We had Lauren Monday night. That's wonderful! Her parents have been really generous lately about letting us spend time with her.
She's in second grade now, and what was not so wonderful was her homework. It was a reading-timing test. (As in, time her for a minute to determine how much of this essay she can read.)
The essay was the problem. It was all about how Red, Yellow and Blue are the primary colors. "They're called the primary colors because you can make any color with them."
It's simply not true. It's not even close to true. The primary colors are Cyan, Magenta and Yellow. Mixing pigments of those pure colors, you can make any other color in the visible spectrum. In fact, you can even make red (magenta and yellow) and blue (magenta and cyan), which are not actually primary colors.
You can't make magenta or cyan with those fake primary colors. No mixture of red, blue or yellow will give you either magenta or cyan, because magenta and cyan are actually both primary colors. You can't really make a pure green because green is actually cyan and yellow, not blue and yellow.
It is possible to cheat a little with crayons (and perhaps ONLY with crayons), because you're not really mixing the colors so much as layering them, so the top color becomes dominant. You still can't make magenta or cyan.
The funny thing is that even people in the printing/prepress business get confused about this. Everybody in the business knows the the 4-color printing process uses CMYK (cyan, magenta, yellow and black inks), yet many still think of red and blue as primary colors, because that's what they were taught in primary school.
I don't mean to claim this is a big deal, but it's an example of the kind of thing that gets under my skin. Kids are taught one thing that's absolutely untrue, and then anybody who ends up in a line of work or hobby that requires an understanding must be RETAUGHT the very most basic points because they've been misled their whole lives.
Incidentally, the same is true about the Bible. People are told what it says and means by other people who are just repeating what still other people have told them. When teaching someone, a huge amount of time has to be devoted to easing the student over and through those misconceptions which aren't their fault at all.
My brother Jed came back East from BC for two weeks with his new family in tow, two weeks ago. We stayed at Steve Davis's house Tuesday night so I could drive them all to the airport before sunrise, Wednesday morning.
Stop-and-go traffic all the way to the airport, starting at 6am?! That's just wrong.
It was very hard to say goodbye to them all. Alycia is Jed's perfect counterpart, 4yo Michael is nearly his perfect clone (but cuter than he ever was), 4yo Rachel (M's twin) is quiet and sweet and very smart, and Gracie is curious, cuddly and learns to say new things faster than the parrots do. And repeats them more. Except for a very brief visit less than two years ago for Gil Riley's funeral, I haven't seen Jed in seven years, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried on my way back to Steve's house after saying goodbye at Logan.
Steve and I ate breakfast on their front porch and then dressed for the ride. It was to be surprisingly warm, and had rained a bit the night before so we were expecting more humidity. Before we left, we swapped my tires for the new ones I'd brought with me, then we were off.
3.7 miles into the ride, I was pulling and we were making a right. I remember thinking that it was nice of Steve to have the roads re-surfaced for our ride, and was going to say something like that to him eventaully. No, really, that's the last thing I remember about the ride. The next thing I remember is a very brief flash of the inside of an ambulance. "Huh, what's that now? Did I ride right into the back of an ambulance?" Then some jumbled stuff, and people repeatedly asking me stupid questions like, "What's your birthday?" and, "Who's the president?" over and over again. As if the president knows my birthday. Silly.
Corinne was there, somehow. It was like magic! She was ninety minutes away, at home. Probably cooking something delicious, hopefully thinking about me, definitely missing me! Then suddenly people are asking me too-repetitive questions and she's there in the room, in the background. Not sure how that happened.
I remember being put in a CT scanner. Then suddenly I was out of it again. Pretty sure there are two meanings there! I remember asking for water, and being told NO. Then being given water in the form of ice. Whatever, it's water. Why'd you say no? Now your pants are on fire!
I told them they wouldn't find anything looking my head with that thing. Clearly I was right.
Shots and other violations? Plenty. They put an IV in my left arm. "Just for fluids." At some point I pointed out something pointedly obvious, and they agreed with me and detached it because I'm a genius, and they let me have more not-water-because-it's-ice. And a tetanus shot in my right arm that I barely felt. The local anesthetic shot in the skin next to my eye so skinny doctor could put stitches in my eyelid? Most painful part of the day and I still haven't forgiven her. Not sure how injecting a cocktail of lemon juice and burning gasoline into my skin is supposed to numb the pain, but I was Mr. Tough Guy and didn't let on that my inner child was now hiding behind the headboard in his room and moaning in delirious, tortured agony. Bad doctor.
She said she liked me, though, because I was… something. Funny? Sassy? Steve, help me out here, I can't remember. Probably not funny, nobody thinks I'm funny.
Oh, I called this "tally," so here's my tally of momentos (keepsakes, even) from my shortest ride of the year:
Four or five stitches on my right eyelid. Skinny doctor was soooo confident that I won't have scars like I got from the other stitches in my childhood. Yeah, I'm going to be disfigured for life.
Black right eye.
My ears are so small and tucked in close to my head that the road just couldn't reach them. Undamaged! You missed a spot, so maybe next time, suckah! Nyah nyah!
Bruise and road rash on my right shoulder and right forearm just below the elbow. The bruise on my right shoulder is deep, moving that arm generates funny noises from my mouth. Odd, huh?
Scraped all the primary knuckles on my right hand.
Matching holes at the middle knuckles of both thumbs. Nobody can figure that one out, so I'm guessing I was sliding along the ground with both thumbs up like the Fonz (as he jumped the shark).
What feels like a watermelon stuck to my right leg just below the hip. It's not actually a watermelon, it's just a giant bag of hurt. The hospital was fresh out of real watermelon.
Road rash on my right knee.
A bruised and dislocated rib on — wait, can you guess? — the right side. Bruised as in "huh, that hurts to touch it, but not like it's broken. I know broken!" Dislocated as in, "I don't think it's supposed stick out from my sternum like that. And when I cough it hurts worse than the watermelon!" No external bruising there, though. Ellyn says it's because of all my rolls of fat. (I got those from the almost 3,000 miles of cycling this year.)
How did it happen?
How does anything happen, really? Forces interacted with masses at surfaces, and effects were generated.
In this case, I went around a corner, slid on a new crosswalk wet with rain, and the bike hit the ground. Me, too!
Steve went down behind me, even though he "strongly affirms" (he never swears) that it's not possible for him to lose traction with his diamond-spiked, sticky-as-bug-trapping-spider-silk tires. Which means he saw me go down and did what any friend would do and ran me over, then fell halfway across and kicked me in the eye with his cleats. He got a booboo on his right knee and right elbow. The poor guy.
Note that I have no memory whatsoever of the crash as it actually happened, so I'm trusting Steve's recounting of the story… which conveniently did not include anything about running me over and kicking me, nor him getting a ride home with the very pretty police officer that was directing traffic just up the road. So I probably made that all up.
So, congratulations! Now you understand what happened yesterday at least as well as I do.
I spoke for a few minutes today at my grandfather's memorial. He died on Saturday, at 87 years old. The following are my notes, though I didn't read it verbatim.
If you'd like to know a little more about my grandfather — and thus a little more about me — this is as good a place to start as any other.
It's hard to believe ten years have passed since Shane died.
I remember sitting on our front steps in Mystic waiting for the police to show up, to tell us what they wouldn't say over the phone. We knew what they were going to say, but didn't want to believe it.
I remember Corinne going into the kitchen and throwing knives and dishes around in a fit of anguish... and wishing she had bought more breakable stuff because mostly it just dinged up the kitchen.
She slept a lot for weeks after that day. We had a new kitten, Kiki (who is even now crying outside my door, wondering what on God's green earth could be keeping my fingers and her fur so terribly separated), who stayed with her constantly while Corinne found a way to survive that near mortal wound.
Shane was the center of her life, and the part of herself about which she was most proud.
She's recovered beautifully, and is currently in Lancaster with her oldest, "bestest" friend. Give her a hug for me, Robin.
is Seth Dillingham's
personal web site.
Read'em and weep, baby.