05 December 2013

Notes - bones and beeswax / Mandela's transition / 5 and 6 word freq.

         Late morning. This is Carol’s day to go to lunch with her retired teacher friends. Earlier you had your fasting blood test. You still have the GMG Stats and StoryMill to do. First though, I want to clarify a point in yesterday’s posting. I, Amorella, am here because you are paying for an “accidental exposure to Transitional(s) hitherto unknown to you”. This exposure is similar to the ‘accidental exposure’ (at an early age) to your father’s hidden U.S. Army distributed photographs of dead and liberated inmates at the German Concentration Camps in 1945. I am your manifestation of the Transitional. It is that I am one-dimensional in the same way you see yourself as three-dimensional in a fourth dimensional setting (time and space). The books and blogs are manifestations of you, your heartansoulanmind, but I, Amorella, exist in the notes and books also. Take away you and I am what is left. This is a fact of your life. The fact is a conditional because it effects your thinking/writing grammar, vocabulary and finger behavior. - Amorella

         When one accidently steps on a beehive sheorhe may be stung but in the process the discovery another substance may be an extract, beeswax and honey for example. From my perspective the blog and Merlyn books are beeswax. – You understand me here. No more on it for now. – Amorella

         You found an article relating to early humankind at BBC.com. You see that your species may be much older than you had imagined. You are concerned that it doesn’t fit with what is suggested of higher consciousness and DNA in the blog and books. It makes no difference as far as the books are concerned. The books are not about science; they are about humanity and its setting in a fictional form. Add the article then post. - Amorella

** **

4 December 2013 Last updated at 13:32 ET

Leg bone gives up oldest human DNA
By Paul Rincon
Science editor, BBC News website

The discovery of DNA in a 400,000-year-old human thigh bone will open up a new frontier in the study of our ancestors.
That's the verdict cast by human evolution experts on an analysis in Nature journal of the oldest human genetic material ever sequenced.
The femur comes from the famed "Pit of Bones" site in Spain, which gave up the remains of at least 28 ancient people.
But the results are perplexing, raising more questions than answers about our increasingly complex family tree.
The early human remains from the cave site near the northern Spanish city of Burgos have been painstakingly excavated and pieced together over the course of more than two decades. It has yielded one of the richest assemblages of human bones from this stage of human evolution, in a time called the Middle Pleistocene.
To access the pit (called Sima de los Huesos in Spanish) scientists must crawl for hundreds of metres through narrow cave tunnels and rope down through the dark. The bodies were probably deposited there deliberately - their causes of death unknown.
The fossils carry many traits typical of Neanderthals, and either belong to an ancestral species known as Homo heidelbergensis - or, as the British palaeoanthropologist Chris Stringer suggests - are early representatives of the Neanderthal lineage.
DNA's tendency to break down over time means it has not previously been possible to study the genetics of such ancient members of the human family.
But the recent pace of progress in sequencing technology has astonished many scientists: "Years ago, geneticists said they wouldn't be able to find DNA that was older than 60,000 years old," said co-author Jose Bermudez de Castro, from the National Research Centre for Human Evolution (CENIEH), a member of the team that excavated the fossils.
"Of course, that wasn't true. The techniques have advanced hugely."
Researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany, under the supervision of Prof Svante Paabo, have been helping drive those advances. The success reported in Nature was the result of applying techniques developed for sequencing the degraded DNA found in Neanderthal fossils to even older specimens.
Prof Paabo, the institute's director, said: "Our results show that we can now study DNA from human ancestors that are hundreds of thousands of years old," adding: "It is tremendously exciting."
The scientists were able to stitch together a near-complete sequence of mitochondrial DNA, or mtDNA (the genetic material contained in the tiny "batteries" that power our cells) from the ancient femur. But comparisons of the genetic code with that from other humans, ancient and modern, yielded a surprise.
Rather than showing a relationship between the Spanish specimens and Neanderthals, which might be expected based on their physical features, the mitochondrial DNA was most similar to that found in 40,000 year-old material unearthed thousands of kilometres away at Denisova Cave in Siberia.
The Denisovans were a sister group to the Neanderthals, with distinct genetic characteristics. Identified only by DNA extracted from a tiny finger bone and tooth, they are, as some researchers have remarked, "a genome in search of a fossil" because there are no substantial remains representative of this group.
By using missing mutations in the old DNA sequences, the researchers calculated that the Pit of Bones individual shared a common ancestor with the Denisovans about 700,000 years ago.
So there are several possibilities as to how Denisovan-like DNA could turn up in Middle Pleistocene Spain. Firstly, the mitochondrial DNA type from the pit came from a population ancestral to both the Spanish hominids and to Denisovans.
Secondly, interbreeding between the Pit of Bones people (or their ancestors) and yet another early human species brought the Denisovan-like DNA into this western population. Prof Bermudez de Castro thinks there may be a candidate for this cryptic ancestor: an earlier human species known as Homo antecessor. One million years ago, antecessor inhabited the site of Gran Dolina, just a few hundred metres away from the Pit of Bones.
Prof Chris Stringer, from London's Natural History Museum, told BBC News: "We need all the data we can get to build the whole story of human evolution. We can't just build it from stone tools, we can't just build it from the fossils. Having the DNA gives us a whole new way of looking at it."
However, he points out, mtDNA is a small and unusual component of our genetic blueprint, from which only limited conclusions can be drawn. For example, no sign of the interbreeding we now know took place between Neanderthals and modern humans remains in the mtDNA of modern people.
To get the full picture, scientists had to sequence nuclear DNA (that kept in the nuclei of cells) from Neanderthals and compare it with that in present-day populations. Likewise, the true relationships between the Pit people and other ancient populations may only be known if and when nuclear DNA is available.
This will be a challenge given the age of the Spanish fossils, but their good state of preservation - largely a product of the fairly constant temperature inside the cave - gives hope.
"That is our next big thing here, to sequence at least part of the nuclear genome from the individual in the Sima de los Huesos," Svante Paabo told BBC News.
"This will answer definitively the question of how they are related to Neanderthals, modern humans and Denisovans."

From – bbc.co.uk. news, science, environment

** **

            1156 hours. I can understand beeswax. 

** **
beeswax  - noun

1 the wax secreted by bees to make honeycombs and used to make wood polishes and candles: turning pollen into beeswax.
2 informal a person's concern or business: that's none of your beeswax.

From – Oxford-American Dictionary Software

** **

         You have a tendency to be too literal, boy, but I see added dark humor in your definition, particularly if you add its historical uses from Wikipedia. – Amorella

** **

Beeswax

Historical uses
The oldest survived beeswax candles north of the Alps, from the Alamannic graveyard of Oberflact, Germany dating to 6th/7th century A.D.

Beeswax was the among the first plastics to be used, alongside other natural polymers such as gutta-percha, horn, tortoiseshell and shellac. For thousands of years beeswax has had a wide variety of applications, it has been found in the tombs of Egypt, in wrecked Viking ships and in Roman ruins. Beeswax never goes bad and can be heated and reused.
                Used in manufacture of cosmetics.
                As a modelling material in the lost-wax casting process, or cire perdue.
                For wax tablets used for a variety of writing purposes.
                In Encaustic paintings such as the Fayum mummy portraits.
                Used in bow making (see English longbow).
                Used to strengthen and preserve sewing thread.
                As a component of sealing wax
                To form the mouthpieces of a didgeridoo, and the frets on the Philippine kutiyapi - a type of boat lute.
                As a sealant or lubricant for bullets in cap and ball and firearms
                To stabilize the military explosive Torpex - before being replaced by a petroleum-based product.
                In producing Javanese batik.
An ancient form of dental tooth filling.

From – Wikipedia
** **

         Now post. – Amorella

         Dark  and telling humor, indeed. Thanks for giving me the smile, Amorella



         The highest word counts in Chapter Five according to StoryMill are: or 17; Merlyn 15; have 14; dead 14; soul 13; here 12; than 12; Richard 12; ship 11; am 10; Yermey 10; light 10; thought 10; Robert 9; has 9; good 9; human 9; all 9; cemetery 8; first – 8; one 8; matter 8; great 8; mind 8; Ezekiel 7; place 7; Khrap 7; into 7; what 7; now 7; so 7; full 7; down 7; know 6; still 6; once 6; goddess 6; who 6; earth 6;two 6; see 6; up 6; like 6; more 6; do 6; Ka 6; through 6; being 6.      
    
         After the national news. You were impressed with the way the death of Nelson Mandela was presented on NBC News. However, you turned the news off a couple of minutes ago not wanting to see any more. – Amorella

         1905 hours. He was a great man and public leader; truly the modern George Washington of his country. He was concerned about the children getting enough food for breakfast, a very practical man, a compromiser and a forgiver. I remember the photos of his jail cell taken by Kim when she was in South Africa while working with international students at Ohio State. I am glad she was able to see the man from a closer perspective and hope she bring up her boys to have her similar ideals as Mandela. I had no reason to see more of the media coverage, the first thirty minutes of news was enough for me. I remember one of the points on the show was that in South Africa they think of those dying and dead as being transitional or having been transitioned into another state of being. At the time and in context I thought of transitional and transcendental as very similar contextual words. I like the concept in a very personal way. Nelson Mandela was a great man and like many other great leaders in the world I am happy to be here and to have shared the same air for a period of time. I feel that we who share the air of the planet at the same time have a physical connection even if we do not and did not know one another personally. Alive, we are cousins who share the world together in various segments of time and space. I have no other thoughts on the subject presently. (1921)

         I stated an observation. I did not ask for your thoughts, boy. Post. – Amorella

         The words rose in a singular reflection. I am not going to apologize for them. You stopped with a period and I began with a number without the slant.

       
         2229 hours. The highest word counts in Chapter Six according to StoryMill are: Pyl 16; like 16; Bracc 14; gray 14; have 13; dead 12; Robert 12; into 12; what 12; story 12; one 11; would 11; Richard 10; plane 10; then 10; glanced 8; see 8; thought 8; black 8; before 8; up 8; left 7; who 7; heard 7; why 7; or 7; friends 7; all 7; down 7; Merlyn 7; Blake 7; living 7; right 6; Justin 6; continued 6; too 6; now 6; out 6; walked 6; chamber 6 while 6; quickly 6; Friendly 6; above 6; both 6; looked 5; will 5; love 5; marble 5; where 5; alone 5; each 5; time 5; some 5; which 5; side 5; when 5; eyes 5; light 5.

         Note the word counts five and six. – Amorella

         I use too many of the same words. I am not sure how I am going to deal with this.

         When these chapters are completed we will compile the lot and move through the top ten or twenty then let it go. The communication has to flow. No one is counting words but you. – Post. - Amorella    

04 December 2013

Notes - cumbersome statement / empathy

          Dusk. You have had a rather relaxing day (no traveling) – a few errands and chores as well as exercises completed, late lunch at Penn Station. You may work on Chapter Seven tonight, maybe not. You do need to place all final work to present on Apple’s Page so it has iCloud backup tonight. – Amorella

         I forgot I had not completed that. I have it on Word but not Page. Also, I did not use the StoryMill software yet. Yes, I want to complete this and move on to 7,8 and 9. And, I haven’t decided what to do about putting the book online for free – that is which format to use. Surely there is one to upload a free book.

         Nothing’s for free, boy. I won’t allow it. We will discuss this later. – Amorella

         That’s pretty abrupt. I thought this was a consideration. I don’t mind giving it away. What else am I going to do with it?

         You are missing one of the major points in my being here in the first place. NOTHING IS FREE. NO UTOPIA HERE. EVERYONE PAYS. – Amorella

         I thought that was for the Ferry Man or whoever he is.

         Later, boy. Post.  – Amorella

         It is arrogant to give something away?

         Sometimes. In here we walk a fine line to write a fine line. – Amorella

         That sounds arrogant and conceited. Besides, the books aren’t all that well written. Even here I have trouble expressing myself.

         Don’t you find that odd, you being a writer who cannot express himself well. – Amorella

         It is a cumbersome statement -- pretty much a point of fact if you ask me.

         Later. - Amorella


         2216 hours. We watched “Person of Interest” and “Major Crimes” tonight. I have been puttering around reading geek.com for the first time. Interesting articles. I did do everything but the StoryMill. I feel better with the work on iCloud. I have to do the GMG Stats/Chapter also. Then I’ll be ready to work on the next chapter.

         One of the science articles you just read suggests that memories can be inherited. What do you think? – Amorella

         2223 hours. Some memories are first photographed live and instilled as memories. What comes to mind first are the photographs from the concentration camps that I first saw when young. I remember my initial reaction, which was: “What is this? What is the strange mound or hill made of? There is too much ‘roundness’ to be junky clutter. I have been to the Westerville City Dump and have not seen anything like this.” That is what I remember. The photographs are a memory and I inherited them from my father. This is what I think. I also remember my initial reaction when the pieces of roundness found themselves in a pile of naked bodies of dead men and women. “This is not real.” That was my reaction. It is a vivid memory I inherited from my father who was there and saw such in living color like photographs from Life magazine at the time.

         Over the years I have come to respect the Dead, all of them. The Living who must one day leave this place, this Earth. They have no voice so in my imagination I make up their voices to keep them alive. Words keep them alive. And, before the words there are the ‘letters’ that keep them alive. And, before the letter that keep them alive there is the grammar. The ‘grammar gene’ is inherited. In such a way memories are inherited. (2240)

         You are surprised at your response but I am not. Post. – Amorella

         It is silly to be without words but you find a way to even take the grammar away.

         Good. Empathy has no need of grammar. Post. – Amorella

         I do not feel empathy.

         In here such empathy is what the Dead take with them. Why, because they were alive. - Amorella


03 December 2013

Notes - lunch with Dave and Marsha / Muse's birthday

          1801 hours. We arrived home from the Der Dutchman Amish Restaurant on SR 91 and I-71 about fifty minutes ago after having a good lunch and conversation with Dave and Marsha. Earlier in the morning after dropping off the boys at the Primrose day school we drove over to Powell for muffins from a local bakery with Kim. We do seem to be getting better mileage, back in the 37 m/g range after a drop to one 31.9 a few days ago. Today at the pump after almost 200 miles we had 39 m/g. I dropped the speed from 77 to 74, which may have helped, plus it is warmer. I even played around with 73 mph some. These are tolerable speeds but that is about as far as I’m going to go at present. In the sixties we took my ’65 VW to the max on the freeway and Penn Turnpike between Westerville and Alexandria, Virginia. When the speed limit was dropped to 55 during the ‘energy’ seventies I had a couple of Escort Radar detectors, one for each car to stay in the 65 to 70 mph when and where possible. We had two CB radios too, one for each car to keep tabs of the police. I think we called the ‘Bears’ at the time. I got a couple of tickets along the way. Both were justified, as I was doing seventy when caught by newer radar and police stealth.

         Today is my first Muse’s birthday. I saw her from time to time from 1982 to 1987 when she was in school as my office aide and later a couple of times when she was a freshman and sophomore at Indiana University. Like two or three other students over the years I would have adopted her as one of my own. I would have adopted a couple of my male students also and raised them as my own. Some people one just becomes attached to. Kym is one of them. Without her challenging me to write I don’t think I would have. Later, my second Muse, Laney, whose birthday is in May, also gave me a challenge to continue writing. I am indebted to both. Not often a writer has had two real muses in his life, but I have been so blessed, so to speak. Both are deep in heartansoulanmind, that’s what I feel.

         I have not disagreed, boy. You are who you are in part because both ladies are who they are. Post. - Amorella

01 December 2013

Notes - Brothers 6 (final) / Grandma 6 (final) / Pouch 6 (final) drafts

         Shortly after noon. You read the Sunday paper during breakfast and completed an errand and a couple of household chores. You also appear ready to get on with the final draft of GMG Volume One.

         I am ready but it is not so interesting as it was not too long ago. I am curious so I will keep at it, but several recent readings are showing me that others are also doing such experimentation in a more scholarly fashion for eventual publication. It was fun thinking I was in an area all my own. I should have known better, of course. My desire is the complete the three works but mostly to show Owen and Brennan their Grandfather Orndorff could write a text when he put his mind to it.

         Mid-afternoon. You and Carol did more chores and are now mostly ready for Winter, except for taking rakes and such to the basement for storage. Carol is finishing up a load of wash and if there is time you will go a short distance for some reading and writing. You did exercises Friday and yesterday and today about half through chores and such. Tomorrow you have an appointment for your five thousand mile checkup at Joseph Toyota. This has not been an average seven weeks of driving, no question about it. Let’s go to Brothers Six. – Amorella

         1609 hours. I have the section completed.

         Add and post. – Amorella
***
The Brothers 6 ©2013, rho, ch.6, GMG.One

            The brothers walked to the hillside that dropped to the bottoms and river at a fifty-degree angle, looked down into childhood memories and then back towards the mausoleum. "Let's go in," said Robert.
Richard glanced to the right, the corridor closest to the entrance, which is at the north and saw the three pieces of stain glass at the west wall. “Look at the crypts,” he said, “lots of marble
            Robert said, “I think our relatives are interred in this next section. The last four on the second-shelf up.”
            Both walked to where they could see the names. “James and Mabel are on mother’s side, and Ron and Beatrice and David and Jessie are on father’s side. I wonder why they are all buried together on this shelf.”
            “I guess they were good friends,” replied Richard while thinking, the mystery is why would they be good friends? I didn’t know they even got along. Ron and Beatrice were dead before we were born, but I remember the others well enough. I don’t remember coming to the funerals though. They turned toward the center of the building.
            Robert commented, “The mausoleum was built in the twenties for friends and relatives I would imagine," suggested Robert.
            “True enough.”  Richard glancing over to the large centerpiece, “look at the angel with the emerald wings, just above her right hand is an orange Star of David. I wonder why she and her robes are tinted green. Look at the dark sky behind her; it is like she flew through a storm to talk to the child at her feet.”
            “Interesting,” responded Robert though matter-of-factly. “Is the kid in the glass Jesus or Moses?”
            “I don’t know.” Richard moved back to get a better focus. “He’s wearing a red robe but he is looking at her open left hand. Above her wingtips, on another plate, is the orange double eagle in a green background. A larger copy of the two side pieces’ double eagles.”
            Robert glanced at the opposing long east chamber and at the marble wall of the hallway between the four chambers. “The sunlight from the east chamber was still shining in like we are on a movie set, he thought.
            “I like that naked bulb hanging from the ceiling in the center here,” asserted Richard. “A nice piece of copper hanging above it but the outer bulb is missing.” With Robert on his left, he turned to peer into the other west chamber at the south section of the mausoleum. “This chamber is a lot shorter. I had forgotten that.” He glanced up and quickly counted, “It has twenty crypts on each side.”
            Robert reflected, "I like the marble design of the chamber as a whole. It is appealing.”
            Richard added, “And from out here in the hall the colors that are most striking.”
            “Why don’t you get a key made instead of using the loner from the city,” suggested Robert. “And we could come back anytime.”
            Robert stepped back to better observe, “With decorative markings above that. The rest are typical stained glass features. You see more purples at a distance. It is all rather somber.”
            “Don't forget where are we Rob?”
            Both chuckled, but the comment used to be funnier when they each had fewer of them. They turned and walked away from the south stained glass and the five stacked marble crypts on both sides. Then they walked passed the dark walnut podium with the black cross carved in its center and up the marble hall past the two north chambers and out the creaking brass door that had to be pulled to shut tightly for locking, and which Richard diligently locked.
            Richard was surprised but neither really looked closely down the southeast crypt chamber where all the sunlight was pouring in. That was the one that looked eerie from a distance, he thought, and maybe it was too bright to look into comfortably, but we didn’t. It is hard to believe there were be too much light in a mausoleum, but this morning there was. We probably missed something. He said, “This is a copy.”
            “Make me one, would you?” They quietly walked to Walnut Street where Robert declared, “I’m going home.”
            “I’ll head on up Grove to the house,” said Richard. “I like walking in the shade of these old trees and through campus.” The twins walked their separate ways, Richard to the east and Robert north. Their heartsansoulsanminds settled close together though on the deep of what their lives had come to be.  
***

           1613 hours. Now that I am back into it. I am enjoying this once again. 


         You had leftover Papa John pizza from a week ago for supper while you watched “The Mentalist” and “Major Crimes” of a week ago. After a couple more chores you sat down to work on and complete Grandma Six. – Amorella

         1944 hours. I just completed it without too many changes but it is clearer to read.

         Add and post. – Amorella

***

Grandma's Story 6 ©2013, rho, (final) draft for GMG.v.One

            Hello, Readers. I have another story from the Dead for you. It happened long ago on the large Isle off the coast of France not far from where the town of Canterbury would rise. Rolling hills and woods and streams and the coast not more than a day’s walk. Bracc had long black hair with roughly built limbs and a log like trunk. He had neither a comfort stage-like appearance, nor an unusual one such as a mask or prop that would benefit him in his storytelling.
            No listener expected any of the stories to be objectively true because stories are not like a hunter pointing to a deer and saying, "Dinner." Storytelling goals and objectives were the department of education and the focus, the premise, was how the individual might better survive on herorhis own and/or in a social group.
The shaman took young Bracc aside and said, “I will give you a project and a story will come from this that is entirely your own.”
Bracc’s face lit up, “I am ready, master. Give me the project, and I will test myself.”
The shaman charged, "Tell a story in gray,"
           
Bracc stoically tread a path to his thinking cave near a rabbit warren. 'Death is black but sleep is gray like stone. White and black make gray. I love dreaming about building higher and higher stone walls. Stories like stones are gray in dreams.' Bracc smiled like dawn and said aloud,  “I shall thus color my story in gray.”
***
Two full moons passed. Bracc stood looking out at his first audience. This is what life is, he thought, standing alone while the others are content to sit. Tonight I will make my love, my Erca, proud to be my mate and to have brought our child into this world.  He began. "The Living touch the Dead in many ways. The Dead cannot be seen but they can be heard whispering from time to time. This is a story One of the Dead told me in passing.

            People were suddenly amazed young Bracc would attempt such a difficult story. The audience of friends and acquaintances sat with anticipation. Most were skeptical because Bracc appeared to young to have heard an unknown story from the Dead. Even Bracc's wife Erca, holding their two-month old son nearby was dubious, as she had heard some of Bracc's tall tales.  
Bracc pulled his wooden story engine cube from the camouflage of green foliage and balanced it upright in his left hand and said, "What do you see?"
An elder replied, "It is a gray box with six sides."
"Yes, a box of six sides can easily be explained, but what of the color, gray? One might say it is a pigment mix of black and white. Black is the night sky, white, the ever-changing moon enumerable stars, sparkling jewels dancing across a black velvet sky. Nature in the heavens does not mix gray. Clouds may be gray but they interrupt the heavens like a gray stone wall. What then is gray if it is not a mix?
Another elder jokingly added, "I can only see one side of the box."
            "We have heard and seen a trickery of words in such a simple device before!" shouted yet another in the audience.
            Bracc stood suddenly realizing the man was right. There is nothing new in telling a haunting story of gray ghost in the box. I am a travesty, he thought. He face gave up on him and redden. Bracc glanced to Erca whose eyes were now cast down as she instinctively sheltered their child more closely.  Bracc's thinking grew ridged and stone-like. He quickly surmised, I shall be remembered as a storyteller nevertheless.
            Bracc quickly confessed, "I deceived myself to even think that I could reinforce a story with tricks and devices. The Dead cannot talk with the Living. This story is my imagination alone. But it will be remembered." Bracc stood before the crowd in a singularity of mind fully naked and empty. Bracc collapsed and singularly died.
Bracc's last thoughts may be in the genes of both the storyteller and the first listeners. Why? I am Grandma and within your species earliest DNA as well as the newest of newborn.

Bracc and Erca are now long reposed
With sons and daughters since surrogated;
Grandma's mouth would be forever closed
But for those strands and molecules correlated.

***


         2017 hours. I have reviewed and further corrected Pouch 6. I feel it is clearer. Doug had checked the flight description so I didn’t want to change any of it.

         Again, add and post. Tomorrow you will be busy. I conclude that “Grammar” will work for the theme word of the chapter but let’s add a reference in this last segment. – Amorella

***

Diplomatic Pouch 6 ©2013, rho. (final) for GMG.v.One

            After an efficient walk around the plane and inspection of the controls Friendly, using the pseudonym, Mykkie Carlson, glanced over the instrument and screen rich Cessna Silver Eagle control panel and pushanpulled the start toggle fumbled then pushed the toggle to the up position. Embarrassed that Pyl was watching she quickly smiled and commented, "It's been awhile." Then glancing at her watch and the clock on the console thought, we'll be in Cleveland before dark.
            "We all do silly things, Mykkie," said Pyl with a smile and then with enthusiasm  commented, “I love this plane and I remember this Cessna was Dad's favorite." She winked, "Isn't that right, Blakey?"
            He feigned a grumble, "Yeah, with Dad, Pyl was always the favorite."
            Justin looked to Mykkie’s sister Lindsey, a nom de plume, who was sitting next to him and said, "Pyl and Blake come from parents who were a bit dissimilar."
            "Pardon," replied Hartolite.
            Justin commented, "Dissimilar, you know, diverse."
             Hartolite pondered the specific definition . . . families that are ‘dissimilar' and ‘diverse’? Does Justin mean ‘heterogeneous’? This Homo sapiens’ grammar is full of personal interpretation and negotiation and also a clarity that can be cumbersome in verbal communication.
            With the flaps down Friendly revved the engine and confirmed the rpm status, verified the alternator and voltage and they were picking up speed while rolling down the runway, a lift of the nose, and with the flaps reset for a slow climb southwest Friendly tapped the brakes to stop the spin and retracted the wheels. Quickly nearing the Ohio shoreline she continued the climb while turning the yoke to the left. The Silver Eagle continued a steady climb with Catawba Island, then the Marblehead lighthouse were below the right wing and Kelley's Island and greater Lake Erie lay down below the left wing. The plane continued climbing due east until leveling off at nine thousand feet with a speed of 140 mph. Friendly felt her body immediately relax. "We're good for Burke," she said. "Beautiful day, beautiful scenery, one beauty of a plane."
            Pyl smiled without further response. The plane and the pilot were as one in the same. Pyl loved the flying.
            The flight continued, seemingly uneventful. Pyl fell into a catnap. Awakening to the drone of the engine she found that Justin and Blake had fallen asleep too. Pyl let be. She glanced over at Friendly, smiled and quietly said, "I can tell you are in love with this plane. I am in love with it too." Pyl closed her eyes in a ruse and let her mind moved into surreptitious quarters.
            Pyl recollected her thoughts. This tension began yesterday with the bird cracking the left wingtip light. Blake initially said it felt like the bird lightly tapped the wingtip light. I asked if it was a bird. Justin said it sounded like a piece of gravel hit the wingtip. When we inspected the wing at the hanger Blake said the gray remnants were bird guts but there wasn't any blood mixed in it. The gray matter reminded me of soot.
            Pyl continued her silent deliberation, Mykkie Carlson is clearly in charge. The only flight mistake she has made was the attempt to push the toggle switch in and then pull. She didn't fumble with the toggle to push in and then pull out. It was smoothly done, almost unconsciously, like she had done it a thousand times before; like I would turn a car key down to the right to start the engine.
            Pyl adjusted herself in the seat and relaxed with her eyes closed until she heard the thump of the wheels being lowered. She glanced at her watch and saw the time was 4:48 then looked at the time on the interment panel, it was 4:49. That's odd, she thought, we were synchronized when we left Put-in-Bay. Pyl pulled the cell phone from her purse; it also showed 4:48. "What time do you have Justin?" she asked.
            "We checked our watches at breakfast. Just what you have, 4:48."
            Pyl responded, "The plane says it is 4:49."
            Blake said, "I have 4:48 too. Now it's 4:49."
            "The plane says it's now 4:50," noted Pyl.
            "I have 4:50 too," said Friendly.
            Hartolite glanced at her watch that also said it was 4:50 but she lied saying, "I have 4:49. Maybe it is just a fluke of a few seconds."
            Polite chatter ruled during the smooth landing and exiting. Blake and Pyl quickly inspected and secured the plane.  While walking into the Burke Terminal, Ply spoke fully resolved, whispering to Blake alone, "I don't want you to sell our father's plane."
***