An Ftrain Granfalloon
My friend Paul Ford (www.ftrain.com) has picked up writing on his blog again. I call him my friend not because he is, or that I’ve ever met him, talked over the phone, or any of the myriad of other ways we bond with people before declaring them a friend. He did once send me a short email when I explained to him that I was planning on building a WobbleVision off of a schematic that he published, and another short email in which he explained that the guest columnist he had allowed to post on Ftrain, was in fact not a guest writer at all, but himself. He was kind enough that his short email contained no sense of “…you dummy” and instead was quick and courteous.
Paul wrote and published a book and stopped regularly updating his site. I remember years ago when Sweetie, who had been decorating cakes for friends, decided that perhaps she should expand her repertoire and take a decorating class. She never really decorated another cake after that…it extinguished whatever small spark had been growing under a large glob of butter cream frosting and spring lined baking rounds. I began to wonder if this is what happened to my friend. I suppose I should have reached out in this time of immagined need, and I guess in my own small way I did, by stopping by his site every day to see if perhaps today was my lucky day and that by some miracle I would stumble upon a new post. But really, that kind of help is the worst kind of all—that self serving it's all about me and my needs kind.
I gave up years ago waiting for Sweetie to start decorating cakes again. In some ways it was the demands of work and kids and home ownership that buried that muse, but I’ve also always thought that it was the realization that there were rules, that cake decorating was a thing…a machine, and not a simple form of self expression. A give-a-child-a-paintbrush-and-he’ll-never-finger-paint-again sort of thing.
I don’t know enough about the trains in that part of the country. I’m not even sure if Paul can take the Ftrain home anymor...sounds like he moved, got a girlfriend and the like…my gut tells me no. But for now it looks like he’s been able re-find that small spark and decide it was worth saving, trains be damned.
If we ever do make it to New York, I should see if I can get Sweetie to make a cake and maybe we’ll meet. I would think like most people he’d have a hard time turning down a joyously decorated cake brought all the way from Tacoma. We’d bring coffee as well, but not plates or forks. The cake we could eat with our fingers—maybe off old copies of Gary Benchley, Rock Star.
Paul wrote and published a book and stopped regularly updating his site. I remember years ago when Sweetie, who had been decorating cakes for friends, decided that perhaps she should expand her repertoire and take a decorating class. She never really decorated another cake after that…it extinguished whatever small spark had been growing under a large glob of butter cream frosting and spring lined baking rounds. I began to wonder if this is what happened to my friend. I suppose I should have reached out in this time of immagined need, and I guess in my own small way I did, by stopping by his site every day to see if perhaps today was my lucky day and that by some miracle I would stumble upon a new post. But really, that kind of help is the worst kind of all—that self serving it's all about me and my needs kind.
I gave up years ago waiting for Sweetie to start decorating cakes again. In some ways it was the demands of work and kids and home ownership that buried that muse, but I’ve also always thought that it was the realization that there were rules, that cake decorating was a thing…a machine, and not a simple form of self expression. A give-a-child-a-paintbrush-and-he’ll-never-finger-paint-again sort of thing.
I don’t know enough about the trains in that part of the country. I’m not even sure if Paul can take the Ftrain home anymor...sounds like he moved, got a girlfriend and the like…my gut tells me no. But for now it looks like he’s been able re-find that small spark and decide it was worth saving, trains be damned.
If we ever do make it to New York, I should see if I can get Sweetie to make a cake and maybe we’ll meet. I would think like most people he’d have a hard time turning down a joyously decorated cake brought all the way from Tacoma. We’d bring coffee as well, but not plates or forks. The cake we could eat with our fingers—maybe off old copies of Gary Benchley, Rock Star.
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