CookieJar Reader

@@@ SpotNotes @subtitle: a sampler of CookieJar prose # SpotNotes ###### Spring 2025 ![spring](https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1506260408121-e353d10b87c7?q=80&w=2428&auto=format&fit=crop&ixlib=rb-4.1.0&ixid=M3wxMjA3fDB8MHxwaG90by1wYWdlfHx8fGVufDB8fHx8fA%3D%3D) *spring grasses for summer sledding* What follows is a small collection of finished Cookiejar prose. Each piece exercises the containers and connectors covered above. Read them as a sampler, or borrow their patterns when laying out your own book. In this issue: - a nostalgic slide back to childhood [on a summer sled +> Sled] - a swashbuckling adventure of [piratey proportions +> Helm] - a courier, navigating a pandemic world, comes to [question the mission +> Hope] - a carriage ride with Watson and [Sherlock Holmes +> Poultice] - a self-correcting look at the [absorption process +> Absorption] - a coast-to-coast [Canada Quiz +> Canada Quiz] ### Canada Quiz verse::: A train may shift tracks, but it pulls up at the same destination. :::verse --- #### A coast-to-coast tour ###### or how scroll links shunt the reader along --- A worked demonstration of the *Scroll link* connector. Every choice below shunts you to a heading farther down this same chapter. No content is hidden from you, and no path is dead-ended. The links rearrange the order in which you read, not the material itself. callout::: ⚙️ **Try it** ##### Canada Quiz 🇨🇦 A train may shift tracks, but it still pulls up at the same destination. Similarly, a story quiz shunts but follows one line from origin to destination. In this quiz, from Newfoundland to British Columbia. The tracks are already laid. Everything is already on the page before you click. Each heading, “Alberta,” “Halifax,” “Victoria,” is a section farther down the same document. Links don’t change the story; they move your view to a different heading. A choose-your-own branching story hides or reveals text depending on earlier choices. Passages may go unvisited. That doesn’t happen here. No matter which link you pick, you can still reach every other section. You’re gently shunted along toward the destination. As a result, the quiz feels interactive by design, but its structure is linear: one continuous article with waypoints. Your choices change the order in which you read, not the content you can read. Press ☞ [here to start -> Newfoundland] :::callout ###### Alberta ✔︎ Alberta and Saskatchewan are the only two landlocked provinces. You are doing well, move to the top. That will put you at the [peak of Mount Logan -> Logan]. ###### Annapolis Annapolis Valley, Canada’s first fruit-growing region, is in Nova Scotia. Let’s go back, get [high on Mount Logan -> Logan] and take a better look at this last tour. ###### Banff Banff may be more famous, but Wood Buffalo National Park, bordering Alberta and the Northwest Territories, is almost seven times as large. Let’s return to [the Great Lakes -> Great Lakes] to get our bearings. ###### Cape Breton ✔︎ Cape Breton Island is indeed larger. Let’s [stroll the docks -> docks] for fresh air. ###### Charlottetown ✔︎ So you seem to be politically inclined. Charlottetown is the smallest provincial capital. Let’s step up to something great, like [the Great Lakes -> Great Lakes]. ###### Docks Salt, creosote, seagulls, huge container ships. We are at Canada’s number 1 container port. Are we [in Halifax -> Halifax] or [in Montreal -> Montreal]? ###### Erie Lake Erie has shorelines in New York, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Ontario. Unlike any of the Great Lakes, the largest national park in North America is within Canada. Would that be [Banff National Park -> Banff] or [the Wood Buffalo -> Wood Buffalo] National Park? ###### Fredericton Fredericton was once the smallest provincial capital, but it passed Charlottetown in the 1951 census. Return [to the docks -> docks]. ###### Great Lakes Did you know that [Lake Erie -> Erie] has no Canadian shoreline? Or is it [Lake Michigan -> Michigan] that has no Canadian shoreline? ###### Halifax Halifax Harbour is the principal port in the Maritimes, but Montreal handles more containerized cargo. Dock work does not seem to suit you. Perhaps politics is your calling. Let’s start small. Should we [visit Charlottetown -> Charlottetown] or [traipse over to Fredericton -> Fredericton] to find the smallest provincial capital in Canada? ###### Island Although the island of Newfoundland has a longer coastline, most of the province’s area is on the mainland, in Labrador. Perhaps you will do better with rivers. Does the Saint John flow through [only New Brunswick -> New Brunswick] or New Brunswick [and Quebec -> Quebec]? ###### Lakes There is a large lake that lies directly north of Winnipeg. Is the name of this [lake Winnipegosis -> Winnipegosis] or is it [simply Lake Winnipeg -> Winnipeg]? ###### Landlocked We tend to [think of Alberta -> Alberta] and [even Manitoba -> Manitoba] as inland and far from water. One of them is indeed landlocked. Which one? ###### Logan The thin air up here clears the mind. Atop Mount Logan we are in the Yukon Territory, 5951 m above sea level. Take the Trans-Canada Highway west. This is the world’s longest paved highway, stretching from St. John’s, Newfoundland to a coastal city in British Columbia. Would that [be Vancouver -> Vancouver] [or Victoria -> Victoria]? ###### Mainland ✔︎ Labrador, which has been part of Newfoundland since 1927, is almost three times the size of its offshore partner. You are off to a successful start. Let’s [talk lakes -> Lakes]. ###### Manitoba Manitoba’s northeastern border is on Hudson Bay, with direct access to the Atlantic and Arctic oceans. No landlock here. Go climb a mountain. Climb Canada’s highest mountain. Will that put you on [Mount Logan -> Logan] or [Mount Robson -> Robson]? ###### Michigan ✔︎ Lake Michigan is entirely in the United States. Well done. Some provinces have no shoreline: lake, bay, or ocean. They are [said to be landlocked -> landlocked]. ###### Montreal ✔︎ The port of Montreal handles 5 Tg of containerized cargo each year. That is more than twice as much as the 2.3 Tg handled annually in Halifax. From the port of Montreal, veer [toward the Great Lakes -> Great Lakes]. ###### Newfoundland The journey begins in Newfoundland because, why not? Is the largest part of the tenth province [an island -> Island] or [all mainland -> mainland]? ###### New Brunswick ✔︎ Through here flows the St. John, but not into Quebec. You seem to do well with rivers. Time to [try lakes -> Lakes]. ###### Okanagan The Okanagan Valley produces nearly half of Canada’s cherries and a third of its apples and peaches. The fruit of your efforts is at hand. Take the Trans-Canada [to Victoria -> Victoria] and watch the sunset. ###### Prince Edward Prince Edward Island, as a province, has a higher status, but it is barely more than half the size of Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Island. Fresh air might help your thinking, so let’s [walk the docks -> Docks]. ###### Quebec The Saint John River originates in Maine. Some of its tributaries rise in Quebec, but New Brunswick is the only province in Canada through which it flows. Let’s get off to a [better start and depart -> Newfoundland] again from the rock. ###### Robson At 3953 m, British Columbia’s Mount Robson is almost 2 km lower than Mount Logan. Let’s loop back to [the landlocked -> landlocked] provinces to better our score on this tour. ###### Vancouver Vancouver is the end of the road on the mainland. If you drive to the end of the westernmost end of the Trans-Canada, you will be seven blocks south of the British Columbia legislature in Victoria. While in beautiful B. C., we can visit a valley famous as a major fruit producer. Will that put us in the [Annapolis Valley -> Annapolis] or [the Okanagan -> Okanagan] Valley? ###### Victoria 🍁 Put your vehicle on a ferry to cross the Strait of Georgia to reach Victoria: the official western terminus of the highway. As the sun sets here in the west, our quest also comes to a close. Or [start over -> Newfoundland] and attempt the trip in fewer passages. *Note: the 🍁 marker above is used here as quiz-feedback iconography, consistent with ✔︎ used elsewhere in the quiz.* ###### Winnipeg ✔︎ That makes sense, doesn’t it? Lake Winnipeg, with an area of 24 390 km^2, is the third largest lake lying entirely within Canada’s borders. Talk of lakes makes one [think of docks -> Docks]. ###### Winnipegosis Winnipegosis is one of the big lakes in the middle of Manitoba, but it lies to the west of Lake Winnipeg and northwest of the city. Maybe water isn’t your medium. Let’s return to shore, a large island. Which island would you say is larger, [Prince Edward Island -> Prince Edward] or [Cape Breton Island -> Cape Breton]? ###### Wood Buffalo ✔︎ Wood Buffalo National Park was established in 1922 to protect Canada’s last wood bison. Since that time the herd has increased from 1500 to many thousands. Let’s loop back [to the Great Lakes -> Great Lakes] and correct a few errors in our path. ### Sled verse::: There comes an event in our youth when we’re aware that the moment, this moment, will live in memory. For me, it was sledding in summer. :::verse --- #### Summer Sled ###### or backseat to a maniac --- *"If you want to be gone all day, you’ll need to help me first."* said Mom. Mom’s voice bounces off the hallway wallpaper she has meant to tear down for years. I’m halfway out the door, one sneaker on, {1 plans} in my pocket, when she stops me with her newspaper puzzle, her daily ritual, like coffee but more cryptic. :: plans: Archie’s sells fridges. Rope, old shoelaces tied together? :: My brother, three years my junior and twice as crafty, leans against the banister, smirking. He knows what’s coming. *"Do my paper route today and you can guide the sled down Steward’s Hill."* said Brother. His eyes light up, the way only a boy’s can at the prospect of sanctioned mischief. *"Only if I get to steer!"* said Brother. Already, he’s planning a trajectory for maximum chaos. Mom’s puzzle is sprawled out on the kitchen table, a crossword with a clue she can’t crack: *"Where stories sleep in rows, but the answer is not a book."* said Mom. She taps her pencil, {1 waiting}. :: waiting: Sure, I could ask my clever brother. But no, he’d smirk and not answer as a way of answering. :: I need a hint, and I know where to get it: the Morton Library, where answers tend to hide in plain sight. I lace up, grab an apple and my brother’s canvas satchel, and set out, the promise of summer sledding glory tugging me forward. The day stretches ahead like the slick grass on Steward’s Hill. Where first, Archie’s or the Library? #### Archie’s Archie’s is a kingdom divided. Groceries on the left, hardware on the right. A tangle of gardens out back. Archie himself is pruning tomato plants, his suspenders straining with every snip. *"Need something, kiddo?"* said Archie. I do, cardboard, the sledder’s gold. But before I can ask, Peggy appears, arms full of marigolds. *"You want the good stuff, you help out first."* said Peggy. She nods to a pile of garden debris. I could sneak a box from the pile out back; it’s recycled, after all. But Peggy’s watchful eye means there’s no shortcut, just sweat and soil. I rake, weed, and haul compost, sweat stinging my eyes. Archie watches, approving. *"You got hands, you got brains."* said Archie. When the garden is neat, Peggy gestures with her chin toward a shed with a porch, like a cabin I saw on a calendar. *"Dad has a bike in pieces. My old bike. Fix it, and the cardboard’s yours."* said Peggy. #### Workshop The workshop smells of {1 oil} and possibility. Archie’s hands are steady as he shows me how to patch a {1 tire}, grease the chain, adjust the brakes. I fumble, but he’s patient, a teacher in overalls. *"You want to fix bikes, start with the {1 lawnmower}. Show me you can take apart the pieces without losing a screw. It’s all about patience and the right tool."* said Archie. :: oil: Archie swears by the dark, sticky oil, claims it keeps the old tools young. :: :: tire: The tire is from Peggy’s old bike, with a leak that hisses when pressed. Peggy was a nimble biker in her time. The only one to jump over Wog Creek. No witnesses. Plenty of legend. :: :: lawnmower: The lawnmower is a battered green beast with a stubborn engine. Archie says it has more quirks than Captain Morton himself. :: I could start with the bike, but Archie insists on tearing down the mower first, a test, or maybe a rite of passage. I find a wrench, loosen a bolt, then another, rendering the engine not to parts, but smaller chunks. Good enough for Archie to slap me on the back. *"You’re a {1 natural}, kiddo."* said Archie. :: natural: Archie means I didn’t break anything important, yet. :: Peggy slides out the biggest appliance box I’ve ever seen. *"Double wall thick. Cut it up out back, but don’t make a mess."* said Peggy. I drag it outside, already picturing the sled. #### Trash Bin The cardboard is my canvas. I slice it into a long slab, rolling up the front for style and speed. Inspecting my handiwork, Peggy tells me: *"Santa would be {1 jealous}."* said Peggy. :: jealous: Rightly so. Mr. Jingle Bells is the only one who ever had a better sled. But even he never tried cardboard in August. :: She offers a fistful of {1 twine}, the kind for packages. :: twine: The steering wheel and lifeline all in one. It’s the fuzzy kind for packages and long enough to run through twice. :: I knot it and thread it across the front, to steer but for now to haul it to the garden gate, where my brother is waiting, eyes wide. *"You got it, even the rope!"* said Brother. We sit on our magic cardboard carpet to test-fly it in our minds. This will do. Will do just fine. But there’s one last task, returning Major Morton’s lawnmower. It’s as heavy as it is bulky. Archie gave it to me with a wink. *"Don’t scratch it, though I doubt much could dent this old tank."* said Archie. Fortunately, there is power assist, my little brother to help push. He volunteers to steer, and I let him think he’s in charge. #### Morton’s Mansion The mansion’s driveway winds in an S for no apparent reason. The mower is stubborn, but we coax it along the bricks and push it into the armpit of the porch. The housekeeper steps out, wringing her hands in a drying towel the way Mom does. *"The captain says you boys are to help yourselves to a soda in the kitchen."* said Housekeeper. It is an order we find most agreeable, finding a bottle of root beer in the fridge, the kind with a real cork, proof this is a house that remembers better days. On the way out, I spot the garden gate, rusted but open. My brother is already poking around the hedges, looking for secret passages. *"We could sled down this hill."* said Brother. I shake my head. *"Too many thorns. Steward’s is better."* said Me. #### Campus The school campus is a patchwork of brick buildings and asphalt. The playground is empty, and why wouldn’t it be, a lazy day in late summer. The Steward Building stands squat and silent, the hill beside it calling to us. We drag the cardboard sled past the gym, past the science annex, its windows dark and asleep for a couple more weeks. *"We’ll show them how it’s done."* said Brother. My skinny brother puffs out his chest at the absent onlookers. I look at the sled as the only ticket you need for this ride. At the top of Steward’s Hill, the grass is dry and slick as reindeer slobber. We imagine that slicker than ice. The lower playing field beckons below, a narrow asphalt walkway cascading down. It’s steeper in summer than when school’s on, of this we are sure. I position the sled, my brother at the front, hands on the twine rope. *"Ready?"* said Brother. I nod, heart thumping, and we give an instinctive lurch. #### Steward’s Hill The world shrinks to the slope before us. The cardboard skims the grass with the sound of pages torn from a book. Loud, louder. Picking up speed. My brother screams: *"Look out!"* said Brother. He veers, no longer parallel to the path. Pulling left and leaning, arcing our craft for the basketball courts. The poles grow larger by the heartbeat. The concrete tarmac slides toward us. At the last second, I bail and roll. Tumbling onto the grass. The solo-rider hurls on. My brother, hooting, crashing into hay bales put there for football practice. Instantly, he’s up, unscathed and strutting in triumph. The spin slows, and I see dirty palms and feel the mix of terror and exhilaration. My brother is grinning, king of the hill with a one-word challenge: *"Again!"* said Brother. Steering the hill is a puzzle. That part, Mom would like. The landing, not so much. #### Home We stand at the foot of the hill as the shift of light signals late afternoon. Sweat coated in dirt and pollen, too tired to climb the hill, but doing it anyway. Home, we trudge. The cardboard sled is torn, but intact, grass stains on our jeans and laughter is our wake. Mom meets us at the door, eyebrow raised. No words needed. I shrug, trying out a “no big deal” look as my brother begins blurting the story of how we conquered Steward’s Hill, embellishing every detail. I prop myself against the kitchen doorway and listen to this maniac, remembering why I let him steer. Not because I trust him. But because sometimes, you have to let go and enjoy the ride. That night, as I fell asleep, I thought of what I gained, thinking I was giving up in exchange for the cardboard. I gained from the hill, the workshop, and the wild joy of chasing a summer dream. I know I’ll do it all again, even if there’s a maniac tugging the twine and I have to leap at the last second. verse::: We do not remember days, we remember moments. Cesare Pavese, *The Burning Brand: Diaries*, 1935-1950 :::verse ### Cloak verse::: The foyer’s dark and empty. There’s no one else around. My shadow is my company and echoes, the only sound. :::verse --- #### Cloak of Darkness ###### Opera House, 1993 --- I’m standing in the foyer with a {1 wet} cloak on my back. - There’s an exit {1 north}. - I see doors to the south and {1 west}. :: wet: Wet from the rain, the kind that soaks you to the bone and makes you wonder why you ever left the house. :: :: north: It’s locked. Tiny padlock, big attitude. Figures. Nothing ever opens up when you need it to. I’ll try the door {2 south} of the foyer instead. :: :: south: A bar. At least, I think it’s a bar, too dark to be sure, but sure to make me stumble. I’m going {3 back}. :: :: back: Ah, the foyer, where emptiness is an old friend. :: :: west: A cloakroom, I suppose. Looks like a closet and the caretaker stopped oiling hinges in ‘87. There’s a small brass {2 hook} here, gleaming like a promise no one ever kept. :: :: hook: Good place to let the cloak hang dry. But I’m not hanging around to watch. Besides, I can see a leak of {3 light} back in the bar. A tired 40-watt bulb trying to impersonate hope. :: :: light: More than light, there’s a message in the sawdust on the floor: “You have {4 won}!” :: :: won: Won what? Life’s a game where the rules change whenever you think you’ve figured them out. But for now, I’ll take it. :: ### Helm verse::: The sea is a dangerous place, but it is also a place of freedom and {1 adventure}. :::verse :: adventure: Captain Charles Johnson, A General History of the Pyrates, 1724 :: --- #### The Helm ###### or to feed a hungry bird --- Port Eldoro, 1715. On the pier, beside the Ocean Raider. The sun, too dim for noon, struggles to burn off the fog squatting on the eastern horizon. Curious how one notices foreshadowing. The captain, in the strong arms of the Royal Navy, shouts a message. Wait, is he singing? verse::: Our galleon carries success, a treasure chest of gold. Alas, I give this last request, so do as you are told. The Royal Navy slung a rope, dragging my ship in tow. Do not let them keep her in dock. Escape this curs’d foe. Break loose the bond upon the bow. Set sail for pirate realm. They will give me to Davy Jones, but you I give the helm. :::verse I wave at the captain with my red bandana, a gift from my mom. He scowls and shakes his head in disappointment. Rejecting his rejection, I turn to stroll the deck. There are ladders leading up to the crow’s nest and down to: #### The lower deck ... which is worse than a rat’s nest in a storm. There are things you can’t take with you, so there’s no use describing them, raising false hopes. Portside, there’s, port is left, four letters, that’s how I remember, the bosun’s quarters. The brig is starboard, and there’s a foul odour all around. Randomly, a bird squawks out of nowhere, I hear ‘polly’ and ‘cracker’ in the distance, the captain’s parrot passes overhead. #### The brig Dark, damp, and smells like regret. Inside is a shoeless mutineer, known to swim like a frog. Known to snore as if he hasn’t a gangplank worry in the world. *"You there, swabby, fetch me some {1 food}."* said Mutineer. :: food: Fetch your own, is my {2 second} thought. :: :: second: My first is that I, too, am a bit peckish. :: #### Galley *"Hold it, mate. Whass’a password?"* said Cook. The galley is blocked by a cook who’s as wide as he is tall. But, password? Haven’t a clue. I improvise a rude gesture. He flicks a meaty finger against my forehead. The lights dim. #### Upper deck A scree of gulls flies overhead as I wake. Groggy and disoriented, the captain’s last words thunder like a hangover. This ship is my responsibility now. Failure isn’t an {1 option}. :: option: It is, of course, but that’s hardly in keeping with the spirit of adventure. :: Ropes, sails, and riggings litter the deck. A barrel sits beside the rope ladder. A bird squawks in the distance. The fog unfurls from the {1 horizon}. :: horizon: The scene seems to be sending mixed messages. :: #### Pickle barrel The barrel is made of oak staves held by iron hoops and holds a voyage’s worth of pickles. A worn {1 tricorn} rests on top. It fits as if it were made for me, and suddenly I feel taller. Look out for the ship, said the captain. :: tricorn: The tricorn, a three-cornered hat with a skull-and-crossbones patch inside. :: #### Crow’s nest This rickety used pickle barrel at the top of the mast has room for only one person to {1 stand}. The {1 flag}, slapping me in the face, nearly sends me over. Back on deck, a petunia sits where the tricorn used to be. Hatches lead to the lower deck and: :: stand: And shout ‘land ahoy,’ of course, should that need shouting. :: :: flag: It is a classic Jolly Roger, with a skull and crossbones, undoubtedly {2 pirated} online. :: :: pirated: Someone scribbled the name of a drink on it, the captain’s scrawl. Must have been out of his mind with grog. :: #### Cargo hold It looks more like a dungeon, save for the tortured inventory. What little light there is stabs through holes in the hull. The hold holds an anchor for ballast, jars of olive oil, barrels of pickled meat, and a pyramid stack of {1 cannonballs}. :: cannonballs: Never understood, do cannonballs explode or just bowl you over? :: Oh, and there’s a {1 lime} rolling around. I pocket the lime and immediately smell better. :: lime: *Citrus aurantifolia*, a lifesaver at sea. It puckers the lips and protects from scurvy. :: Backing into the pyramid, the stack shifts. But with senses heightened by the sharp scent of citrus, I wedge into an opening between the boards. From here, I can squeeze my way to the brig or galley more safely than retracing my steps. #### The brig The sailor in the cell is awake now, eying my tricorn and singing a different tune. *"Please, sir, stop that squawk. The parrot sounds powerful hungry."* said Mutineer. The sailor slips me a slip of parchment, a sketch of a young woman’s face, and on the back: *"To my beloved, forever."* said Mutineer. I’d swear that handwriting is familiar. Unsure what else to do, I hand him the lime. He nods gratefully, almost a bow. Strange behaviour for a sailor, but I pocket the thought for later. #### Galley *"Hold it, mate. Whass’a password?"* said Cook. The galley cook. Tempting fate, I press the hat down on my head and repeat the same rude gesture. *"Why, if it weren’t for the tricorn ..."* said Cook. he mutters, standing aside. *"Slog of grog ..."* said Cook. I say in passing this monolith of a man. He hands me a mug of spiced wine and, as if an afterthought, a handful of pistachios. The nuts go under my tricorn for safekeeping. I head to my new quarters above, at the {1 stern}, where a parrot’s squawking its head off. :: stern: Meaning the back, for you landlubbers. :: #### Back of the ship (er, stern) The door’s open. Odd since the captain keeps a chest inside. The metal chest is tightly locked. It’s hard to think with all the squawking. Perched on a rail, the {1 rowdy} parrot has a skeleton key on a lanyard around its neck. :: rowdy: I have the mug of spiced wine, but offering that might {2 not} work. :: :: not: It’s hungry, not thirsty. :: #### Nuts The pistachios have a calming effect. Fed up, the bird falls asleep. I slip off the skeleton key and tiptoe to the bosun’s quarters. The key fits. The door swings open. What a mess, even by pirate standards. It smells like the shoeless sailor and that lime. What it doesn’t have is a treasure chest. #### The captain’s quarters. The chest is a long metal case, not the shape I’d expect. It opens with the skeleton key. That I do expect. Inside are a leather {1 pouch}, a machete, and a {1 map} rolled like a scroll. :: pouch: The leather bag is full of doubloons, but not enough to buy freedom if the soldiers return while the ship’s still in port. :: :: map: It’s a sketch of the Spice Islands. It might lead to treasure, but the captain hinted there’s treasure on board. :: #### The sword Machete, actually. An arm’s length and razor {1 sharp}. With the Royal Navy closing in, I swing harder than ever, severing the tow rope. The soldiers shout and come running as we break free. :: sharp: It could put out an eye, not a bad look on a pirate, but tricky judging {2 distance}. :: :: distance: Especially how far those sailors are in the distance. :: #### Brandish the sword, hunt the parrot? Machete, actually. And it has served us well to set us free. The parrot is sleeping off a feed of pistachios. No, I’ve a mind to proclaim myself: *"Captain. Aargh."* said Me. I raise the machete to the sky as the Ocean Raider slips out toward open waters. verse::: I am a pirate, not a saint. Blackbeard (Edward Teach) :::verse ### Hope #### Show of Hope ###### Caldwell, 2030 verse::: Today’s performance, the East Street line. To my surprise, it’s running on time. Recent protests and a show of force. Peace out my peeps, the truth is worse. Back of the bus and sit on the {1 edge}, or flash the driver my courier’s {1 badge}. The driver asks if I am a {1 decoy}, the kind’a of question I’d rather {1 avoid}. The driver pulls over, a wall to the side. “I’ll take that case, now you don’t mind.” Open the door, hand over the {1 case}, or stay in place, keep silent and {1 wait}. We’re all afraid, I start to explain. “Don’t gimmie that crap ’a feel my pain.” Trigger the case and hand it {1 over}, or ignore the threat, and feign {1 composure}. Keep up a pretence of greater {1 good}, or admit the mission has been a {1 ruse}. :::verse :: edge: My medical case, a treasure chest to conniving eyes, I’d have to pass. :: :: badge: Plexiglass cage behind the driver, a seat some call The Lone Survivor. Its own side exit, if that need be, made for those who carry vaccine. :: :: decoy: Driver leans forward, desperate to hear. A blank expression’s my only answer. :: :: avoid: The trials fail, it mutates again. I’m holding out hope of holding hope in. This isn’t a run as much as parade, couriers dispatched and put on display. :: :: case: Riders turn rioters, that’s why this cage; hard-learned lessons of past rampage. :: :: wait: “Last Warning,” mace can pressed to door, “my family is ill, can’t take any more.” :: :: over: A ruse of force as empty as the case, blue dye would envelop the driver’s face. :: :: composure: Silence on silence, the driver retreats. The bus starts moving. His plea repeats. :: :: good: A tool for others, mongers of hope, riding for show, a placebo to cope. :: :: ruse: I ride to exhibit control and compassion so the devil you know is less than imagined. :: ### Poultice verse::: You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle / Sherlock Holmes, *The Man with the Twisted Lip*, 1891 :::verse --- #### Holmes’ Poultice ###### Sherlock Holmes / Dr. Watson Vignette --- London, 1895 Holmes has a blank stare. To be lost in thought is hardly unfamiliar territory for the brilliant detective, but the focus of his gaze is close, as if on something read. I sit in the {1 handsome} cab, marvelling at the mechanism, taking in the {1 cityscape}, but can contain myself no longer. *"What is the purpose of our journey, good sir?"* said Watson. At last his head pivots, fixing the imagined text upon my forehead. *"It is a correction."* said Holmes. :: handsome: A type of horse-drawn carriage, typically with a high seat for the driver and a closed cabin for passengers, popular in the late 19th century. :: :: cityscape: The {2 bustle} of foot traffic fills the air, mixing with the distant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages. :: :: bustle: Occasionally, a sharp whistle from a street vendor selling baked goods or roasted chestnuts cuts through the background chatter. :: After a polite cough, he offers little more. *"All will become clear in due time."* said Holmes. That leaves me feeling uncertain about what I felt. *"But surely that is foolishness!"* said Watson. He stares at me blankly. *"Foolishness for which we seek a clue!"* said Holmes. *"Perhaps a clue to a clue, Watson. I don’t suppose you have a pinch of the gunpowder in your pocket?"* said Holmes. *"Gunpowder, goodness, man, just {1 look} about you! Are these the streets for {1 gunpowder}?"* said Watson. :: look: A {2 drizzle} begins to patter on the cobblestones, creating a shimmering effect as pedestrians hastily open umbrellas, while others simply shrug it off. :: :: drizzle: The rain persists, prompting a nearby street musician to play a cheery tune on the accordion, drawing a small crowd that claps along. :: :: gunpowder: That’s what I thought to myself. What I said was something else. In my tweed, possibly, but in this waistcoat only tea leaves. :: Rubbing crumbs between forefinger and thumb, I conclude: *"Earl Grey."* said Watson. At once, he dismisses the invisible text and looks directly at me. *"In that case, Watson, we shall need {1 rolling} paper in a hurry. Call to the cabbie, stop at the apothecary."* said Holmes. :: rolling: I am taken aback. Does he mean to smoke? But before the words could escape my lips, he clarifies as though reading my thoughts. :: :: apothecary: The chemist, a person who prepares and sells medicines and drugs; similar to a modern-day pharmacist or chemist. :: It seems Holmes has a headache and seeks a poultice for his temple. *"A nitrate would be nice; caffeine will suffice."* said Holmes. *"Or we could stop in the park, for a bit of {1 willow} bark. Hippocrates would be pleased, to serve salicylic tea."* said Holmes. :: willow: The bark of the willow tree, historically used for its pain-relieving properties; it contains salicin, which is a precursor to aspirin. :: I could hardly resist this small jest. For this, Holmes paid a sliver of a smile. *"Quite. But the paper has another purpose. To roll a small {1 explosive} for a lock that won’t pick."* said Holmes. :: explosive: Breaking in? My thoughts mix as if under the apothecary’s pestle. The word ‘mischief’ came to mind. :: *"What of the Inspector? And how will the police take to this?"* said Watson. *"Not well, I expect, we shall be breaking into his station. We have little time, before the evidence we require is removed to an even more secure location within the labyrinth of the Yard."* said Holmes. I stare blankly. *"Why not seek permission? What evidence could compel doing wrong for the greater good?"* said Watson. The carriage turns onto Islington. *"It is a troublesome lock, I confess, and a grievance better forgiven than denied."* said Holmes. He whispers this with an air of inevitability. *"No malfeasance, merely the swift pursuit of truth. And should we be discovered, we’ll rely on the discretion of friends in the Yard."* said Holmes. The carriage rattles on, each click upon the {1 cobblestones} a countdown to the moment of our action, or humiliation. I ask nothing further of him and he offers nothing more. :: cobblestones: A group of children chase a small dog, laughter echoing as it darts between trousers. A woman adjusts her bonnet, eyeing a vendor selling vibrant flowers. A loud argument breaks out between two merchants, their gesticulations drawing the attention of a few curious {2 onlookers}. :: :: onlookers: One, a mysterious figure in a floppy hat observes the crowd, eyes flicking toward our cab. :: quote::: There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle / Sherlock Holmes, *The Boscombe Valley Mystery*, 1891 :::quote ### Absorption #### Absorption An automobile muffler absorbs sound. A sponge absorbs liquids. A sponge will soak up a spill until all its spaces are filled. From these examples, absorption seems to be a process of which: coming {1 together}, {1 reducing}, or taking {1 within}? :: together: Not coming together. One element encloses the other. :: :: reducing: No, the elements are still there, not taken away. :: :: within: ✔︎ The sponge and paper towel take liquid {2 into} their bulk. The muffler takes in sound. :: :: into: How do the sponge, paper towel and muffler “take in?” By {3 cancelling}, {3 erasing}, or {3 trapping}? :: :: cancelling: One element encloses the other. Try that once more. :: :: erasing: Not by erasing. The elements are still there, not removed. :: :: trapping: ✔︎ The sponge, paper towel and muffler absorb by trapping. Sound fills chambers (baffles) in the muffler. Water fills spaces between paper fibres, then turns to gas. It evaporates. Sound turns into what: {4 heat}, {4 fine} soot particles, or thin {4 vapour}? :: :: heat: ✔︎ Sound turns into heat. Trapped sound energy turns into heat or kinetic energy (vibration). It dissipates. More spaces make for a better trap. Sound is more reflected back in a room by the {5 carpet}, ceiling {5 tiles}, or the {5 hardwood} floor? :: :: fine: Soot, nope. Soot is fine particles of carbon. Heat is a form of energy, not matter. :: :: vapour: Sound is a form of energy. It doesn’t become vapour. :: :: carpet: Not the carpet. Carpets and rugs have many fibres to trap sound. :: :: tiles: Not so much the ceiling tiles. They have a rough surface and may have material pores to absorb sound. :: :: hardwood: ✔︎ Smooth surfaces bounce sound. Hardwood floors are smooth, which means fewer absorbing spaces to trap sound. :: Kitchen aluminum foil is smooth. At least on one side. Dull on the other side. To cook food faster in the oven, on the outside have which side? {1 Either}, {1 dull} side, or {1 smooth} side. :: Either: It does matter. There is a difference. :: :: dull: ✔︎ Dull side out = faster result. Having the dull side out will cause food to cook faster in an oven and cool quicker in a freezer. Like liquids, gases can also be absorbed. Sometimes even into liquids. Gas absorbed in a liquid is demonstrated by pop can {2 fizz}, {2 bubbles}, or {2 burping}? :: :: smooth: Not the smooth side. Smooth surfaces tend to reflect energy. :: :: fizz: ✔︎ Fizz it is. Carbon dioxide absorbed in pop gives fizz. Gas absorbs into fluids in parts of our bodies. Gas in a body fluid is demonstrated by {3 cracking} knuckles, {3 farting}, or {3 sneezing}? :: :: bubbles: Not by air in bubbles. The air is not absorbed into the liquid film. :: :: burping: Excuse you, not burping. That is air pushed out, not absorbed. :: :: cracking: ✔︎ Knuckles crack by gas. Knuckle cracking is like pop can fizz. There is fluid between finger joints. Synovial fluid. It absorbs carbon dioxide in your body. Fluid seems like it would muffle sound. Pulling or pressing makes knuckles “crack” by {4 lowering} pressure, {4 increasing} pressure, {4 forcing} gas into bone? :: :: farting: Urk, no. That will not do. Gas in a body fluid, not just gas in a body. :: :: sneezing: Not sneezing. Sneezing expels air, but we are talking about gas in a body fluid. :: :: lowering: ✔︎ By lowering pressure in the synovial fluid. Separating bones will lower pressure in the fluid. That releases the carbon dioxide as bubbles. Collapsing bubbles produce pop. The gas reabsorbs and you can crack again. Light rays can also be absorbed. Dirt absorbs about 90% of the light that hits it. The least likely to absorb light rays is fresh {5 fallen} snow, a {5 blacktop} road, or a {5 concrete} sidewalk? :: :: increasing: Not increasing, the opposite. Pulling apart lowers the pressure between the bones. :: :: forcing: Not forcing. The gas is in the fluid between the bones. :: :: fallen: ✔︎ Snow. Fresh fallen snow reflects back about 90%. Best wear sunglasses when skiing. :: :: blacktop: Not asphalt. Dark surfaces tend to absorb. :: :: concrete: Not the sidewalk. The lighter the surface, the higher the reflection. :: The term for the percentage of energy reflected from an object is “albedo”. The albedo of dirt (garden soil) is around {1 ten}, {1 fifty}, or {1 ninety} percent? :: ten: ✔︎ If dirt absorbs 90%, then it reflects 10%, which is the measure of albedo. The typical albedo of concrete is 22%. Blacktop, 8%. To prevent floods, airplanes sometimes drop black soot. They drop it on snowed-in mountain sides a few weeks before the beginning of spring. This works because {2 soot} has a low albedo, snow has a high {2 albedo}, {2 dirty} snow has a high albedo? :: :: fifty: Not 50%. Soil is dark, which tends to absorb. :: :: ninety: Not that much. Ninety percent is a lot of reflection. :: :: soot: ✔︎ To prevent floods, airplanes sometimes drop black soot because soot has a low albedo. Sooty snow absorbs more radiant energy from the sun. Warming helps the snow melt before the spring thaw. That may prevent run-offs that can cause floods. Not many houses are painted in dark colours. One reason is temperature. Colour affects albedo, which affects temperature. A white shirt will keep you cooler on a sunny day than a black shirt since {3 white} reflects better, absorbs {3 better}, or has a {3 lower} albedo? :: :: albedo: Snow is reflective. High reflection = little absorption. :: :: dirty: Dirt and that which is dirty tends to absorb effectively, so it has a low albedo. Soot is all dirt. :: :: white: ✔︎ White reflects better. That helps keep you cool in sunlight. A white shirt also lasts longer. Light causes fading. Another way to maintain temperature is with double-pane windows. They have a thin layer of air between two panes of glass. Air is an insulator. That means it resists letting heat pass through. Triple-pane windows are not much better than double since they’re more {4 expensive}, two air layers {4 cancel} out, one layer {4 works}? :: :: better: Not by absorbing better. Light colours reflect better than dark colours. :: :: lower: The shirt does not have a low albedo. Light colours tend to reflect. :: :: expensive: The question has to do with insulation, not expense. :: :: cancel: Not by cancelling layers. Triple isn’t worse than double. :: :: works: ✔︎ Even a thin layer of air is enough. Double pane windows hold house heat by an insulating dead air space. The thickness of dead air space is not significant. Triple pane is about equal to double pane. Suppose the albedo of glass is 90% and a window has more than one pane. The window lets in less than half the light if it has {5 four}, {5 eight}, or a {5 dozen} panes? :: :: four: Not that few. Pane 1, 90% of the incident light. Pane 2, 81%. Pane 3, 72.9% and so on. :: :: eight: ✔︎ Pane 1, 90% of the incident light. Pane 2, 81%. Pane 3, 72.9%. Each time, multiply by 0.9. Pane 8 transmits less than half of the light incident upon pane 1. :: :: dozen: Not so many. Each time, multiply by 0.9. :: **Bonus Question**: A sponge works by **ab**sorption. A gas mask works by **ad**sorption. Note the spellings. One takes into its bulk. The other collects on its surface. A gas mask contains activated charcoal. Poisonous gas adsorbs to the surface of the charcoal. A similar example of adsorption is {1 silica} packets in new shoes, light reflecting off a {1 pool} of water, or the paper {1 filter} in a coffee maker? :: silica: ✔︎ Silica packets. Silica gel packets are a drying agent, a desiccant. The gel removes humidity by adsorption. Moisture sticks to the surface of the gel, but is not absorbed into it. :: :: pool: Not light reflecting. Perhaps you are thinking of albedo. :: :: filter: Not the coffee filter. Perhaps you are thinking of absorption. This is adsorption. Note the spelling: D, not B. :: ### Lyrical Sunday settles in a pot-roast haze, the table still cluttered. Dad's chin drifts to his chest the way it does now that clocks seem to move faster on him than on the rest of us. My daughters nudge each other, waiting to see which orbit hell choose when he comes back. He stirs, head tilting like a radio dial finding a station. "I'll be right there," he promises. None of us knows where "there" is, but the intent rings true. Mum sees the danger first: his water glass is slowly circling toward the edge. She slips in, lifts the slice of shoofly pie (he likes the name, not the molasses). She steadies the glass mid-wobble without spilling a diplomatic drop. Dad blinks twice, spots the Windsor chair under him, and picks up the conversation he thinks we were having. "All turned on a hand lathe," he announces, patting the armrest. "Not a lick of electricity touched these hickory beauties." The girls exchange a glance across the gravy boat. Grandpa loses the thread of lunchtime. But he can splice it to a decade-old woodworking tour with every spline intact. Above us, the kitchen clock bumps forward. Beside us, a man and his chairs stay on the mark.