“To Live, Not To Exist”

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out
in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom
of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

-Jack London

N&W 611, Finally Fired Up

My grandfather and I, dwarfed by J611 in the early 1990s

My grandfather and I, dwarfed by J611 in the early 1990s

Yesterday I made my way up to the North Carolina Transportation Museum in Spencer, NC for their Sendoff Celebration for the Virginia Museum of Transportation’s N&W Class J 611. Since May 2014, the 611 has been at Spencer, undergoing its much anticipated restoration after twenty long years in hibernation.

For someone like me who grew up enamored with this locomotive, this was a fantastic day. And for the past year there has been something immensely satisfying about her being restored at Spencer Shops, where I spent so much of my childhood.

What a joy that scenes like this will once again be a reality:

N&W J 611's builder's plate

N&W J 611’s builder’s plate

Learn more about the N&W J611 and the Fire Up 611 campaign

Donate to the Fire Up 611 campaign

One Of Those Days

I often lend some technical and musical assistance at a local church. In today’s case, the DVD drive in an aging computer they leave in their chapel was failing. So, I ordered a cheap replacement and went to install it today. A theoretical twenty minute job. If only…

The first things I noticed on opening the old desktop were the connections used on the drive: Molex power and a huge data bus for which I can’t even think of a name. It’s been so long since I’ve replaced components on older equipment that the fairly recent transition to SATA didn’t even occur to me. Fortunately the motherboard did have SATA ports available for data, but SATA power from the PSU didn’t exist.

One quick trip to RadioShack for a Molex-SATA adapter later, the drive was installed. I boot the machine, but there’s no DVD drive to be found in the system. After a visit with Google, I boot into the board BIOS and eventually find and enable the SATA connections. Round two booting into Windows now shows the drive and everything is working. Well, except for one minor issue.

At this point, Windows notices that “significant hardware changes” have been made, and decides that its own installation may not be genuine. It gives me a friendly ultimatum that if I don’t activate Windows in three days, it will no longer be usable. My twenty minutes is at about two hours by this point, by the way.

Now, to activate Windows you must be on an admin account. Reasonable, yes? Problem: no one around knows what the password is, and the only other account is a locked-down “Guest” account. So, back to Google. There’s a hidden, backdoor-esque “Administrator” account that often gets left without a password on installation. As my luck today would have it, whoever set up this machine was actually paying attention and locked that account as well.

I tried weaseling my way in through Safe Mode and Command Prompt, but couldn’t even select those options because the USB ports for the keyboard weren’t active on that prompt. Hello Google… again. Back into the BIOS, legacy USB support gets enabled. Now I can boot into Safe Mode, but only admins can actually use that mode.

Four hours later (Hey, remember that twenty minutes?), we now have a computer with a working DVD drive that in three days won’t be working anymore. Our options are down to someone miraculously remembering the magic password or someone uncovering a Windows XP Pro installation disc (no luck so far). Alternatively, what I’ve suggested is to forget the whole Windows nightmare and install a lightweight Linux distro like I’ve done with my aging hardware at home.

Needless to say, today has done little to improve my already low opinion of Windows these days.

“The Sign of the Mushroom”

In honor of the 65th anniversary of the nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, below is an excerpt from Robert Leckie’s memoir, Helmet for My Pillow:

I lay in the hospital ward and the Sign of the Mushroom rose over the world.

I lay in a hospital for the tenth time since I had chosen to enter the Marines. My comrades and I had suffered in our persons as the world had suffered in her peoples since the Nazi swastika had clasped the Japanese rising sun in spidery embrace—the whole world, racked for six years like a giant organism; and now the Sign of the Mushroom was rising over it.

The ward in Newton D. Baker Army Hospital in Martinsburg, West Virginia, was quiet—shocked, still. The impersonal radio voice said, “America has just dropped the first atomic bomb in history on the major Japanese city of Hiroshima. The city has been destroyed.”

Monster cloud rising over Hiroshima, over the world—monstrous, mushrooming thing, sign of our age, symbol of our sin: growth; bigness, speed: grow, grow, grow—grow in a cancer, enlarge a factory, swell a city, balloon our bellies, speed life, fly to the moon, burst a bomb, shatter a people—explode the world.

So it rose and I shrank in my cot, I who had cringed before the body-squeezing blast of a five-hundred-pound bomb, hearing now this strange cold incomprehensible jargon of the megaton. Someone had sinned against life, and I felt it in my very person.

But then I, too, sinned. Suddenly, secretly, covertly—I rejoiced. For as I lay in that hospital, I had faced the bleak prospect of returning to the Pacific and the war and the law of averages. But now, I knew, the Japanese would have to lay down their arms. The war was over. I had survived. Like a man wielding a submachine gun to defend himself against an unarmed body, I had survived. So I rejoiced.

A few days later, the war did end, and there was a victory celebration in Martinsburg. The townspeople walked and rode around the square twice and then everyone went home. A slender Chinese gentleman, noticing my green uniform among the khaki, my ribbons and my shoulder patch, perhaps concluding from these that I had fought the Japanese, came up to me out of the crowd as I stood before the beer hall, and said, “Thank you.” Then he walked away. That was victory, that was jubilation—under the Sign of the Mushroom. I returned to the hospital, stark sober. In a few weeks, I was a civilian.

…[Sacrifice] is enough for all, for it is sacrifice—the suffering of those who lived, the immolation of those who died—that must now be placed in the scales of God’s justice that began to tip so awkwardly against us when the mushroom rose over the world. It is to sacrifice that men go to war. They do not go to kill, they go to be killed, to risk their flesh, to insert their precious persons in the path of destruction.

…That is why women weep when their men go off to war. They do not weep for their victims, they weep for them as Victim. That is why, with the immemorial insight of mankind, there are gay songs and colorful bands to send them off—to fortify their failing hearts, not to quicken their lust for blood. That is why there are no glorious living, but only glorious dead. Heroes turn traitor, warriors age and grow soft—but a victim is changeless, sacrifice is eternal.

And now to that Victim whose Sign rose above the world two thousand years ago, to be menaced now by that other sign now rising, I say a prayer of contrition. I, whom you have seen as irreverent and irreligious, now pray in the name of Chuckler and Hoosier and Runner, in the name of Smoothface, Gentleman, Amish and Oakstump, Ivy-League and Big-Picture, in the name of all those who suffered in the jungles and on the beaches, from Anzio to Normandy—and in the name of the immolated: of Texan, Rutherford, Chicken, Loudmouth, of the Artist and White-Man, Souvenirs and Racehorse, Dreadnought and Commando—of all these and others, dear Father, forgive us for that awful cloud.”

— Robert Leckie, “Epilogue,” Helmet for My Pillow

8/6/2015: Edited and republished for the 70th anniversary of Hiroshima’s destruction.