or panic, no.

They tell us we can expect aftershocks, and even other major quakes, for another month or more. And we are getting constant tremors, rolls, shaking, rumbling. I am blessed in that I live in a part of Sendai that is a bit elevated, a bit more solid than other parts. So, so far this area is better off than others. Last night my friend’s husband came in from the country, bringing food and water. Blessed again.

Somehow at this time I realize from direct experience that there is indeed an enormous Cosmic evolutionary step that is occurring all over the world right at this moment. And somehow as I experience the events happening now in Japan, I can feel my heart opening very wide. My brother asked me if I felt so small because of all that is happening. I don’t. Rather, I feel as part of something happening that much larger than myself. This wave of birthing (worldwide) is hard, and yet magnificent.

Thank you again for your care and Love of me, With Love in return, to you all,

(name withheld by request)

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Read the Directions

One book that changed my life forever was “Any Bright Boy can build a Motor”. I was about eight years old, living overseas, and the dusty cover stared back at me from the Embassy library racks, calling out my name: “Psssst! Tim, try me — you’re a bright boy!”

The materials required to build the motor included a large cork, a wooden block, some wire, two iron nails, and a dry cell battery.  One nail was to be driven through the cork such that an equal portion protruded from each side of the cork, onto which wire was tightly counter-wound in opposing directions. This newly wound cork armature sat impaled atop the center post and was supposed to spin “furiously” when the wires were hooked up to the battery.

Each attempt failed miserably, and when I approached Dad for help he suggested I first read the directions, and if that didn’t help, then he’d join in and help.

Maybe I wasn’t so bright after all.

I had made no progress a week later. At best, the motor sat and vibrated nervously. Finally, Dad offered his assistance. His first step was, of course, to READ THE DIRECTIONS. Several times, in fact. But each time he rearranged the wiring and hooked up the battery, the motor failed to spin. And each time I mimicked out loud: “Read the directions!”

This approach did not go over well, but it made me feel much better about myself. Eventually, Dad agreed: the book was, unequivocally, incorrect, and that we had every reason to feel justified in venting our mutual frustrations.

Success became a nightly undertaking, a father and son mission. A meeting of the minds. A quest.  About a week later — through a brutal process of trial and error while sipping Mom’s lemonade — we successfully built a functioning motor. And sure enough, the spiked cork whirled “furiously” around and ’round and ’round. But it was way more than that:  it was — redemption.

We placed the whirligig on a kitchen counter and let it spin for several days until the battery gave out. It was a wonderfully slow demise. Dad and I enjoyed every minute of it.

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Tim says: here’s a link to a set of up-to-date cork motor directions.

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Silver Globules of the Sun

I once had the pleasure while growing up in a military family of traveling to the Isle of Capri off the shores of Italy. One afternoon, a very persuasive taxi cab driver talked Dad into a privately-guided tour of the famous “Blue Grotto”. The driver’s name was “Mickey Mouse“, and I’ll never forget him. Mickey Mouse insisted on picking us up at the hotel on the following morning at a very particular time. “The sun will be right,” was all he said.

The next day Mickey drove the four of us (Mom, Dad, my sister and me) down to the waterfront where we were loaded into one of Mickey’s rowboats. Quite an entrepreneur, this Mickey. With an economy of strokes Mickey Mouse rowed us to what seemed to be an island outcropping of rock. Seabirds swooped above us. On one side of the island of rock was a small tidal opening to a dark cave. Mickey Mouse pulled the boat through the narrow tunnel and suddenly we were inside an immense, cathedral-like cavern. The surrounding walls did not penetrate all the way to the bottom of the watery cave. Instead, silver light bounced upward from daylight outside the cave reflecting off the white and sky-tinted sand some thirty feet below. The bottom-lighting effect caught my breath.

Mickey pointed and swished the oars across the surface, scattering showers of silver pearls into the darkness, where they splashed  like hot, silvery beads of mercury on a polished mirror.  We were the only folks inside the Blue Grotto, and Mickey Mouse tossed me a bathing suit,  motioning to the water. “You, swim.”

Embarrassed to change clothes in front of my sister, I declined until I stuck my fingers over the side and splashed the water. Silver globules of the sun shot up from my hands, dripped through my fingers, an erupting blue-white volcano silhouetted by dark shadows cast upward from my fingers. That did it. I stripped to my underwear, tossed Mickey’s bathing suit aside, and dived overboard, where I played for half an hour within the most incredible light show the world had ever seen.

If you are able to visit the Isle of Capri, I highly recommend you find one of Mickey Mouse’s great grandsons, and visit the “Blue Grotto”.

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