Last December, I visited the Barnard Design Center for the first time. They gave me a safety training and introduced me to their various machines (3D printers, Cricut vinyl slicers, woodworking power tools, and... a CNC machine!). Within a few days I’d sent in a grant proposal outlining the construction of a wooden Buddha.

CNC stands for Computer Numerical Control, but everyone uses the initialism. It’s basically the inverse of a 3D printer: instead of adding material layer-by-layer from the bottom up, the CNC removes material from the top down. It’s used in aerospace engineering, automotive fabrication, Buddha manufacturing, and other environments where margins of error the width of a human hair can be the difference between life and death.

In January, I was awarded the Design Center grant. In February, I learned how to use the CNC. In March, I bought basswood from the Rosenzweig lumberyard in the Bronx, and lugged it across the subways to my dorm. In late April, with the showcase deadline approaching, I started the real work.

First, I converted 400 photos I’d taken of a Standing Jizō at the Metropolitan Museum of Art into a 3D model with Design Center software. Using Blender, an open-source modeling software, I warped the statue and simplified its architecture.

I warped the statue as a nod to the contradictions of Buddhism. It’s a religion known for espousing harmony and balance. However, in Japan during the early Nara period (710-794 CE), Buddhism was used by the ruling class to consolidate power. The original bronze Buddha of Tōdai-ji was made of so much copper that it destabilized Japan’s economy. Moreover, the Great Buddha Hall of Tōdai-ji is the largest wooden structure in the world and required leveling a small mountain and the destruction of thousands of trees. Ikkyū Sōjun, an enlightened Zen monk of the 15th century, was renowned for his love of brothels and drinking. More recently, in the 1500s, itinerant Buddhist monks solicited donations to fund new temple constructions. Instead, they often took the money for themselves. And did I mention the warrior-monks of Mount Hiei?!!1

The main difficulty plaguing my Buddha construction was the limitations of the CNC machine. It’s a three-axis CNC, meaning it can cut left, right, and down. It cannot do undercuts, nor slice wood thicker than one inch. I wasn’t disappointed by these constraints; from what I understand of art history, limitations push people to find alternatives that are more inventive than what they originally conceived.

A one-inch-thick Buddha would’ve been disappointing. So, I boolean-differenced the model into 15 cross-sections, which could then each be sliced on the CNC, sanded, and glued together to form a more three-dimensional statue.

And that’s what I did. It took over 50 hours, but at the end of it Curvy Buddha was born. In the eyes of this unbiased parent, he was beautiful.

I hope this Buddha statue will endure. The original model is from the late 12th century, and it’d be nice if mine were still extant in 2926. Realistically, this isn’t going to happen. At the very least, I’d like it to stick around in my family for a few generations, perhaps as an unconventional bookshelf decoration. It’ll prompt unanswered questions about its origins from descendants until someone shortsighted drops it in a Goodwill donation bin.

Oh well. It was only wood.

Leave a comment

Subscribe now

In a few hours, I’ll be 21-years-old.

My second birthday is my most remote memory. Double digits (10), left me with the vague impression that I would not be a youth forever. Age 18 rendered me eligible for the Selective Service. Soon, I will be 21: the last birthday that can be reasonably celebrated sans surprise party.

When I was 6, my sister and I did gymnastics at West Point. The cadets who instructed us would play the contemporary songs they loved like “Tongue Tied,” “We Are Young,” and “Hey Soul Sister,” among others. I hear these songs sometimes, usually in grocery stores late at night, and am transported back to a time when I was less than 5 feet tall. I’m now as old as those cadets were (and at least as tall). Those cadets are middle-aged, probably married and raising children.

***

Life gets better the older you get (old people are just more vocal with their complaints). For example, humans older than 20 can do cool things. They can gamble in Las Vegas, enter bars and nightclubs, and rent cars (in some places).

A more useful benefit of age is a gentle slowing of the mind and growth in patience. Activities that even two years ago would’ve left me antsy and frustrated are fun. For example, I took a class this semester wherein I made one drawing of a plaster ear. For the first half of the semester, we calculated proportions, adjusted dimensions, and drew approximations that were erased and redrawn each week. The second half of the class was spent precisely adding graphite to areas of cast shadow, reflected light, and dark light. I spent over 70 hours drawing this ear, and enjoyed it.

***

The sun was setting as I walked to Dinosaur BBQ to enjoy a meal with my Computer Science lab. Heading north, toward Grant’s tomb, I noticed an angelic finial, bugle raised, standing at the peak of a nearby roof. At that moment, I paused. It was my final 20-year-old sunset, brought to my attention by the solemnity of the bugler.

And I continued walking.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Post Script:

By the time you get this email, I’ll already be 21. So far, I’ve gotten free pancakes, sang karaoke with some buddies in a church, and half-fabricated a wooden Buddha on a CNC machine (more information to follow in the next ‘stack).

Every day, thousands of cars drive down Broadway, the average 1 train carries 7,000 passengers between dawn and dusk, and tens of thousands of pedestrians hurry across Manhattan. It’s a busy, noisy city.

But in the basement of a pet store on Broadway, a tortoise sleeps. His name is George, he’s 28 years old, and he thinks you should feed him strawberries.

George leads an ascetic lifestyle. His diet is strictly vegan, supplemented by alms from the occasional wayfarer or customer who descends the metal steps to George’s hermitage. Indeed, this was how we met.

As a recent New York City transplant, I spend the majority of my idle time wandering the city’s streets with the elusive goal of making up for my provincial childhood. One morning, I decided to walk from Columbia down to South Ferry. I’d made it no more than 15 blocks when I noticed a cat in the window of a pet shop. I stepped through the door, and a polite “hello” rang out from the back of the store. A milk-carton-sized bird, perched on a shelf, greeted me with a wink and a smile.

The bird and I exchanged pleasantries, but beyond that, we didn’t have much to say to each other, and grew bored with the conversation. I was about to leave when the owner, Sam, pointed to the dark staircase descending into the basement and suggested I go down. I considered the old adage, “stranger danger,” disregarded it, and walked down the stairs.

The fluorescence of the pet store faded as the humid air of the cellar fogged up my glasses, and the hum of the fish tank pumps enveloped my ears. Out of the fog sauntered a tortoise, staring cock-eyed as if to say, “Hello, what is your name, what are you doing here, and did you bring me strawberries?”

It’s not a unique observation, but in the short time I have been in New York, I’ve realized that there’s no quiet, and there’s little nature. Sirens penetrate even the most soundproofed places, and almost every tree, rock, and blade of grass has been disturbed, overturned, or sat on by the 8 million nature-starved urbanites of New York City (and their dogs). If the reason for my wandering was a search for quiet and nature, George seemed to be the solution.

Sam’s store, Petqua, acquired George when he was about two years old. Unwanted by his previous owners, George was given a small enclosure in the store’s basement until he grew big enough to escape and claimed the entire basement as his own. Now, George has grown to be the size of a large Butterball turkey. He is in good health and could live at least another 50 years. He also manages to get out from time to time, competing in tortoise races in the summer, attending birthday parties, performing in nonspeaking roles on Animal Planet, and even observing Yom Kippur (so far, nothing to atone for).

Since meeting George, I’ve brought many of my friends to meet and feed him. One friend, who’d taken a Buddhist architecture course with me, remarked that George might be the ideal monk. As far as can be observed, he is free of avarice, sloth, intoxicants, and has no earthly desires beyond strawberries.

Despite being in a pet store, George is not for sale. He’s part of the community, and his homo sapiens friends come to Petqua every day to feed him. “George gets along well with everybody,” Sam remarked. All visitors are welcome to feed him—plants only. George is partial to strawberries from Ferris Booth Commons, but I’ve also fed him lettuce, apples, and bananas.

When you go, pet George. His sand-colored shell may be hard, but he can feel your touch, and will intentionally walk into you and rub his shell against your leg—it’s his love language.

George was not the “nature” I expected to find in New York, but he is the “nature” I most treasure. I may ramble through Riverside Park on a rainy day, or watch the sun rise from the summit of Morningside Park on occasion, but the dark Broadway basement of Petqua is more appealing than anywhere else. It is to George that I return, again and again.

And I always bring strawberries.

Subscribe now

After my late night last night, I slept in until 0820. We cooked pancakes and sausages on the griddle outside, and watched Rick Steves explain the highlights of Rome. (Doobs and J-Dub are going in a few weeks). They showed me a few books they’d constructed with Nom Ricky of their adventures in Milwaukee.

Nolten is their last name, and today I learned there’s a centuries old family crest that accompanies it. Unc’ CJ pulled out a metal stamp that looked like it was from the 1700s… and it was! We burned through almost three stamp-wax candles making our seals.

J-Dub pulled out his National Geographic Metal Detector, and trained by finding pennies Doobs and I had hidden in the backyard. It was time for the real world, so we walked to a nearby playground.

Within 30 seconds, we’d uncovered an ancient Christian icon of St. Jude (and definitely not a cheap pendant that a small child had lost on the playground). Using our archaeo-logical thinking skills, we postulated that underneath the playground there had once been a thriving Christian settlement that had disappeared sometime in the past 2000 years.

We returned to their home, and cooked up some smash-burgers on the grill. These are burgers that have über-thin patties because of the tremendous concussive force they sustain on the griddle. They were delicious.

For a few minutes we ate hamburgers in the sun, on the first warm day of spring. The grass was green, the mosquitos were dormant, and the food was ever so delicious

Slowly the minutes passed until suddenly it was already time to leave. I packed quickly and Unc’ CJ and Doobs drove me to the airport. I was through security in less than 15 minutes, and now I sit, waiting for my slightly delayed flight to return me home.

Subscribe now

Keeping it brief today:

Rose at 8. Continental brekky. Snuck into neighbor’s apartment to see what’s what. Read book about Isenheim Altarpiece. Called buddy Shane.

Xilin Senior Center—taught the elderly. Investigated Benedictine monastery—St. Procopius Abbey. Packed bag. Drove to station. Two hours later, in Edison Park.

Unc’ CJ and I went to Burt’s place. One giant deep dish pizza consumed. Car wash (my first ever) and cleaned car. Watched Das Boot.

Now it’s nearly midnight and I haven’t the energy to develop any of these thoughts further. Tomorrow will be another day of excitement. (And, to exit this narrative for a moment, it was. I’m now about to board my flight home).

All I’ll say is that I had a rewarding day. Here are some photos:

Day VI:

Nom Ricky lived in West Berlin when John F. Kennedy visited in 1963 to announce “Ich bin ein Berliner” to a large crowd of hundreds of thousands of people. I had known about this, more or less, but was still surprised when Nom Ricky informed me that she’d recently met a neighbor who had also been there on that day. He had been a Secret Service agent, protecting Kennedy. Meeting him was one of the driving motivators to go to the condominium-wide continental breakfast served in the community room this morning.

We walked into the room and were immediately surrounded on all sides and interrogated by the 60+ community there. They all wanted to know my name, where I went to school, and what I was studying. One 98-year-old woman grabbed a hold of my arm, exclaimed something about my height, and started advising me on my basketball prospects.

We were there to talk to Ken, the former agent. He joined us at our table, speaking quickly and nonchalantly about his past while Nom Ricky and I munched on complex carbohydrates.

Born in the mid-1930s, Ken went to college, then served for a few months in the military. He applied and became a Secret Service agent at age 23. The first president he protected was Dwight Eisenhower, and the last was Ronald Reagan.

He recounted the excitement and palpable optimism of the German crowd he experienced on that distant afternoon, 63 years ago.

After serving for 23 years, he retired in 1982. He’s been retired for the past 44 years, living off his generous pension and seems quite content.

We thanked him for his time, and he left to go about his day. After a few more minutes of continental breakfasting, we left too.

I started a load of laundry (and proceeded to forget about it for the next six hours). Nom Ricky and I worked together on the Wordle and the Spelling Bee, then cooked up some chocolate pudding from scratch. A clock that had sat idle for years atop Nom Ricky’s bookshelf was placed in my care. After a few minutes, I’d convinced it to work again.

I also set the proper times on the clocks on the stove and microwave.

We walked over to an old couple’s apartment. They’d both been born in China, and had to flee to Taiwan in 1949. They’d started a family together in Taiwan, then moved to Wyoming to run a successful Chinese food restaurant. About a decade ago, they moved to Naperville.

Now, once a week, Nom Ricky hangs out with them to chat and help perfect their English. Today, we showed them a map so they could talk about their home province Anhui. They were quite friendly and curious about my life. In addition to that, they taught me that much of Mongolia really should belong to China.

After an hour or so, Nom Ricky and I left to go for a walk. We roamed the World-Famous-Naperville-Riverwalk and looked for limestone. There are three unused limestone quarries that encircle (en-triangulate?) the Riverwalk, so we figured we’d find limestone. I found three stones that seemed good candidates to save for future evaluative testing.

The sun warmed the earth of Naperville, and gradually more of the population joined us on the streets. Chatting with Nom Ricky, I found out that as a young child she’d known a great-grandmother who had been born during the Civil War. People usually talk about six degrees of separation among the living in the present, but what about the past? Knowing what I know now, it might be fewer than six degrees to get to Lincoln.

Eventually, we returned to the condominium. I recovered my forgotten laundry, and we cooked a giant quiche for dinner. On further analysis, the stones we’d collected were just stones, though one seemed appropriate for suiseki. We watched the PBS News Hour, then a one hour interview that Ken gave a decade ago for The Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas.

The apartment is quiet, as it tends to be late at night. Even the cars outside have respect for the peace. As I wrap up this email, the only noise interrupting my thoughts is the gentle ticking of a recently-fixed clock.

David

The middle of today’s email is serious. Though much of my email is written with a wink and a grin, the paragraphs between the asterisks are entirely sincere. I hope the levity in other parts of this email does not seem flippant or trivializing to you, reader.

Day V:

I slept under two camel-fur blankets last night that kept me toastier than a slice of bread in a convection oven. Speaking of foodstuffs, for breakfast today I made myself a Nom Ricky special: The Mélange

The Mélange is the only way to start your day if you’re a real Napervillian. Take a bowl and put a bunch of Greek yoghurt, kefir, or milk as the nutritive base for the The Mélange to grow in. Add a few tablespoons each of wheat germ, chia seeds, flaxseed, walnuts, and raisins. If you’re a hedonist you can drizzle a little bit of honey atop it.

After a languorous brekky, we ventured to the College of DuPage. It’s a nearby community college that offers classes that teach students how to speak English. Nom Ricky volunteers each week, and I was quite content to join.

***

Because it was election day, only a quarter of the class showed up. The rest had to take care of their children at home. They’re lucky to even have a class. At the beginning of this semester there were concerns that not enough students would enroll. It’s not that there’s no demand: it’s that there’s real fear in the learning-English community that Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents will arrest them at their classes.

The students who show up are brave, and not just because of ICE. They’re almost exclusively middle-aged or older and putting out an intense amount of effort to develop difficult skills at an age when most people sit back and wait for retirement. For many of them, this is out of necessity. Many, if not all, have a real need to learn English in order to be employed (not under-employed) and to fully engage in the English-speaking world around them.

The class was an uplifting experience. It’s somewhat trite, but here I was surrounded by people who had come to the U.S. for a better life (or to escape the nightmare that was their old life). One woman whom I worked closely with during the class had seen unimaginable things happen to her family. But today she wanted to learn the simple future tense.

While Ksenia, the instructor, taught the lesson, Nom Ricky and I circled, offering one-on-one instruction when there was confusion or questions. For a few of the Venezuelans, I offered direct translations en español. It was the least I could do as a one-day interloper/helper, and I think they appreciated it.

At the end of class, they wanted to take a photo. Here it is: ↓

***

Three hours later, we left and returned to Nom Ricky’s condominium. We made delicious ham/cheese/spinach/tomato/pickled cabbage/mayo/German mustard on rye sandwiches. To prepare for dinner, we gently placed our 3 lb slab of corned beef in a pot. It started simmering, which was our signal to leave.

Nom Ricky and I made our way to Uncle Pat’s place of employment. He’s a higher-up for the school district in a building across the street. We peeked in his office window from outside to see if he was there, but he had already left… and now we looked like trespassers.

We continued walking to the World-Famous-Naperville-Riverwalk. Yes, the Riverwalk that you’ve no doubt read in illustrious publications such as Niche.com and Travel + Leisure. The Riverwalk is the main gem on the necklace of jewels that make Naperville gorgeous. (Those other jewels, you may recall, are peacefulness, sunsets, and grocery stores). It’s a snaking pedestrian path that loops through the downtown with a Seine-like lower walkway along the river. It’s short, but sweet, and bikes aren’t permitted.

We left it almost immediately to roam the campus of North Central College, a small liberal arts college with about 2,000 students tucked into the neighborhood just outside of downtown Naperville. All of the buildings were unlocked, and Nom Ricky and I took the opportunity to check out their luxurious facilities. Students were around, but the two of us blended in pretty well.

It was about 13 degrees outside, and after a few hours of walking around, we were starting to get cold. We returned to Nom Ricky’s building, and enjoyed complimentary hot chocolate (made from a mix, but with real milk!) and read the Chicago Tribune.

The corned beef was ready not too long after that, and with some roasted vegetables and oolong tea it was quite a feast. The PBS News Hour accompanied us into the night, and the apartment darkened as the sun crossed the horizon to bring light to our friends in the West...

It’s now just about 9 pm. I can see the sister condominium of this complex across the parking lot. Almost all of the rooms are dark. No surprise there; many of the residents are of an age demographic that typically is asleep before the BBC News at Ten. But I’m young (for now) and I have hours to spend typing away at my self-serious daily reports. I’ll go to sleep at a reasonable time when I’m older, like 21 or something.

David

Naperville is a small suburban village on the outskirts of Chicago known for its peacefulness, sunsets, and grocery stores. On Monday, the 16th, I had the privilege of experiencing all three in fewer than 24 hours.

At the start of my day I could not have anticipated such excitement. No, instead I woke promptly at 7 am and dined on a light breakfast with my cousins. They left for school and work, and Unc’ CJ dropped me off at the Edison Park train station.

It was surprisingly cold outside, but my train arrived promptly. The landscape shifted from highways to neighborhoods to highways to, ultimately, the maw of Ogilvie Transportation Center. I piddled around the neighborhood for 20 minutes and watched the busy commuters race-walking to their jobs, already late for their first day of the workweek. The river was no longer green, a light snow was beginning to fall, and I had to get to Naperville.

Union Station had been under renovation the last time I’d locomoted there, so I was surprised by how much nicer it was now that the repairs were complete. I mean, outside of The Great Hall it still feels like you’re sitting in the mouth of a saltwater catfish, but at least the ceiling tiles are back.

For $6.75, I had a Metra train car all to myself. I sat in an upper level window seat, reading El Tiempo, by Raúl Pedro Gabás Pallás, and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. An hour later, I dragged my luggage off the train and made my way to the Naperville Public Library.

I’ve been coming to Naperville for about 15 years, and never for more than a week a year. It occupies a strange space in my head, as a large part of me is convinced it’s only been about two or three years that I’ve known the town. But I was six the first time I set foot in town.

I’m not six anymore.

Nom Ricky met me at the library and we went out to lunch at the Egg Harbor Cafe. Then, in an effort to influence the upcoming elections, she went to do some early voting in the Municipal Center for the primary. At the voting center was an old man who complained to me that his wife was taking far too long to vote. So much for wisdom (and patience?) coming with age.

I ought to explain who Nom Ricky is (for those of you unfamiliar with unconventional naming patterns). She is my Grandmother, but about nine years ago, in a collaborative process with my siblings, she decided she’d rather be called Nom Ricky. Obviously, this is because “nom” means “name” in French, and Ricky is an homage to her maiden name.

It was decided the dietary needs of a 20-year-old were not the same as those of a Nom Ricky, and an expedition to the nearest supermarket would be required. We cruised a few klicks and came to Fresh Market, which had a surprisingly varied assortment of Eastern European food in addition to the food we needed.

But, it did not have corned beef. Corned beef was what we needed to make a Traditional St. Paddy’s Day Corned Beef, according to the New York Times Cooking section.

So we ventured farther, and found a Trader Joe’s that sold corned beef, albeit in three pound proportions. To Nom Ricky and me, three pounds seemed a bit gluttonous for a sacred holiday celebration. We wanted less beef and Trader Joe’s did not have it. So, we walked across the shopping plaza to the next supermarket.

They did not have corned beef.

We returned to Trader Joe’s to buy the smallest package of corned beef we could manage. A sneaky middle-aged father, employing heavy pathos, told us he had a tiny family to feed and, just like us, wanted the smallest corned beef. He snuck between us and pounced on the corned beef display. But he couldn’t beat the two of us, and we sent him home with a slab that was almost seven grams heavier than ours! Mission accomplished. Victory never felt so sublime.

We returned to the flat and ate dinner. We shared a print copy of yesterday’s issue of The New York Times while the shadows slowly lengthened into an all-encompassing sunset.

Like I said, Naperville is known for its peacefulness and sunsets—did I mention the grocery stores??

Day III:

A thin stream of photons from our nearest star penetrated my eyelids this morning. The particles (or waves?) struck the rods and cones of my eyeball, waking me from my slumber. My relatives had already risen, and I joined them on the ground level.

We constructed pancakes, sausages, and eggs on the griddle on the grill outside, and devoured them with much gusto. J-Dub made fresh orange juice.

Unc’ CJ is a professional dentist. As a member of the Nolten Honors loyalty program, I was given a free fluoride treatment during my stay. Five stars on Yelp.

With the podcast Stuff You Should Know blaring, we drove via Buick to the parking garage underneath Millennium Park in downtown Chicago.

For several hours, we roamed the Art Institute of Chicago. We saw many paintings, sculptures, and Corinthian columns. I’d say more, but museums are not for disseminating on Substack.

Then we departed, and returned to the domicile.

A demand for pasta was made, and J-Dub, Unc’ CJ, and I labored for two hours in the kitchen listening to loud alternative rock music and making homemade fettuccine, sauce, and a salad. This meal was also consumed with much gusto.

The kitchen was cleaned and a motion was made to attach miniature lights to a miniature LEGO model of the Neuschwanstein Castle that Doobs and J-Dub had constructed a few months before. J-Dub, Doobs, and I assessed that this would only take about 45 minutes. Instead, we laid wires for two and a half hours, and put tiny LEDs on barely half of the mini Neuschwanstein. It’s not easy being an untrained pro-bono LEGO electrician.

Your Most Humble Servant,

David

Day I:

I awoke at dawn, with a thirst for a new day. And a thirst for water. I drank 16 ounces, and returned to my slumber. My thirst for a new day could wait.

I arrived in Chicago (or Chai-Town, as my roommate calls it, for it’s a well-known tea city) only a few hours earlier. I’d left my Columbia University dorm around 1530 that afternoon to take the M60 bus to LaGuardia and sit around at the airport for a few hours. While waiting, I put together a website with a Generative Adversarial Network (GAN) that I’d trained on every photo of my face. While the link is still fresh, I’d recommend checking it out:

https://aidreamsofdavid.netlify.app/

At a glance, the generated images look remarkably true-to-life. Spend any longer looking and it’s obvious they’ve drifted far from reality, just as this email is drifting from the events of the day...

The flight to Chai-Town was extremely uneventful, which makes for a boring email and a happy flight.

Awaiting patiently at the airport (despite the late hour) were my most wonderful relatives: Unc’ CJ and Cousins Doobs and J-Dub. I shan’t describe them in detail, except to say that the combined ages of my cousins equals my own (20).

Sensing my hunger, they brought me to SuperDawg, a late-night 1950s style fast food joint, where we enjoyed the ChicagoDawg. Intent on gluttony, we traveled farther to Burrito House, which was neither a house nor a burrito. I was served three tacos and a tall styrofoam glass of horchata! A lovely bebida, lo disfrutó mucho.

Our collective hunger was not satiated, and we made Snappy Dog the next destination. Eight tamales later, we cruised to my relative’s ancestral home. Sleepytime!

As I described above, it was (perhaps) because of the vast quantities of salted foodstuffs consumed that I awoke at 0600 the next morning with a desperate need for hydration!

Day II:

At 0830 I enlivened entirely, and committed myself to the new day. Immediately, Unc’ CJ informed me that we were to leave ASAP to feed starving children! The youths and I prepared ourselves and left the abode promptly.

We drove to a nondescript warehouse in an isolated pocket of the suburbs of Chicago. There was a large sign on the side: FEED MY STARVING CHILDREN, it commanded.

We went in and joined J-Dub’s boy scout troop. They were volunteering.

Essentially, FEED MY STARVING CHILDREN is a nonprofit food factory where volunteers come to package mixed bags of rice, soy, veggies, and nutrients that get sent to starving children across the world. I was in charge of sealing the bags using a heat press. All told, our team put together (and I sealed) about 300 bags in almost two hours. Doobs and J-Dub loaded rice into bags, and Unc’ CJ made sure that the bags weighed the right amounts.

It felt vaguely strange to be re-packaging rice. That is, I am assuming the rice came to the warehouse in a container. We were merely putting it into tiny bags with new accoutrements. I’m not certain if we generated any substantial value for the world, but we certainly generated a warm feeling in our hearts and volunteer hours that satisfied court-ordered community service (if we needed it).

Our service ended with a group prayer that the pallet of 230 boxes of fortified rice that all the volunteers had packaged would reach an orphanage in Haiti safely, that the children would like it, and that everyone would get to their next destination safely.

We reloaded into the car, and drove to Mariano’s (a grocery store) to indulge in sushi and doughknots. We arrived safely.

Our story now gets a new character: Aunt Maggie. She joined us, and we drove to Chai-Town.

We went to Chicago on the theory that for today, the river would be a different color. After all, it was Pi day. A most auspicious day.

As predicted, the river was green. You see, Chicagoans are quite fond of Pi day, and to demonstrate their affection, they dyed the river green.

Additionally, the aged 21-36 year old population came out in full support of this green Pi river, dancing, shouting, and cursing quite freely at each other and the world. They carried large gallon jugs with brightly colored non-alcoholic beverages, which they called BORGs (short for Bring us OuR Good pies). An outsider might’ve confused them for Gen-Z-ers indulging in a pre-St. Paddy’s Day celebration of public intoxication, but it was obvious they were reveling in a love for irrational numbers and the quiet mathematical beauty of the universe.

We skipped town and drove to the wonderful village of Lisle, Illinois. Joining us were Unc’ Step, Aunt Darci, and Nom Ricky (more relatives!). We dined on Bavarian cuisine, and returned to Nom Ricky’s flat for pudding and a National Geographic show about catching drug smugglers. We all parted ways, and the nuclear CJ/Maggie family and I returned home. We viewed the antiquated film The Great Train Robbery (1979) with tedium in our eyes, and then went to bed.

And now, I sit and clack at my keyboard in the basement of their home. Everyone sleeps, except for me. I’m enjoying the silence. Tomorrow will be another exciting day.

Good night.