John Swinburn

Last night, after an early dinner at a nearby restaurant, we sat outside in the screened porch. We heard turkeys and various other birds. And we heard the song or call of a bird I did not know, but which I hear every evening in late spring and summer. Our friends identified it as a whippoorwill. I’ve never seen the birds making those unmistakable sounds, but I hear them without fail. I looked for information online this morning and discovered that the birds are rarely seen. From a website, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, All About Birds, I read this: Made famous in folk songs, poems, and literature for their endless chanting on summer nights, Eastern Whip-poor-wills are easy to hear but hard to see. Their brindled plumage blends perfectly with the gray-brown leaf litter of the open forests where they breed and roost. At dawn and dusk, and on moonlit nights, they sally out from perches to sweep up insects in their cavernous mouths. Last night, the moon was full and the birds serenaded us into the late evening. We stayed outside until the moon had risen sufficiently high and move sufficiently west in the sky to see it in its entirety.

Today, we will smoke the brisket our friends brought; the he of the pair had brined it and lathered it in a delightful rub that smells of coriander and rich spices. After smoking the brisket for several hours, we’ll steam it for a couple more to make pastrami. I’ve never known much about how pastrami is made. I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to make it. He brought homemade rye bread for sandwiches. The she of the pair asked us last night if we realize how fortunate we are to live where we do, here in the forest. We do.

Now, if I can keep at bay the damn cold that seemed to have taken hold last night, all will be well. A day of smoking brisket and, later, drinking milk stout to wash it down, is a day to be captured. And I’ll capture it, both in words and in photos.

Maybe it was an epiphany. Maybe it was just a conscious acknowledgement of something I’ve known all along. Whatever it was, it changed the way I looked at the world for a moment. I sat outside, inside the screen porch, sipping on a bit of gin flavored with fresh lime juice. The songs and calls of birds were loud. Their sounds were so different from one another, I knew they had to be sung by multiple birds of different families. And they were close. I strained to see the birds in trees quite close to me, but the leaves hid them. The birds were there. They were so loud they could not have been in the trees further away. But they hid behind leaves or blended so well I could not see them. I was at once frustrated that I could not see which birds were making what sounds and awestruck that I was sitting in a forest with birds so close I could probably touch them if only I could see them. And then the epiphany hit me: if I had the patience, I could learn the calls of every bird in the forest. If I had the patience, I could allow myself to absorb the lessons of nature in its own time. Just wait, I said to myself, they will show themselves. And they did. But my impatience bubbled to the surface because, while I could tell which birds made some specific sounds, I could not tell others. If I’d waited, I would have learned. Let nature teach you what you don’t know. Wait for answers. Seek them if you must, but be willing to wait if you cannot find them. Today, I understand the lesson. Will is stay with me? Probably not. I’m not one to believe all lessons apply to me. Only after too much time and too much emotion, I will learn the lessons, based in reality, are teachers.

It’s taken me only ten minutes to write this. I’ll now return to the porch to seek lessons. Or maybe I should simply let the knowledge I seek drift slowly into my brain. That’s an option a patient man would welcome. If I could be patient, I’d celebrate that state of being. Off to the porch, maybe even out into the open air, closer still to the trees that harbor birds unwilling to readily identify themselves as the vocalists.

The internet leveled the playing field. It gave the unhinged and deranged equal access to tools of mass communication, enabling those monsters the unfettered ability to share twisted philosophies with their brethren. Their virulent ideologies spread, infecting those who had theretofore been simply innocuously stupid—turning erstwhile nitwits into dangerous carriers of the contagions. The diseased dogma—spouted by people defiled by the sickness—crept out of the ether and into the streets. Mental violence morphed into physical attacks. Victims and would-be victims responded with rage and violence of their own, spilling pools of animosity and waves of fury into the thought-supply, suffocating decency and decorum under an impenetrable blanket of hate. Only through the development of a deadly ideacide, something that works in small doses like super warfarin on rats, will society expunge deadly, mutant philosophies from our midst. The ideacide, embedded in a concept as bait, will entice the miscreants attracted to poisonous ideologies. Those deviant reprobates will consume the bait and slowly but surely wither and die for lack of malignant sustenance.  Until the glorious day when a hate-specific ideacide is available for general use, we’ll either have to wear ear and eye protection to shield us from the plague or sharpen our tongues and fingers to fight tainted doctrines. Utopia, I’m afraid, exists only in our minds; and it’s different in each and every mind.

He clothed himself in invisible shackles, bands of doubt that tethered him so tightly to the lack of belief in himself that he could barely breathe. He spent his life searching for keys to the locks that kept him chained to insecurity, fearing he might one day find them and disrobe to reveal a naked emptiness so vast it would swallow his entire world.

This morning, the sky merges with the earth in a grey vapor, the air damp and heavy. The atmosphere appears to be struggling to move, the clots of fog moving in slow motion, as if deliberating their next move. Will they fly away or collapse into raindrops, washing the sky and brightening the day? Perhaps it’s neither. Perhaps, instead, this drab day will linger a while, doing its best to suffocate good cheer. People tell me Oregon is wonderful (and I know it is), but the repeated days of grey skies and rain can take their toll on the psyche. I’ve only experienced Oregon with blue skies and crisp air. Even with rain, with clouds blocking the sun, what I remember of Oregon would, I think, still be beautiful. It’s odd that I don’t have the same sense here, where I live. When the day is dark and the sky is dull—not menacing, just dull—I tend to find my mood slipping. Today, though, I won’t permit it. Today, I will forge through the fog, head high and mind clear, and embrace opportunities to enjoy life. That’s the attitude, isn’t it? Indeed it is. Just as I write this, I look out the window and see more light. The fog is thinning and the leaves of nearby trees are turning from deep, forest green, almost black, to lighter shades that beckon birds and smiles. Yes, the day will be just fine, and so will I.

[Even I, the writer of the dark, need an occasional saccharin thrown into the mix.]

I read a Facebook post that moved me almost to tears. “Almost” is a slight exaggeration. The post was made by a woman whose seventy-year-old father had served in Vietnam. Her father and another soldier broke a host of rules and left their base for several days of  unapproved rest and recuperation after a period of horrific, intense experiences in battle. Her father never saw the other soldier again and has wondered, all these years, whether he made it out of the hell-hole of the Vietnam war. The woman who posted the note was looking for her father’s savior, the guy who joined him in an unapproved time of peace in a monstrous time of war. I shared the post, in the hope that the two men will be able to reunite and share their experiences. Maybe they can bring closure to a time of their lives that was unimaginably ugly.

I wonder why it seems so hard for the average American to come to grips with the fact that the Vietnam war was an embarrassing stain on our nation and its history, yet simultaneously appreciate and honor the men and women who fought that unjust war? The people who went to war did not go because they wanted to fight. They were ordered. And many of them did not have any idea of the genesis of the war; they did what their country asked of them. They knew what they were told. They responded to the draft or to urgings to join up to “serve your country,” without fully understanding what they were being asked to do. And it wasn’t just them. The rest of the country, save a loud and ultimately victorious group of anti-war activists, blithely accepted the “need” for the war.Why do Americans feel compelled to be so black and white about everything? It’s either “love this country or leave it,” or “my country, right or wrong.” What utter bullshit. People who love their country fight injustices that would sully the name of the country. People who love their country do not blindly accept that its every action is right and just. People for whom rabid, unchecked patriotism is an absolute requisite for citizenship are horribly, insanely misguided. Disagreement with a policy does not equate to dismissal of the people who are required to implement the policy.

I am biased. I am biased against willfully stupid people. Willfully stupid people belong in cages, where they are watered, fed, and treated like livestock. Incidentally, I am in favor of humane treatment of livestock. I’ll happily feed and water them, but I won’t ask them to make public policy or contribute to society.

That having been said, it’s on to other, more positive things. In just a few hours (after I sleep and then wake), I will pick up a group of fellow writers and will drive to Little Rock to participate in the Arkansas Writers’ Conference. I’m looking forward to hearing the speakers, talking to other writers, and learning whether any of my several writing contest submissions are recognized with prizes. Frankly, I think my odds are low, but I would love to be surprised. After the conference, a group of us are going to dinner at Macaroni Grill; I haven’t been to a Macaroni Grill since I was a mere child (or close). One of our contingent is a fan, so we’ll  happily visit the restaurant; it will be an opportunity to be together in a social setting. I’ve said for a long while that one aspect that’s missing from our local writers’ club is the opportunity for frequent socializing. Writers can’t be writers without the company of other writers and a little wine. Or beer. Or hard liquor. Or…well, you know.

Just so I won’t forget to document my day, dear diary, I want to go on record as saying a guy came by today to look at the deck. He says I’ll hear from him Monday with separate bids on the following: 1) replace all deck boards; 2) replace deck ballustrade with new railing, using metal spindles in place of wood; 3) power wash, replace expansion boards, and seal driveway; 4)repair woodpecker damage on rear of house; 5) power wash, paint, and finish entire house. All I need, I’m sure, is a cool one hundred thousand dollars to pay for all this. We’ll see. At least I will have a bid. (Though I’m still waiting for a bid from a guy who came out last week and said I’d have a bit in “a day or two.”)

Have they legalized preemptive euthanasia yet? I know of some candidates.  (This slipped out without my knowledge or consent.)

Some friends will visit a week from Friday (just passed). They will bring beer, brisket (as in home-prepared corned beef), homemade rye bread, and an unquenchable desire for pastrami. The idea is that I will smoke the homemade corned beef brisket, which will result in pastrami. I trust my friend to know what to tell me to do. I am delighted to have the opportunity to do this! And, in anticipation of this fabulous taste-fest, I’ll head over to a local brew-pub later this week to buy a few growlers of ale and beer and such. Next weekend promises to be a wonderful experience of (as the female component of the friend pair says) “Men, meat, smoke and booze! What a weekend!!”

For those of  you for whom this is appropriate, I wish you an absolutely orgasmic  weekend!

Oh, yes, indeed!

There’s a lot to be angry about today. Rage courses through my veins in place of blood. But if I let that venomous fluid take hold, the day and the world will lay in ruins in a matter of hours.

So, instead, I’ll celebrate. Today, the first Friday in June, is National Doughnut Day. This day celebrates the doughnut and honors the Salvation Army Lassies, women who served doughnuts to soldiers during World War I. The trick to celebrating National Doughnut Day is eating a (or several) doughnut(s). Inasmuch as my favorite wife is usually not inclined to indulge in doughnuts, I suspect I’ll be unable to celebrate with an actual doughnut. But for anyone who wishes to celebrate on my behalf, please have a doughnut in my name.  Through my extensive contacts with doughnut aficionados throughout the land, I have learned that participating Krispy Kreme locations will give away one free doughnut today, no purchase necessary. And Dunkin Donuts will give away a free classic doughnut with the purchase of a drink, while supplies last. From 5:00 a.m. until noon, Shipley Do-Nuts will offer a free glazed doughnut to guests who buy something else. I have no idea whether any of these shops have locations in or near Hot Springs, but if they do, I expect they will be crowded with people seeking free food.

Inasmuch as it’s unlikely I’ll have a doughnut today, I’ll also celebrate the number sixty-three. Sixty-three has a long and storied past, littered with glorious successes and deeply depressing failures. Despite that ragged history of ups and downs, sixty-three has maintained its stiff upper lip, neither overly prideful in its accomplishments nor depressed and pessimistic in its failures. Sixty-three is the model of stability, never wavering even a little. You’ll never find sixty-three behaving as sixty-two or sixty-four; sixty-three is steadfast in its numeric station. Let’s all celebrate sixty-three and raise our cups of coffee in heartfelt admiration!

I spent the morning writing, then editing, then writing chapter one of the book I’ve been contemplating for a while. I should not edit at this stage, but I had to, because I’ve not settled precisely on the sequence of events (or even the events themselves) that trigger the drama I envision taking place as I write the remaining chapters.  Between bouts of writing, I conducted more research, which led to still more research, and on and on. I know more about domestic and international nuclear agencies (until I forget) than I ever wanted to know. And I know bits and pieces about the White Flint Metro station in North Bethesda, Maryland, though I’ve not been there. I can describe some of the surrounding buildings, though, and I can give a reliable estimate of the time it would take via metro to get there from the Grosvenor-Strathmore station.

Eventually, I abandoned my writing for more pleasurable pursuits: lunch, an hour plus drive around Hot Springs Village, a stop at the post office, a stop at a grocery store, and other such trivialities. On occasion, I peered at news sites online, a mistake of epic proportions. I learned that the chief idiotic occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is hinting, strongly, that he will pull the U.S. out of the Paris Agreement, putting the U.S. in the rare company of Syria and Nicaragua, countries that opted not to sign the climate change accord. If I had magical powers, I would cause changes to the occupant, changes that would improve this country in many ways. Speaking of the occupant, I watched an episode of House of Cards last night. The occupant in that program reminded me of the real one, except the fictional character is dramatically smarter and far more articulate than the rectal pustule (or should I say anal abscess?) who stalks the halls of the White House. But I digress.

I’ve set an objective for myself that, under usual conditions, I should have been able to meet days ago: ten pages of my novel, ready to edit. But these must not be normal conditions. I keep dripping bits of my novel out of my fingers, leaving other writing to receive the fire hose version, with page after page after page of drivel. That will pass. I have confidence I’ll reach eighty thousand words in no time. After the Arkansas Writers’ Conference and after our friends visit next week/weekend.

I’ve decided to repurchase an old truck I sold a few years ago. How about that? I need a truck if I’m going to do around the house what I intend to do. It’s that simple. I’d actually rather have a 2017 long-bed, hyper-comfortable, all-electric, GPS-equipped model, but I’m a little short of ready cash; about $60,000 short. So, I’ll do the next best thing. This assumes everything works out the way it should.

Oh, the deck needs to be replaced. Did I mention that? I’m still waiting on bids. If the bidders are as prompt doing the work as they are preparing the bids, the new deck should be ready for a party in the waning months of the anal abscess presidency.

Tonight, for dinner, I made an Indian/Pakistani version of arroz con pollo. My wife went out to a girls night out party, complete with food, so I was able to experiment to my heart’s content. I think I may have hit on something special. At least I really liked it; it might be a tad too hot/spicy for some folks, but for me it was delightful. I could have eaten two more servings, if only I’d made enough for two more servings.

I’ve done enough to waste time for the evening. Time to return to PBS Newshour. What? I left it early and, apparently, let it run out completely before I returned. Bad. Bad. Bad.

A series of posts on a Facebook group (Hot Springs Restaurant Reviews) during the past few days offer two very different perspectives on what constitutes acceptable levels of service. The original conversations began when a few people complained about experiences at local restaurants. I’m thinking of two, in particular. One is a pizza place in Hot Springs Village, where a guest complained of being ignored for seating and then, once seating, ignored by wait staff. She left after being ignored longer than she was willing to wait; as she left, she took a photo of two employees in front of the restaurant smoking cigarettes. The other conversation began when a guest complained, again, about waiting to be served and then walking out when patience ran out.

In both cases, the owner and/or manager responded online with a defensive apology of sorts. But in neither case did the apology seem, to me, heartfelt. Instead, I read them as excuses, with the respondents saying essentially (and I’ll paraphrase), “I work as hard as I can to deliver good food and good service, but sometimes I cannot because you just can’t get reliable staff these days.” One of them also said, in effect, “my food is as good as it gets and, even if you have to wait, it’s worth it.” In neither case did the complainant suggest that the owner/ manager on-site offered anything to address their concerns. Even afterward, when apologies came, they seemed to me to be begrudging; insincere is almost too soft a term.

I’ve never run a restaurant, but I’ve run service businesses. I’ve had my share of staff no-shows, interactions with guests by surly staff members, and the like. But, with one exception that I can recall, did I defend inadequate service by saying “we’re overworked or understaffed.” When necessary, I stepped in and took charge of the interaction or provided the customer service necessary to ensure a good experience for the customer/client. Even with that one exception, I took the customer aside and, out of public view, explained that my staff had done the right thing and the customer was in the wrong.

An example of a restaurant that, from my perspective as a customer, seems to be well-run is one just outside the west gate of Hot Springs Village. It’s almost always crowded, there’s sometime a wait, and the food—while not always my favorite—is always good and presented well. It’s a place I think has consistently good customer service; it’s called Home Plate. The owners of the place seem to be there the majority of the time, circulating among guests and asking if all’s well. They serve, bus tables, and keep an eye on the door and the wait line. Many of the staff I see in the place have been there for a while. All of them are amiable, friendly, and seem always to be in a rush, but not too busy to address guests’ needs. I attribute the atmosphere in the restaurant and the focus on customer service to the managers/owners setting expectations and modeling the behaviors they want to see from staff. I realize some other places may do more “from scratch” cooking than Home Plate (though I don’t know with certainty that’s the case); regardless, the operators of the restaurant seem to have gotten the formula down for consistently good service and good food.

I have no idea if the operators of Home Plate pay their servers and kitchen staff any better than others. Perhaps they do, perhaps they do not. But I know they model good customer service behavior, thereby increasing the likelihood that other staff will deliver the same.

I’ve watched other local restaurants and eateries fold after I had very poor customer service experiences with them: Linda’s Diner, JJ’s Chill Grill, Diamond D’s, Elan, etc.  Judging from the customer traffic of another couple close by where I’ve had less than stellar experiences, I’d say a few more will go by the wayside in the not-too-distant future. While none of the places I expect to be gone soon have food I’d consider extraordinary in any way, even if they did, I would be unwilling to give them my business because they seem to care more about their own convenience than the customer’s experience. The very best food, by the most exceptional chef, will not overcome the negativity of bad service.

It occurs to me that the local restaurant and hospitality community might serve itself well by organizing and operating a hospitality customer service training program that prospective employees would have to complete before being brought in for restaurant-specific training. The hospitality community would have to fund the program (I don’t think you can expect servers and wait staff to pay for it), but I think it might be a good investment. In Hot Springs, especially, with its influx of tourists, good experiences are crucial to returning and repeat businesses. Even businesses like the museums, Duck boat tours, etc. might find it valuable. If I were engaged in the hospitality community in Hot Springs, I’d be on board with it and would even head it up. But I’m retired. 😉

Clarvan Strang looked older than his forty years. Too many seasons in the sun had robbed his skin of youth. Knotted brown leather with wrinkled rivers of gathered hide covered every square inch of skin that shirts and pants and overalls hadn’t covered over the years. Crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes were as deep as canyons, the result of a perpetual squint that no longer served only to protect him in the sun but followed him indoors.  Rare passers-by, sitting in horse-drawn buggies on the worn path to town in the distance nodded at the man with the scythe, mistaking the swinging motions of his arms cutting wheat as waves. His cabin, cobbled together from scrap lumber, mud, straw, and tin, could barely be called a house. It sheltered him from the worst of the winter storms, but it was far from comfortable. It provided a place out of the weather, though, were he could sit on a wooden stool in front of the fire or the open door and sharpen the blade of his scythe. The scythe was the only tool he owned that merited such rapt attention. He spent every evening sharpening and polishing the blade, sharper after twelve years than the day it was made. Strang had replaced the snath and the handle twice in those twelve years. The grain cradle attached to it was the fourth or fifth in the same time frame, as the pieces of the cradle tended to break with heavy use. Strang repaired the cradle until the repairs would no longer hold the tines in place and then would build a new one.

Forty years old wasn’t old, but it wasn’t young. In the harsh middle of Kansas, forty could be either. Age and arthritis and too many seasons in the sun caught up with him. He could no longer gather wheat, so he would no longer be able to look after himself. Strang made a choice.  Strang sharpened his scythe blade one last time, putting the finest edge on the blade he’d ever done. The next morning, he attached the blade to the door frame of his cabin, the sharp edge of the blade extending from the frame outward, the wide part of the blade parallel to the ground, about five feet from the ground. He fiddled with the blade until it was as firmly fixed as it could be, then stepped back from it, some twenty paces. He ran, as fast as his legs would carry him, toward the blade, lifting his chin slightly just as he reached it. The blade severed his head as cleanly as it ever cut a stand of wheat.

Last night, we attended our fourth (is that right?) Wines of the World dinner at Coronado Center. The theme country for the night was Portugal. After beginning with a far-too-sweet-for-my-taste port, the wines ramped up in interest and quality. Two vinho verde wines, both inexpensive, were very nice; dry, crisp, and clean. The first, Salvador Lago Vibrant & Aromatic Vinho Verde, was cheapest, at $8.50, but quite good. The next, only around $10 or $11, was Portal da Calçada Reserva Vinho Verde 2015; while I probably couldn’t tell them apart in a blind taste test, I think I allowed myself to like the latter wine a tad better, perhaps because of the price. The next red wine was Prazo de Roriz Douro, 2013. It was quite good, but also considerably more expensive (by my standards, not by the standards of people who can better differentiate and appreciate wines).

The food served as an excuse to drink the wine were interesting. We started with an amuse bouche of a bacon-wrapped date, accompanied by two olives. Then, we had an interesting and quite flavorful potato soup (accompanied by garlic bread), followed by an interesting Cornish game hen served with more potatoes. We finished with an interesting dessert cake, which was best when the last port of the evening was poured over it.

During dinner, I talked with a guy who, I learned, is a writer and intends to join the Village Writers’ Club. He’s an interesting guy, a retired architect, who spent eleven years, off and on, in Japan. He’s interested in writing short fiction for his own amusement and has done a bit of writing. He said he attended L’Audible Art and claimed to have appreciated my reading. Inasmuch as something I’m writing includes an important Japanese connection, I asked him if he’d be willing to read some of it when it’s far enough along, with the objective of determining whether my writing captures (or, conversely, tortures) the culture appropriately. He said he’d be glad to. We didn’t talk politics, but I’m guessing the guy may be fairly progressive. He mentioned having felt, at some point during an exchange while in Japan, embarrassed at being an American, due to the American motivations for entering and staying involved in the Vietnam War. I learned that he studied under E. Fay Jones, the famous Arkansas architect whose work is visible in and around Hot Springs Village, Hot Springs, Eureka Springs, and so on. And he mentioned having intended to have built a house in Hot Springs Village (in a more modern style) until he learned the cost of new construction versus existing homes. I, too, had hoped to build here (a modernist style home), until I discovered the costs.

So, all in all, I’d say the evening was a great success. I was reasonably happy with the wine and food and was glad to have engaged in conversation with a fellow writer who, perhaps, might become part of the entourage of writers I’ve been hoping would develop here.  As that entourage stands, Maddie and Myra and Millie form the core, with Judy and JoAnne being good prospects; and, now, it’s possible that Paul might one day join the crowd.