Just got an amazing dictionary. This is the Glossary of Geology written in 1957 by the American Geological Association with the National Academy of Sciences. The full title is the Glossary of Geology and Related Sciences. J.V. Howell was apparently working as the editor of what the Geological Institute calls a coordinating chairman. The book is fantastic.
The dictionary provides many word origins along with the use of a term in a sentence. This is proper dictionary writing. Tough, technical words are explained in plain English, making a difficult vocabulary at least approachable. Without wallowing in unnecessary details, this dictionary opens the door to learning that most resources barely open.
Look at this Wikipedia definition of unconformity:
An unconformity is a buried erosional or non-depositional surface separating two rock masses or strata of different ages, indicating that sediment deposition was not continuous. In general, the older layer was exposed to erosion for an interval of time before deposition of the younger, but the term is used to describe any break in the sedimentary geologic record. . .
Now, the Glossary:
A surface of of erosion or nondeposition — usually the former — that separates younger strata from older rocks.
The Glossary then mentions four related unconformity terms which are described under their own names elsewhere in the dictionary. It also cites the name of a leading author on the subject.
This dictionary lets me get started whereas other dictionaries stall me when I first try to learn.
I got this title at abe.com which I have used since at least 1996. Downside? Six point type! Absolutely crazy small print. Fortunately, Amazon.com has dozens of magnifying device for viewing book pages and I have ordered one. Small price for clarity.
“It’s wine and painted women and the things that do me hurt . . .”
by Robert W. Service
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight, A-purpose to revisit the old claim. I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate, And the lads who once were with me in the game. Poor boys, they’re down-and-outers, and there’s scarcely one to-day Can show a dozen colors in his poke; And me, I’m still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray, And I’m looking for a grub-stake, and I’m broke.
I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down; The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me; But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town, Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see. There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan, And turning round a bend I heard a roar, And there a giant gold-ship of the very newest plan Was tearing chunks of pay-dirt from the shore.
It wallowed in its water-bed; it burrowed, heaved and swung; It gnawed its way ahead with grunts and sighs; Its bill of fare was rock and sand; the tailings were its dung; It glared around with fierce electric eyes. Full fifty buckets crammed its maw; it bellowed out for more; It looked like some great monster in the gloom. With two to feed its sateless greed, it worked for seven score, And I sighed: “Ah, old-time miner, here’s your doom!”
The idle windlass turns to rust; the sagging sluice-box falls; The holes you digged are water to the brim; Your little sod-roofed cabins with the snugly moss-chinked walls Are deathly now and mouldering and dim. The battle-field is silent where of old you fought it out; The claims you fiercely won are lost and sold. But there’s a little army that they’ll never put to rout — The men who simply live to seek the gold.
The men who can’t remember when they learned to swing a pack, Or in what lawless land the quest began; The solitary seeker with his grub-stake on his back, The restless buccaneer of pick and pan. On the mesas of the Southland, on the tundras of the North, You will find us, changed in face but still the same; And it isn’t need, it isn’t greed that sends us faring forth — It’s the fever, it’s the glory of the game.
For once you’ve panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust, Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell; It’s little else you care about; you go because you must, And you feel that you could follow it to hell. You’d follow it in hunger, and you’d follow it in cold; You’d follow it in solitude and pain; And when you’re stiff and battened down let someone whisper “Gold,” You’re lief to rise and follow it again.
Yet look you, if I find the stuff it’s just like so much dirt; I fling it to the four winds like a child. It’s wine and painted women and the things that do me hurt, Till I crawl back, beggared, broken, to the Wild. Till I crawl back, sapped and sodden, to my grub-stake and my tent — There’s a city, there’s an army (hear them shout). There’s the gold in millions, millions, but I haven’t got a cent; And oh, it’s me, it’s me that found it out.
It was my dream that made it good, my dream that made me go To lands of dread and death disprized of man; But oh, I’ve known a glory that their hearts will never know, When I picked the first big nugget from my pan. It’s still my dream, my dauntless dream, that drives me forth once more To seek and starve and suffer in the Vast; That heaps my heart with eager hope, that glimmers on before — My dream that will uplift me to the last.
Perhaps I am stark crazy, but there’s none of you too sane; It’s just a little matter of degree. My hobby is to hunt out gold; it’s fortressed in my brain; It’s life and love and wife and home to me. And I’ll strike it, yes, I’ll strike it; I’ve a hunch I cannot fail; I’ve a vision, I’ve a prompting, I’ve a call; I hear the hoarse stampeding of an army on my trail, To the last, the greatest gold camp of them all.
Beyond the shark-tooth ranges sawing savage at the sky There’s a lowering land no white man ever struck; There’s gold, there’s gold in millions, and I’ll find it if I die. And I’m going there once more to try my luck. Maybe I’ll fail — what matter? It’s a mandate, it’s a vow; And when in lands of dreariness and dread You seek the last lone frontier, far beyond your frontiers now, You will find the old prospector, silent, dead.
You will find a tattered tent-pole with a ragged robe below it; You will find a rusted gold-pan on the sod; You will find the claim I’m seeking, with my bones as stakes to show it; But I’ve sought the last Recorder, and He’s — God.
The black fiber-backed over the door organizers were $4.88 each at WalMart. The individual pockets normally hold shoes so multiple maps will not be a problem. The garment rack was $14.88. It has wheels!
The three door organizers span four feet and the top bar is at six feet.
I put off organizing my rock collection until two weeks ago because I was too busy writing. It got to the point, though, where I couldn’t find things, much still wrapped up, never opened, or else sitting in cardboard boxes everywhere around the apartment.
I’m still organizing, although not in alphabetical order. Or any order at all. I got wire frame shelves since they are light weight, cheap (WalMart), and wouldn’t have to be dusted. I put the individual shelves at different heights to accept different things. The three shelves are zip-tied together.
The wire frames accept “S” hooks and hanging baskets. Note the UV lamps hanging down in the last photo. Not everything can be seen in these pictures, especially individual collections within their own cases. Like my mad rare earth mineral collection and the lead sheets I have on top of it.
I submitted my MS and related images to my publisher this morning. This marks 14 months of work but there is much to be done to turn a raw document into a book.
Over the next several months the editor and I will discuss revisions and additions and all manner of changes. The publisher’s design team will go to work and I may have to reshoot many images that I took. Their marketing people will also be getting involved as we all push toward an early 2020 release.
Posts here will now be more frequent. Thank you to everyone who has helped me so far and to all of those who will help me in the future.