ONEMOREFOLD

Garst1. Deeper in the Ghetto2. Fermat’s Last Trick3. Ginger Snap4. Gingerbread in Sumatra5. How the Dinosaurs Got Their Feathers6. One More Fold7. Poverty, Side 1; Poverty, Side 28. Renate’s9. Sir Isaac (Pool Shark) Newton’s Big Break10.Uncle Robert Goes to Tea11.A Visit With MayMom12.Zeno and the Paradoxical Tortoise

GarstDeeper in the Ghetto

Garst R. Reese

My usual time of departure from my computer laboratory at the University of Southern California was in the wee hours of the morning. I must have missed a departure, because it was one afternoon about 3:00 when I headed across Vermont Avenue to my aged Renault. Vermont Avenue served as one of many barriers between USC and the “Ghetto.” As soon as I turned the key I knew exactly what was wrong. Opening the engine compartment simply confirmed the fact. My distributor cap, along with the spark plug wires, was missing. I slammed the compartment closed, uttered some politically incorrect oaths, and went back to my office to borrow a car, and be admonished for not parking within the “safe” confines of the campus. I just made it to the parts store before closing. The next morning, driving down the Harbor Freeway, I debated with myself about what to do about the parking situation. I could fork out thirty bucks a month and park on campus, but people got ripped off there also – at least once a month if you considered the thirty dollar parking fee, and it was hardly free from break-ins. I decided to park further back into the ghetto – as it was commonly called by my university colleagues. Perhaps I would not be so conspicuous. I looked for a spot where I thought I would not be encroaching on someone else’s favorite parking space. But how could I be sure? Most people would already have left for work. Finally I pulled up in front of a house where a man was raking leaves, parked and got out of the car. The man smiled and greeted me a good morning. I asked if I was taking anyone’s preferred parking space, and explained that I usually left work late. He assured me that I would not bother anyone, and I headed toward the university. As I approached my old parking space, I noticed a black teenager on his front stoop. I avoided his gaze, but he called out. “Hey, Dude. I know who ripped off your car.” “Yes,” I replied, with a hint of sarcasm, “I suppose you do.” “Yeah, Dude. It was that crazy kid who lives across the street. He does weird shit now and then. He ripped of your car, and then he turned around and threw a brick through our window.” Sure enough there was a gaping hole in a front window. “If I see him around your car again, I’ll kick his ass.” I smiled and thanked him. Most of all I was happy to know that I had not been the target of a racially motivated attack. I had just been in the way of a “crazy kid.” I would frequently see my new protector, Steve, on his front porch, and more often than not, he would join me for some light conversation. He called me ‘Dude,’ even after I had introduced myself, so our conversations inevitably started with “Hey, Dude.” I have a son named Steve and the two Steves were about the same age and, except for the fact that one was black and one was white, I might easily have confused the two. They had the same build, shared many facial features, and they had the same disarming smile.

I really did not think much about it when I did not see him for a while. Then there he was. “Hey, Dude, you haven’t seen me for a while, have you?” “No,” I replied, “have you been away?” “Yeah, in Juvie (Juvenile Hall). They busted me for ripping off a gas station, but I didn’t do it. Every time something happens around here, they come knocking at my door.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Well, you know, I have been in a little trouble occasionally, but that’s no excuse for them always gettin’ on my case.” I gave him obvious advice about cleaning up his act so that the police would get tired of harassing him. “Yeah,” he said, “I s’pose you’re right. You wouldn’t have a spare book of matches?” It happened that I did. “Thanks. Would you like a joint?” “Offering a joint to a stranger is not my idea of keeping a low profile,” I laughed. “How do you know I’m not a cop? “Hey, Dude, I may not be an ‘A’ student, but I do know the Po-lice when I see them.” “Work on those grades,” I laughed, and went on my way. On one occasion, when I was leaving work in the wee hours, I had just passed Steve’s house when a police helicopter swooped down and turned its megawatt spotlight directly into his bedroom window. Police cars screamed around the corner, and the police entered Steve’s house. Almost as suddenly, they left, and I went on my way. The next day I was hailed by Steve. “Hey, Dude.” I was relieved to see that he was okay and in good spirits. “Do you know what those dumb (expletive deleted) Po-lice did? Those dumb mothers raided my house by mistake. The ‘Dealer,’ he lives next door but they come bustin’ into my bedroom by mistake, just as I’m about to score with my new lady. Sheeit, I ain’t never gonna get that fox in my den again.” On yet another occasion, he appeared with a cast on his leg. “How’d you break your leg, Steve?” He tried to make light of it as he explained that he had been the victim of a drive-by shooting, but neither of our minds would be at ease for a while. One day I enquired about his interests. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied, “I’m kinda interested in electronics and computers and that kinda stuff, butt, hey.” “Hey, what?” I enquired. “Well, you know, my advisor, he says I should go to Vo school and learn a trade, like layin’ bricks or the like.” I had long ago noticed that Steve never spoke to me in the “black dialect.” He did not say, “he be sayin’,” he said, “he says.” It was not that he did not know the lack dialect, but that he knew standard English, and used it well. My hackles rose regarding the advisor. I had met the likes myself. “Funny,” I said, “my high school advisor told me the same thing.” “Dude, you gotta be kiddin’ me! And now you teach that stuff! What’d you tell him?”

“The truth is,” I replied, “I was too shocked and depressed to tell him anything. After I got over the shock, I determined to make him look like the fool he was.” “Right on! You sure did that! Screw that advisor!” Until I left the university, I parked on that little side street. I met the lady who had the beautiful garden and exchanged cuttings with her. She was thrilled with my Night Blooming Cereus, and I acquired a fabulous Christmas Cactus and Jade Tree. I met the baker and exchanged bread recipes. I became privy to Steve’s report cards, and took pleasure in his progress. My car was never tampered with again, but my life was much enriched. One day a “FOR SALE” sign appeared on Steve’s lawn. I asked him if they were selling their house. “We don’t own it,” he replied, “so we have to move.” “Sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’ll miss chatting with you.” “Yeah, I’ll miss you too. Dude. Still, I’ll be glad to get out of here ‘cause I’ll be in a better school. It’s gotten so that I can’t even leave my stereo in the car at night. There’s a ad element movin’ into the neighborhood.”

TWiG Anthology

Fermat’s Last TrickGarst R. Reese

“Clèment, Clèment-Samuel!” Clèment knew very well that when his father called him in this way, using his full name, that he was in an impatient state of mind. “Oui, mon père, un moment, un moment.” “What took you so long? I’m a dying man with no time to waste. Bring me Bachet. AAnd my pen. And ink. Hurry!” “Ah, papa, don’t speak of dying. In a few days you will be fit as a fiddle. You even survived the dreaded plague and the Huguenots. Bachet, mon père? Qu’est-ce que c’est, Bachet?” “Mon livre! Arithmetica! Mon Dieu!” Clèment headed for the library, wondering why his father should want that old book at this time. It had been years since he had carried it with him at all times. Was he really dying? Since his return from Castres, where he had sentenced that poor priest to be burned at the stake, he had not left his bed. Perhaps refuge in his beloved mathematics would bring him out of his flunk. Pierre de Fermat knew that he was indeed a dying man. He was also certain that he and that priest would not end up on the same side of the firmament. It had been a question of pissing off God or pissing off Richelieu. Some choice. But he did not want to be remembered as the “Burning Judge.” On the other hand, he did not to be forgotten either. Father Meresenne had urged him to publish his mathematical works. Bah! Idiots like Des Cartes gave him enough trouble as things stood. The Acadèmie would dearly love to be able to pick over his thoughts, ask for endless revisions, and send him reject notices. Maybe they have nothing better to do, but I am a busy man. “Here you are, papa. Your book, your pen, ink, and your writing desk. Is there anything else I can bring?” “Merci. Bu Clèment, I have set aside funds in my will for you to publish my papers. This should include a new addition of Arithmetica, including my notes. I regret I will not have time to put things in better order, but you will manage.” “Papa,don’t speak in this manner. I will, of course, do as you wish, and enjoy it greatly, but you will soon be up and about, and we will begin work on sorting your papers.” “One other thing. When the printer is finished with this copy, burn it.” “But papa ... yes papa, I will do as you ask.” “Leave me now, I have work to do.” And Pierre opened his precious book once again. He knew precisely what he was looking for, a note written a quarter century in the past. Cubem autem in duos cubos, aut quadrato-quadratum in duos quadrato-quadratos, et generaliter nullam in infinitum ultra quadratum potestatum in duos eisdem nomininus fas est dividere. (Two cubes or two fourth powers or, in general, any powers greater than the second, cannot be written as the sum of two like powers.) “Easy to say,” thought Pierre, but be prepared to make a pact with the devil if you want to prove it. Had it not taken him, Pierre de Fermat, years just to make the proof for the fourth

power! Only to discover that an entirely new approach would be needed to go beyond that! All the work with the Pascals, everything else, and more yet! Then he took his pen in hand and added: Cuius rei demonstrationem mirabilem sane dexti hanc marginis exiguitas non coperet. (I have a truly marvelous demonstration of this proposition which this margin will not contain.) ‘Margin, indeed! Will they see the pun?’ he thought. “Clèment, Clèment-Samuel!” “Oui, mon père.” “Clèment, papier,s’il vous plait.” But when his son returned with the paper, Pierre de Fermat was dead.

Historical NoteThe above story is a fictional account of how I imagine the last days of Pierre de Fermat. He was born in 1601, a Catholic in a hotbed of Huguenots. He became a lawyer and entered civil service for the Council of Toulouse. His diligent service there earned him the right to add the honorific ‘de’ to his name, and he rose to the position of Supreme Judge to the Sovereign Court of Parliament. It was in this position that on January 9, 1665, he sentenced a priest to be burned at the stake for “abusing his powers.” Fermat died three days later. It is generally held that he wrote the marginal note that came to be called Fermat’s Last Theorem (last remaining to be proved) about 1637. However, i is also said that he did not take up an interest in mathematics until he was thirty, about 1631, when he went to work for the Council at Toulouse. I can accept the possibility that he stated the problem that early, but I find it too incredible to believe that he at once claimed a proof. Andrew Wiles found ‘Fermat’s Last Theorem’ in the library at the age of ten. Thirty years later, in June of 1993, Professor Wiles of Princeton University addressed a standing room only crowd at his Alma Mater, Cambridge University. His presentation spanned three days, each drawing a larger crowd. At the end of the third lecture he concluded, “and this proves Fermat’s Last Theorem, I think I’ll stop here.” It was two more years of working out flaws before his proof was accepted. It is some 200 pages in length and draws mainly on 20th century mathematical discoveries. Fermat is known to have proven the case for the fourth powers, but this proof is dated approximately 1647, and is held up as evidence that he did not in fact have a general proof. Fermat’s original copy of Arithmetica is lost, so it is impossible to say if his famous marginal note was written in one swoop of the pen, or even if the printer’s transcription is totally accurate. It is highly unlikely that he had a proof that would stand up to today’s standards. If he wrote the description “truly marvelous” as a budding mathematician, you might say that it was the exuberance of a new-found convert. If he wrote it late in life, then you must take into account that this is the man whom Newton credited with the fundamental idea of the calculus, and who, with Blaise Pascal, essentially created the field of probability. He never published in journals, and provided only the sketchiest proofs of his many other theorems in letters to other mathematicians, or said nothing about them at all.

TWiG Anthology

Ginger SnapGarst R. Reese

Alice came in from the garden gingerly holding a snapping turtle between her thumb and index finger. “Get me a bowl of water. This poor thing got lost and is very dehydrated.” I took down a cereal bowl and put about a half inch of water in it. Alice carefully lowered the small founding into the water. Like a desert plant after a rain, the small thing soon came to life and began scrambling to get out of the bowl. It was only the size of a quarter, but already it was obvious that the cereal bowl would not hold it for long. “What do they eat?” asked Alice. “I don’t know. Let’s consult E. Lawrence.” The Fieldbook of Natural History by E. Lawrence Palmer is one of Alice’s favorite books. We looked up: Turtle, snapping, p470. Length to 3 ft.; female considered the larger ... One reported to have weighed 86 lbs.“I wonder how fast they grow,” pondered Alice. Food varies greatly with conditions. Usually animal matter, but in some individuals over half the stomach contents may be water plants: can digest plant materials satisfactorily.“Well, it does not seem that there will be a problem feeding her.” Excellent as food in soups or stews. May serve as scavenger in waterways. May destroy ducks and some useful fishes, and on land, if bothered, may severely injure man. Too dangerous to be considered a pet at any time. Formerly fattened in swill barrels until fat enough to be killed for food.“Don’t even think about eating her!” Alice exclaimed. There is a note in E. Lawrence saying that on 8/3/82 she weighed in at 40 gms (1.4 oz). We kept a erecord of her growth, but it is lost somewhere. Suffice it to say that she grew rapidly, and I soon had to move her to an unused 10 gallon aquarium. We started off by putting some gravel and rocks collected from the roadside and the nearby strip pits (abandoned coal mines) into the bottom and adding water so that the rock tops stayed above the waterline. Of course we named her Ginger Snap. We decided she was a she because she had a convex underbelly. Male turtles usually have a concave underbelly to make it easier to climb up female turtles. It is not easy living in a body cast. As Ginger grew, we added more water. She spent a lot of time just lying on the bottom of the aquarium, but could swim rather well and float on top if she wished. Her favourite things were to sit on the bubbler or stand on a rock on her tippy toes. She looked like a ballet dancer, and seemed to think that she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Ginger had a rather voracious appetite, and we tried feeding her on all sorts of things. She liked hamburger, cheese, grasshoppers, just about anything. Her favourite thing was fresh fish. Really fresh –– like live. The strip pits were filled with water and provided a ready source of minnows and sunfish. She had no problems catching them, and could snap one clean in half. The one thing she would not eat was pork of any kind. We tried her on bacon, ham, fresh pork, and sausage. They were all rejects. One night Alice woke me up. “Garst,” she said, “there’s someone in the kitchen!” I crept out of bed and cautiously approached the kitchen. There were strange sounds –– crunch, slush,

crunch. I determined that they were coming from the aquarium, but decided not to make a disturbance and returned to bed, assuring Alice that it was only Ginger up to something. The next morning we investigated, and found that Ginger had been rearranging the rocks to make a more suitable home for a snapping turtle. She now had a cave to hide in. It was really quite a remarkable piece of construction. Ginger would hide in her cave and wait for an unwary fish to come by, and SNAP, lunch.Over time, we noticed a very peculiar thing. If a fish survived for two weeks in the tank, Ginger would no longer eat it. In fact, the survivors would steal food from her mouth. This irritated her to no end, and she would strike at them, but with mouth closed. When Ginger was about two years old, and the size of my hand, we had to move, and decided that it would be best to find her a home in the wild. The nearby strip pits seemed like the perfect place. We first took her to a very secluded, murky water pit where we thought she would be well protected. I put her in the water and stood back. She took a short turn around the pool and got out and stood at my feet. The pool was a reject. Alice suggested that maybe she did not like the murky water, so we took her to a pit that was sunnier and had clearer water. This time she took two turns around in a small circle, but once again, got out and stood at my feet. “Well,” said Alice, “we could take her to where we swim.” And that’s what we did. For the third time I placed Ginger in the water. She took one turn around a circle, stopped, looked up at us. Then another turn, stopped, looked again. A third turn, a third stop, a third look. “Go, Ginger,” commanded Alice. Ginger turned and headed straight across the lake. In the middle she turned once more, and then disappeared. A few months later we returned to Missouri for a visit and decided to visit the strip pits for a swim. Walking along the shore, I timidly called out, “Ginger.” Alice laughed. “There’s nobody around, Garst. If you are going to call your turtle, call so she can hear you.” It seemed like a very silly thing to do. Ginger was, after all, one of the most primitive life forms on the planet –– predating dinosaurs. “GINGER, I called. After a few moments, there was a splash in the middle of the lake. There was Ginger, her long neck stretched high above the water. Okay, it could have been any turtle. You decide.

TWiG Branches Out

Gingerbread in SumatraGarst R. Reese

Alice was scheduled to do her Ph.D. dissertation in Sumatra. The governments involved kept procrastinating. Finally we received a telex which seemed to indicate that all was set up. We were instantly on the road. When we arrived in Bogor there was quite a brouhaha. It seems that everybody was not in agreement that we should have come so soon, but the deed was done, so they had to live with it. We were given a driver and a jeep to transport us from Bogor on Java to the Animal Research Centre at Sungei Putih in North Sumatra. We took the ferry from Java to Sumatra, passing by Little Krakatoa and the remains of the original Krakatoa. Our driver wanted us to remain in the car during the crossing for fear of pirates, but we saw little sense in that. We then took the “Trans-Sumatra Highway” from the southern tip of Sumatra to North Sumatra.The road was so rough that when we drove over the epicenter of a 6.5 earthquake, we did not notice, although the driver seemed quite disturbed. The drive took four days. One of the silly highlights was crossing the equator. There are not many places where you can do that by road. We stopped, and hopped back and forth over it, so that if anyone asked if we had crossed the equator we could blithely say, “dozens of times.” Another highlight was the “Tiger Crossing” sign. It looked just like the “Deer Crossing” signs in North America, except for the leaping tiger. We stopped at a research station nearby and indeed, they were organizing a tiger hunt because an aging tiger was taking one pig a week. When we arrived in Sungei Putih we were shown what was to be our home for the next two years. It was a cinderblock house with a tin roof on a barren lot with no grass and no shade. The interior of the house was divided into a foyer, a dining area, two bedrooms, a bath area, and a 4 x 6 ft. barren cooking area with another bath area attached. The bath areas consisted of a mandi (a 1 meter cubed water reservoir) and a hole in the floor (squatting toilet). All in all, it was a depressing sight. The next day I enquired about a carpenter and was introduced to Pak Yousmann. He did not speak English and I was just barely able to say hello in Indonesian, but we proceeded to redesign the house. One of the bedrooms was converted into a kitchen with Formica top cabinets and a stainless steel sink. The main bath became a modern bathroom, complete with tub and toilet and hot water. The cooking area became a pantry, the adjacent bath area was upgraded to a more modern Indonesian style bath. Finally, I added a tiled patio with a palm frond roof and a walk-in bird cage. As the palm fronds were placed on the patio roof, the temperature in the house dropped at least ten degrees. In addition, Pak Yousmann introduced me to his brother, a gardner without peer, who set about re-landscaping the entire area into a garden which became the envy of the station, complete with fish pond, trees, and rows of orchids. The new kitchen had a counter-top stove, but no oven. How was I to cook my pineapple gingerbread upsidedown cake for Alice’s birthday? I had invented the recipe for her first birthday after I met her, trying to find a path to her heart, or at least to my bedroom. It had become somewhat of a tradition.

Then we picked up a book at the British Council Library in Medan about the British thwarting the communist revolution in Malaysia, that, in passing, mentioned a tin oven which was used on top of a gas burner. The next day I went to town and, with great effort, explained to one shopkeeper after another what I was looking for. The problem was that virtually ever container in Indonesian is a tempat. A salt shaker is a tempat sel, a box, ranging from a plain cardboard box to a tractor trailer, was a tempat barang (a place to hold things), a tin oven turned out to be something like a tempat feu, a place to hold fire. Finally one of the merchants led me up the stairs to a storage room where he uncovered a real life tin oven. It was the first time he had sold one. Pineapple, fresh ginger, freshly ground nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves were all native to the area, so a quick pass through the outdoor market area would satisfy the remaining needs. It was not as quick as I imagined. The pineapple vendor went through a waist high pile of pineapples before he concluded that there were none up to his specifications for a favored customer. He asked me to wait while he went and purchased two pineapples from another vendor. They were about 25 cents each. Then the fish man smiled as I entered the main market area. That meant he had a good fish that he knew I would like. It was a superb looking red snapper. I would need some fresh peppers and tomatoes to do it justice. Fortunately, we had company arriving from Bogor, the delightful Ruth Gatenby. That meant a stop for soft drinks. Ordinarily buying soft drinks for guests was a simple matter, but on this particular day, as I order a case of assorted soft drinks, one of the young men standing in the store made a snickering remark about how much he had overcharged me the last time. I did not understand it, but the store owner did. He went into a rage and told me to please wait. Orders were given, and all of the people involved in the previous scam were rounded up and lined up in front of him. It did not take any language skills to understand that they were getting a very severe dressing down, and being forced to recount each and every instance of overcharging me. Finally the owner turned to me. His fingers flew over the abacus, and he informed me that the case of pop would be 25 Rupiah, the equivalent of about two and a half cents. I thought I had mastered the language enough to understand monetary exchanges, but what he was saying made no sense at all. Soft drinks were not inexpensive, even fairly traded. Twenty-five Rupiah would not cover the deposit on one bottle. I was reduced to holding out a handful of money. He extracted 25 Rupiah and exclaimed, “Chukup.” Sufficient. Alice, eying my prized tin oven, was skeptical. “You’re not going to try baking a cake in that thing, are you?” Ruth was slightly more encouraging. “Oh, they work quite well. If you can get the heat adjusted just right.” While I was working on the birthday dinner, Ruth and Alice were making a flag to fly over the house using Alice’s birthday present, a band new Butterfly treadle sewing machine. I had found the machine in Medan when I noticed a rack of drive bolts for such in a store window. This caught my attention because my good friend Mary Lindberg had lamented that she could no longer buy them, and she loved sewing on her own treadle machine. Upon investigation, I discovered that treadle machines were alive and well. They had versions from Indonesia, Malaysia, Taiwan, and Japan. The Taiwan version was Singer, but the Japanese version was the Butterfly. I tested them by removing the drive belt and counting the number of turns the flywheel

would make given a gentle twirl. The Indonesian version barely made a single turn, the Malaysian version about three, the Singer maybe five, but the Butterfly seemed to go on forever. I bought the Butterfly for Alice and a few extra belt drives for Mary. I also bought a brand new charcoal heated iron. That evening, with flag flying, we celebrated Alice’s birthday with baked red snapper smothered in tomatoes, onions and local hot peppers, and a perfect pineapple gingerbread upsidedown cake. The cinderblock house became home.

TWiG Branches Out

How The Dinosaurs Got Their FeathersGarst R. Reese

It was the grandest meeting of genome court ever convened. Every gene, from the most mundane to the most exotic, had turned out. All of the Gene-Wizards were there as well. For this was no ordinary case: the dinosaurs, the pinnacle of evolution, had been convicted of ecological destruction. But what to do with them? What could be done? The Supreme Gene Court entered with oh so much pomp and circumstance, but you could tell by their looks that they did not have an easy task ahead of them. A great hush fell over the Grand Egg Room. There was hardly any need to call the court to order, but tradition has its ways. The Dinosaur chief advocate, T. Regina, D.N.A. (Doctor of Natural Accession), was called upon to plea for a fair and equitable resolution of the matter. “Your honor, members of the court, fellow genomes,” she began, “I need not recall here either the great contributions of our species or the tribulations. You all know that our history began in a time when the entire planet was covered with a plague of Kudzu, an entangled mass that made it impossible to even move about. We ate Kudzu, we stomped Kudzu, we ripped Kudzu up by its massive roots. When the way was cleared we traveled the ends of the earth, spreading seeds and dung, so that variety could once again flourish. Alas, we still had to eat to sustain our own mass and energy, and that is what has brought us to this crossroads. The court has ruled that we must reduce our size by a thousand fold and more. We ask only that we not be reduced to a laughing stock, crawling about the earth for all to ridicule. Instead, let us fly above it to forever view the wonders we have worked so hard to make possible.” There erupted then a great tittering in the Grand Egg Room. “Dinosaurs fly?” “How ridiculous, only insects fly.” “Order, order in the Great Egg,” bellowed the judge. And order was restored. The judge spoke, “Your request is most unusual. I presume you have taken this matter up with the Gene Wizards?” “Oh, indeed we have, your honor. They have assured us that there will be no problems at all,” replied T. Regina. “Wizards always say there will be no problems,” harrumphed the judge. “If my reading of the records is correct, they said that the dinosaurs would be no problem. Put your Wizard on the stand and let me ask about the non-problems.” The Wizard was duly called and sworn in with the oath from the code of the Double Helix. “Ah, Mr. Wizard,” said the judge. “I hear you have been making some rather high falutin’ promises to our esteemed friends, the dinosaurs.” “High flying promises, your honor. Not high falutin’ at all,” reposted the Wizard. “It was, after all, necessary to promise them something a little out of the ordinary if we were to expect them to give up their supremacy over the land. Was it not, your honor?” “Yes, indeed that is the case, Mr. Wizard. But I must say there is a bit of scepticism about. We do, after all, recall your experiments with pterodactyls. The court does not believe hat that is

quite what our friends have in mind when they speak of flight. Could you perhaps allay our fears a bit with some explanation. One that at least some of us might hope to understand?” “Hmm,” thought the Wizard out loud. “It might be easier to do than to explain, but as we reduce the size, we will also thin out the bones. The central cortex will require considerable miniaturization, but I assure you there will be no loss of functionality. Then we will replace the scales with an entirely new idea. They will look a bit like palm fronds, only be very much less dense. We call them feathers. There are many, many details. Shall I go on?” “No,” grumbled the judge. “If it is truly easier to do than to explain, then get on with it!” The Wizard did not hesitate. In a great flurry he went amongst the dinosaur genomes and collected bits and snips of DNA. Then he virtually flew about the archives lining the walls of the Great Egg Room, collecting still more strands and tucking them into pouches. When he returned to his place, he worked with such speed that he appeared as a blur, a wisp of smoke. When he had finished, thirteen eggs lay before him. There were large eggs and small, blue eggs, brown eggs, lavender eggs, spotted eggs, each was carefully labeled to indicate the primary gene donor. “There,” said the Wizard. “Now might I suggest that we all retire to the Grand Ball Room for some frivolity whilst these eggs hatch? I’m a bit thirsty.” “I shall remain here,” said T. Regina, “and watch over the eggs.” “As will I,” chorused the other donor mothers in virtual unison. “This court will adjourn to the Great Ball Room until the first egg hatches,” boomed the judge. As the proceedings had been going on for some time, this proclamation was most welcome. There was a rather disorderly rush to the Great Ball Room. But barely ten days passed, hardly enough for the festivities to get underway, when T. Regina entered and announced that the first egg had hatched. There then began another disorderly rush back to the Great Egg Room, but T. Regina spread her arms and bared her teeth. “Not so fast,” she said. “Only the donor father should be allowed to return until the wee thing has had a chance to gather some strength.” Of course the expectant fathers all rushed to the fore. “Ducky,” smiled T. Regina, teeth glinting, “come with me.” The great parasaurolophus gave a mighty hoot that would put 76 trombones to shame, and strode to the Great Egg Room with T. Regina. As he entered the Great Egg Room, ‘Ducky,’ as he was affectionately known, spied his mate cooing affectionately at the tiniest, ugliest thing he had ever seen. It was nestled between her toes, and just barely visible. He took a deep breath, as if about to speak, but T. Regina gave him a great thump on the chest, knocking the wind out of him, and spoke instead. “Isn’t it the most darling thing you have ever set eyes on?” Ducky strode closer and placed his right eye as close as he dared. “Well,” he murmured, “if it grows into its mouth, perhaps it won’t be so birdy after all.” “What do you mean, ‘birdy?’ demanded T. Regina in a huff. “Well, where I come from, it just means bit small,” said Ducky, hoping to fend off Regina’s wrath.

“I know very well what it means where you come from, Ducky. It means a small, ugly piece of dung! Go wash your mouth out with Rhododendron leaves!”T. Regina sensed the fact that the boys were, however polite, not going to be enthusiastic their

new offspring. She worried that they would not stand up to any ridicule whatsoever and determined to avoid any chance of such.

One by one she admitted the new fathers into the Great Egg Room, but all others were denied access. And it was not without some trepidation that she summoned T. Rex. He did have his difficult moments. “Now, Rexxy,” she cautioned as they strode together to the Great Egg Room, “our little one is about to be hatched. I have summoned you early, so that you can watch the entire process. Be at your best, dear.” T. Rex, being a man of few words, only nodded. When they reached the Great Egg Room, he stood attentively over their egg. Finally, a crack appeared, and from it came a tiny but awesome beak. T. Rex bent closer. Too close, he discovered, when the beak struck out and drew first blood! He quickly drew his head back, and his lips curled up showing his great teeth. But T. Regina was watching his tail, not his teeth. It was his tail that revealed his mood, and it was wagging happily. “That’s my boy,” boomed T. Rex, as even more dangerous talons emerged from the egg.T. Regina heaved a sigh of relief and went to summon the last of the expectant fathers. “What’s going on?” the crowd demanded. “We want to see, too.” “All in good time, my friends,” responded T. Regina, “then I promise you a show such as you have never imagined.” Finally, the day came, and with great fanfare the proud parents marched into the Great Ball Room with their fully fledged offspring perched on their shoulders. With a well rehearsed wave, they launched them into the air. They darted and swooped and performed the most exciting acrobatics. The crowd was awestruck as the rising sunlight played on the iridescent plumage. After showing off their amazing abilities at flight, they lined up on the balustrades and broke into a great chorus of song. Then there arose from the crowd a great thumping of tails, “Bravo, Bravo, Bravo, Encore, Encore.” “And that, my wee ones,” said Mother Goose, puffing out her fulsome breast, “is how we dinosaurs got our feathers.”

TWiG Branches Out

One More FoldGarst R. Reese

"But you can't possibly fold it again.""I can if I use another dimension." "Another dimension! How many have you used already?""It depends on how you count them." "You're impossibly mad!""But if I can't give her a perfect crystal, she won't even look at me, let alone marry me." "But another dimensional fold, and it will be too small to even see.""Size isn't everything, you know." "They say that, but deep down, do they mean it?""It makes no difference; she wants a Zentropy and a Zentropy she shall have." "Next she will want a perpetual motion machine. You know very well that a zero entropy crystal is impossible.""One more fold." "How are you going to hold all those dimensions in place while you make another fold?""Don't worry, I'm using only the best SuperString." "Do you believe everything you see on the tube?""The stuff really works. Just one more f..."

And BANG, that dear friends brings us to the end of our love story, and the beginning of our Universe.

TWiG Anthology

Poverty, Side 1Garst R. Reese

“I hate driving in Addis at night–the bloody bicycles don’t even have reflectors, let alone lights–the stupid assed donkeys wandering in the street ... .” “Calm down, Barb. At least there’s no traffic.” “No traffic! No traffic! You think all these people wandering around aren’t traffic? I would love some good old Chicago traffic. Real cars with real drivers. If I ever see another moped, I’ll be in heaven.” “Watch that pothole!” The car swerved. THUMP. “Oh shit, John! I’ve hit someone.” Lying in front of the car was an old woman in rags. “Get her into the car, John. We have to get her to the hospital.” “You’ve killed mama! You’ve killed mama! You pay! You pay!” “We have to get her to the hospital immediately.” John tried to reason with the shouting man. “She will get the best care.” “Hurry, John.” “You’ve killed mama. You must wait for police.” “We must get your mother to the hospital. My wife will take her. I will stay for the police.” The old woman did indeed seem lifeless, but if there was any hope at all, Barbara knew that they must get her to the hospital. Over the protests of the shouting man, John bundled the old woman into the back of the car. “Drive her to the hospital, Barb. I will stay for the police.” The thought of driving again that night terrified Barbara, but she knew there was no alternative. The crowd was angry and would not let both of them leave. At the hospital the old woman was taken to the emergency room. Barbara was told to wait. Fortunately it was not long before John arrived, escorted by the police. The policeman explained that the man demanded immediate compensation. A mere 5,000 Birr and they could settle the matter. The doctor arrived from the emergency room. “It is very bad,” he said. “She is dead.” Barbara broke into tears. The doctor continued, “She has been dead for at least two days. They threw her body in front of your car to exhort money. I’m sorry, they are poor, you are rich, and times are bad.”

Poverty, Side 2 Like a sack of grain Danilo carried his mother Along the darkened street Stumbling in the potholes All that was missing was the sound The sound of mortars And a place to bury the dead It seemed such a pity Wresting her from war So she could die in the city No space for the dead here Only garbage heaps endless streets and fear Am I too, dead? Doomed to walk forever these endless streets Like Atlas, Mother, Earth on my shoulders Lights! A car. Police? Soldiers? Step aside Aieee! Ummph! Crunch! “Shit!” “Mama!” Even in death she protects, Her frail body, crushed Lying in a muddy pothole Who said shit? Americans, Diplomatic plates, Saviours of the poor Poor me You’ve killed mama! You’ve killed mama! You pay! You pay!

TWiG Anthology

Renate’sGarst R. Reese

Hitting the road without coffee would have been unthinkable except for the unsightly array of fast food emporiums surrounding the motel. “We’ll find some place down the road, as I recall, there’s a place on the way out of town,” I assured Alice. It had been fifteen years since we’d been through Albuquerque, and before we knew it the new interstate had whisked us out of the city on our way to Santa Fe. “Huevos rancheros in Santa Fe will set everything straight.” But somewhat before reaching the old city of Santa Fe there was a huge new exit pointing to something Downs. Ah, I thought, here should be some places to eat here, and my gas is running a bit low. Then it seemed like miles before we came upon any open businesses, an outrageously expensive gas station and a grungy restaurant with no windows. In a fit of hypoglycemic ill temper, I cursed and we wound our way back through a most unfriendly return route. “We’re only a couple of miles from Santa Fe,” I assured Alice, whose mood was no better than mine. I ignored the next exit announcing “The Old Pecos Trail.” I should have remembered that that was the old highway running through the middle of Santa Fe. To my amazement, none of the exits said Santa Fe, and before we knew it we were headed into the foothills with a nearly empty gas tank. “What happened to Santa Fe?” asked Alice. “Don’t know,” I replied, “but I’ll just take the next exit.” “NO SERVICES,” announced the next exit. Alice was digging a piece of stale bread out of the litter accumulated in the car during the drive from L.A. I’m in trouble, I thought. Food God, where are you? What have I done to piss you off this way? For as long as I could remember she had saved me from McBurgers and led me to exquisite cafes aloong the back roads of four continents. They I saw it, the tiny handmade sign, “Renate’s, left next exit.” The next exit was to a gravel road that wound through the foothills. “For sale” signs in front of rundown properties announced the failed economy of the region, and my hopes dimmed. But then, sitting daintily on a little knoll, was a small Spanish-style house. A sign in the lace-curtained windows, OPEN. In the narrow driveway another rustic sign declared, “Renate’s–German and Mexican cuisine.” A neat bed of flowers and handcarved decorations on the rough hewn post holding up the roof over a small porch, added flavor to the promised repast even before it was tasted. As we entered, we saw that the small dining area was decorated with posters from German museums and concert halls; classical music filled in the background. Among the items on the menu hanging near the entrance, we saw Huevos rancheros, Weiner schnizel, and ... Apple strudel. “May I help you?” asked Renate in a soft voice with just a hint of a German accent. “Apple strudel,” we chorused. Her face took on a look of puzzlement. A somewhat surprised look crossed her face. “Let me see,” she said as she turned to an ancient wood-fired oven. “Why it’s just this moment done!”

she exclaimed. “How strange that you should arrive just at this moment, hungry for apple strudel, to have it fresh from the oven, at tis very best.” “I’m here,” smiled the Food God.

TWiG Anthology

Sir Isaac (Pool Shark) Newton’s Big BreakGarst R. Reese

(August 26, 1996, 10th Annual National Milton Acorn Festival)

Sir Isaac Newton published Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica in 1687, the very year that the poet Charles Cotton died. Newton’s laws of motion form the preface to the Principia. Charles Cotton published The Compleat Gamester in 1674, providing the first known English description of the game of billiards. I don’t know if Newton ever met Charles Cotton, but I do know that billiards is the best way to study the laws of motion, so here is my imaginary meeting of ‘Charley’ and ‘Zack’ in Mable’s Billiard Parlor about 1600: “So Zack my boy,” said Charley, “‘tis the game of billiards you are keen to learn?” “If you would be so kind, sir,” replied Zack. “Kindness, Zack, is driven by generosity, just as the mace drives the ball.” Zack (placing a tuppence on the edge of the table) replied, “Just so, sir.” Charley (eyeing the coin with a smile) continued, “As you are a quick study, we shall get to basics. When approaching a new and unfamiliar table, you should first, quite nonchalantly, gently roll a ball across the table such that it bounces from the far cushion at a generous angle, thusly” (rolling the ball as directed, but seemingly not to pay too much attention). “Now what did you observe?” “Well, sir, in the first place, the ball moved in a straight line, both approaching and leaving the cushion.” “Yes, and what would the late Galileo say of that?” “That the table is both smooth and level, sir,” responded Zack with confidence. “Well done, Zack. Now tell me what else you observed.” “That the angle the ball made leaving the cushion was a reflection of the angle of approach?” inquired Zack. “Excellent, lad. You are already on your way to understanding the laws of motion of the billiard ball. You have, no doubt, noticed that a ball at rest will remain at rest until acted upon by some force. This includes your opponent surreptitiously nudging a ball to gain a more favorable shot. So do pay attention to the positions of the balls.” “Your assertion seems quite reasonable, sir, though it is painful to imagine such an unscrupulous character as you allude to.” “Splitting infinitives! Zack you are naive. Now, you will notice that each of the balls, with the exception of their color, is identical. You can surmise from that if one acts upon another, there will be an equal and opposite reaction by the second onto the first.” “Would that not be the case with balls of unequal weight, sir?” inquired Zack. “Well now,” responded Charley, “I suppose it might, but that would complicate the game more than our simple minds might bear. Now let us observe the interaction of two balls as they meet.” And so Isaac and his mentor whiled away a pleasant afternoon. Upon returning to his digs, a somewhat poorer, but wiser, Isaac wrote down what he had learned that day: the first law of billiards is ... No, no, that won’t do at all. The first law of motion is ...

August 26, 1996, 10th Annual National Milton Acorn Festival. The Communication Bridge

Uncle Robert Goes to TeaGarst R. Reese

Freezing his frijoles of in the belly of a B24 was not what Robert had in mind when he took up cinematography. He was, however, grateful to be stationed in England rather than on the front. At least as far as the officers were concerned the Brits were quite hospitable, and it gave him a chance to explore his Celtic origins. If he survived this run, he would be going to “tea” in the garden of Lord and Lady Atherton. He had gathered that “tea’ was something more than a mere coffee break when Geoffrey, the British liaison officer, had stopped him on the way to the plane with the comment: “Ah, Robert, my boy, I hear you’ve been invited to tea. Well, that will test your best behaviour.” Robert suspected that the whole thing had been set up by Geoffrey. At least it would outdoors and in daylight rather than one of those frightful affairs behind blackout curtains, which were enough to make a coal miner claustrophobic. On the other hand, tea did not sound much like single malt scotch. As planned, Robert was waiting at the base entrance at 1400 hours. He was not alone. A number of other officers had been invited out to tea or whatever, but most were somewhat more casually dressed than Robert. Geoffrey had at least warned him that “High Tea” was a rather formal affair. He had not long to wait when a British racing green MG pulled up to the gate. Margaret Atherton extracted herself from the tiny car with more grace than one would have thought possible. She was, shall we say, statuesque. Without hesitation, she approached Robert. “Captain Reese, I presume.” “Well yes,” replied Robert. “They told me to look for a giant Highlander disguised as an American Air Force officer. With that flaming hair, you are not hard to pick out of a crowd. Sorry about the tiny car, but even Daddy can’t get enough petrol for the Bentleys.” It was not without much difficulty that Robert managed to scrunch his huge frame into the tiny roadster. He hoped that the rare sunny weather held, for with the top up it would be impossible. His head towered well above the tiny sliver of glass that was supposed to be a windscreen. Margaret Atherton drove the little car with more gusto than Robert would have thought either possible, or safe, on the narrow country lanes and it was not long before they pulled into the immense driveway leading up to the “place in the country.” Henry Atherton watched the arrival and smiled as the gangling Air Force Captain struggled to untangle himself from the MG. He’ll never make an undercover agent, Henry thought, but Robert ad been suggested as the liaison officer between British and American intelligence. Atherton would be watching him quite closely. Although Robert had heard of the British custom of “tea,”he was still amazed at their ability to overlay ritual and subtle formality on what an American might call a snack. The tea service itself was very elegant, the finest bone china and what could be called cookies and sandwiches, except for the obvious labour that had gone into making everything precisely right.

There was even a tiny pat of butter, protected from the sun in a crystal bowl filled with ice. Robert politely ignored it, sensing it was only there for display –– perhaps to remind one of better days, past and future. But Robert soon found himself in serious difficulty. He had been just a scant slow to adapt to the formality and had put his finger through the teacup handle. And there it stuck. A giant finger trapped by a tiny teacup. Gentle twisting was of no avail, and it seemed his finger was beginning to swell. He once again eyed the butter, but it was such a pathetically tiny pat that even a small nick would be noticed. He thought of the sickening training films about gangrene the Army was so fond of showing, and paled a bit, as he imagined his finger dropping into the sausage platter. “Well,” Henry Atherton was saying, “I hear your bombers dealt the Huns a crushing blow last night.” Crushing, thought Robert, brilliant idea, as he slipped hand and teacup into the large side pocket of his “pinks.” “I hadn’t heard,” lied Robert, who had only hours ago seen the photographs he had taken of the damage. He wondered how Henry Atherton had known. Then, with his free hand, Robert whipped out his handkerchief and let out a mighty sneeze, at the same time crushing the secreted teacup and freeing his finger. “Bless you, my boy,” exclaimed Atherton. “I think we should get you inside and apply some single malt Highland scotch to that cold.” Robert offered his arm to Margaret and they headed into the house. Lord Atherton mused that his prospective coworker would be able to handle delicate situations in imaginative ways.

TWiG Anthology

A Visit With MayMomGarst R. Reese

MayMom is the mother of my second wife’s first husband. I met her only on two or three occasions, but have often listened to loving conversations about her. Most of all, she was determined not to lose her grandchildren as a result of her son’s frequent divorces. They were the ones who coined her name, and I never heard her called by any other. She succeeded remarkably well in this endeavour, using the simple strategy of loving them and her daughters-in-law in a completely unselfish way. This tale starts when Aimee, Alice’s daughter, returned from a visit with MayMom bringing a jar of her Kumquat Marmalade, which I was fortunate enough to taste. I immediately instructed Aimee to get the recipe, and she did so. Shortly thereafter the beloved MayMom passed away. A few days ago I saw some Kumquats at the Root Cellar where I buy my coffee, tea, and cheese. I thought the price of $7.20/lb a bit high, so I passed them by, but I dug out MayMom’s recipe, determined to find some Kumquats. To my delight, the next visit to the Root Cellar showed me a price of $4.99, and I purchased 2 lbs. 4 c. thinly sliced KumquatsAfter a good washing, I began slicing. Each Kumquat yielded 10 to 15 slices, and in 2 lbs., there are 80 to 100 Kumquats. I could almost feel her looking over my shoulder, saying ‘just a wee bit thiner – that’s right.’I remembered that when I was a younger man, with way too much testosterone, I used to go out and chop wood to relieve my frustration over petty grievances. I wondered if perhaps MayMom did not get the same sort of relief slicing up these gonad sized oranges. add 2 c orange juice, 1/2 c lemon juice Soak overnight.And soaking them in acid. Put in canning kettle, add 1 box SUREGEL Bring to a HARD boil. Boil 1 min. Add 6 c sugar and boil HARD 1 minThat’ll fix ‘em. Remove from fire and stir and skim for 7 min. Pour into sterilized glasses. Stir to push Kumquats to bottom of glass. Cover with paraffin wax immediately.Delicious.

TWiG Branches Out

Zeno and the Paradoxical TortoiseGarst R. Reese

Zeno, Achilles and Tort the tortoise were all a bit in their cups. At such times, not unusual for the trio, Zeno tended to get pensive, Achilles boastful, and the tortoise torporous. Achilles swatted the mosquito sucking on his heel and boasted that, given a fair track, he could outrun Mercury. “Bah,”theorized Zeno, “give even Tort here a small head start and he’ll beat you in any race.” “Give Tort half the bloomin’ track if ya like,” boomed Achilles, “I’ll catch him in a flash.” “If you spent more time with the philosophers and less time in the gym, you would know I was right. Is that not correct, Parmenides?” said Zeno, turning to his mentor, the philosopher bartender. “If you spent more time in the gym and less time with your philosophers, you would know that you are a fruitcake,”responded Achilles. “The loser buys a round for the house,” declared Parmenides, smelling a full till. “You see,” postulated Zeno, “by the time you reach the place where the tortoise starts, he will have gone on, and by the time you again come to the place from whence he last left, he will have gone further still, ad infinitum. “Just add the tab and let’s get to the race,” huffed Achilles. “We’ll race from here to Plato’s bar. Tort, you go ahead while I finish my mead.” “If you try to finish your mead,” retorted Zeno, “the tortoise is sure to win. First you must drink half the remainder, and before you can do that, you must drink half of half the remainder, ad infinitum. “Tortoise hair and balderdash!” responded Achilles as he quaffed his infinity of infinita of mead and ordered another. “By that reasoning, the tortoise should still be here, and plainly he is not.” “He won’t get far,” exclaimed Zeno. “To get to the door, he must first go half way. To do that, he must go half of half way, ad infinitum. “Well, in that case, you hunt for the turtle, and I will have another cup of mead,” responded Achilles. Meanwhile, on his way to Plato’s bar, the tortoise met up with Simplicius and Socrates. “Whereto, in such a rush?” laughed Simplicius, addressing their friend the tortoise. “I’m racing Achilles to Plato’s bar,” bragged the tortoise. “Zeno has bet I shall win.” “With Zeno bound up in his thought of ONE, and Achilles tied to his mead, ‘tis a fair race,” mused Socrates. “We’ll see neither ‘til the morrow.” “No paradox there,” laughed Simplicius as they approached their destination. “A small step for Achilles, but a giant step for all turtledom,” presaged the tortoise as he crossed the finish line and entered Plato’s bar. “Ad infinitum,” cheered Simplicius, stepping over yet another infinity of infinita. “ad nauseam, snickered Socrates. The next morning, upon opening his bar, Parmenides was not surprised to find Achilles still asleep on his barstool, “No paradox there,” he laughed to himself.

August 26, 1996, 10th Annual National Milton Acorn Festival. The Communication Bridge