Rain Ghost

“Do you think it’ll rain” — Dad, whenever it rained heavily

It’s pouring outside. The autumnal Oregon rainfall set in two or three weeks early this year, taking away the last few days of September, and making early October swampish.

Right now the rain is roaring down in torrents outside my office window. Whenever it rains like this — whenever it is stormy — I’m reminded of my father. He loved this weather. All my strong memories of stormy days revolve around him.

I remember working with him outside in the rain, building things, digging things, burning things. I remember driving with him in the rain. I remember how he especially loved a stormy day at the beach.

At various points throughout his life, he owned a boat. In his final years, he kept this boat tied up in Astoria. I’m convinced that the only reason he did this was so that he could have a place to enjoy the storms of autumn, winter, and spring.

Dad has been dead more than twelve years now, and I don’t think of him on a daily basis. But there are certain things — songs, smells, occurrences — that will freeze me in my tracks, as if his presence were palpable. Stormy weather always does this. Always.

An Englishman in New York

O Foldedspacians — the few, the proud, the brave. I have no idea if this entry can even be posted once I reach New York, but at least I’ll give it a try. We’re over the Atlantic Ocean, due south of Iceland, literally chasing the sunset. We left London Heathrow at 20:30 local time and are scheduled to land at New York JFK at 22:38. What that means is a two hour sunset stretched to seven hours in length. Of course all I can see is an ocean of clouds below — we’re cruising at 9,753 meters (32,000 feet for those of you in Oregon City).

When we land, we’ll still have two or three hours of Stuff before we’re actually able to get to sleep (at 1 or 2 Eastern — 10 or 11 Pacific). Basically, we’ll have been up for 24 hours straight!

Why haven’t I posted sooner? The reality is I haven’t had time to post before now. I have five hours of down time now before we land. That’s the largest block of time I’ve had since the flight from Portland to London. As a guy who likes his alone time, you can imagine how I must feel.

So how has our trip been? It’s been great, but not without bumpy spots. It’s been l-o-n-g, that much is for sure. And I miss the cats. Even Toto.

We arrived in London on the 15th of July and spent a couple days hitting all the major tourist sites. We saw Big Ben. We saw Westminster Abbey. We saw the London Eye. It was awesome to be in the presence of such history. I love the juxtaposition of the modern with the ancient. I loved seeing sights I’d only read about in books.

My feet hurt for the first several days. I heeded advice from a close friend — Dave, I’m looking at you — that said, “Don’t wear sneakers in London. You’ll stick out as a tourist.” First of all, I was traveling with Kris’ parents, who graciously funded this trip, but who are dead giveaways as tourists. Secondly, there are plenty of Londoners who wear “trainers”. Sure, they don’t wear them to the office, but so what? They wear them because they’re comfortable. Based on the advice I’d received, I picked up a new pair of shoes before the trip. Big mistake. My feet hurt for the first 50 miles.

Since I’ve walked a lot on this trip, however, the shoes were eventually broken in. I’m over 120 miles on them now in sixteen days, with more to go in New York. I hope to have clocked 150 miles by the time we fly home on Friday.

The walking has actually been the highlight of the trip. The best times have been those where I’ve left the group and wandered off on my own, strolling across London or Dublin, setting my own pace.

My favorite part of the trip so far: Avebury

Another highlight was the three-day car trip we took across the English countryside. Despite the great things we saw, London was mostly underwhelming. It all seemed so ordinary. I’d expected more. The English countryside, however, did not disappoint. Again Dave was the purveyor of misinformation. (Dave, it’s almost like your trip to England was to a different country.) He’d warned that driving in the U.K. was a surreal affair, with narrow unmarked country roads and confusing roundabouts.

There were many roundabouts, it’s true, but we found the roads well-marked. There were places with narrow roads, too, but they were mainly in the villages, and these spots were plainly marked to indicate who yielded to whom. In fact, Tiffany (my navigator) and I came to prefer driving in the U.K. to driving in the U.S. The traffic laws make sense. I wish I could be more articulate, but I can’t. Everything seemed obvious and we wondered why Americans haven’t adopted certain practices. I also found British drivers pleasantly polite.

Now Irish drivers — that’s another matter. Everything Dave had told me about driving in Britain certainly applies to Ireland. I can’t imagine a worse hell than driving in Dublin. (Note: I didn’t actually do any driving in Ireland, but I walked many miles through Dublin, and took all sorts of rail and bus tours across the country.)

Here’s where I had a completely different experience from another set of friends. Paul and Amy Jo visited Ireland a year or two ago and they loved it. I was nonplused. Dublin seems like Portland, but dirtier and with a little more history. Ireland seems like Oregon, but with a better climate. (Meaning it’s cool and showery, even in the summer.)

The ring of Kerry -- Ladies' Rest, I think

The Irish countryside is beautiful — very much like Oregon.

We found the Irish people rather surly, especially as drivers. They were worse than American drivers! The Irish are also very dirty. The country has an annual “clean towns” contest. This contest isn’t there because the towns are naturally clean — no, it’s because of the opposite, in fact. It’s meant as positive encouragement to clean up the mess. We visited a town that had won the “cleanest town” award several times (Killarney maybe?) and I had to laugh at how messy the streets were. The Irish particularly have a problem with chewing gum. The sidewalks of Dublin are pockmarked with the stuff. It’s bizarre. There’s a country-wide campaign to deal with the problem, but it doesn’t help.

Also, the Irish drink. A lot. But then you probably knew that. They also smoke like crazy. I thought London was filled with smokers, but it’s nothing compared to the near constant presence of cigarettes in Dublin.

I’m sure that Ireland has its charms, but we saw few of them. I don’t mean to make it sound like a bad experience, because it certainly wasn’t. It just wasn’t what I had expected. It was like something out of a depressing U2 song.

We’d also heard bad things about the food in both England and Ireland, but again we found these notions to be false. The quality of the food was good in both places. It’s the selection that is lacking. Dining out in both countries centers around the pub, which is well and good if it’s a once or twice per week thing, but when it’s every day (twice a day), it gets old. Ploughman’s? Jacket potatoes? Fish and chips? Mmmm…. Which one haven’t I had in 24 hours?

(I have to confess that the pub around the corner from our London hotel has an awesome dessert: a Texas fudge cake (a common dessert in both countries) surrounded by warm vanilla pudding. Y-u-m-m-o.)

I’m sure this sounds mostly like complaining, but I don’t mean it to. I’ve had a good time. I’m glad to have seen these two countries, or parts of them anyhow. I’m grateful to Chris and Claudia for heavily subsidizing this vacation.

When I return, though — and I will return — I’m going to do things differently. I’m not going to Ireland (unless Paul and Amy Jo are able to provide persuasive proof that I ought to try again). I’m going to focus most of my time on rural England, which is what I truly loved visiting.

Now, however, it’s time to turn our attentions on New York. We have Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday in the city (as well as a bit of Friday, I believe). We’ll lose much of tomorrow to sleeping in (I hope). Thursday is spent at Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. And one night we’re scheduled to go see Wicked. That leaves us about a day-and-a-half to pack in the rest of the city. It’s not going to happen, of course, but we can give it a shot.

Meanwhile, Anil is still working on trying to get this weblog repaired. I appreciate his help. I hope to have things working by mid-August. If things stay broken, I’m just going to pack everything off to WordPress.

I hope you’re all doing well. I miss my kitties…

p.s. My fantasies of surviving a mid-air catastrophe over the Atlantic Ocean are just that: fantasies. (You wouldn’t believe how much imaginative time I’ve put into this scenario.) It’s frickin’ cold up here — -53 degrees centigrade. (Those of you in Oregon City will have to convert that number yourselves…)

An Englishman in New York

So how has our trip been? It’s been great, but not without bumpy spots. It’s been l-o-n-g, that much is for sure. And I miss the cats. Even Toto.

The walking has actually been the highlight of the trip. The best times have been those where I’ve left the group and wandered off on my own, strolling across London or Dublin, setting my own pace.

My favorite part of the trip so far: Avebury

The Irish countryside is beautiful — very much like Oregon.

I hope you’re all doing well. I miss my kitties…

Fly Like an Eagle

We’re off!

Matt is safely ensconced as housesitter (soon to be relieved by Paul and Amy Jo), Get Rich Slowly has four weeks’ worth of posts scheduled (just in case I don’t feel like writing upon return), and everything is packed.

Upon the advice of many, I’ve put almost everything into a single carry-on sized suitcase (which I do plan to check, actually). The stuff I want for the plane ride is in a backpack with an extra set of clothes.

I’m bringing a minimum of gadgetry. That is to say, I’m probably taking more gadgets than you would take, but less than my natural instincts dictate. I have a digital camera. I have an iPod. And I have the small Mac laptop, which I haven’t really used since last November. (That’s when I got my large MacBook Pro — that beast isn’t travel-worthy.)

If I ever travel regularly, which I hope to do some day, this will be Too Much Stuff. But it’s a start. It’s much less than I took to San Francisco last fall.

If all goes well — and my blog software doesn’t hang — I’ll be making posts from the road. Video posts even!

Take care, my friends. See you in three weeks…

Jarhead

This entry was written by Kris.

I’ll admit it: I’m obsessed with jars. I’m not a collector or anything, but I have a strange attraction to smooth glass objects, especially those I can fill with pickles or salsa, jams, tomato soup or summer fruit. Of course, canning jars are reusable, and J.D. and I have emptied many during our winter and spring meals, but I also gave about a hundred away last Christmas for various gifts and I wanted to replace them — cheap.

When our street had its annual garage sale last Thursday though Sunday, that was my quest: canning jars. I found a couple nice ones for $1 apiece up the road but they were “for pretty”, too old and irregular for actual use. I was still in need of jars for canning this year’s batches of goods when Amy Jo forwarded a Craiglist posting for jars for sale. I glanced through the ad — very detailed, lots of jars, decent prices — but it was farther than I wanted to drive. After deliberating, I decided to call anyway and see what was up.

“Hi,” I say “I’m calling about the jars you’re selling through Craiglist. I’m interested in buying some and wondered if I could come out today.”

“What kind of jars do you want?” asks a powerful male voice.

I explain that I want wide-mouth pints and half-pints.

“Fat chance,” he laughs, I’ve only got about nine cases of those — you better come today or there won’t be any left. How many do you want?”

Well, I want four or five cases, so it seems like there is plenty for me, but it makes me wonder: Are people thronging to this jar sale? Am I going to be left out?

Then he proceeds to quiz me on what I’m going to use the jars for. My answers (pickles, jams, salsas) meet only halfway approval. He is skeptical. I try to laugh it off and explain I also am interested in seeing some of his more decorative vintage jars. Again, I get the third degree.

“I won’t sell ’em to you if you’re using them for wedding candles or something and are just going to throw them away. You’ve got to understand, these are jars of quality.”

I reassure him. I get long and very detailed directions to his house.

Then he tells me to bring boxes. And he tells me exactly what kind of boxes to bring: whiskey bottle boxes and chardonnay boxes — with dividers. “Stop at the liquor store on your way,” he orders. “I won’t sell you any jars if you don’t have the right kind of boxes. And if your boxes are dirty, you’re not getting any jars.” Wow. Okay, now I want more than ever to meet this guy with the jars. I tell him I’ll be there around noon. J.D.’s up for the adventure and we pick up Rhonda, who actually knows a lot about jars and has a varied collection of her own, and head east. [J.D.’s note: Rhonda actually has a book about jars, a price guide. She’s the one who is obsessed.]

Upon arrival, I ring the doorbell. The three of us look up at a voice coming from the upstairs window and see a bearded face peering down. “I’m Kris,” I say, “I called about the jars.”

“Oh! You’re early! Let me put some pants on!” The time is exactly 11:53. We are seven minutes early.

Once he meets us at the garage, the jar-man’s first words are, “Let me see your boxes.” I cringe.

We have two boxes with dividers from my basement, but the boxes from the liquor store (which we were amazed was even open on a Sunday) are divider-less. For a moment, all hangs in the balance, and I fear he will turn us away. I hold my breath. But hurray, the boxes are at least clean and he permits us to stay and buy his jars.

For the next two hours, we hear more than we ever wanted to know about jars, lids to jars, boxes for jars, where to find old jars, how to clean jars, how to protect jars, what to use certain types of jars for, and so on. The jar-man knows jars. He is seemingly torn between the necessity of selling the jars (this appears to be his livelihood) and the overwhelming desire to keep every jar currently in his garage (which he numbers at 4000). We learn that Oregon is a much better source of old jars than his previous state of residence, California. And we learn why.

Boxes of jars and loose jars fill the garage. To show us the contents of any particular box involves moving the loose jars stacked on top of the boxes. When Rhonda and I try to help, he takes the jars from our hands. Wisely, J.D. (who is not clumsy), gets out of the way and assumes the task of carefully packing our purchased jars into our boxes according to the jar-man’s instructions (involving newspaper, strips of corrugated and brown paper sacks). We are not allowed to take the jar-man’s boxes, which are of a type that is not longer produced. I don’t really blame him, but it makes the purchasing and packing process very long.

Rhonda and I both choose some modern jars for canning and take a look at various types of run-of-the-mill vintage jars. The jar-man keeps a handwritten tally of our purchases.

After a while, the jar-man decides we are okay. He takes us inside to see the “good jars”. This is what Rhonda was hoping for. It appears he does actually have some rare collectible jars, but as he proudly shows them to us, one by one, he seems to decide they cannot be sold. Each jar is special and precious, and cannot be parted with. In the end, he does sell Rhonda two nice jars, not especially rare, but for a good price.

Time drags on and now I have seen enough to know which jars I want, but getting them is another story. It takes me almost another hour to wheedle and cajole him into releasing the jars. It is while he is tallying my purchases that I notice he is wearing two different shoes, both repaired. I can barely keep from laughing. Also, I keep noticing that for such an odd man, he appears to have surprisingly good teeth. I think at this point I am delirious for lack of lunch.

We make our way to the car but the jar-man follows, telling the tale of an old woman who has a monster load of jars, but she won’t sell them to him. “She thinks they’re worth way too much,” he sneers, “but wait till she drops dead. Her people will sell me the jars for cheap.” J.D. starts the engine, but the jar-man is still clinging to my open door. I make a move for the handle and he gets the message. I shout, “Thanks! Thanks for the great jars.” And I’m not kidding.

I am very happy with my jars; they are just what I was looking for, at a reasonable price, clean and in good shape. And although jar-man was odd, I sort of admire him. What a passion for jars! I imagine his frugal lifestyle, completely supported by jar commerce. Not a bad way to live. Now I really know what it’s like to be obsessed with jars.

[J.D.’s note: Two hours at the jar-man’s house was far too long for me, especially since I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I zoned out by taking in my surroundings. He had amazing tomato plants. And peppers. And nine eggplants. His home was sparesely furnished. The living room had red shag carpet, a seldom-used sectional, a stack of vinyl records, and boxes filled with rare jars. On the side of his fridge he kept a calendar on which he recorded the temperature three times each day, as well as the overall weather conditions and the amount of rainfall. The jar-man apparently did a lot of canning himself; his shelves were full of jams and jellies and pickles. His lawn needed to be mowed.]

Cat Time

When Kris and I lived in Canby, we had a summer ritual. During the evenings, when it was warm, we would take a walk through the neighborhood. We’d head down Sixth street, take a right on Fir, stroll over to Eighth or Ninth, and then head home once we’d reached the highway. It was a pleasant, familiar pastime.

It didn’t take long to become accustomed to develop rituals. Kris would stop to look at the gardens that particularly pleased her. I picked up flyers from in front of any home that was for sale. But our top ritual was the counting of the cats.

I’m not sure how we began, but soon after starting our walks, we discovered that there’s a certain part of the evening that might be dubbed “Cat Time”. After dinner, about an hour before dusk, when the heat of the day has begun to fade, the cats came out to take their ease. They sat in the grass, or under cars, or by the curb. In some places they would gather in twos and threes, but most often they would sit alone, watching.

We would count them as we walked. In fact, we would place bets as we started out. The first person would pick a number, and the second would call “higher” or “lower”. The fewest cats we ever saw during Cat Time was seven — the most was twenty-nine.

Kris would stop to pet her favorite cats. At one house on Ninth there lived a cat we called Cookie. Cookie was a whore. When he saw Kris, he would prance down the driveway and roll at her feet. I would sigh and sit on the curb as Cookie and Kris exchanged their affections. There were other cats who were glad to see her, too.

Cookie was not this cat’s real name. His real name was probably something like Tom or Mario or Bubba. We named him Cookie ourselves. We’ve always named the cats we meet if we don’t know what they’re really called. So, along our walk, we had names for the thirty-or-so various cats we encountered on a regular basis.

Spurge was the cat next door, so named because he was always in our yard, like a noxious weed. Thirteen was the beautiful orange cat that lived on Fir. He got his name because the first time we saw him, he was the thirteenth cat on our walk. Otot looked just like Toto. Dee and Dum were the twin Persians that lived near the Bemises. Sad to say, I can’t remember many of the other cats’ names, though at one time I knew all thirty.

I mentioned this story to introduce the concept of Cat Time. For fifteen years, we’ve been under the impression that Cat Time was about an hour before the sun set. Not so.

I’ve been rising at 4 a.m. for the past week. I tumble out of bed and immediately head out the door for a walk around the block. After seven days of this, I can assure you that Cat Time does not occur during daylight. Cat Time is 4 a.m. You would not believe how many cats I see in my sixteen minute stroll through the neighborhood. Where do they all come from?

This morning I passed a gang of cats. There was a cluster of five or six of them sitting in the middle of Arista, sitting near each other, but not too close. (Those of you with cats know what I mean.) They were having a meeting about something, and I could not help but think that their subject was me. “What should we do with the interloper? How can we get him to stay in bed? He’s violating our sacred hour! Let’s speak with Simon about it. Maybe he can do something…”

There’s good news and bad news on the sugar front. I made it through my week without sugar. So far it’s the most difficult thing I’ve done on my list of goals. It frickin’ sucked.

I allowed myself to eat fruit, but that was about it. No cookies, no candy, no cake. No white starchy foods. No condiments.

So I made it through that week of hell. That’s the good news. The bad news is that my wellness coach, Lauren, has asked me to do this for two weeks instead of just one. So, I’m just half-way through. Argh!

I just had a grapefruit for breakfast, which was a pleasing combination of sour and sweet, but it’s just not the same as a couple of delicious Sno-Balls, you know?

I Learn Ping-Pong

Kris told this story around work last week to the amusement of all her little friends. I’ll do my best to reconstruct how she told it, but no guarantees that it’ll be as funny.

One of my goals lately has been to “just say yes” when people ask me to do things. So long as the requests don’t violate my morals (no drugs, no sex with goats), and so long as I have the time, I’m giving new things a try. I’m not just saying “no” out of fear and trepidation.

Charlie Lam, my grade school soccer coach, stopped by work a couple weeks ago. He came by to evangelize his table tennis club. He tried to convince Jeff to join, but he wasn’t interested, so Charlie turned his sights on me. I’ve always like table tennis, and I have nothing going on Tuesday nights (except writing — but then I’m always writing), so I agreed to give it a try. “Just say yes.”

So I went to play table tennis a couple weeks ago. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. How good would the other players be? Charlie had assured me that most everyone was just a beginner. “Do you remember Danny Hunt?” he had asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Is Danny playing?”

“No,” he said. “But Danny’s mom is playing.”

Playing table tennis with Charlie and his group brought back a flood of old memories. He was my soccer coach for four years (five?) when I was a boy. I was always intimidated by him, though I’m not sure why. His son, Torey, was a good friend of mine. They lived a half mile away, so we spent a lot of time together. I was on Torey’s horse when my brother Tony ran into it with a bike, causing the animal to throw me to the ground and step on me.

Anyhow, playing table tennis with Charilie and his group felt like old times. He took some time to teach me proper form on my forehand. I didn’t do a good job (and even at my second session the other night I was having trouble), but I tried. We did drills together. We played some mini-games in which other players and I competed to be “king of the hill” (or “king of the table”, in this case).

Eventually, we played some full games. The rules have changed in recent years, I guess. I was confused at first. For example, the serve alternates every two points now instead of every five points. There are infinite “lets” on the serve. The ball must be tossed into the air on service, and must be struck behind the table. The biggest change, though, is that a game goes to eleven points, not 21.

Anyhow, I did well. I won several games, which made me happy. Not bad for my first night. I drove home in a great mood.

“So how was ping-pong?” Kris asked when I got home.

“Exhausting,” I said. “But fun. I’ll go back next week.” I told her all about the night. I told her how I was able to beat a lot of the other players.

“That’s great,” she said. “Who else was there?”

“Oh, nobody you’d know,” I said, getting ready for bed. “It was mostly just a bunch of fifth- and sixth-graders.”

That, my friends, is the story that delights my wife. I don’t think it’s quite as funny as she does. Those kids are good. They’ve been practicing for a while. I’m just starting. Still, Kris yuks it up every time she thinks about me gloating over twelve-year-olds.

Ambrosia Pie, and Other Recipes from the 1940s

More and more, Kris is becoming my partner on these blogs. Here she provides a guest entry for foldedspace.

Over the past few months, I’ve entered hundreds of recipes into MacGourmet, a computerized recipe database. While working on my recipe project this weekend, I came across an old mimeographed and bound cookbook put together in 1947 when both my grandparents and great-grandparents were working for a naval base in California. I thought you’d get a chuckle out of these.

Ambrosia Pie (Great Grandmother)
1 pint heavy cream
16 large ginger snaps, + 2 extra for garnish
2 tsp vanilla
2 Tbsp sugar
9″ graham cracker pie crust
This is an ice-box dessert and should be prepared 6-8 hours before use. Whip the cream so it will hold its shape but not be too dry. Break the gingersnaps into pieces about the size of a quarter and stir into the whipped cream. Add the sugar and vanilla and heap into your pie shell. Sprinkle with crushed remaining two cookies. Set in refrigerator until ready for use.

Chicken Chasseur (from Grandmother)
Take one stewing hen. Boil with 3 stalks of celery, 1 large onion, salt and 5 peppercorns. When tender, remove meat from bones, put in casserole with onions. Add parsley, sage and thyme. Pour over meat 1 cup dry white wine and 1 cup cooking liquor. Sprinkle with breadcrumbs and add 2 lumps of chicken fat. Cook in 325 degree oven for a half-hour.

Chocolate Puffs (Great Grandmother)
1 large bar Baker’s bittersweet chocolate
2 squares baking chocolate
1 package Rice Crispies cereal
Melt chocolates together in a double boiler. Pour in the Rice Crispies. Stir until they are uniformly coated in the chocolate. Drop by large spoonsful upon waxed paper and put outside to cool. This is something a child can successfully make.

Boneless Birds (from Great Grandfather)
Split the flank steak or have the butcher do it, then cut each half in half again to make 4 6″ squares. Lay flat, season well with salt and pepper. On each piece, at one end, place a piece of bacon, a sliver of dill pickle cut lengthwise, some chopped onion and a slice of garlic salami (diced small). Roll up each steak and skewer neatly with toothpicks. Fold ends together and skewer to keep contents in.
Put a teaspoon of fat in a Dutch oven and brown the “birds” well on all sides. Then, add any leftover onion, a teaspoon of vinegar, a generous dash of Worcestershire sauce. a bay leaf and a can of tomato paste. Reduce heat and cook slowly for one hour. Add water if it gets too dry.

Fruit Salad Dressing (Great Grandmother)
1 egg, well-beaten
2 Tbsp sugar
pinch salt
2 Tbsp cider vinegar
1 tsp dry mustard, heaping
1 cup heavy cream
Cook all ingredients except the cream until they get quite thick. This must be done in a double boiler. Cool. Just before you are ready to use, whip the cream quite stiff and at the last few turns of he beater, fold in the cooked mixture. Pile on top of your fruit salad and top with a cherry. This makes an excellent tangy dressing.

These recipes are so, well, vague. What are you supposed to do with the Chicken Chasseur? Eat it over noodles? By itself? And what about the ingredients? There aren’t any amounts for anything! How much parsley? Where does the chicken fat come from?

It’s not just the vagueness that shocks our modern sensibilities. The very notion of eating some of these things puts my stomach ill-at-ease. Ambrosia pie? It’s just whipped cream with soggy cookies! And what’s up with that fruit salad dressing? (Just reading the ingredients makes J.D. sick.)

Aside from the “ick” factor, reading recipes like this should remind us that we need to provide specific weights and measures when we write things down for friends and family. (At least if we want our recipes to be prepared by our descendants.) Who knows if a package of Rice Krispies from 1947 is the same size as it is now. How much, exactly, is “one large bar of Baker’s bittersweet chocolate”? And how about “16 large ginger snaps”?

I’ve only posted the silliest recipes here, but I found my great-grandfather’s crepe recipe, which I remember eating in my grandmother’s house, and a braided Christmas pastry recipe that brings back fond memories. So many of our childhood memories involve food — it would be great if the recipes that we (not J.D. and I — but we as a generation) passed on were actually useable by our children. (Not to mention appetizing!)

Writing for Money: The New Way and the Old

It was late last year that I realized I could potentially make a living writing for the web. It was today that I knew that this was true. I make a modest (but decent) income at the box factory. But for the last week, my web income has equaled my income from my real job. Scary, huh?

Now this is just one week. Though I’m making good money from my writing, there are many ups and downs. But even the lows are higher than I could have imagined. On November 25th, I made $29.29 in web income. That is the last day my earnings dipped below $30. My best day was last Tuesday: I made $169.90.

Over at 2blowhards (still one of my favorite blogs), Michael writes:

Planning on getting rich writing sci-fi or fantasy novels? Think again. Tobias Buckell writes that the average advance for a first sci-fi or fantasy novel is $5000. Five years and five novels later, the average author is pulling in around $13,000 per novel.

I used to want to get rich off writing sci-fi or fantasy. Then I decided I just wanted to get rich off writing books — I didn’t care what kind. More and more, it’s clear that I may never publish a book (at least not in the traditional sense)! I’m already making twice what a sci-fi novelist makes, and I have complete control of my content. There’s little motivation for me to change directions at the moment.

Some people — and perhaps you’re one of them — look disdainfully upon web income. “You’re not making money from writing,” is a common observation. “You’re making money from advertising.” I can understand this delineation, but it’s not one that I make.

I am writing, and publishing that writing, and it’s making me money. I don’t feel guilty about it. I don’t feel as if I’m compromising anything. Did I ever dream I’d make a living writing about personal finance? Nope. But now I can’t imagine anything else I’d rather be doing.

This Day Would Have Been Enough

It’s been a strange “twilight zone” kind of week for me. On Wednesday I was interviewed by The New York Times. Yesterday I had my cataclysmic radio interview. And tonight I went roller skating for the first time in years.

I actually felt the Times interview went very well. My first newspaper interview regarding Get Rich Slowly was with the Wall Street Journal last June. The reporter was nice, but I was very wary. I didn’t trust his motives for some reason. I was always second-guessing him, and not very forthcoming. I wasn’t a good interview subject, and I realized that after the piece was published. (By the way, if anyone has a way of getting me a physical copy of the 24 June 2006 issue of the Wall Street Journal, I would be much obliged.)

In September I was interviewed for a podcast. I was much more relaxed for that interview, largely because I took the time to listen to all of the other interviews in the series. I knew what to expect. Plus, it wasn’t really live. The host and I both made some gaffes, but he just edited them out. No sweat.

So on Wednesday I spoke with Damon Darlin, who was writing a piece about how bloggers are taking up the mantle of consumer advocates. He profiled Ben Popken of The Consumerist and Gina Trapani of Lifehacker. These are bloggers I respect and sites I admire. I feel honored to be included in their company. I aspire for Get Rich Slowly to be a peer to their sites.

Yesterday, of course, I had my disastrous radio interview. I’ve already written about that.

Today I felt off-kilter from the start. I wrote a short article — suggested by Nick — about how it’s strange that people are so willing to expose themselves to advertising during the Super Bowl. It’s one of those pieces that never quite seems to gel, and yet I published it anyhow. Response has been mostly negative, and it was bumming me out until Kris told me how much she admired it. All the negative comments in the world don’t mean a whit so long as Kris likes it.

Then tonight we went roller-skating to celebrate Nikki’s ~~30th~~ 27th birthday. I haven’t been skating since Kris was still teaching at Canby. And I’ve always been awkward at it. This time was no different. I was flailing my arms and biting my lip and doing my best not to fall. I was a hazard. But I kept at it. I skated for two hours solid in the middle of a thick crowd at Oaks Park. (I was shocked by how many people were there. It was amazing.) I only fell twice (and one of the falls occurred while trying to avoid a near-collision in front of me). I developed two huge blisters on my right foot. But I kept at it. I just kept skating. By the end of the night I was skating much better.

But what’s most amazing is that for two hours I was completely in another world. Sweat was pouring down my forehead, pouring down my back. I was breathing hard, but in a good way, like after a long hike. My legs were sore. I was parched. But I didn’t care. For two hours I was transported, completely forgetting about blogs or e-mail or bad radio interviews or anything else. I was just caught up in the moment. It was bliss.

When we returned home, I had a message telling me that the New York Times article was out. The three paragraphs that profile me read as follows:

Frugality is a frequent theme among these sites, like GetRichSlowly.com. John David Roth, a 37-year-old office manager at a Portland, Ore., box manufacturer, was an avid reader of financial self-help books when he started a blog to summarize them. “You can find a lot of information on how to get rich quick,” he said, “but I know what it is like to be broke. For years, I struggled with debt.”

His site, which receives about 300,000 page views a month and makes him about $1,500 a month from advertising, reminds people of the simple things in life. For instance, he tells them to borrow books from the library, instead of buying new ones.

He just started another site, MoneyHacks.org, with more common-sense advice as well as links to other sites that save a person money, like priceprotectr.com, which tracks price drops.

Can you spot the huge error there? No it’s not using my full name instead of “J.D.” (I mentioned in our conversation that I preferred J.D.) Nor is it describing my job as “office manager”. (I did say something to the effect that I ran the office, so that’s kosher.) No, it’s much worse: the URL for Get Rich Slowly is listed as .COM instead of .ORG.

sigh

Actually, though, I don’t mind so much. I enjoyed the conversation I had with Damon Darlin the other day. He answered some of my questions, and even provided a recommendation for a book on animal intelligence. When I voiced my desire to write a book, he mentioned Gina Trapani’s recent posts about her experience publishing the Lifehacker book. (I’d already read these — and even exchanged e-mail with Gina about them — but it was kind of Damon to point them out.) Sure it would be nice to have the correct URL in the paper (and, especially, on the Times web site), but it’s not the end of the world.

Plus, I just got to spend two hours roller-skating. And that makes everything right.

[The title of this post comes from the “blurb” for dienu.com, one of my new favorite blogs. I can’t explain why exactly, but every time I visit the site I’m inspired. Part of it is the list of 101 things the author would like to do in 1001 days. But a lot of it is that saying: “This day would have been enough.” That is a motto worth living by.]