Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Langston Hughes
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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"What happened to your eye?"
"Oh, I fell off a motorcycle." He looked nonchalant, but the scar was long and deep.
"Slice it on the pavement?"
"Naw, the lens on my sunglasses broke out and just sliced it up."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, it's not too bad now, it happened about a week ago." He looked back at the paper in front of him. "Ready for run two?"
"Sure," I said. "Randy, you set?"
The operator muttered in his beard and hollered that he was. He called back to the big friendly bubba at the electrical control panel. They were set.
This was the tech belt of the town. The company had been here for about a century, and been in and out of chapter 11. They knew how to build batteries, but apparently not how to manage. The folks were friendly, good Missourians, who liked hunting, fishing, and barbeque. It was a kind of life I knew about, but hadn't ever run into. They were good people, but something about the whole shop still came off as unprofessional. I was here to ride herd on the testing, representing my company's interests, and I was accompanied by our first-tier supplier's rep. He was a quality guy, I was the engineer, between us we were supposed to keep the bugs out of this batch.
The engineer with the scar double-checked the paperwork, and gave the boys the go-ahead. The battery was activated, the shock hammer hit, rose, hit again, rose one last time, paused, and fell for the last hit. Now the data processing started. That always took a while. They folks here weren't too confident with the setup that I had made them use. My hands were bound by company policy, though, so I could sit in smugness and point out the requirements. Ah, engineering. Is this what I wanted out of you? To be an emanation of a company, working its will on the good people of Missouri? Life is funny. The next hit was ready now. I scuffed my boot on the floor and got back to supervising.
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| The murky hollows and bottoms along the Missouri line are a magical sort of terrain. You just don't know if this one will have a bluegrass breakdown heating up, or if that one might contain the body of a raped and murdered girl. It is a strange country. Only those who live there can understand it, and they would rather not have outsiders knowing too much. Those bottoms contain a freedom of a sort. It is the freedom of obscurity, and it is vital to the preservation of the Southern Way. What's not known will blow over. With this sort of freedom, all manner of things can go on just the way they always have. If you are driving the Missouri line at night, it's best not to stop unless you must. Gunshots may ring out, and it may not be clear what their purpose is. Just keep moving. This is not an evil or sinister country, but just one that wants to be left well enough alone. Let it be. |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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If I got your hopes for regular posting to revive in the last two weeks, I must offer a brief apology for this week's anemic (nonexistent) showing. I will be taking the GRE tomorrow morning, and have been doing practice tests instead of doodling or writing. I know, I know, you are wondering if it's worth it. Well, just remember that they are not very good doodles.
Regards,
Mark
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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| Posted by Mark Miner at | | | |
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