Delicate Nerves
As we began the transformation of the athletic field to a temporary parking lot for our construction workers, two black wires were brought to my attention. There they were in the dirt, severed in two, copper laid bare by the gentle proddings of the machine tasked with stripping the field of its turf. Thin, light, low voltage...2 small lines connecting the school to the world, destroyed by an apologetic operator.
Why anyone thought burying these important lines just 3 inches below the surface of the field was an appropriate action given the importance of these lines was the mystery of the morning. We weren't entirely sure of what service, if any, we were interupting, but a call from a calm Dr. Coffey and we were pretty sure it was the internet service over a T-1 to Nerinx Hall. No amount of praying was going to splice these wires together, what was needed was SBC and a truck full of tools and wire. They came later in that afternoon, and by day's end students and faculty were back to full strength downloading and checking email.
My own internet service was alive and well in the little trailer. And thank God because I'm one of those people who doesn't have much use for a computer that isn't networked to at least something! And my printer doesn't count. I need information, I desire action. Even my important spreadsheets are stored on another drive, in a secure building through VPN over a network. If my wireless card is out of range and I don't have a bright green cord sticking in the back of my notebook, well I just turn the thing off. There's really nothing to do and nowhere to put my stuff. When I was a young boy with my feet up on the woodstove reading My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George, did I have any idea I'd be emailing the author 37 years later? Of course not, but here I was just now asking Ms. George a question for my 10 year old daughter about that very book. Our big world just shrunk in size and time. And all because of that little black wire.
The exhumed wires, now repaired, were laid back to rest where they were found. We threw a little dirt over the top with a promise to find them again in the Spring after the thaw. That's when we'll move them for good to make way for the big green field. And if my own connections are intact, that's when Outlook will pop up to remind me.
Editor's note: My daughter found some erroors in punctuation, and our email to the author asked if these were intentional or not. Jean Craighead George answered my email almost immediately. She was not aware of the error and went on to write that she appreciated the note and Bella's attention and would inform the publishers of the error. Are you kidding me? It's moments like this which make me more appreciative and less rueful of the 21st century!
Why anyone thought burying these important lines just 3 inches below the surface of the field was an appropriate action given the importance of these lines was the mystery of the morning. We weren't entirely sure of what service, if any, we were interupting, but a call from a calm Dr. Coffey and we were pretty sure it was the internet service over a T-1 to Nerinx Hall. No amount of praying was going to splice these wires together, what was needed was SBC and a truck full of tools and wire. They came later in that afternoon, and by day's end students and faculty were back to full strength downloading and checking email. My own internet service was alive and well in the little trailer. And thank God because I'm one of those people who doesn't have much use for a computer that isn't networked to at least something! And my printer doesn't count. I need information, I desire action. Even my important spreadsheets are stored on another drive, in a secure building through VPN over a network. If my wireless card is out of range and I don't have a bright green cord sticking in the back of my notebook, well I just turn the thing off. There's really nothing to do and nowhere to put my stuff. When I was a young boy with my feet up on the woodstove reading My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George, did I have any idea I'd be emailing the author 37 years later? Of course not, but here I was just now asking Ms. George a question for my 10 year old daughter about that very book. Our big world just shrunk in size and time. And all because of that little black wire.
The exhumed wires, now repaired, were laid back to rest where they were found. We threw a little dirt over the top with a promise to find them again in the Spring after the thaw. That's when we'll move them for good to make way for the big green field. And if my own connections are intact, that's when Outlook will pop up to remind me.
Editor's note: My daughter found some erroors in punctuation, and our email to the author asked if these were intentional or not. Jean Craighead George answered my email almost immediately. She was not aware of the error and went on to write that she appreciated the note and Bella's attention and would inform the publishers of the error. Are you kidding me? It's moments like this which make me more appreciative and less rueful of the 21st century!
posted by Dan at 10:05 PM
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