Dual Strings of Complementary Failures

It's a rite of passing.  Every year, millions of homeowners go out and decorate their property with all nature of lights and decorations.  I am one such homeowner.

It starts with a string of twinkles in a bush or two and sometimes ends up with computer controlled light shows capable of signaling inhabitants of other planets.  Although I salute the engineering involved, I don't have the time, will or electricity budget to put together one of these shows.  No, a simple roofline outline is adequate.

The escapade begins with retrieving the box of lights from the basement.  The family room floor is cleared of any other debris I've left there so I can spread the lights out in front of the TV, which provides the required background football game.  Due to a character defect, I root for the Buffalo Bills, and as usual, this late in the season they are out of contention.  Thus my full attention can be paid to the task at hand instead of the poorly attended blacked-out home game I'm not seeing.

Thought that all the ones used last year would work.
That was not the case.

Next is the testing phase.  Even though the strings of icicle lights I use are the product of fine Chinese engineering, they sometimes don't perform as I might like.  While individual bulb failures don't render the entire string incapacitated, wimpy connections darken entire sections of the strings.  Sometimes a vigorous shaking will let there be light.  What kind of wire do they make in China?

Testing...1...2...

So I test every string before it goes up the ladder.  In particular, the testing determines the strings least likely to fail so that I can string them on the highest peak.   If a mid-blizzard emergency re-illumination mission is required, at least it will be somewhere I can reach with the stepladder.

At least 90 feet high.

The ladder out of the garage and in place, the strings go up to be accepted by the waiting hooks installed years ago.  The extension cord is plugged in and the lights are attached as they go up to double-check their workings.  Hook a few feet of icicle lights, move the ladder, hook a few more.  Then on to the high peak.

Skies not blue.

After years of research, I've determined that the best and safest way to string the lights on the highest peak is to clamber onto the roof and string therm from above.  It's really not very dangerous as long as one's balance doesn't fail, and the shingles are not ice-slicked.  Or if it's really windy.  Or raining like hell.

It was a warm day, but damp.  No rain, just a bit damp.  Until I was on the roof.  Then, of course, well, not exactly like hell, but approaching heck.  But I was already there, and stringing the lights would only take a few minutes, so I moved slowly and deliberately to avoid hard landings.  After a quick survey of the previous month's successful gutter maintenance, I returned to the ground.  Slowly.

The tricky corner.

High Tech
Labor saving device.

After a quick lunch break to let the rain break, it was time to tackle the tricky corner.  The house is a Cape Cod, so one roofline passes over another.  It's difficult to get a ladder into position without a weighty assistant for ballast on the ladder placed at a lower angle than most light-stringing monkeys prefer.  But this year, due to the miracles of modern science, I was able to employ a high tech device to extend my reach, allowing placement of the lights from my perch on the too distant ladder.  It's called a stretched tentacle implement carrying kilowatts (or STICK).

With all the arial work without a net completed, the stepladder emerged from the garage for the remaining tasks.  They would have been complete in a flash, except that there were no fully functional strings remaining for the low roofline over the garage.  Remembering previous futile efforts at finding the broken connections, I cursed the entire course of history that had brought these lights to me, and the Boxer Rebellion in particular.  But after re-testing the remaining B-team light strings with little hope, I finally realized that the desired effect could be achieved with dual strings of complementary failures.  In other words, if I could find a string that was dark in a one part but lighted in another, and a second string that worked in the opposite manner, I could put the two up together.   Without close inspection, no one would know the difference.

Dual strings of complementary failures.

No one, of course, except for you.

I've been busy

I've been working on a few things since I parted ways with the company which will not be named.  Last week, one of them took a big step forward.

... PROMOTIONAL MESSAGE WARNING...

THE FOLLOWING IS AN OUTSTANDING EXAMPLE 

OF BLATANT SELF PROMOTION

But you wanted to know what I've been up to, right?  And besides, it's not a bad thing to blow your own horn if you you're making great music. 

NO, WE DON'T SELL DIVING MASKS!

My partner, Rick, and I introduced our software at DEMA, the Diving Equipment Manufacturers Association Show in Las Vegas from November 13-16.  The show is full of people who are passionate about experiencing the underwater world.  Most of them have gotten into the business of diving because they want to share their passion with others.  Every single one who learned that I was not a diver immediately described at least one solution to my problem.  This included my partner, Rick, who described several solutions at several different locations.  All serious business trips in support of our new business associates, of course.

DEMA show, filling the Sand Expo

Vivid-Pix, our product, is a $50 software application that very quickly and easily improves images taken underwater.  Brightness, contrast, color balance, and sharpness are improved in a single click.  It also enables some tweaking so that the user can make the improved image even more to his or her liking.  This has been a well known need for many years, since most snap-shooter divers capture pictures that only a diver could love.  The washed-out blue-green images prove you were there, but really aren't a good representation of the incredible world you saw below the surface.  We provide an inexpensive and easy-to-use solution.

4 by 10 feet is plenty if you have the right message...

The reception we received was extremely gratifying.  We went to Las Vegas with hopes that we could sign up a few dive shops and resorts so that we could begin to sell Vivid-Pix on the first of January.  We were very pleased to not only exceed that goal, but to get genuine interest from the media in several parts of the world, from skilled trainers and photographers who see the need, from manufacturers and sellers of cameras and accessories, and also from websites hosting underwater images.  In the words of one influential attendee after pulling Rick aside, "I think you may be onto something here."

We learned a great deal about how our product can improve, and also what we need to do to facilitate getting Vivid-Pix into the hands of divers.  Our feeling, which was shared by many other attendees at the show, is that not only will our software make diver's images look much better, it will enhance the entire diving experience and encourage non-divers who see what the experience really looks like to join in on the fun!  (Increasing underwater divers-ity!)  Even I may need to give it a try.

Kaptain
Leatherback

We couldn't have been anywhere near ready to go to the show without a great deal of help from a far-flung team of great people.  We have to call out the supportive patience of our wives, the fabulous software wizardry of Steve Rogers, the photographic guidance of Cathy Church, and the inspiring graphics from Bonnie Toth, the enabling presence of Kaptain Leatherback and his merry band, and the last minute heroics of our web designer, Kelly Jablonski.

And I mustn't forget our Las Vegas logistics coordinator, Ann Young, who single-handedly upgraded from a VW bug to a very slightly larger car so that Rick and Randy could perform an amazing feat of post-show car-stuffing not seen since the heyday of the Keystone Cops.

Now I suggest you visit our fabulous website.  Quick like a sailfish, go view our site and see the drab original images that have been magnificently rejuvenated with our software.  

www.vivid-pix.com

Dad

It is not possible to capture a lifetime in a few words, so with just a few, here are some things to remember about Keith, my Dad.

He was always strong.  Both mentally and physically.  When he set his mind to doing something, it would get done.  There is a very nice window in the boathouse at Keuka Lake in the center of a cement block wall.  You can glance up to look out toward Hammondsport while you wash the dishes.  Dad cut through that wall with his circular saw and a number of masonry blades.  Dust went everywhere as he inched the blades first through one side and then the other, since the blades did not cut deep enough to get all the way through.  Then he put in a very nice window with an extended sill for passing things back and forth.  Most of us would not even have considered this, opting instead for hanging a picture over the sink.  But Dad went ahead regardless of the half inch of cement dust he wore by the time he finally finished.

55 years of smoking was a less than stellar decision.  Thankfully, the cancer in his lung was limited to a single lobe, and that was removed a few years ago.  He came through the operation nicely and was in good spirits when we left him that night.  We got the call about 4 in the morning indicating that Dad was having some issues.  When I arrived, an intern met me at the door of the unit.  “Are you Mr. Fredlund’s son?” he asked.  When I answered in the affirmative, his eyes got big and he said, “Your father is REALLY strong.”  It seems that Dad woke up in the middle of the night, medicated and confused with tubes running out of his body, and only knew one thing.  He was getting the hell out of there.  It took 2 security guards, two interns and two nurses to secure him back onto his bed.

Keith was brave.  The night before Halloween, we got a knock on the front door, and were surprised to hear “Trick or Treat!” from about a dozen older teens.  Half were burly young men who looked like they enjoyed football.  To my 7 year-old eyes, they were huge.

“It’s not Halloween,” offered my mother.  

“We’re here tonight,” said the leader.  Dad came to the door.  

“Come back tomorrow,” he said, flatly.

“No, we’re here tonight.”

“We’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

“No, tonight.  I guess we’ll just have to do a trick...let’s go see what we can find in the back yard.”  The entire group left our front door and walked down the driveway  beside the house to the back.  Dad shut the door and walked through the house and stepped out the back door.

“Look at this...a nice picture window,” said the leader, picking up a fist-sized rock from the garden. “Still no treat?”

“No,” said Dad, “Come back tomorrow.”

“Then I guess I’m just going to have to break that window,” the leader said, shifting the rock from hand to hand.

“Go ahead,” said Dad as he took two steps forward toward the bully.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” he said again softly, “but realize that you’ll be on the ground before the glass.”

“Er...ahhh...well, maybe we should come back tomorrow.”  

“See you tomorrow.”  As they made their retreat and disappeared, I knew for a fact that my Dad was the bravest man in the entire world.

Keith was bright and creative.  He grew up a Yooper in Upper Michigan.  The rural nature of the place lent itself to familiarity with guns.  Since that was not much of an option for his suburban son, he fashioned rubber band guns out of a wooden gun cutout and half of a clothes pin.  My friends and I spent hours in battles with plastic army men and sometimes each other.  During one of the battles, the notion arose that the guns were great, but limited due to their single shot capacity.  Dad heard, and the next day, a double-barrelled pistol appeared.   “This is great, Dad.  Now if I only had a machine-gun.”  He retired to the workshop, and soon I had a string-activated 12 shot rubber-band machine-gun that was the envy of all my friends.

Dad was always kind and protective.  He made his children’s spouses feel at ease entering the family.  His Grandchildren always knew he wanted only the best for them.  His purpose in life for the last few years was to make sure that his wife Anne was cared for and as happy as he could make her.  He instructed innumerable novice curlers on the basics of the game even though his skills were among the best in the Rochester Curling Club.  Several of these curlers have gone on to lament the fact that he was unable to transfer this skill level to his son.  He led our group of misfits in Boy Scout Troop 43 to a love of camping and hiking and being together while keeping the tug of adolescent deviant behavior from creating a descent into a personal version of Lord Of The Flies.  If you didn’t learn to appreciate diversity after being in that group, there was no hope for you.

There was always a certain dignity about Keith.  There was never any doubt what he stood for or how he would respond.  His commitment to doing what was right was unwavering, and he brought his considerable resources to bear to make sure that would be the case.  Even toward the end, though he knew Alzheimer’s was robbing him of so much of who he was, he brightened when he saw or heard his family enter his room, giving comfort to them.  In a condition he would never have wanted, he maintained his dignity, enduring without complaint while showing the absolute minimum of distress.  

He was a fine example for us all.

What A Crock Of Sh!t !!

David held his annual "Cabin Weekend" at our place in the woods.  The septic system decided to add to the fun.  I can't imagine why a weekend with 30 or so people would tax the system...

I went up the following weekend to check it out.  Yes, there was a problem, but nothing a superhero can't handle.  A little rhythmic plunging technique and all seemed to be well.  PLUNGERMAN saves the day!  

PLUNGERMAN to the rescue!

A day and a half later, the bathtub filled with unsavory fluid bubbling up from the drain.  

Water and more...surf's up!

Try as he might, PLUNGERMAN could not send the demon fluids back to their dark domain.  Knowing he would soon be over his head, he called for help.  In the blink of an eye, SNAKEMAN appeared to probe the forces of darkness.

"Oh SNAKEMAN, we're so glad you're here."

Crawling into the icky places beneath the camp, it soon became apparent that getting to a accessible sewer cleanout would be an issue, so SNAKEMAN came up with the idea of gaining access to the problem via the sewer vent on the roof.  Pretty clever.

Nightmares live in here.

Perched above the vent, he metered out his snake into the vent all the way to its full length.  Having particularly quick reflexes, he almost caught the detached end with his opposite hand just before it disappeared down the vent.  "Damn, didn't expect that!  Thought it was attached."

Back on ground level, SNAKEMAN scratched his head and thought about the next step.  Off to Zipps hardware, of course.  One of the few real hardware stores left in the US of A.  An hour later, he returned with some root killer and a new pet...a brand new sewer snake...this time a 50-footer!

Still pondering a method for extracting the previous pet, he proceeded to excavate the distribution box at the output end of the system.  Knowing exactly where it was located, it only took him 45 minutes to find it.  

There it is!

Before long, the cover was off and the new snake made the trip all the way back to the septic tank.  A bit of sand and other gudge was extracted from the distribution box.

Lookin' Lovely!

But the flow was not as it should be, so the problem remained, but now it was certain it was on the input side.  Another wiggle under the camp into the disgusting crawl space convinced SNAKEMAN that drastic action was called for.  It appeared that there was a clean out in an almost inaccessible location.  Flush with brilliance, SNAKEMAN determined that there was another way.  He backed out of the crawl space, closed the door and locked the undercamp demons in.

The reciprocating saw soon provided an easy access port to the clean out.  The access port was well worth it, even though it meant cutting through the superb flooring under the dryer.  It's hard to find 3/4" aged plywood flooring these days.

It took a long time to paint that red arrow on the wall and the floor.
At least we'll know where the cleanout is next time.

Now accessible, opening the cleanout promised to be a problem, since the pipe wrench was 200 miles away.  As my Dad once told me, "Now that you have a house and a camp, you'll never have your tools in the right place."   Fortunately, upon attempting to open it with MacGyver methods, SNAKEMAN realized that the cap was only secured finger tight.  Finally open, water, and thankfully only water, gushed out of the cleanout and overfilled the awaiting bucket with ease.  But no matter...the dirt floor of the crawl space accepted the moisture without hesitation.

Once clear, a bonus revealed itself.  The lost pet snake returned to its master, mere inches from the clean out opening.  "I planned that!" SNAKEMAN cried.

Then it was time to test the new snake.  In it went, and all the way down to the tank with minimal resistance until far down the pipe.  A little poking and prodding, and on it went, past the point of resistance and into the tank.   Success for SNAKEMAN !   

Until he tried to remove the snake.  It wouldn't budge.  Even screaming obscenities was no help.  Finally, SNAKEMAN rotated the flat metal snake and soon a "boink" released the little guy.  

The tub was filled and released, the washer was run, and the increased flow was observed at the distribution box.  O frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!  

So the septic system was fixed, and they all lived happily ever after.  Until the next weekend, when the next gathering had the same old problem.  Not right away, but over two days, the septic function detector, also known as the bathtub, showed that the problem persisted.

Enter TANKMAN!  And his sidekick DIGGER.  Or maybe the other way around.  

            

DIGGER dug so that TANKMAN could do his thing.  The rest, of course, is his story.

!!! WARNING !!!

THE FOLLOWING IMAGES ARE NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.  

TURN BACK NOW

OR RISK BEING PSYCHOLOGICALLY SCARRED 

FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!

ARE YOU SERIOUS?

TURN BACK!

This is the lovely septic tank.
The boards are spanning the top 
so that TANKMAN can get to the input baffle on the right.
It is important to have good balance.

The input baffle...not looking so great.

The output baffle...a thing of beauty.

So, from the "full tank" shot above, it is clear that the output on the left, wants stuff to flow freely, while the input on the right, does not want anything to flow.  The left wants stuff to trickle down, and the right is supposed to allow trickle down, but really wants stuff to stay right where it is.  Why does this all sound so familiar? Are there other systems that function this way?

Uggh.  Lots of stuff stuck in the pipe.  

The bucket half full of what came out of the pipe.
Be thankful the macro lens was not used.

Input baffle beauty.  
Note the silvery head of SNAKEMAN's sewer snake emerging.
Note also the roots in the general area.

So the roots were dispatched, 

and all was well in the universe.

Rowing in Montreal

The Genesee Rowing Club went to The Canadian Masters Championships in Montreal.  
I tagged along.

Montreal

Mary was not scheduled to participate, but Beth's motorcycle was attacked by a car.  She only remembers seeing that the car was in front of her.  Fortunately, Beth is tougher than that stinking auto, and should recover completely from the broken vertebrae and impressive road rash.

From the bridge connecting one of the islands to the other in Parc Jean-Drapeau, former site of Expo 67 and the 1976 Olympics.   
Note the fisherman.

Buckminster Fuller's geodesic Biosphere still dominates the site.

I thought it would be nice to see Montreal again.  I was 14 when my parents took the family to Expo 67.  The trip was particularly memorable because I had a huge zit on the right side of my nose.  It was the biggest blemish I ever had, and as an adolescent, I was certain it was the largest and ugliest facial anomaly in recorded history.   I recovered, but it is interesting to note that the same location was occupied by a much less temporary growth that the dermatologist recently dispatched. 

Was hoping to see the view from the top of this tower in the park,
but it was closed for a party.  And they didn't invite me.

No  idea what the purpose of these interesting structures could be.
Must be art.

When the family was in Montreal for the World's Fair, my father mentioned that though we had been to Montreal, we really had not seen much of the city.  I decided not to repeat that mistake.

The stands at the Bassin Olympique rowing course were falling into a bit of disrepair.

The Genesee Rowing Club Women's Quad awaiting the start.

One of the races in progress.
The monstrosity in the background is a casino.

This notice was on the boathouse.
I think they were harassing me, but I'm not sure.

Jen and Mary after their first race.

One of the spectators for the races.

If you row, you know what these are.

This is the view of the Olympic Stadium from our hotel room.  

The second day, Mary and the crew went off to race again, but I decided to explore the city.  For their benefit, of course, so they would not waste time on unworthy venues once they were finished with racing.

Place Emilie Gamelin was created to commemorate the 350th anniversary of the city.
The metal fountains were disturbingly like what I saw at ground zero on 12-11-2001.

Stairs to the dentist's office.

The quiet end of Rue Notre Dame.
Took me quite awhile to figure out this church was not Notre Dame.

Vieux Montreal (Old Montreal) from the waterfront.

The amount of water moving on the St. Lawrence River is impressive.
The boat is moving almost completely sideways downriver.

The building hosts a cafe at the old port.
The placid ponds are well above river level.

Shall I open my cafe today?

On Rue Jacques Cartier

Outstanding topiary designs in front of City Hall.

One of the designs close up.

Looking over Champ de Mars, the site of an old fort and gathering place denoted by the piano key stones.
The Montrealers are constantly digging up old forgotten foundations when they try to build new structures.

Notre Dame at Place d"Armes

The interior

The amazing woodwork of the pulpit.
It was all I could do to keep from hurdling the "Do not enter" sign
just to run up the narrow curving stairway.

And the Oscar for best colored lighting design goes to...

They use this organ to call the Batman.

At the street fair where all the vendors were in period garb, selling period wares.

The Nike booth.

The guy on the right is a strange instrument specialist.
I had never seen or heard a hurdy-gurdy before.

Spider webs on the junipers.

Lots of great old buildings in Montreal
Rue de la Commune Ouest

The soldiers at the street festival assembled while the commander shooed away the crowd.

Fusiller!

This poor man failed to get out of the way.

I met a man of letters outside the art museum.

Looking down on the city from part way up Mont Royal

I returned to the site of the rowing just in time to see the GRC Women's 8 head down to the start.

The Genesee Rowing Club Women's 8 on the way to the start.

Cheering the others

Sporting their gold.

Who knew?  Coach Will is a metallurgist.

Montreal is hoppin'.  If Rue St. Catherines isn't enough for you, try Rue Crescent.  No shortage of nightlife in this burg.

At night on Rue St. Catherine.
The line to get in was around the block.

A street lounger

A stairway to nowhere under the pink strings of spheres.

The strings over the street went on for a kilometer.
Their sympathetic vibrations never stopped, no matter the wind conditions.

Place Viger,  once train station and hotel, no longer as important as it once was.
Impressive building, nonetheless.

--------------------------------------------

With the races complete, we headed back to the States on the main highway south.  Due to the congestion at the border, we got to inspect the improvements on the pavement engineering of Mr. John MacAdam for almost an hour.  Next time we drive to a different crossing.

Finally beyond the imaginary line between countries, we headed to Clinton County, where we met my friend John and his wife Kelly at Clinton Community College.  John is the justifiably proud President of the College.  As First Lady, Kelly is responsible for making sure John does the right thing.

A portion of Clinton Community College, too big for my wide angle lens.

Once a resort for the wealthy, a long series of events including the invention of air conditioning has allowed the building to become an edifice of higher education.

Fabulous view of Lake Champlain from the heights on which the college sits.

Mary was so kind as to drive as I recovered from my conversation with John.  We returned home late, but very happy to have been able to experience the most European of North American cities and to also have had the bonus of seeing long-term-but-not-old friends as well.