John Swinburn

Sanguine. How often do you hear people use that word in conversation? Yeah, I don’t hear it often, either. But I wish we would. Would that a larger proportion of the population sought out more expansive vocabularies. Would that more people attached value to knowledge and its quest. Lately, as we hear a man who has been elected president speak at a level of vocabulary suited to conversation with third-graders (save for the expletives), it seems the level of intelligence of the population at large is dipping into the single digits. Language, through the extent of vocabulary, offers a good measure of intelligence. Not that mathematics does not; comprehension of mathematics, too, provides a gauge of intellect. But the extent of one’s grasp of his mother tongue parallels, I think, the extent of one’s understanding of the world in which one lives. The correlation is imperfect; I know of plenty of people whose vocabularies far exceed mine who are deviant monsters, suitable targets for public service euthanasia. But, as a general rule, the larger the vocabulary, the more knowledgeable the person. I suppose that statement proves my bias. Many people who are unfortunate enough to live in poverty have not had the same good fortune as I to pursue education; that does not equate to a lack of intellect but, rather, a lack of opportunity. So, I may be arguing against myself as I think this through. But I think the expanse of one’s language does mirror the expanse of one’s intellectual capacity. That’s true, in my mind, regardless of whether the limits on language were imposed by circumstances or by the capacities of one’s brain.

This little conversation with myself awakens me to an uncomfortable realization that I may, indeed, unintentionally equate poverty with ignorance. That’s not where I intended to go with this. And it’s not what I believe; at least it’s not what I think I believe. Poverty is not a symptom of inferior intellect or knowledge; it is the outcome of systemic deficiencies. Sometimes, those deficiencies might be exacerbated by inferior intellect, but even people whose intellectual wherewithal surpasses the rest of us can be beaten by “the system.” And, back to my mention of the soon-to-be Cheetoh in Chief, deficient language skills (or, at least, deficient usage) does not necessarily parallel poverty; in some cases, speaking and behaving like a third grader with under-developed empathy and compassion goes hand in glove with obscene wealth.

My conversation this morning troubles me. I wish I were more of a tea drinker; I understand sitting quietly and drinking tea tends to bring peace to one’s perspective. I am drinking coffee and feeling an unquenchable desire to operate a guillotine. Perhaps I better go read “The Dictionary of Peace.”  Is there such a book?

Who doesn’t get excited about shopping for toilets? I mean, what could be more riveting than talking about flush capacity, gallons per flush, blah, blah, blah? I want to remodel the bathroom. My wife simply wants to replace the toilet.  Okay. It needs replacing. The crack in the porcelain is bothersome; worst case, it could be a really shitty problem. Forgive my language and punstership. But if we’re going to replace one, why not replace both of the toilets in the main part of the house (the one in the work room behind the garage can remain)? Yeah, okay. But what kind do we want? Single flush? Double flush? One-piece? Two-piece? National brand?  Cheaper cousin?

We have reached a temporary compromise. Double flush (said to be noisy) off-brand (but probably okay) that a company in Hot Springs sells and will install (and take away the old ones). We’ll call tomorrow. But I want to remodel the master bath. I mean, new shower, new flooring, new tile, new mirrors, the works. I may have to marry again for that to happen. Or she may have to use my insurance money to do the same.

I’d do it myself if I could get my wife out of the house for the twenty weeks it would take me to do the job to my satisfaction. But she is a homebody.

Damn is too weak a word for what I feel like screaming now. My word begins with an F and ends with something else.

Using rational arguments to counter positions based solely on emotion is possible, but the undertaking is fraught with frustration, like eating thin chicken broth with a salad fork. Both require discipline, time, and acceptance of almost imperceptible progress. But attacking the chicken broth in said manner carries the benefit of weight loss, while rational arguments generally bring no such satisfaction.

I sat in front of the television a while ago, watching a drama series about intrigue and politics in U.S. government. Sipping on a Canadian whiskey and munching on my post-dinner snack of Canadian wild-caught herring in wine sauce, I wondered why I had not been born in Canada. Why, I wondered, did my Canadian sensibilities spring forth in far south Texas, only to be imprisoned in a whirlpool that took me far, far away from a society I know, and knew, was good and proper? Why did I drift northward, living near the Canadian border at one point, only to boomerang south and end up in a state that voted overwhelmingly for Trump?

The answers to those questions reside in fear and reluctance to take risks. Just as I could have moved to Mexico, I could have moved to Canada. Or I could have taken the job of inspector/investigator with the Department of Agriculture when it was offered to me all those many years ago. My life might have been—almost certainly would have been—radically different had I opted to join that investigative team. But I was afraid I might have been assigned to New York City on a salary of $673 per month; I was afraid I would have been forced to live in a one-room apartment with eleven other young men just to be able to pay rent. But it would have been short-term; I would have survived. But I was afraid. Afraid of the idea that I might be expected to carry a gun; I took that as a symbol the job carried greater risks than I was willing to accept.

I find it odd that the vast majority of U.S. citizens do not know the name of the Prime Minister of Canada or the President of Mexico. (Justin Trudeau and Enrique Peña Nieto, respectively, by the way). We live in a bubble, a bubble that chokes our understanding of the relevance and beauty of the diversity of not only the physical characteristics of our planet but the social and political landscape, as well. We seem unable or unwilling to care; unwilling to invest sufficient time to learn about even our closest neighbors.

At what stage in one’s life does a person cross the point beyond which he decides rebelling against his own fears would be pointless? “It’s too late to live a different life; there’s too little of this one left for it to matter.” Even that assertion suggests fear has attached to his DNA.

I think I know why so few people enjoy reading my blog. It’s because I write such depressing stuff. People can stomach only so much of a depressive atmosphere before they begin to seek escape to clear air and oxygen. But that’s all right, too. I can’t let others’ need for oxygen sully my need for truth and exploration that uncovers methane and hydrogen sulfide and carbon monoxide.

But back to my Canadian lifestyle. I feel an affinity to Canadian whiskey and pickled herring. I relish hearing Canadians say “eh” and “aboot.” While I haven’t yet developed a natural attraction to poutine, I feel confident in my ability to acquire a taste for it. I suspect I could become enchanted with donair, the official food of Halifax, Nova Scotia.

I wish I knew people in Canada who might genuinely want me to visit them and would invite me to do so.  I have a sense that I would be able to relax in Canada in a way I’m unable to relax in Arkansas.

[Dammit. I wrote several more paragraphs that were, in my view, beautiful tributes to Canada and, especially, Nova Scotia. And the real heart of the piece, a poignant summation, would have broken hearts. But it was taken by WordPress as it skipped ten beats. Dammit to hell!]

It’s just after three in the morning and I can’t seem to sleep. Maybe it’s because I seem to have lost a crown on my root-canal tooth. What does one do in such a situation? What else but look at old photos.

This is a Polaroid of me taken by my interviewer, Dale Miller, during an interview for the job of Assistant Technical Activities Director at NACE International, then known as the National Association of Corrosion Engineers.  Despite my obvious babyhood, I got the job. A year later, I was promoted to Technical Activities Director. Then, three years after that, the Executive Director (T.J. Hull) promoted me, again, to Associate Executive Director responsible for the Operations Division (membership, technical activities, meetings, and certification departments). Those were heady days. I thought I was something special, until I came to the conclusion I got the job and the promotions because I was willing to work for a lot less money than people who had equal or even inferior qualifications. I never did quite learn the lesson that realization should have taught, though. Actually, my willingness to live in relative poverty wasn’t the only reason I got the job and the promotions; I worked hard and did a good job. That was my first job in association management. Subsequently, I moved to Chicago to join my wife after she got a job there. This first association job evolved into a career and, eventually, led me to form the business from which I retired early at age 58. I got used to poverty early, so I can adapt to it late. Well, not poverty but certainly not wealth. And I no longer look twenty years younger than my chronological age. We adapt.

This is it, post number 2100. Okay, now that the celebration is over, let me get right to the work at hand.

Salt and sugar look damn near identical. I know this for many reasons, but let me recount the most recent event that confirms the fact. A couple of days ago, as I prepared to brine a pork tenderloin that I planned to smoke the following day, I placed a canister of sugar on the counter and opened it (the brine recipe I use for pork tenderloin uses sugar, salt, pork rub, and a bay leaf in two cups of water). Then, I took a box of Kosher salt down from a shelf and placed it next to the sugar. Between them sat the pot in which I would prepare the brine. I dipped a measuring cup into the sugar, pulled the full cup from the canister, and emptied it into the pot. Next, I poured a cup of Kosher salt into the same measuring cup and emptied it into the canister from which I had just taken a cup of sugar. Instantly, but before I could stop my hand from doing the deed, I realized what I had done. I attempted to retrieve all the salt I had dumped into the canister but, you know, sugar and salt look quite a lot alike. The next day, I mentioned to my wife what I had done. She tested the sugar for salt flavor and found that, indeed, sufficient salt remained in the sugar canister to warrant discarding all the remaining sugar.

I washed and dried the empty sugar canister and, after my wife purchased more sugar, I refilled it. The lesson I learned is this: close the sugar canister immediately after retrieving the needed sugar.

The following morning, I smoked the pork loin. We ate a bit of it for dinner that night; it was good.