Sorry to hear of the death of Steve Jobs. I was surprised to learn, via a link to this Get Religion article provided by a commenter at Strange Herring, that Steve was raised a Lutheran and confirmed in the Missouri Synod.

Of course, by all accounts he converted to Buddhism, but one can always hope. I know Lutherans who seem to believe that once you’re baptized you’re pretty much set for eternity, unless you actually find a way to storm the gates of heaven and urinate in the golden streets.

I think I’m one of about a hundred people in this country who possesses no Apple devices at all. No iPad, no i-Anything. I don’t think I’ve even seen a Pixar film. Not on any principle, other than the principle that if I buy the Hewlett-Packard I can pay for it through selling a kidney, rather than selling a kidney plus robbing a bank.

And that penury explains my considerable satisfaction in the car repair I did today, all by myself.

Mrs. Hermanson, my old Chevy Tracker, is—like her owner—entering into a penurious and undignified old age. One problem that’s been dogging us for some time is her loose hood, which blew out completely somewhere in North Dakota on the way to Høstfest.

How does a hood blow out? Well, due to damage she suffered before I bought her, the supporting structure of the hood has always been iffy. Lots of rust, and several loose welds. One guy who changed the oil once told me I needed to look into that or the thing would separate completely and fly up in my face one day.

Which is why I adopted the practice of securing the hood with a nylon tie-down anytime I took her onto the highway. So when the wind blew it apart in North Dakota it didn’t fly loose, but it was flapping around on the unsecured side. I procured a second tie-down at a tractor supply store in the town of Harvey (if I remember correctly), strung it crossways from wheel well to wheel well, and made it to Minot and home again that way.

But I pondered the problem and treasured it in my heart, and came up with a plan. Today I drilled two holes through the outer skin (there were already holes in the support) and put a bolt, a washer and a nut in each, screwed them tight, and cut the bolt down short to fit the space.

And it worked. I couldn’t believe it. I was certain my fix would actually make things worse, which is the usual way with my work.

I like to think this is the sort of repair my dad would have done. On the farm you fixed everything with spit, twine, and fence wire, until the fatal day when you couldn’t do it yourself anymore, and you generally had to replace the whole thing (a repair man couldn’t do much that Dad couldn’t do himself). The replacement, needless to say, would be bought used.

No, come to think of it, Dad wouldn’t have used bolts. He’d have done a welding job, because he was a mighty welder (there’s a scene in Wolf Time where Carl Martell remembers watching his father weld a wagon hitch. That was based on my memories of Dad).

Oh yes, I won’t be posting tomorrow or Monday, because I’m going to Norway, Michigan for the Leif Eriksson festival. See you there if you’re in the neighborhood.

Ben Domenech describes how Steve Jobs embodies the American Dream.

The essence of American optimism is founded in a belief that the world we pass on can exceed the one we inherited. We are not prisoners of an all-encompassing destiny, and neither are our children. This is not a uniquely American inclination, mind you, but a human one – but not all cultures acknowledge or honor it. It was here in America where such an experience was uniquely understood from our inception in our creed. We create, as we were created, and know all who are created have worth. So they have an equal claim to life, to liberty, and to the pursuit.

Courtesy of Furious D, here’s a little film trailer for a low-budget production of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Whisperer In Darkness.”

Honestly, isn’t that a great trailer? Aren’t you interested in seeing this movie?

I know I am, and–here’s the thing–I hate H. P. Lovecraft’s body of work. All that nihilism, and the whole the-universe-is-more-horrifying-than-you-can-imagine Cthulhu Mythos, is to me not only depressing and demoralizing, but full-out blasphemous.

But this trailer is irresistable. The people who made it (and, we assume, the film) are having so much fun, first in telling a story they enjoy, and then in re-creating the whole atmosphere of a 1930s horror film, that all their love shines through (which is ironic when you’re dealing with Lovecraft material).

Bravo.

And so the 2011 Norsk Høstfest is over. I got home yesterday night, exhausted as usual, though this one was actually less strenuous than most. Crowds were noticeably smaller, though the attendees had money to spend and the venders did fine. Personally, smaller crowds don’t bother me a bit.

No pictures, I’m afraid. Brought my camera, but never used it.

Much of the relative easiness was because we had two teenage boys to help with the sword fighting, so I only had to do a couple fights per show. Gradually I got used enough to the battle axe to do some crowd-pleasing shield hewing, but my victory tally stands at one. (I think I’d have won more if one of my teenage opponents had understood what constitutes a “hit” in axe fighting. We do not allow chopping at bodies with axes. That would be… irresponsible.)

Had an interesting encounter the last day. A young man came to me and asked if I knew much about Norwegian folklore. I said I probably knew as much as anybody in the group. Then he asked me about an idea about trolls that had been expressed to him by one of the festival vendors. I said I didn’t know where that person had gotten such an idea. I’d never encountered it, either in the myths or the folk tales.

The young man’s response was odd. He asked me if there were anybody else in the group who would know. I found this irritating. It sounded as if he was just looking for someone to reinforce his opinion. I referred him to Ragnar, who (oddly enough) referred him back to me to buy my books. He bought all three that I had for sale—or rather his mother, who seemed to be attending him, bought them for him.

Then I figured out what the problem was—or at least made my guess. I suspect the young man has Asperger’s, and I just wasn’t speaking his language. When I said I didn’t know where the idea came from, he took me to mean I knew nothing about the subject.

I fear he won’t make much of my books if that’s his problem.

Which makes me feel a little guilty, though when I think about it, it’s not my job to tell people whether they qualify to buy my books or not. (Except for small children. I generally don’t sell them to children.)

Final observation—I don’t much like Country music, but I never get tired of “Ghost Riders In the Sky.”

Here’s a troll quote in honor of Andy Rooney, who retired from 60 Minutes, his last essay being broadcast yesterday. Here’s an unflattering take on his career by Judy Bachrach of Obit Magazine.

Today is the last day of the festival, the most taxing day of all. Not only do we–for some reason I’ve forgotten–do four combat shows on Saturday, rather than three, but when it’s done tonight we tear down our camp and pack our vehicles for the trip home tomorrow.

One traditional aspect of Viking events for me is wondering (as I leave for the destination) what (not if I have, but what) I’ve forgotten. This year my big mistake was a conscious one. Conscious but stupid.

For years people have told me that I tend to overpack. So as I was leaving the house, I started to pick up my brief case and said to myself, “I don’t need this. I’ve got my laptop case. Don’t need both.”

Wrong, of course. I’d forgotten that the brief case held 1) some information on our next event that I was supposed to give to some people, and 2) the DVD of my book trailer, which I could have run on a continuous loop for advertising, if I’d thought to bring it.

As for my success in fighting, not very good. Didn’t win a single bout yesterday. Despite what Ragnar always says, youth and speed do frequently defeat old age and treachery.

NPR listeners picked 100 Scifi and Fantasy novels this summer, and SFSIGNAL has produced a helpful chart for this list. On it, you’ll see a strong logical flow of questions and answers like this:

Where should I start: Fantasy or SciFi?

No, I’d rather not be seen in that area of the bookstore.

We won’t tell. Prefer a drama?

No. I just watched The Notebook last night?

Postmodern mind-bender?

No.

Interested in Dystopian fiction?

Yes. I’m a sucker for worst case scenarios.

Totalitarian or world gone mad?

Madness

Do manufactured humans interest you?

No.

Which question most frightens you?

Who needs Free Will?

Recommended: A Clockwork Orange

Or take this example:

Where should I start: Fantasy or SciFi?

No. Can’t I have both?

You can have it all. Into the future or the past?

Future

Math Geek?

Yes.

Recommended: Anathem by Neal Stephenson

Crowds are definitely down at Hostfest this year. The main cause, I think, is lack of accommodations for the large tour groups which usually show up. But spirits are high, or at least not low. Everybody seems to be happy that they’re carrying on with the festival at all.

My combat success has not been signal. After I did my first fight on Wednesday, I made the decision to switch to the battle axe as a weapon. It’s kind of ironic that I’ve become the designated axe man in our group, since I’m probably the most attached to the sword, emotionally, of all of us. But I’ve got the most training with the axe, so it’s up to me to figure out how to fight with the thing, and pass the information on. My problem is two-fold–plain unfamiliarity, plus the fact that I tend to lose my grip on the axe haft. I never lose my sword, unless I’m actually injured. But I have a hard time keeping the axe in hand with my protective glove on.

Did win one fight, though. There was also an interesting moment when my mighty axe blow embedded the weapon in my opponent’s shield so firmly that I couldn’t get it out again. Exciting for the spectators, though I got killed.

Ragnar’s hip is hurting him, so I’m mostly fighting with the boys, ages 15 and 19. Not bad for a 61-year-old coal chewer (a saga reference. Look it up).

About a century ago, a revival of dueling in Russia ended with a this duel by

Nikolay Gumilyov and Maximilian Voloshin. “The offense seems cliché at first,” Nick Moran writes. “Gumilyov had—like many of his peers—become enamored with the female poet Cherubina de Gabriak, and Voloshin stood in his way. It was soon discovered, however, that de Gabriak did not actually exist in corpus, and was instead a pseudonym manufactured by Voloshin and a then-unknown schoolteacher named Elisaveta Dmitrievna. The two had concocted the exotic alias in order to get two dozen poems published. Gumilyov, publisher of some of these poems, wound up penning amorous letters to de Gabriak, and he began receiving equally amorous responses. The offense could not go unpunished. This time, both duelists survived unscathed.”

Nick describes this period and the literature that sprang up with it on The Millions.