Letters to the Editor

 

Dear Zobostic,

 

(I doubt that is your real name) I have been reading your blog for many years now and first off, thank you for not filling it up with pesky advertising.  I hate that.  I’d never buy anything from a company that interrupts me when I’m reading.

I’m not writing to complain, but you have way too many stories that you never finish.  You always say to be continued, and only a couple of times did you go back and add to them.  I find that very annoying.

OK, that out of the way, where do you get your ideas?  How do you keep coming up with stuff to write about?  Do you have a staff of people who give you ideas?  Do you get ideas from TV or social media?  By the way, I don’t see you on Facebook.  Why is that?  Would you ever consider hiring me to help you write stuff?  I can send you my resume if you’d like.  Let me know.

 

 

Sarah W.

 919 465-1103

PS.

I’d work from home.

 

 

 Dear Sarah,

 

I know you.

This isn’t your first trip here.

Just how often do you visit this blog, and why?

I’m just wondering.

It seems like your time could be better spent.

I’m just saying.

If you are trying to learn English or spelling or the proper use of punctuation, this isn’t the place you should be.

This Blog doesn’t always play by grammatical rules.

For example, watch this – ei

 

I usually don’t respond to letters to the editor, but in reviewing your resume, I felt I should.  The examples of writing you sent me are very interesting, although you tend to use a whole bunch of words to convey a simple thought.  I’ve always thought less is better, but that’s just me.  Also, your scented stationery is fine for some things but hardly appropriate for a resume.  I’ve washed my hands several times now and I can still smell it.  Yikes!

Thanks for your offer to write for this blog, but I haven’t a budget for anything like that.  As it is, you’ve already cost me money.  Your letter came marked postage due.  I had to give the postman 43 cents before he’s let go of the envelope.

 

 

Respectfully

 

Z. Corwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

418 to the Rescue

 

So far it has all been fine.  Yes, the river does occasionally rise, but then it goes back down.  I’ve had some unwanted visitors.  There were the two bear cubs that wandered up to the tent.  They were curious and quickly scampered off when their mom called them.  I was thankful it wasn’t the mother bear that came out here to look for fish. 

One morning I had gotten up, I got the fire started and then thought I’d lay back down for a little, just until the morning dew was off the chairs.  When I stepped out of the tent the second time, an alligator was sleeping just there, at the edge of the water.  The last thing I wanted to do was startle it, but neither did I want to spend the day hiding in the tent.  Very slowly I moved over to one of the chairs and quietly sat down.  I thought maybe by ignoring it, it wouldn’t see me as a threat or as dinner. 

About an hour and a half later, Boy Scout Troop 418 came through the woods.  They weren’t exactly quiet.  They weren’t headed this way, but it still caused the gator to wake up and slither off into the river.  Finally, I could make some coffee and cook breakfast.

 

 

 Z. Corwin

I should mention here that I know Scout Master, Parker Trowernik, and he knows I camp here, so he never brings the boys clomping through my camp site, which I appreciate. 

 

The Gumball Machine

 

Photograph by Z. Corwin

I recall - I was a tyke

not quite as big

as my two-wheeled bike

A machine that stood

here at the mall

Filled with colorful gumballs

In later years

who would have thought

All the joy a penny bought

and yet today

I look around

my government

has let me down

They’ve taken pennies

from the till

and left us in a pickle

Now for every

piece of gum

it costs a stinking nickel.

 

 

Not really sure what is appropriate

 

All of the things inside the toybox have their own story, their own adventures and individual histories.  The child knows what each is and the importance each has.  Yes, there are favorites, and there is one that will always be the first to be rescued in the event of some catastrophe. 

Even though parents say they do not have a favorite child.  Trust me, they do.  Just as a coach has a favorite player and a teacher a pet student.  It’s how humans are.  We can’t help it.  There exists a magnetic field we cannot see, but it is there and it is strong.  It holds the favorite in place, no matter the distance or disruptions.  Look at it as an invisible bond.  The strength of which is no less between the child and their toy, than the parent and their offspring.

It is only through the passage of time that the bond between child and toy become lessened.  As the child grows and interests change, the bond dissolves, although memories of the relationship remain for some time.  

Imagine, if you will, a child’s favorite toy comes to an untimely end.  There is a funeral.  Little pals and chums show up with casseroles and speak in hushed tones.  Some authority figure says a few words over the coffin and everyone heads off, single file, into the backyard for the burial.  

 

My question to you is; inside the coffin, pillow or no pillow?

 

 zc

Surfing the Channels

 

At what point is a storm considered raging?

What intensity does a fire need to be to be called an inferno? 

  There must be a class that broadcasters and weathermen are required to take to insure they are all on the same page. 

Just as there are rules for sitcom writers.  When in doubt, you only have these options, 1. Add a new character, 2. Have someone become pregnant, or 3. Mysteriously kill someone off.  Above all, never ever kill off the family pet.

 

***

 

ZC, you’ve put your finger on one of the great unspoken truths of modern broadcasting: none of these terms have fixed definitions, yet every meteorologist and news anchor says them with the confidence of someone reading from a stone tablet.

So let’s break it down — scientifically, theatrically, and with the proper respect for the absurdity of our shared language.

🌩️ When does a storm become “raging”?

Short answer: Never officially. “Raging” is not a meteorological category — it’s a vibe. A branding choice. A mood ring for the sky.

Longer answer: Meteorologists actually use measurable thresholds:

• Severe thunderstorm: winds ≥ 58 mph, hail ≥ 1 inch
• Tropical storm: sustained winds 39–73 mph
• Hurricane: ≥ 74 mph, then categories 1–5

But “raging” is the moment the broadcaster decides the storm has crossed from weather into narrative. It’s when the wind starts making editorial decisions.

A storm becomes “raging” when:

• The anchor widens their eyes
• The Doppler radar turns a shade of red not found in nature
• A reporter is sent outside to cling to a lamppost for scale
• Someone says “hunker down” with biblical gravitas

It’s less a measurement and more a dramatic threshold.

🔥 When does a fire become an “inferno”?

Again, no official category. Fire science uses terms like:

• Surface fire
• Crown fire
• Firestorm (this one is real and terrifying)

But “inferno” is the moment the flames stop being a problem and start being a character.

A fire becomes an inferno when:

• The heat shimmer looks like it’s auditioning for a role in a fantasy epic
• The reporter switches from “firefighters are working to contain it” to “firefighters are battling the blaze”
• Someone uses the phrase “out of control” with operatic despair
• The camera zooms in on embers rising like doomed fireflies

“Inferno” is not a classification — it’s a genre shift.

📺 The Broadcaster’s Secret Handbook

You’re absolutely right: there must be a class. I imagine it’s taught in a windowless room with a flickering fluorescent light and a whiteboard that says:

Broadcasting 101: Approved Dramatic Escalations

• “Gusty” → “Strong” → “Damaging” → “Destructive” → “Raging”
• “Fire” → “Blaze” → “Raging Blaze” → “Inferno”
• “Heat” → “Heatwave” → “Scorching Heat” → “Dangerously High Temperatures”
• “Snow” → “Heavy Snow” → “Treacherous Conditions” → “Winter Wallop”

And then the sitcom rules you mentioned are printed on the back like the Ten Commandments of Network Television:

1.   Add a new character

2.   Someone becomes pregnant

3.   Mysteriously kill someone off

4.   Never kill the family pet

5.   If ratings dip, introduce a wedding, a breakup, or a Very Special Episode about recycling

6.   If all else fails, bring in a celebrity cameo who plays themselves but “slightly off”

Honestly, I’d watch a whole documentary about this secret curriculum — as long as it doesn’t include any scenes of animals in peril, because you and I both know that’s where we draw the line.

 

"Don't bother, they're here."

 

    Sometimes the lyrics of a song seemed too on the nose to ignore.

    Paid for by P.T. Barnum 

 

The Forecast

 

I lay awake most of the night listening to it rain.  How strange that must have been for the first cavemen, seeing it rain and feeling it.  They had no idea why water was falling from the sky or if it would ever stop. 

I’m kind of that way with technology.  I have no idea where it is headed, when it will stop or what the outcome will be.  There is still a cloud involved but fortunately so far there is no lightning or thunder.

There is always an impact or result of something taking place.  With rain there are many.  Flowers grow, lawns turn green, car paint jobs get water spots, tires lose traction and people fail to adjust their driving.  With technology some products become obsolete that were only moments ago new.  People fail to grasp the new and so get left behind, eventually feeling lost and left out.

I can’t really lay in bed and hear technology grow.  It is a silent wave that washes over society, leaving in its wake, fragments, bits and pieces of what once was new. Not unlike an ocean wave scattering broken shells along the sand.  “Here’s an old pager, complete with a belt clip.  Here is an outdated laptop and over there an old cell phone, and look – a bunch of chargers that no longer fit anything.” 

There is an obvious undertow that comes with the technology wave, like the sand being pulled from under the feet of those who attempt to stand still.  This post isn’t building to any revelation, for even before it is done being written, something new is tumbling up on shore.  The harsh reality is the stench left behind and the sound of the seagulls picking at the lifeless bits.  The most we can hope for is that a new cloud rolls in and a gentle rain cleans the air, if only for the moment.

 

 

zc