"You're right, I think. The way the Audion guys were going to do would cost a lot less, I guess."
The realistic professional in him could conceive of ten thousand dollars as being less. The boy reached out to the father he'd never known, and his hand closed on air. He couldn't give up, not now, not so close.
"Betty, I'm going to keep the microscope. If it's worth a grand now, it will be worth a grand next year. And by next year, maybe I'll think of something else."
"Sure, hon. Drink your soup."
But the next year was little different. He tried to make a tracking system, but it wouldn't stay on the groove. The stuff he needed to fix that was too expensive.
His latest idea was to guide the laser with a stiff Teflon fiber to track the groove, using a resistive diaphragm and servo loop instead of physical force to guide it. But there was an interaction mode between the fiber and the servo control that caused it to hunt its way out of the groove.
He'd been trying a software damper when Betty came to the shop.
"Hon, they're releasing the Poli'ahu encounter tapes tonight. Want to quit and watch?"
NASA had found a four hundred kilometer iceball far out of the ecliptic for the Pluto probe to pass by. Some newspeople were calling it a new planet, causing a lot of astronomers to smile through clenched teeth. But it was probably the biggest event left in the saga of robot space exploration.
"Sure, why not? I give up. This isn't going to work either."
There. He'd admitted it. A broken idea depressed him even more than his broken record, and, uncharacteristically, he just left everything where it was. He turned as he left the shop, slapped the light switch off, said "Sorry, Dad" into the gloom before, following Betty back to the house.
But instead of using the wall screen in the living room, she led him back to the bedroom.
"I know this sounds a little kinky, hon. But last time, well, it was kind of good."
Scott laughed. "Anything to please. We'll can it and play it back."
They did. They were making their fourth pass over Tombaugh ridge in deep afterglow when Betty suddenly gasped and her eyes snapped wide open. Then she laughed gently.
"Oh, Scott," she murmured, "did the probe actually fly down that valley, like this?" She took one of his fingers and used it to simulate the hypothesized probe trajectory in the folds of the bedding.
"No," he laughed, "they made a three dimensional model of Poli'ahu in their computer and just transformed the coordinates of the pixels so that it looks that way, as if we were in a spaceship traveling right down that groove…"
She giggled as he was rendered speechless. Of course! He had lasers. He had a microscope. He had a turntable, drill press to hold the microscope and he could track by hand to prove the concept. He had his home computer and its optical drive. As long as he had the picture of the groove, he didn't have to fly anything physical through it. His "needle" could be purely a software construct.
He threw his arms around his wife and kissed her a dozen times, then looked at her grinning, giggling face with the first hint of suspicion. Exactly what had she been thinking while…?
It was a rich, full organ of a basso voice, perhaps a little off key, perhaps with not enough breath left at the end. But it had an impressive volume, and with training, Carlo Valdez could have been good, very good.
It echoed through Scott's new house hidden on the wooded hill, a modest mansion as such things went, only thirteen rooms around a great, square Castilian courtyard, but it was mortgage free. One wall was filled with old LP's, a collection purchased for peanuts before they became worth millions.
The programmers assured him that yes, Carlo sounded just like Carlo had sounded, but that disappointed them because they could have made it sound much better than Carlo had sounded.
But Audion's new Research Consultant had politely told them where to go with that idea. If you could see me now, Dad, he thought.
"I should never have believed it…" his father sang.
Winged Audacity
by Lianne Card
We hear them first-
then squawks from hidden branches
explode in flyby of luminescent green,
across four lanes of traffic.
This daredevil circus act performs every day-
our wild parrots of Sunnyvale
Belying small numbers
raucous for a reason,
parrots broadcast bravado
while local crows lurk nearby.
The flock of forty mocks them
their chevron tails soar-
aerodynamic arcs to redwood sanctuary
in Las Palmas Park.
Less famous
than their brethren, wild stars of
Telegraph Hill, immortalized in film,
escaped or abandoned
this feathery tribe banded together,
mating and forming a flock.
Apartment with blue tile roof
offers nests beneath eaves
sheltering parrots from cold and rain.
Kind landlord extends his protection
for exotic visitors from faraway.
Backyard gardens of yesteryear
serve fruits and nuts for gleaning:
crumbs from tables of abundance
sufficient in this valley
of the heart’s delight.
Yesterday, I stood
gazing up from a parking lot;
flock buzzed in full formation
hurtling overhead.
My heart, touched by such audacious zest,
leapt in delight to join them.
Transcending traffic and stock prices,
distanced from Washington’s woes,
they proclaim to us earthbound
how just the sight of vibrant life bestows
a gift of unexpected joy.
Fog, Anxiety, and Magic
by Christy Worrell-Rey
The room temperature felt to him like it increased two degrees as each additional person entered. He wiped the perspiration from his palms with the white hand towel he carried with his equipment. Slowly he scanned over the heads of the people gathered in front of him, trying to stay calm as his stomach felt sick, his nerves convulsed with small quivers and his anticipation wanted to explode with anxiety covered in excitement.
Until now, nothing in his life had ever felt like this. He wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision or if he could live up to his role as he’d promised the group. He paused a moment, reminding himself that this was why he’d moved from Colorado to San Francisco, for nights like this.
He glanced over to his right and the other four guys were moving around their respective spots fidgeting with their equipment and once or twice looking back at him as he stared in their direction. No one spoke a word or smiled during tonight’s setup.
It was amazing to think that six weeks ago these five guys, varying in ages from twelve to sixty walked into Blue Bear School of Music at Fort Mason Center in San Francisco’s Marina District. Each had registered for the same Rock Band class. None knew each other prior and certainly had never performed on stage for the public.
At the beginning, he believed the six weeks seemed like a long time, but tonight, standing on stage, waiting for their turn to play music in front of an audience at Café Du Nord on Market Street for the class final, left him wondering if six weeks had really been long enough.
It wasn’t until the third week of class that the group found their rhythm together and could get through a complete song. In a subtle way that week was the turning point for the group. They’d decided to meet twice more each week outside of class at Secret Studios for extra practice in preparation for tonight. Mentally and emotionally, that’s when they became a band, but right now he had no idea if their extra practice time would make a difference.
He secured his guitar around his neck and held it with both hands. Tonight it felt a little heavier as he clipped the tuner on the top of th
e guitar neck and strummed chords while twisting the pegs to tune his instrument. This was something he’d done for years in the privacy of his home, but never in front of a watching audience. He stopped again to wipe his palms with the hand towel.
A few minutes later the band was plugged into the amps and PA system. They’d chosen a riff to play for the sound check, and as he started to play the piece, the others joined. Slowly, each of the four moved to the center of the stage in front of the drummer, all now playing the music for the sound check. The sound booth was opposite the stage across the room and Earl yelled from the sound booth as he turned knobs and calibrated the sound. The band received the thumbs up signal from Earl. They smiled at each other, struggling to keep their nerves in check but feeling so excited.
Next the stage lights lowered and the evening’s MC, Justin from Blue Bear stepped on stage with a spot light on his face. Justin welcomed the audience, thanked them for their support and talked about Blue Bear. Ten minutes later, Justin was done with his opening and before the band could take in a breath, he introduced them with the name they’d picked for themselves four weeks back, “The Imaginary Spiders.” Justin stepped away and the stage lights first illuminated the large Imaginary Spider logo on the front of the drums and then the band.
This was it! He stepped slightly forward as practiced, to assume his role as lead guitarist. The brown tone of his guitar shimmered under the lights as the twelve year old drummer hit sticks together calling out…one…two…three. The lead guitarist looked at the others, strummed down in perfect timing and the music began.
In no time the first song was done; the audience applauded and the band’s nerves turned to excited confidence. He remembered what was drilled into them in class for six weeks: smile, relax and if you make a mistake don’t stop playing or show it on your face.
This moment was surreal and felt great as he stepped toward the microphone, lifting his head to sing. His voice was smooth and the audience responded by clapping to the song beat. The band fed off their energy and played each proceeding song better than the last.
Before the set was finished, with only one song left to play, he introduced the band members to the audience, who responded with applause and whistles. The band played the last song in their set, thanked the audience and began to leave the stage, when the people chanted loudly for an encore.
The guys took a moment, decided on an encore and cranked up one more song to appease their newly found fans. He looked around, situated his guitar and a grin grew across his face as a headband of perspiration formed across his brows. He didn’t want this to end.
After their time on stage was over, he stayed to listen to the other bands as the night turned late. It was too difficult to just leave and have tonight be over, but a half hour later his gear was packed. He was one of the last to linger and the manager took down the poster that had been mounted in the window by the ticket booth at the front door. It had promoted the evening’s band appearances with a group picture. The manager gave it to him as a memento of the night. Overwhelmed with emotion, he shook the hand of all who remained and hugged his fellow band members before carrying his gear out the back stage door to his car with his head held high for the night’s accomplishment and knowing he was now addicted to performing.
The fog had streamed into the center of the city and the air was moist with a pristine cold bite. It was a typical San Francisco night, but for him this one’s more memorable than most. It was magic. He had his moment and it lasted longer than fifteen minutes.
Westward
by Ullas Gargi
Out here, the land’s end of the westward march,
the catholic mind marched furthest of all,
to possibilities undreamt by the wagoneers.
A rugged pragmatic people
tended the fertile earth and fruit orchards,
their labors in time bearing the progeny of mind,
Chimera forming from the sand,
teeming cities on the head of a pin,
that live lifetimes in the blink of an eye,
and places that have no location, built
by those escaping teeming cities of their own.
Growers tending the glass-green fields of human potential,
and sowing the seeds of wide-open thinking,
scattering from clattering fingers to minds around the world,
Molded the mindless metronomic pocket minions
that serve us now, always on, eager to please,
beguiling us now, enrapturing us in cozy embrace,
their cool glow of convenience and command
Foretasting the terrifying caretakers of our species.
May the clear-eyed vision that laid these logics,
enriched with the implicit intuitions of other lands,
Broaden its gaze and look beyond utility,
lead us to a better place of wisdom and power,
Both West and East from here.
Why We Do Certain Things
by Joyce Kiefer
I never knew how he did it, but my Dad always picked the hottest night of the year for his favorite event—canning the apricots we grew in our backyard. The first year he and Mom canned, our airy kitchen turned into a steam bath, as Mom described it. I was glad to go to bed. The next year was even hotter, when Dad declared it was time to can and now I was old enough to stay up and help. I asked why, when summer nights are usually cool in San Mateo, we had to pick a hot one for the apricots. World War II was on and I was seven—old enough to ask my parents why we had to do certain things.
He replies by taking me out to the tree. “You have to wait for a heat wave like this in early summer. Then the fruit ripens all at once and there's plenty to can. Pick the cots when they’re light yellow and there's no taste. Too ripe and they turn to mush." He picks an apricot the size of a Santa Rosa plum and pulls it open. “Smell that. Like perfume. Now touch it.”
The outside feels like velvet. The inside is bright orange and moist.
“This fruit is ready to can. Apricots don’t wait, so we have to pick and can them tomorrow night.” He asks me to think of the rows of quart jars filled with golden apricot halves that we had down the basement until we ate them all or gave them away. “Even though it’s Wartime, we’ll still have our golden treasure.”
Since the middle of June, Dad has gone out in the back yard every night after work to size up the way the fruit is developing. He examines the clusters of downy, orange-gold globes and peers at the tone. Is the orange starting to deepen? Are the cheeks faintly blushed? With his thumb and forefinger he gently presses the fruit that’s the right color. Does each one yield ever so softly to his touch? He learned about apricots a few summers ago when he took the train to Sunnyvale to help pick the crop. He couldn't use his vacation for a family trip because gas was rationed. He ate so many apricots he got sick and the foreman had to bring him home. But he still loves them.
He told me it wasn’t an apple that Adam and Eve ate from the forbidden tree because apples don’t grow in the Middle East. They probably snitched an apricot.
The big night arrives. Dad takes the early train home from work in San Francisco. I groan because it's even hotter than the day before. So does Mom. She and I will never get used to heat. The City, where she grew up, is always chilly. Since I was born here in San Mateo, I’m used to warm days in summer with chill coming in with the evening fog. But heat is just one reason she complains about canning. Another is the mess. She tells Dad she has enough work to do keeping up not just a house but a big yard as well and doesn't need to add canning to her chores. Dad just smiles and says, "This is what living down the Peninsula is all about."
As promised, Dad arrives home early. We pick the fruit before dinner. When I climb the tree to fetch the cots near the middle, I stroke the warm, rough trunk. Dad climbs the ladder to pick the fruit off the outer branches. As we each press apart the smooth, heart-shaped leaves, more apricots show up. “Did you get those up there?�
�� he asks and I climb higher. Meanwhile Mom stands at the bottom of the tree with her apron on and takes the cots we hand down and places them in lugs. All she says is “be careful.”
Growing up in a San Francisco flat, she never had a tree to climb or space for raising fruit. Her mother was too busy chasing five kids and keeping the place clean to think about canning, even if they did have fruit trees. Besides, the Italian vendor drove his cart year round through the neighborhood, peddling whatever fruit was in season. The Chinaman brought baskets of produce. No need to stockpile anything.
As we pick the fruit, Dad tells me that apricot weather reminds him of when he was my age and lived in Acapulco. The scent of mangos ripening in his family’s courtyard on a tropical night is something he says he thought about on cold summer nights when he first immigrated to the Bay Area. As soon as he and Mom built this house, he planted a Blenheim apricot tree in their large, empty back yard. He’d heard this was the best variety that grew in the orchards of the Santa Clara Valley.
The previous year, when our tree had its first big crop, Dad bought home the Kerr Home Canning Book. We all looked at it together. You can help in this vast Victory Program, he read aloud. Plant, can and eat. This is your part.
“This year your Mom and I will do the canning. Next year it will be the three of us.” He read out the recipes on how to can rabbits and wild birds. Bleed well, one began. Even worse were the directions on how to can tongue. Boil until partially done. Cool and remove outside skin. Slice or leave whole. What a great way to scare kids on Halloween, I thought. Take them down to our basement and show them a bunch of jars with tongues inside. Then to make them really sick, show them jars of fried liver, because the book told how to can that, too.
Dad said we should try the recipe for preserving mint juleps.
Mom said we should stick to fruit.
This year after picking our fruit we eat a small meal of leftovers so as not to spend much time cooking and washing dishes. We need the sink for more important work. Mom puts me in one of Dad’s old shirts so I won’t get messy. She braids my hair and puts a hair net over hers. Dad gets out the Kerr Book. On the cover a smiling lady wears a white pinafore apron with a blue inset with red trim with white stars. She smiles like a model as she holds up a jar of canned fruit in one hand and a box of jar caps in the other.
By the Bay Page 6
