John Swinburn

An unhappy discovery during a house-cleaning of my Gmail account earlier today led to happier moments, but only after a period of deep sadness. I came across an email I sent, on November 8, 2007, to the mayor of the City of Helsinki, Finland. I sent the message in response to my horror of learning of the Jokela school shooting that took place on November 7, 2007 in the municipality of Tuusula, Finland. When I learned of the shooting, in which a deranged eighteen-year-old killed eight people and wounded one (twelve others were injured by flying glass, etc.), I was stunned. I wanted to tell the people of Finland I felt sorrow for and cared for them. The only person for whom I could find contact information was Jussi Pajunen, the mayor of Helsinki. I figured he might take my message and pass along the sentiments to people affected by the shooting.  Here’s the text of my message:

Mr. Mayor:

Many people in the U.S.A. are grieving with you and the people of Finland as you deal with the tragedy that took place in Tuusula. I don’t know who else to contact to express my personal condolences; I hope you will let the people of Helsinki, Tuusula, and all of Finland know that the people of the U.S.A. are deeply saddened by the tragedy.

My wife and I visited Helsinki two years ago and fell in love with the city and the people of Finland. We wish you all well.

Our one-day visit really wasn’t enough for us to “fall in love with the city and the people of Finland,” but we enjoyed what little we could see in a one-day foray in Helsinki. The city and the people with whom we engaged were, indeed, more than pleasant; they were welcoming. Learning of such a horrendous occurrence is always shocking and troubling; that it happened in a country I considered enormously peaceful was awful. Finding that old email sent me into an emotional tailspin. I researched the circumstances of the incident and engaged in all sorts of wild goose chases, learning more about the incident that, frankly, I had forgotten. I did not receive a reply to my email to the mayor, nor did I expect one; but I seem to recall that I allowed that incident to escape from my memory faster than I think it should have. So research was required to bring it back to me; I needed more details.

I’ll leave out all the negativity I plowed through during the research and get right to the softer, happier stuff that arose during the course of learning more about that incident, about Finland and, of course, its food. As I was wandering through English-language Finnish web sites, I came across an article about a hotel in the city of Rovaniemi, Finland (which, by the way, is the official hometown of Santa Claus in the Arctic Circle in Lapland). The hotel (the Arctic Light Hotel) was judged by the users of Trivago as the best in the country. The US-based Travel+Leisure magazine ranked the hotel number eleven worldwide. The article about the hotel, which I found on the Finland Times website, quoted the hotel manager as saying the hotel’s extraordinary foods at breakfast attracts people domestically as well as foreigners. I had to find the hotel’s website. I found it and then I found the hotel restaurant’s website. The restaurant, Arctic Boulevard, has a most-intriguing menu.  Arctic Boulevard‘s main course menu includes such delights as the Arctic Boulevard Reindeer Burger, the ingredients of which include pulled reindeer, cranberry chutney, red onion, and house mayonnaise. I must try this! And how about their Capercaillie Cooked Two Ways? Capercaillie , I learned, is also known as wood grouse, among other names. So, it’s a bird! Then, I came across a website for Tareq Taylor’s Nordic Cookery that convinced me I really must find a way to sample his  capercaillie and chanterelles.

I could go on—as  you might know if you  have been to this blog before—for weeks. I don’t know if my wife and I will ever return to Finland, but we will attempt to find the ingredients for, and cook, Finnish and Nordic foods.

So, do you see how the ugliness of stumbling across a horrible memory can lead one to better things? The tears of 2007 were justified and expected and they should never be forgotten, but the joys associated with the people who had to deal with those horrors are stronger and more long-lasting.

Some days, I wonder if I am just a simpleton whose wishes for decency and goodness and happy interactions are stupid and mindless and, possibly, dangerous. My eyes fill with tears when I realize the world in which I live is so ugly and dangerous and full of far more fear and heartache than reason says it should.

I am right at the edge of thinking none of this is worth the struggle any more. Why should we continue to push for justice when justice has succumbed to hatred? Why should we strive for reason when reason has smothered under a blanket of lies and idiocy?

We must try. It’s as simple as that.

Outside the window, I see two trees marked for death. Through the screen, I see bright orange ribbons circling their trunks, signaling their impending demise. I do not know when, nor whether, their euthanasia has been scheduled, but I know people, my neighbors, plan the taking of their lives. The reasons for their death sentences are scattered on the ground around them; their leaves. “They shed leaves on the roof,” my neighbor told me. And they lean a little too much toward the house, he says, implying they might one day fall and damage the house or kill its inhabitants or both. When men with chain saws take those trees down, the view outside my window will change. The house across the street and a few lots down will be more visible, more intrusive. I wonder if I might stretch two wires between two other trees, the one nearest and the one to the left of one of the victims, and affix a fabric screen to them to block the view? Would I need a permit to do that? Or do I have more control over my own yard than that? What would my neighbors think if I blocked my view of their house? And would it matter what they think? Of course it would. Or not.

Let sleeping dogs lie. Let sleeping dogs prevaricate. Let sleeping dogs distribute their deceptions. Let sleeping dogs dish out dishonesty the way politicians deal in distortion. Let sleeping dogs traffic in tall tales while wagging their tails. But why do sleeping dogs get all the glory? Is it because, when they awake, their canine teeth rip through flesh and fabric? I think sleeping dogs hired a public relations firm to distribute their message. Because they just want to sleep. They’ve told us, over and over, they just want to sleep. And if we awaken them, there will be hell to pay. Those dogs aren’t messing around. They will bite you. They will clinch their jaws and won’t let go. My advice is this one simple truth: let sleeping dogs lie.

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.