Scotland’s favorite son and poet, Robert Burns, had a heart for the old ways. In the last ten years of his young life (he died at 37), Robbie worked to find and save the faded lines of local legend, the remnants of fleeting tune that haunted and hid among the high hills and upon the mists of the lonely moors.

One such verse was penned by The Bard in 1794 and printed in 1796. In his walks and rests at the local stops, The Ploughman Poet heard bits, pieces and perhaps more, perhaps much of the whole weave and warp of a welcome and much loved lilt. Or, perhaps, he glimpsed only a line or two, and his native sense and wandering imagination provided the rest.

Of this, we may never know. Of this, we have the whole. Of this, you have the lines:

“My love is like a red, red rose

“That’s newly sprung in June;

“My love is like the melody

“That’s sweetly played in tune.”

As can be imagined, much has been written of the what, where and why of this, his sweet-found rhyme, “A Red Red Rose.” But, stop. Is there more to be seen? When Robert scrivened in his homeland of Scotland, at evening on a small town’s bench, tired and bent, did he glance up and see her, as she walked past and smiled a fleeting smile back?

In all the countries of all the earth, Scotland has the highest percentage of redheads. Lads and lassies with the brightest and rarest of hair colors. Deep burgundy, burnt orange, shining copper. Red hair. In most lands, one maybe two percent have the red flowing locks. In Robbie’s homeland, 13% of the population are redheaded. And, with that red hair, is seen the twinkle of gray-green eyes and freckle or two over fine fair skin.

“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass” is the very next verse.

Do you see what the poet Robbie saw?

Do you see her?

Young Robert raised his eyes and saw among the lines on his worn note page, her passing smile and bright red hair.

She held his gaze and in that moment gave the verse its heart and the words their fire.

“My love is like a red, red rose” — the first line.

“As fair thou art, my bonnie lass” — line #5.

And, in closing, our poet plays the words as only a poet can:

“And fare thee well, my only love,

“And fare thee well awhile!

“And I will come again, my love,

“Though it were ten thousand mile.”

The fair glance of a redheaded lass did fare well for Robert and his noted lines.

To the poet, there is little more compelling than love at first sight.

The sight of a comely lass with flashing red hair. . . .

John Wayne did not have a chance.

In the 1952 film “The Quiet Man,” Maureen O’Hara plays a young Irish maiden by the name of Mary Kate Danaher. Mary Kate is herding sheep in a field when she glances up and catches the eye of John Wayne, playing the character Sean Thornton, a retired boxer returning to the lands of his family. Of that scene, Maureen O’Hara says it was the most important in the movie: “I felt very strongly that if the audience believed it was love at first sight, then we would have lighting in a bottle.” The audience believed and was captivated, as was Sean. It was a moment captured in time. It was love at first sight. It was lighting in a bottle.

By the way, did I mention, Maureen and Mary Kate have fiery red hair to match their temperaments?

And, did I say, the Irish have the next highest percentage of redheads, at ten percent of the population?

Redheads have made a stir and left a lasting impression. The remembered glance of a much-revered poet and the lasting sight of a much-loved actor provide a pleasing telling and welcome show. The burning bright locks hold special sway and place among us the many watchers.

To the redheads: Bravo and Hurrah!!

Grandpa Jim

In military speak, “D-Day” means “the day.”

The term was used in the context of a super secret operation where only a few knew the actual date of the event. In the planning, folks would say this happens on “D-1,” meaning D minus one or the day before D-Day, or your group will do this on D+3, meaning D plus 3 or 3 days after D-Day. By the use of this D-for-THE-Day parlance, everything could be planned around the day without anyone (or, at most, a very select few) knowing the date for the beginning of the attack.

The most famous D-Day was June 6, 1944.

Seventy years ago, Allied Forces landed their troops on the Normandy coast in northern France. Those beaches were heavily fortified and soundly manned to resist and repel invasion.

Such days are not easily described. I have watched the war movies recreating the landings on those beaches and the fight up the cliffs. The images from those films do not leave my mind. They return late at night to wake me worried from sleep, the sights and sounds before me still. It was, by all accounts, a most horrible day.

The Allied soldiers were from many countries: the United Kingdom (England), the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Free Belgium (“Free” means their country was occupied and the soldiers were in exile fighting to regain their homeland), Free Czechoslovakia, Free France, Free Greece, Free Netherlands, Free Norway and Free Poland.

Against those soldiers wading through the salty waters and slogging across the wet sands waited the occupying armies of the German Third Reich.

Shells exploded, bullets screeched and men fell.

On the shores of France, up the cliffs and into the fields and byways of the surrounding countryside, 20,000 men fell that day and 5,000 did not rise again. They died there, and many more died for many more days after that as the liberating forces pushed ever eastward.

There is in the memory of death a wish to forget. To remember rather the countryside quiet, the birds soaring freely in the sky. To walk between the crosses and realize that wish to forget, as much as we would want it to be, cannot and should not be realized. The blood of brave men is not forgotten, nor should it ever be.

I have never heard of another D-Day.

I think the term fell from use.

Once was enough.

I hope so.

With so many others.

On this, the memory of that D-Day.

I hope so.

Grandpa Jim

“Seek the wisdom of ages, but look at the world through the eyes of a child.” Not bad, if I’d said so myself. I hadn’t. Ron Wild had, according to the Internet attributions. I cannot find more about this Ron Wild than his very telling quote, but I was about to find more about his words.

“Grandpa, let’s name them.”

My granddaughter and I had discovered a box of yard art in the garage and were washing the objects in the grass.

“Please do,” I agreed. “What should this rabbit be called?”

Now, this hollow yard-art rabbit had an interesting story. (By the way, “yard art” are statues and things that folks in the United States use to decorate their outside flower beds and yards.) Years ago, I had found and placed this rabbit in a Houston bed of blooms beneath a budding crepe myrtle tree. Unbeknownst to me, fire ants had taken up residence inside the bunny. One day, I heard a scream and ran to find the bare legs of a little neighbor girl covered with stinging ants. (Another aside, fire ants crawl upon their victim and wait for a mysterious signal causing them all to sting at once on cue – an insidious and most unendearing trait.) I was planting, so I had a hose nearby. I sprayed off the little one’s legs, ran to the garage for the spray bottle of window cleaner, and returned to soak her swelling legs with the cleaner. (A secret of fire ant bites is that a dilute solution with just a bit of contained liquid ammonia, like a window cleaner, will neutralize the poison, take away the stinging and prevent any scarring.) Saved by the spray, the little one’s tears dried and she was off to play some more. I, for one, gave that rabbit a good talking to, moved the bunny to solid ant-free ground and returned often to check its interior for intruders.

“I think Isis is a good name for a rabbit. Don’t you Grandpa?”

My thought shifted with this curiously fitting pronouncement. In ancient mythology, Isis is an Egyptian goddess, the ideal mother and wife . . .  and the protector of children. Perhaps we were dealing with a reformed rabbit. I knew my granddaughter in the third grade was studying Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. Apparently, her teacher had bridged to the even older ways and names of the Pharaohs of the Nile.

“An excellent choice,” I agreed, smiling with my shifting sight. “Now, what name would you like for this duck?”

“Blueberry,” my young relative answered with a simple immediacy.

One does not question the wisdom of a child. It is far too much fun to listen and enjoy the thoughts. In my head, I could see Blueberry sitting coldly on my balcony patio in Uptown Dallas in early January two years past, a crown of snow forming on his head, feet buried in freezy white fluff, wishing wooden thoughts of a nice warm blueberry to munch for lunch. Blueberry is made of wood and he doesn’t eat, but it was a warm day today and I did have some blueberries inside. Maybe I’d leave one by the webbed feet of Mr. Blueberry and see what would happen.

“That name works nicely,” I said. “And, these two, what are their names?”

The thinking cap was on. Some seconds passed as my granddaughter’s weight shifted from foot to foot and a small young finger pointed here and there into the air.

“Hmmmm. . . .”  The little head moved slowly, cogitating deeply, stopping abruptly and announcing theatrically: “They are. . . . Fluff and Duff. Yes, their names are Fluff and Duff. Fluff is roosting and Duff is preening. A mom and a dad.”

Good words for a third grader. Roosting and preening. And, right-on. The two little birds had been a gift from my Mom and Dad.

It is a joy to observe the machinations of an innocent and uncluttered mind and wonder at what they can see that we can only guess.

“That should do it,” I concluded.

Placing the newly named members of the yard-art family around the potted plants, I glanced at a smiling hydrangea, my wife’s favorite blossom of springtime.

“The flowers seem to approve,” I nodded.

“Of course, Grandpa, they already knew the names.”

The wisdom of a child should always surprise.

Grandpa Jim

What on earth is a “dangling preposition”?

Let us consult . . . the Internet. I am almost said “an expert”, but that is a whole new post.

Back to this post, a “dangling preposition” is, according to the Internet. . . . Wow, Wikipedia, the #1 hit, is for once unintelligible. Let’s try second place. Ok, here are examples of dangling prepositions according to site #2: who are you going with; which box did you put it in; and who’s the letter addressed to? With, in and to at the end of these sentences are the prepositions, and they are dangling because they do not have an object attached.

In the English language (or at least the American English I’m using here) a preposition is a “directing word” (you might call it a “finger-pointing word”). The wagging digit demands an answer. What? Who? Where? In other words (and these are my words, not my High School Grammar Teacher): “Don’t you ever preposition me without an object to your advances?”

Okay, but let’s consider the Grammarians acceptable answer to the connundrum of the dangling prepositional phrase.

Here is how an astute artist of aura-words would paint those sentences “correctly” today. With whom are you going? In which box did you put it? To whom is that letter addressed? Have you ever heard the likes of that? Land O Goshen. I should think not, unless you are up very late and viewing a very old English movie. In this day and age, no one would dare address another in such a formalized vernacular. The covered mouths, rolling eyes and snickers would blanket with embarrassment and muffle the very speech.

Simply stated, dangling prepositions are perfectly acceptable in everyday speech. Should they be anticipated in the everyday writing of our times? On the written page, do prepositions always have to be followed by an object? Is such dictated phraseology archaic, old-fashioned, borderingly puerile and perhaps demeaning to a freely given and happily written dangling preposition?

In summary, do prepositions always need the clutter of objects to end with? Can and should dangling at the end of a line be allowed, approved, accepted and applauded, as it is in angling — especially at this time of the year?

“Where are you going to?” I asked. “About 25 hours by car, directly north,” he responded. “Want to go along?” he asked. “Above the Great Lakes, I bet,” I said, and added, “Where at?” “A little lake in the woods, by the name of Separation, just north of  Kenora, Ontario. There’ll be plenty of Pike, to keep our rods bent with the fight of the fish, before the catch and release after and back to.” “Their watery home?” I asked. “You betcha,” he answered.

Footnote: A Northern Pike is an aquatic monster of the North Woods, way up there in Canada and around. You’ll find some of ‘em in Minnesota. I remember on the Boundary Waters along the Minnesota border glancing over the side of our small boat at our stringer of smallish fish only to see this huge elongated and armored shape open a gaping maw full of glistening teeth as the ravaging denizen of the deep water considered swallowing the bunch, stringer and all, and then be off – perhaps sinking us as the great fish savored its late afternoon repast. I have hooked a few of that Northern’s cousins, but never a granddaddy of comparable size and contemplative stare – a young lad’s memory to savor all one’s life and beyond.

Angling for the great fish of the Northern Woods is where I’d like to be at. I mean I’d dangle a preposition over the side of that boat and wait for the next to happen by. With luck, I might hook the object of a great fight and bring the monster in and close up. Reaching down into the cold water, I’d carefully extract the hook and send that fighting fish right back to. The lake ripples echoing my happy sigh, I’d slump back and watch the limp line dangle against the clear blue sky, delighted to have sighted again the goal of my long-sought quest, refreshed and satisfied, not needing to mount that fearsome object at the end of a worn phrase above a fabricated mantel for the dusts of forgotten usage to sully and slowly collect upon.

As they say in the far timber: “Keep angling at and that line may be dangling with. Luck, you betcha.”

They appreciate their prepositions up that away and the freedom of their objects.

To them, dangling and angling have always been compatible.

Up there in the colder climbs and there about.

Good fishin’.

Grandpa Fisherman

In boxing, the phrase “saved by the bell” means one of the fighters has been knocked to the mat and the referee is hovering above the slumped combatant. The referee is in the middle of the count to “ten and you’re out.” Suddenly the bell rings signifying the end of the round. The downed fighter’s trainer jumps over the ropes and drags the dazed pugilist to a little round stool in the corner to recover and fight again.

The fallen fighter was saved by the bell.

Something fell last Thursday, this Monday and Tuesday early that for the early corn in the fields was like being saved by the bell. Uncle Joe was up on Wednesday, and he said that little corn “was about to be hurt.” After the rains, which totaled around 5 inches, Joe said he could hear the corn growing out there in the fields and “it was knee-high.” That’s what happened. It rained. A good one too.

The young corn was saved by the rain.

Never doubt drought is a fearsome thing. Much of Texas is in the midst of severe dryness. The climate cooperated this past week, but some say that climate is changing and may not be as cooperative in the future.

The future is a fuzzy place, little known and even less subject to prediction.

Climate change has been announced to be upon us. My definition of climate change is “the climate is changing.” Here in Texas they say “if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.” That’s the way the weather is, always changing. One minute you’re freezing, the next minute you’re baking. Welcome to the Lone Star State.

So, “the climate is changing” must not be what the experts mean by climate change. Perhaps those science types mean “the climate is changing more quickly.” No, that can’t be it, weather by nature changes quickly. Always has. Wait, I got it. Those pocket protectors must be saying “the climate is changing more quickly in one direction.” That’s gotta be it. Like, we’re in a drought, and it will just be getting worse. But, it just rained and got better, and we all want it to keep getting better.

Perhaps we should leave that climate change to the experts and get back to farming.

Down in the country, there are two phrases you hear: “Dunno and “Mebbe.”

Farmers like those words — you even hear Uncle Joe use ‘em.

Lots of truth there, I think, down in the country.

Mebbe leave that climate to itself.

And get back to work.

 “Looks like rain.”

“Dunno.”

Grandpa Jim

One of the group raised a hand to ask a question. “Have any of you heard the new music for the show about Annie Oakley? Jerome Kern is writing the score. I think they’re going to call the production Annie Get Your Gun.”

“If Kern wrote the music,” a voice near the piano says, “it probably sounds something like this.”

At this point, the speaker, Jule Styne, of Frank Sinatra’s songwriting team of Sammy Cahn (lyrics) and Jule Styne (music), moves to the piano and begins playing a tune.

Of course, Styne made up the whole thing. He knew nothing of the Annie Oakley show and he had never heard the new music, but Styne knew Kern’s work and Styne liked to improvise. Styne was a musical prodigy. He couldn’t help himself. So, he made up a tune and everyone liked it, even young Frankie over there in the corner.

Later, after being admonished by Cahn for brazen balderdashery and musical masqueradery, Styne humbly asked the lyricist to provide the words for the song. Cahn did, Styne fine-tuned the tune and Sinatra recorded the song on October 26, 1946.

It was an instant hit and went to #16 on the charts.

At the opening of Sinatra’s new movie, It happened in Brooklyn, the next year on April 7, 1947, the song was included. In fact, Sinatra’s character takes credit for writing the song, which is sung by Kathryn Grayson as she smiles sweetly at Peter Lawford, the shy young Englishman who would later make Kathryn’s character a duchess.

A very timely piece and well received at that.

Here a few of the lyrics:

Time after time

I tell myself that I’m

So lucky to be loving you

I only know what I know

The passing years will show

You’ve kept my love so young, so new

And time after time

You’ll hear me say that I’m

So lucky to be loving you

Not bad for a prodigy show-off ripping off someone else’s music they didn’t even write.

But, stop. Is this just of a bit schmaltzy feel-good music? Or, is it something else? Is it physics? Is this the long-sought secret of the mystery of time?

Great scientists have struggled for all time to understand time, and they, from a science standpoint, continue to miss the beat. They just can’t find the tune. Let’s see if Styne did.

The words “time”, “I” and “you” suggest a personal relationship with time, not a distant and cold imagining of equations. Relationship. Companionship. You, I and time.

“Time after time” and “passing” show time moving in a line. Amazingly, in that passing, the words “young” and “new” appear, where old and tired would seem more appropriate from our high school science lab experience. Have the eggheads in the backroom got it wrong? Is time a relationship that grows young and new, not old and stale, as we move forward in time?

Then, in the final line, we have the zinger, the simple phrase “loving you.” That’s the luck, the good fortune of time.

What on earth have Styne and Cahn done with this song?

Do you see it?

The keys word linkages: “I-you,” “young-new” and “love-you”?

The secret of time, of understanding and enjoying one of the greatest secrets in the universe, is a companion in time, a relationship. Not just I or you, but an I-you. That changes time to young-new, because the secret is love-you.

A companion in time is the secret of time.

Someone for each next step.

 Until the end.

Of  time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSGWsIQJdh8

I’m back in the saddle again

Out where a friend is a friend

Where the longhorn cattle feed

On the lowly jimsonweed

Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-oh

Rockin’ to and fro

Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-yay

I go my way

Back in the saddle again

The Singing Cowboy, Gene Autry, first released that tune in 1939. It became his signature song. Gene went on to become one of the most beloved and influential stars in the history of film, television, music, radio and live performance. He was a good guy with a great voice, and he is well remembered.

Remember back in 1993 when Tom Hanks in “Sleepless in Seattle” was getting up the courage to call for a first date while Gene in the background sang “Back in the Saddle Again” to encourage the young and widowed architect, Sam Baldwin, to go on there and just make that call.

Gene was always an encourager.

Gene Autry was born a Texan — on September 29, 1907 — in Tioga, Texas. If you take the Dallas North Tollway from where I sit today typing on this computer, the small town of Tioga is just 47.1 miles up that away. Not that far. Tioga is probably not that small anymore, part of the growing north suburbia of the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. That’s where Gene was born in 1907. He died 91 years later on October 2, 1998 in Studio City, California after appearing in 93 movies, starring in 91 episodes of the “Gene Autry Show” and crooning a parcel of country music songs to a waiting and eager audience.

Gene Autry was a hero. One writer refers to the Singing Cowboy as “honest, brave and true.” I believe that. I never met Gene, but I watched him on TV and I listened to his songs. He was a friend and an encourager when I, like Sam Baldwin, needed someone with a happy twang to encourage me on my way.

I’m back in the saddle again

Out where a friend is a friend

Where the longhorn cattle feed

On the lowly jimsonweed

Back in the saddle again

Been about a month since we last talked. Everything is fine. Thanks for thinking.

A lot has moved from the old place to our new house – just down the road from Tioga. A lot is still in process. My computer died the morning of the closing on the old house. Slowed me down a bit. Then I remembered Dad singing “Back in the Saddle Again” when I was a kid. Dad wasn’t a cowboy, but he had a beautiful Irish tenor. Like Gene, Dad was an encourager. I like to think they both found their new home humming a happy tune with a smile on their faces.

“Ragtime Cowboy Joe” and “Back in the Saddle Again.”

Good company, good memories and good friends.

Whoopi-ty-aye-oh

Rockin’ to and fro

Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-yay

I go my way

Back in the saddle again

It is good to be back . . . again.

Give a listen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6dx8AfTmQk&list=RDBZqRL7nJB48&index=0

Grandpa Jim

Only four remain.

Sixty-eight of the best men’s teams in college basketball started the trek to the national championship on March 18, 2014.

Only four remain, the Final Four: the Florida Gators (the #1 seed from the South); the Wisconsin Badgers (the #2 seed from the West); the Connecticut Huskies (the #7 seed in the East); and finally the Kentucky Wildcats (the #8 seed from the Midwest).

From the South, the West, the East and the Midwest, the best in the hoops of college athletics have bit, dug, barked and clawed their way to Arlington, Texas. And, it is for all a way away to fare and play.

For the Gators from Gainesville, Florida, the distance to the rolling prairies of Texas is 899 miles. The Badgers have to travel 828 miles from Madison, Wisconsin on the beautiful, if sometimes frozen, shores of Lake Mendota. For the bouncing Huskies, the mush from Storrs, Connecticut to the Iditarod of B-ball is the farthest, 1,498 miles. And, from the blue grass of Lexington, Kentucky, the Wildcats will dig in and ride the back of a speeding aircraft for 798 wind-swept miles.

Our finalists average a healthy one thousand (1,000) miles to Arlington, Texas and a place on the floor of the modern Taj Mahal of sporting achievement.

A footnote: Arlington is a cozy college community situated between Dallas and Fort Worth that had space for a large parking lot, sky for a spacious dome, and incentives to attract Cowboys, Rangers and my wife – she offices in site of the towering edifices of electric hoopla.

We are off and scuttling, jumping, bounding and leaping to Arlington.

But, before we and you and the entire world do, some observations on the statistics.

This is a “High-Seed Final Four,” an “HSFF.” Let’s do the math: We have Florida at #1, Wisconsin at #2, Connecticut at #7 and Kentucky at #8. Add the seed numbers up and you get “18.” That is a very high HSFF.

In the past 35 years, from 1979 to now and counting now, there have been only 6 Final Fours where the seeds add to 18 or above (18 this year, 18 last year, 26 in 2011, 20 in 2006, 22 in 2000, and 21 in 1980). 6 of 35 is 17%. We have a very unusual Final Four, a four with a low probability of occurrence. But, it has occurred. So, let’s look a little closer at the numbers.

In the past five High-Seed Final Four’s, or HSFF’s, the #1 seeds have won 2 out of 5 times. That is a 40% chance of success for the #1 seed. But, in the past 35 years since 1979, the #1 seeds have won 20 of 35 times, which is a 60% success rate. This tells us that the #1 seed has won fewer times in a High-Seed year than a normal year. And, this may say that Florida at #1 should be especially wary this year.

Now, a very interesting statistic: For the last 35 years, no seed greater than 3 has won in a High-Seed year. Connecticut and Kentucky, this is your sign to: “Beware!”

One final “stat,” in a High-Seed year, the #2 or #3 seed has won 60% of the time. This winning percentage would seem to favor #2 this year. So, Wisconsin, watch and be sure of your steps. Do not become overconfident. The numbers may be with you, but will your stride tell?

All things are new at the Final Four.

Arlington, the rolling prairies and constructed beacons beckon.

The doormat to the Dallas Fort Worth Metroplex is out and extended in welcome.

The world awaits at its tellies, handhelds and internet terminals.

Should we focus too on numbers?

Fix our sight on the games?

Numbers are great.

But fun is fun.

Enjoy.

Grandpa Jim

“Hey, do you know how many college basketball teams play how many games in how many cities for the NCAA Men’s basketball tournament?”

“No. No one does. I checked the paper today, and three articles had three different sets of numbers.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I went, myself, to the schedule in the sports section and added up the numbers.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It took about an hour, but I think I got ‘em right.”

“Man, you must love college basketball.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yeah. I mean sure. You got that right.

“Thanks.”

“So, how many teams, how many games, how many cities, and for how long?”

“You ready?”

“Yep.”

“Ok, the tournament starts on March 18-19 with a First Round of eight teams playing four games in Dayton, Ohio. Got that?”

“Got it. I’m writing it down and getting ready to add.”

“Good. The Second Round starts on March 20 and has 64 teams, which includes the four winners from the First Round, which means for the whole tournament there are 68 teams. Make a note of that. A couple of sportswriters got that figure right. The 64 teams play 32 games in 8 different cities. We are now up to 36 games. The Second Round games are played in the following cities: Orlando, Florida; San Diego California; Buffalo, New York; St. Louis, Missouri; Raleigh, North Carolina; Spokane, Washington; San Antonio, Texas; and Milwaukee, Wisconsin. So, we are up to 9 cities. How are you doing?”

“I think I’m following.”

“Good, because now it starts to get confusing.”

“Shoot.”

“It is a complete mystery when the Third Round starts. The Second and Third Rounds overlap. I know the Second Round has to start on March 20, because you can’t have the Third before the Second, but after that only the sports schedulers in their secretive and secluded back-room dens know for sure what’s going on, and they only tell the newspapers and sportscasters things like: ‘Thursday’s GAMES,’ ‘Friday’s GAMES,’ ‘Saturday’s GAMES,’ and ‘Sunday’s GAMES.’ No dates appear in the paper. So, you have to be reading and staying tuned all the time, or you may miss your favorite team.”

“Okay. Do we know how many games will be held in the Third Round and in which cities?”

“Yes and no. The rules of mathematics apply to some extent. The 32 winners of the Second Round play 16 games in the Third Round. So, with these Third Round games, we are now up to 52 games. The ‘where’ is the tricky part. Cities seem to start moving around. I think your team could play in one city in the Second Round, win, and then play in another city for the Third Round. I’m not sure, and I’m not sure anyone is. The phantom pencil pushers in their hidden closets so camouflage the actual logistics that you must be constantly on your toes, checking the new schedules when they are reported or published, so that you do not pass your team in flight and end up watching who knows who where.”

“I think I’ll watch on TV.”

“An astute move. Just be sure you have the right station. Oh, by the way, the Second and Third Round games end March 23.

“Okay. Are we to the Fourth Round?”

“We would be, if it were called that. The fourth round is called the ‘Sweet Sixteen.’ The 16 remaining teams (the Sweet Sixteen teams) play eight games in four new cities: Memphis, Tennessee; New York City, New York; Anaheim, California; and Indianapolis, Indiana. These 8 games are played between March 27 and March 28. This brings the total games to 60 and the total cities to 13. Lucky 13 for Sweet 16.”

“Are we ready for the next round, whatever it’s called?”

“Get ready. The eight winning teams from the Sweet Sixteen round advance to the “Elite Eight.” In this 5th  round, which is not called the ‘Fifth Round,’ even though it is, there are 4 games, which brings our game total to 64. Since these four games are held in the same four cities as the ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ the city count stays at 13.”

“Do we know in which city each of the 4 Elite 8 games is played?”

“No. No one knows. It ‘s all part of the mystique of the Big Dance.”

“The ‘Big Dance’?”

“That’s what they call the whole tournament.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“I’m starting to worry.”

“You should start to get very worried and very excited. There are only a few games left.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It is an amazing tournament. To continue, the 4 winners of the Elite Eight advance to round 6, which is called the ‘Final Four.’ There are 2 games, which brings our total to 66 games. These 2 games are played in Arlington, Texas, our new city #14.”

“Are we now to the ‘Tremendous Two’?”

“You jest. The next and last game, which is played on April 7, is the long-awaited ‘Championship Game,’  #67 of round #7 in city #14, Arlington, Texas.”

“I can’t wait.”

“I’m with you there.”

“Okay, how many teams, games and cities?”

“To summarize, 68 teams will play 67 games in 14 cities over 21 days from March 18 to April 7.”

“Is that the last dance?”

“That is the Big Dance, and it is a dandy.”

“Oh, golly gee.”

“And, WHEE and away we go. Do you have all that down?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Would you like me to start over?”

“No, please don’t. I’ll just watch it all on TV.”

“A good move, a very good move. You are a fan and smart one too.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

Are you?

I am.

Grandpa Jim

Back in the old days, the 1960’s and 1970’s, people wanted to talk more with their computers. I remember my first computer — it was just me and my programs. We had good times together, just the two of us, but we were lonely. We wanted some more friends to talk to.

Then one day, someone, or a few of those someone’s, a military person over there, a presidential aspirant here, a professor and a corporate guy and gal said, at their different locations and somewhat different times, but in pretty much the same way: “Let’s have more fun! Let’s talk to each other! Not that limited/centralized/proprietary corporate/government/academic proper talk that we do at work with just a few fellow employees. Let’s all talk together without restrictions.”

The Internet was born in the basements, garages, boardrooms and backrooms of those far-thinkers.

This is my definition of the Internet: “An open, linked, electronic, digitalized, information-sharing network between users and sources.” This was the first Internet, the first information highway, the Internet “1”. Sources made their information available to one and to all. With their servers, they served up a menu of diverse thoughts to anyone with an appetite.

In response, the all of us upgraded our computers and services to reach those servers and their information. One rule bound the many: No rules, no barriers, no red tape, no corporate protocols, no government regulations, no costs beyond the costs of getting on and taking the ride, and no limits. Today, the Internet “1” is as close to limitless as a thing of man and woman can be. It is the stuff of dreams that links us all to all us persons and our things.

Remember “The Brave Little Toaster.” It was a 1980 novel and 1987 movie. A small cabin in the woods is the home of a toaster, a lamp, an electric blanket, a radio and a vacuum cleaner. Their master has left, and the household appliances are lonely and feeling left out. One day, the little friends talk things over and decide to go on an adventure. What follows is the great and grand quest of the talking gadgets to find and communicate with their person. It was a wonder of a story, and it was the start of another and new Internet.

Yes, there is a new Internet on the way to you.

The new Internet of Things is approaching.

Get prepared to meet your appliances.

Internet “1” was between you and me and our data, between the 1^st big people of the airways. As a person, you’re on it now, reading this blog. You are the user. This is a source of information (hopefully somewhat entertaining). You reached here over an open, linked, electronic, digitalized network. You are on the traditional, old-fashioned, people-to-people Internet “1.”

Get ready for Internet “0” — “0” because the Internet is now available to the smallest of things.

It’s all possible because of the new microcontrollers. These are tiny computers for appliances. The size of a pen tip, they cost a few small coins and use almost no power. In a nutshell, they fit the budget of just about everything in your home: the light bulb you’re reading by, the coffee maker over there on the counter, the switch on the wall, the exercise machine you haven’t used in a while, that over-heated TV in the corner, and even your new electronic tooth brush. Toasters, lamps, electric blankets, radios (do we still have radios?) and vacuum cleaners can now speak directly to each other, not just across the cabin in the woods, but to each other around the world. And, we can listen in. And, smart processors can design new programs to use all that data-chatter our appliances are exchanging.

It is the brave new world of the Internet of Things, Internet “0.”

What will they think of next?

And, who?

Grandpa Jim