Jeffrey has been out this month to work on a novel for
NaNoWriMo. Look for a story about high speed novelling and the antics of his writing buddy Frank Hoyt when he gets back in December.
For those of you looking for more horse stories, hang in there. The adventures of Rhonda the new trainer will not only be entertaining, but informative too.
Meanwhile, drop us a note and let us know what you like, or don't about the blog.
Thanks,
Gary
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A New Computer
It is lonely being the only tech geek in a company whose business is literally based on horse and buggy technology. The other day I came up with a new scheduling algorithm that optimizes the utilization by 10%. I was so excited when the new schedule popped up on the screen, I jumped up and ran around singing the theme from Rocky. I ran out to brag to the first person I found, one of the trainers. She listened politely and said, "That's nice, Jeff," and just walked away, leaving me to celebrate alone.
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern. Gill's is the kind of joint where you can lose yourself in a tall glass of draft beer and sing along to familiar 70's pop songs blaring from the juke box. Patrons snack on complementary peanuts and throw the shells recklessly to the floor. Hidden away in downtown Bingo, Washington, the tavern attracts a regular group of locals who provide a good income and company to the owner/bartender Gil, whose name is Art.
According to local rumors, Art isn't his real name either. When they think he isn't looking, one of the regulars will whisper to you that he made a fortune back in the 80's by investing in a scheme to import Columbian cocaine to suddenly wealthy New Yorker yuppies. When he tried to get out, the Columbian's cut off the pinky on his left hand before he could escape with enough money to buy the land around Highway 223 that would become Bingo.
Three businesses grew out of that land, the barbershop, Occam's Razor, a grocery store with no name, other than, The Store, and Gil's. These businesses were built to cater to the migrant farm workers who picked fruit in the Blackthorn Valley and the construction workers who were building the monuments to the east side economic boom.
Of course, things changed over the years. The working class moved on to the next hopeful spot, replaced by commuters who worked in the monuments and lived in middle class mansions that suburbanized the valley. Elmer, the barber had to hire a stream of recent cosmetology school graduates brimming with the latest styles. Ted at the store replaced canned vegetables and dried beans with fresh organic food. Recently, he changed again to supply the local foods fad that was taking hold.
Though it all, Gil's tavern managed to stay the same. Art poured cheep beer to quietly earnest drinkers until 11:00 on week nights and midnight on Saturdays. After closing, he shoved the regulars into a battered VW minibus and drove them home. Things finally changed about a year ago when the voters of Washington made it illegal for people to smoke in public places like bars and restaurants. On the first smoke free evening a new kind of crowd came in. Art found himself tapping kegs of microbrew and mixing top shelf drinks. The biggest surprise was that after a couple of drinks and a bowl or two of complementary peanuts, these folks actually paid their tab before getting themselves home. He was doing half the work and making twice the money.
In the dark bar, Art saw the light. The next day he opened the doors to air out ten years of tar and nicotine, replaced the Rubin's print behind the bar with a Neiman water color and ordered new tables and chairs from the local carpenter, WC. By the weekend most of the old crowd had been chased away by the prospect of having to stand outside in the cold to get their fix. A new crowd, with more disposable income, moved in.
I had stopped at the store to pick up a few things, so I was late to the bar. The usual suspects were already gathered at our table in the back. There was a pitcher of Bingo Creek Hefeweizen in the middle of the table along with two empty glasses for late comers. From the juke box, Stevie Nicks was assuring me that when the rain washes me clean, I'll know. Alan Kim the computer hardware wizard from MIT had his back to me and was making a speech about the myth that capitalism drives progress. OK, I couldn't hear what he was saying since I was deep in my Stevie Nicks fantasies, but I had head his speeches before and I could guess from his body language, which one he was doing.
Weird Chester had his back to the window and was contemplating his beer while he waited for Alan to wind down. WC, as he is sometimes known, makes furniture for very exclusive clients. While each piece he makes is undeniably a masterpiece, it requires a special aesthetic to have one of his creations in your home. WC finds that conventions like English measures or the Metric system inflict a paternal blandness on people forcing them into preconceptions and thoughtlessness. Instead he measures his work in thumb widths, legs and elbows. He says it puts his personal signature into the project. He also is not fond of right angles. The tables he made for Gil's are round and balance on various geometric shapes that intersect at every angle except 90 degrees. In the hands of a less skilled artist, these quirks would result in clunky jumbles of ugliness and impracticality. Somehow, WC makes it work. If you watch those shows on TV about celebrities and where they live, watch in the background for a leaning bookcase or a triangular couch. Odds are you will be looking at a WC original.
Next to WC, Jeanie Hunter looked attentively at Alan, waiting patiently for him to wind down. If I wasn't married to the perfect woman, I would be Stevie Nicks' love slave. If Stevie wouldn't have me, I'd pledge my life and love to the beauty of Jeanie Hunter. Jeanie is a software genius, true, but no one notices that until they try to figure out why this model is hanging out with a bunch of nerds with dorky glasses and butts flatten by years of sitting in front of a keyboard.
I got suspicious when Dreamer finished on the Juke box and another Fleetwood Mac song started up. Then I noticed a stack of festively wrapped packages next to WC and I knew someone had ratted me out. Probably Mike "Pistol93" Wilson, the fourth person at the table. He had a way with the internet that made him a person of interest whenever data went missing. I am not script kiddy when it comes to hacking and I had deleted all publically available records on myself years ago. Only someone with Mike's ability could have discovered when my birthday was.
Someone turned the juke down and everyone joined in an off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. The song screeched to a halt just as Art delivered a carrot cake with a candle in it. I blew out the candle knowing that resistance would be futile. At my age, I don't really need any more birthdays to mark my inevitable slide into old age. I also don't like being the center of attention, so while WC placed two of the packages on the table, I tried to make myself invisible. Unfortunately, that was not in my power. Everyone in the place was watching, waiting for me to open my presents. I had no choice but to get it over with. I tore off the paper to reveal two beautiful wooden sculptures. A keyboard and a monitor like I have never seen before. The curves and odd angles blended presently into pair of WC originals.
Jeanie leaned across the table and pressed a bit of ebony on each of the pieces. LEDs embedded in the wood lit up and the monitor flickered to life. The familiar layout of one of Jeanie's custom Linux implementations invited me to log in.
I was not surprised to find that Mike had already set up an account with my password. Alan explained that the third box had 8 64 bit processers, custom network and graphics systems, half a terabyte of storage... I stopped him there to ask what they expected me to do with all that computing power. It was a stupid question, easily answered, "Whatever you want!" they declared in chorus. I brought up my molecular modeling program and watched as the powerful machine churned through some of the more complex simulations. I clicked on the visualization mode and the stream of numbers changed into colorful charts that used to bring my old computer to its knees.
I looked up to see the faces of my nerd friends as excited as I was with the new toy. Fingers kept creeping over the keyboard to show off some feature. More pitchers of beer appeared and emptied. I can't remember any specific things that were said, all I can remember is laughing. Around 2:00 AM we packed the gear into Art's van and let him drive us home.
I was tired the next morning, my head ached and my tongue felt like felt, but I got up early, loaded the computer into my car and headed to work via Bingo Java. Tracy was working the window when I pulled up, "Name the original drummer for, Yes and get a free coffee," she said expectantly. I haven't paid for a coffee in over four years when I got the chief export of New Zealand wrong. I guessed lamb, but it turns out wool was the right answer, who knew? I told Tracy, Bill Bruford played with Yes from 1968 to 1972 and collected my free coffee and an astonished look from Tracy.
At the office, I had my new computer all hooked up by the time Randy arrived. "What's that?" he asked pointing at the CPU which looked like a Gauguin still life. I blurted out a description of the memory capacity, network throughput and a half a dozen other exciting features before I noticed the glazed over look in Randy's eyes. "I'm glad we have you around, Jeff. I could never understand all that technical stuff." He took a close look at the CPU, then placed the Stateline Tack catalog he had been carrying into a notch in the top. "Don't forget to run that month end feeding report."
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern.
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern. Gill's is the kind of joint where you can lose yourself in a tall glass of draft beer and sing along to familiar 70's pop songs blaring from the juke box. Patrons snack on complementary peanuts and throw the shells recklessly to the floor. Hidden away in downtown Bingo, Washington, the tavern attracts a regular group of locals who provide a good income and company to the owner/bartender Gil, whose name is Art.
According to local rumors, Art isn't his real name either. When they think he isn't looking, one of the regulars will whisper to you that he made a fortune back in the 80's by investing in a scheme to import Columbian cocaine to suddenly wealthy New Yorker yuppies. When he tried to get out, the Columbian's cut off the pinky on his left hand before he could escape with enough money to buy the land around Highway 223 that would become Bingo.
Three businesses grew out of that land, the barbershop, Occam's Razor, a grocery store with no name, other than, The Store, and Gil's. These businesses were built to cater to the migrant farm workers who picked fruit in the Blackthorn Valley and the construction workers who were building the monuments to the east side economic boom.
Of course, things changed over the years. The working class moved on to the next hopeful spot, replaced by commuters who worked in the monuments and lived in middle class mansions that suburbanized the valley. Elmer, the barber had to hire a stream of recent cosmetology school graduates brimming with the latest styles. Ted at the store replaced canned vegetables and dried beans with fresh organic food. Recently, he changed again to supply the local foods fad that was taking hold.
Though it all, Gil's tavern managed to stay the same. Art poured cheep beer to quietly earnest drinkers until 11:00 on week nights and midnight on Saturdays. After closing, he shoved the regulars into a battered VW minibus and drove them home. Things finally changed about a year ago when the voters of Washington made it illegal for people to smoke in public places like bars and restaurants. On the first smoke free evening a new kind of crowd came in. Art found himself tapping kegs of microbrew and mixing top shelf drinks. The biggest surprise was that after a couple of drinks and a bowl or two of complementary peanuts, these folks actually paid their tab before getting themselves home. He was doing half the work and making twice the money.
In the dark bar, Art saw the light. The next day he opened the doors to air out ten years of tar and nicotine, replaced the Rubin's print behind the bar with a Neiman water color and ordered new tables and chairs from the local carpenter, WC. By the weekend most of the old crowd had been chased away by the prospect of having to stand outside in the cold to get their fix. A new crowd, with more disposable income, moved in.
I had stopped at the store to pick up a few things, so I was late to the bar. The usual suspects were already gathered at our table in the back. There was a pitcher of Bingo Creek Hefeweizen in the middle of the table along with two empty glasses for late comers. From the juke box, Stevie Nicks was assuring me that when the rain washes me clean, I'll know. Alan Kim the computer hardware wizard from MIT had his back to me and was making a speech about the myth that capitalism drives progress. OK, I couldn't hear what he was saying since I was deep in my Stevie Nicks fantasies, but I had head his speeches before and I could guess from his body language, which one he was doing.
Weird Chester had his back to the window and was contemplating his beer while he waited for Alan to wind down. WC, as he is sometimes known, makes furniture for very exclusive clients. While each piece he makes is undeniably a masterpiece, it requires a special aesthetic to have one of his creations in your home. WC finds that conventions like English measures or the Metric system inflict a paternal blandness on people forcing them into preconceptions and thoughtlessness. Instead he measures his work in thumb widths, legs and elbows. He says it puts his personal signature into the project. He also is not fond of right angles. The tables he made for Gil's are round and balance on various geometric shapes that intersect at every angle except 90 degrees. In the hands of a less skilled artist, these quirks would result in clunky jumbles of ugliness and impracticality. Somehow, WC makes it work. If you watch those shows on TV about celebrities and where they live, watch in the background for a leaning bookcase or a triangular couch. Odds are you will be looking at a WC original.
Next to WC, Jeanie Hunter looked attentively at Alan, waiting patiently for him to wind down. If I wasn't married to the perfect woman, I would be Stevie Nicks' love slave. If Stevie wouldn't have me, I'd pledge my life and love to the beauty of Jeanie Hunter. Jeanie is a software genius, true, but no one notices that until they try to figure out why this model is hanging out with a bunch of nerds with dorky glasses and butts flatten by years of sitting in front of a keyboard.
I got suspicious when Dreamer finished on the Juke box and another Fleetwood Mac song started up. Then I noticed a stack of festively wrapped packages next to WC and I knew someone had ratted me out. Probably Mike "Pistol93" Wilson, the fourth person at the table. He had a way with the internet that made him a person of interest whenever data went missing. I am not script kiddy when it comes to hacking and I had deleted all publically available records on myself years ago. Only someone with Mike's ability could have discovered when my birthday was.
Someone turned the juke down and everyone joined in an off-key chorus of Happy Birthday. The song screeched to a halt just as Art delivered a carrot cake with a candle in it. I blew out the candle knowing that resistance would be futile. At my age, I don't really need any more birthdays to mark my inevitable slide into old age. I also don't like being the center of attention, so while WC placed two of the packages on the table, I tried to make myself invisible. Unfortunately, that was not in my power. Everyone in the place was watching, waiting for me to open my presents. I had no choice but to get it over with. I tore off the paper to reveal two beautiful wooden sculptures. A keyboard and a monitor like I have never seen before. The curves and odd angles blended presently into pair of WC originals.
Jeanie leaned across the table and pressed a bit of ebony on each of the pieces. LEDs embedded in the wood lit up and the monitor flickered to life. The familiar layout of one of Jeanie's custom Linux implementations invited me to log in.
I was not surprised to find that Mike had already set up an account with my password. Alan explained that the third box had 8 64 bit processers, custom network and graphics systems, half a terabyte of storage... I stopped him there to ask what they expected me to do with all that computing power. It was a stupid question, easily answered, "Whatever you want!" they declared in chorus. I brought up my molecular modeling program and watched as the powerful machine churned through some of the more complex simulations. I clicked on the visualization mode and the stream of numbers changed into colorful charts that used to bring my old computer to its knees.
I looked up to see the faces of my nerd friends as excited as I was with the new toy. Fingers kept creeping over the keyboard to show off some feature. More pitchers of beer appeared and emptied. I can't remember any specific things that were said, all I can remember is laughing. Around 2:00 AM we packed the gear into Art's van and let him drive us home.
I was tired the next morning, my head ached and my tongue felt like felt, but I got up early, loaded the computer into my car and headed to work via Bingo Java. Tracy was working the window when I pulled up, "Name the original drummer for, Yes and get a free coffee," she said expectantly. I haven't paid for a coffee in over four years when I got the chief export of New Zealand wrong. I guessed lamb, but it turns out wool was the right answer, who knew? I told Tracy, Bill Bruford played with Yes from 1968 to 1972 and collected my free coffee and an astonished look from Tracy.
At the office, I had my new computer all hooked up by the time Randy arrived. "What's that?" he asked pointing at the CPU which looked like a Gauguin still life. I blurted out a description of the memory capacity, network throughput and a half a dozen other exciting features before I noticed the glazed over look in Randy's eyes. "I'm glad we have you around, Jeff. I could never understand all that technical stuff." He took a close look at the CPU, then placed the Stateline Tack catalog he had been carrying into a notch in the top. "Don't forget to run that month end feeding report."
Fortunately, there is Gill's Tavern.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
The New Guard
Randy was on probation with the staff for the first few years after he took over Cactus Flower. He had some big shoes to fill. His father, Henry, was a brilliant horse breeder, a clever businessman, a good boss and a pillar of the community. Although I had known Randy almost all his life, I had no idea how he would be as a boss. As a child, Randy as a curious little kid who pestered everyone with questions when he wasn't getting into some kind of trouble. On one memorable afternoon, he was driving me up the wall with questions about the printer cable I was repairing. "What does that wire do? How hot is that soldering iron? What would happen if you ran a thousand volts through that cable?" Each question overlapped the last, leaving no room for an answer. After half an hour of this, I interrupted forcibly to mention that one of the grooms had spotted the two headed snake in the hay loft.
The legend of the two headed snake was a favorite around the barn ever since one of the trainers ran screaming from the barn claiming that the deformed serpent was after her. Snakes are an inevitable feature of places with so many mice which, in turn are an inevitable feature of barns, where so much grain is stored. Catching the two headed snake became the goal of an army of kids that hung around between riding lessons or while waiting for a mother or sister to finish riding. Henry added to the fun by nailing a silver dollar to the tack room door and stating in his best Ahab imitation that whoever caught the two headed snake alive could have the dollar.
Randy jumped at my information like a pirate with a treasure map. I quickly forgot all about him as I soldered color coded wires to a Centronics connector. The low voltage signals used by printer interfaces meant that every connection had to be perfect. I used a large magnifying glass to make up for my bad eyesight, a well practiced hand and an ancient soldering gun that hummed ominously as the tip heated. I watched the last bit off molten lead and tin solidify into a neat shiny bond before breathing a sigh of relief that I had not been burned or electrocuted. I fixed the connector cases into place and was snaking the cable between the computer and the new daisy wheel printer when I heard someone a shout, "Fire!" from the barn.
Randy had gotten bored hunting snakes and had moved on to burning strands of hay with a magnifying glass. One smoldering pile of grass burst into a small flame that greedily spread through the dry grass. The fire quickly grew beyond his nine year old ability to put out. Fortunately, horses make excellent smoke detectors. The uneasy sounds running through the stalls alerted a rider who saw the flames and made the shout that brought one of the grooms and me running. We grabbed a few watering buckets and had the fire out before it could cause any real damage.
Henry took Randy to the woodshed. Literally. Randy emerged later with tears in his eyes and a slight limp. For the next month he performed extra chores around the barn without complaint. That was years ago and although Randy had matured in the intervening years, the memory of that kid was a big part of how the staff thought about him when he took over. Would he be a great success like his father, or would he burn the place to the ground? The staff adopted a wait and see attitude.
The first real test of Randy's character came when Rhonda showed up to apply for a job as a trainer. Rhonda was 17 or 18 years old, although it was hard to tell through the heavy black eye make-up and lipstick. She wore a black hoodie over a lacy black blouse that ended just above the waistband of a pair of tight checkered slacks. When she reached over Randy's desk to hand him her application, the hoodie and blouse raised up just enough in the back to reveal a image featuring curly scrolls and broken hearts. One of the teenage riders refers to this type of tattoo as a "Tramp stamp."
Randy looked over the standard application form for a moment before giving the young girl his full attention. He had one question, "What do you care about?" Rhonda answered with a shrug. "There's nothing that you think about all the time? No music that you listen to everyday? A style that matters to you?" He waved at her outfit as he said this last. Rhonda scowled a bit as if her carefully selected outer appearance was the last thing in the world she expected to be judged by. Randy sat back in his chair and let her think of an answer.
I have to admit that I got a bit choked up at the sight of Randy patiently waiting for the answer to a what to anyone else would be an irrelevant question. His appearance was all his mother. The dark hair, deep brown eyes, thin hands and compact frame, all Jenny. But the patient gaze the genuine interest in the person sitting before him, that was Henry. Henry could find the essential qualities of a person or a horse just by looking into their eyes. He had an uncanny knack for finding the offbeat character who, although a bit too strange for the normal world, had the skills and attitudes that made them perfect for Cactus Flower. When I first started working here, I hated the seedy looking grooms and antisocial trainers that seemed to come out of mental hospitals from miles around to plague me. Many years later, while seeing some of my own quirks reflected in the behavior of my children, I realized that I came to appreciate that if it weren't for Henry's predilection for outcasts and weirdoes, I would be unhappily trying to get along in a world that had little room for the unusual.
Rhonda shifted in her seat as she grew more uncomfortable with the expectant silence. Just when she couldn't stand it any longer, Randy lifted an eyebrow. "My drawing, I guess," she answered as surprised as anyone at the answer.
"You should bring some by sometime," said Randy with a smile. "I'd love to see them." His interest made Rhonda draw back shyly. "For me, these horses are like your drawings. They are what I do, how I make my mark on the world, see?" Rhonda nodded her head. I thought about the graphics library I was so proud of. By their works shall you know them. "Do you think you can treat my horses like you want people to treat your drawings?" Rhonda kept nodding. She was hired. Not a word was spoken about her experience, previous job performance or expected wages. Henry would be proud of his boy.
The legend of the two headed snake was a favorite around the barn ever since one of the trainers ran screaming from the barn claiming that the deformed serpent was after her. Snakes are an inevitable feature of places with so many mice which, in turn are an inevitable feature of barns, where so much grain is stored. Catching the two headed snake became the goal of an army of kids that hung around between riding lessons or while waiting for a mother or sister to finish riding. Henry added to the fun by nailing a silver dollar to the tack room door and stating in his best Ahab imitation that whoever caught the two headed snake alive could have the dollar.
Randy jumped at my information like a pirate with a treasure map. I quickly forgot all about him as I soldered color coded wires to a Centronics connector. The low voltage signals used by printer interfaces meant that every connection had to be perfect. I used a large magnifying glass to make up for my bad eyesight, a well practiced hand and an ancient soldering gun that hummed ominously as the tip heated. I watched the last bit off molten lead and tin solidify into a neat shiny bond before breathing a sigh of relief that I had not been burned or electrocuted. I fixed the connector cases into place and was snaking the cable between the computer and the new daisy wheel printer when I heard someone a shout, "Fire!" from the barn.
Randy had gotten bored hunting snakes and had moved on to burning strands of hay with a magnifying glass. One smoldering pile of grass burst into a small flame that greedily spread through the dry grass. The fire quickly grew beyond his nine year old ability to put out. Fortunately, horses make excellent smoke detectors. The uneasy sounds running through the stalls alerted a rider who saw the flames and made the shout that brought one of the grooms and me running. We grabbed a few watering buckets and had the fire out before it could cause any real damage.
Henry took Randy to the woodshed. Literally. Randy emerged later with tears in his eyes and a slight limp. For the next month he performed extra chores around the barn without complaint. That was years ago and although Randy had matured in the intervening years, the memory of that kid was a big part of how the staff thought about him when he took over. Would he be a great success like his father, or would he burn the place to the ground? The staff adopted a wait and see attitude.
The first real test of Randy's character came when Rhonda showed up to apply for a job as a trainer. Rhonda was 17 or 18 years old, although it was hard to tell through the heavy black eye make-up and lipstick. She wore a black hoodie over a lacy black blouse that ended just above the waistband of a pair of tight checkered slacks. When she reached over Randy's desk to hand him her application, the hoodie and blouse raised up just enough in the back to reveal a image featuring curly scrolls and broken hearts. One of the teenage riders refers to this type of tattoo as a "Tramp stamp."
Randy looked over the standard application form for a moment before giving the young girl his full attention. He had one question, "What do you care about?" Rhonda answered with a shrug. "There's nothing that you think about all the time? No music that you listen to everyday? A style that matters to you?" He waved at her outfit as he said this last. Rhonda scowled a bit as if her carefully selected outer appearance was the last thing in the world she expected to be judged by. Randy sat back in his chair and let her think of an answer.
I have to admit that I got a bit choked up at the sight of Randy patiently waiting for the answer to a what to anyone else would be an irrelevant question. His appearance was all his mother. The dark hair, deep brown eyes, thin hands and compact frame, all Jenny. But the patient gaze the genuine interest in the person sitting before him, that was Henry. Henry could find the essential qualities of a person or a horse just by looking into their eyes. He had an uncanny knack for finding the offbeat character who, although a bit too strange for the normal world, had the skills and attitudes that made them perfect for Cactus Flower. When I first started working here, I hated the seedy looking grooms and antisocial trainers that seemed to come out of mental hospitals from miles around to plague me. Many years later, while seeing some of my own quirks reflected in the behavior of my children, I realized that I came to appreciate that if it weren't for Henry's predilection for outcasts and weirdoes, I would be unhappily trying to get along in a world that had little room for the unusual.
Rhonda shifted in her seat as she grew more uncomfortable with the expectant silence. Just when she couldn't stand it any longer, Randy lifted an eyebrow. "My drawing, I guess," she answered as surprised as anyone at the answer.
"You should bring some by sometime," said Randy with a smile. "I'd love to see them." His interest made Rhonda draw back shyly. "For me, these horses are like your drawings. They are what I do, how I make my mark on the world, see?" Rhonda nodded her head. I thought about the graphics library I was so proud of. By their works shall you know them. "Do you think you can treat my horses like you want people to treat your drawings?" Rhonda kept nodding. She was hired. Not a word was spoken about her experience, previous job performance or expected wages. Henry would be proud of his boy.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Begining
When you pull into the Cactus Flower Equestrian Center, you are greeted by a life sized statue of a mare and foal. The foal is braced back, ready to run off and play while the mare looks on maternally. The mare's back is polished smooth by thousands of little bottoms set on it while their parents snapped pictures. The plaque below the statue says, "Big Cactus and Little Cactus, Ride to live, Live to ride." Randy Marshal proposed the motto, something he had seen on a leather jacket, at Sunday dinner shortly after his father, Henry had bought 40 acres of farmland near Woodinville, Washington. The motto was adopted by unanimous family acclaim, and the Cactus Flower Equestrian Center was in business.
To understand that business, you need to know that this was happening at the end of the 70's when the country was struggling with OPEC, who had cut oil exports to a trickle. Gas prices soared to nearly 80 cents per gallon while people lined up at the service stations to collect their share of the suddenly precious liquid. The government monkeyed with rules for rationing gas, increasing mileage and supporting alternative fuels. NASCAR pitched in by reducing the length of its races by 10%.
People with on-site service jobs, like the one I had just started installing and repairing computers, had to carefully plan their travels to conserve gas and pad their schedules to account for the time spent in line to refuel. When I heard that I was going to have to go all the way to Woodinville, over 20 miles away (1.53 gallons of gas each way), I was not pleased. The 20 mile trip turned into 27 miles after I got lost twice. Once because of an unmarked road and again looking for a phone to call for better directions.
When I finally pulled into the dirt parking lot, Henry Marshal was there to greet me. He came strolling out of the barn with his big hand out and a smile that showed all the fake sincerity of a born salesman. I took the hand and squeezed, surprised to find such a soft hand on a man who worked on a ranch. He invited me to have a cup of coffee, which I declined. Even back then people from Seattle drank plenty of coffee, but when I got a look at the dust covered Mister Coffee machine on a wobbly table surrounded by dirty filters and a can of Folgers's, I decided to pass.
Henry showed me the little office where he wanted the computer set up and I went to work. There is more to installing a computer in such an environment than hooking up a few cables. I got this job because I had a knack for protecting the delicate machines in factories and warehouses where they were exposed to water, dust and, as in this case, let's call it fertilizer. There were plastic covers for keyboards specially filtered cooling fans and a ground fault detecting power supply.
While I worked Henry explained his great business idea. "We're in the last days of the age of the automobile," he explained. "Once gas hits two dollars a gallon people won't be able to afford to drive anymore. A few rich people will use up the rest of the gas supply and then everyone is stuck, right?" This kind of logic was the topic of many discussions in those days. Henry though, had a solution. "People are still going to need to get around, and that is where I come in." He took me back to a large aluminum building that featured a stylish looking wagon. Behind the wagon tools and barn gear was packed to the roof. "This is our prototype for the new family car. For one low monthly fee, we convert your garage to a barn, provide you with a wagon and a reliable horse and deliver feed every week." He spread his arms wide, basking in the glory of his own genius.
"You're going to need custom inventory software," was my only answer. In those days, I was always hustling for a job. Henry raised an eyebrow and asked me what I meant. I explained how the simple packages available then did not track consumables such as hay and oats. They were designed for places that had discrete items on shelves that came in and went out in fixed units. Henry listened to my spiel, asked a few questions and, in his decisive manner that I would come to know and respect over the following years, told me to report to work the next morning. I protested that I usually worked on a fixed term contract through the company I worked for, but he cut me off and offered me a 10% pay increase. I told him I'd think about it, but he had already turned to go back to the barn.
I showed up the next day and the day after that for the next twenty five years. Everything changed, of course. The energy crisis ended , forcing Henry to reinvent the company. I upgraded the computers every few years, keeping everything state of the art. And like the horses, Henry grew old, spent a few years in retirement and died. His son, Randy took over and has made Cactus Flower into one of the premier riding stables in the Pacific Northwest. Along the way, I have seen it all from 8 bit computers maxed out with 16K of RAM to Olympic dressage riders. From horse whisperers to WLAN access points. Oh, the stories I could tell.
To understand that business, you need to know that this was happening at the end of the 70's when the country was struggling with OPEC, who had cut oil exports to a trickle. Gas prices soared to nearly 80 cents per gallon while people lined up at the service stations to collect their share of the suddenly precious liquid. The government monkeyed with rules for rationing gas, increasing mileage and supporting alternative fuels. NASCAR pitched in by reducing the length of its races by 10%.
People with on-site service jobs, like the one I had just started installing and repairing computers, had to carefully plan their travels to conserve gas and pad their schedules to account for the time spent in line to refuel. When I heard that I was going to have to go all the way to Woodinville, over 20 miles away (1.53 gallons of gas each way), I was not pleased. The 20 mile trip turned into 27 miles after I got lost twice. Once because of an unmarked road and again looking for a phone to call for better directions.
When I finally pulled into the dirt parking lot, Henry Marshal was there to greet me. He came strolling out of the barn with his big hand out and a smile that showed all the fake sincerity of a born salesman. I took the hand and squeezed, surprised to find such a soft hand on a man who worked on a ranch. He invited me to have a cup of coffee, which I declined. Even back then people from Seattle drank plenty of coffee, but when I got a look at the dust covered Mister Coffee machine on a wobbly table surrounded by dirty filters and a can of Folgers's, I decided to pass.
Henry showed me the little office where he wanted the computer set up and I went to work. There is more to installing a computer in such an environment than hooking up a few cables. I got this job because I had a knack for protecting the delicate machines in factories and warehouses where they were exposed to water, dust and, as in this case, let's call it fertilizer. There were plastic covers for keyboards specially filtered cooling fans and a ground fault detecting power supply.
While I worked Henry explained his great business idea. "We're in the last days of the age of the automobile," he explained. "Once gas hits two dollars a gallon people won't be able to afford to drive anymore. A few rich people will use up the rest of the gas supply and then everyone is stuck, right?" This kind of logic was the topic of many discussions in those days. Henry though, had a solution. "People are still going to need to get around, and that is where I come in." He took me back to a large aluminum building that featured a stylish looking wagon. Behind the wagon tools and barn gear was packed to the roof. "This is our prototype for the new family car. For one low monthly fee, we convert your garage to a barn, provide you with a wagon and a reliable horse and deliver feed every week." He spread his arms wide, basking in the glory of his own genius.
"You're going to need custom inventory software," was my only answer. In those days, I was always hustling for a job. Henry raised an eyebrow and asked me what I meant. I explained how the simple packages available then did not track consumables such as hay and oats. They were designed for places that had discrete items on shelves that came in and went out in fixed units. Henry listened to my spiel, asked a few questions and, in his decisive manner that I would come to know and respect over the following years, told me to report to work the next morning. I protested that I usually worked on a fixed term contract through the company I worked for, but he cut me off and offered me a 10% pay increase. I told him I'd think about it, but he had already turned to go back to the barn.
I showed up the next day and the day after that for the next twenty five years. Everything changed, of course. The energy crisis ended , forcing Henry to reinvent the company. I upgraded the computers every few years, keeping everything state of the art. And like the horses, Henry grew old, spent a few years in retirement and died. His son, Randy took over and has made Cactus Flower into one of the premier riding stables in the Pacific Northwest. Along the way, I have seen it all from 8 bit computers maxed out with 16K of RAM to Olympic dressage riders. From horse whisperers to WLAN access points. Oh, the stories I could tell.
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