* * Rob Jones knows your computer is at risk

Rob Jones is one of those rare computer security professionals who is reasonable in price, does house-calls, and speaks human English. He was in my office the other day to help me configure a new peripheral and we got on the subject of computer security.

 “There are lots of bad people out there who want to make your life miserable, either for amusement or profit,” he shrugged.

Rob has been in the business for a long time, following a stint in the Navy. He went to ECPI University and took an electronics course that focused on computers. This was back in the 1990s, the days of the infancy of personal computers, with early IBM PCs and Apple Macintoshes. Computers were often linked in offices but not as much to the wider world. “These machines had 8086 and 80286 processors and a 40MB hard drive you thought you’d never fill up. They had 1 MB of RAM. Processors were measured in MHz, rather than GHz.” There was some connectivity, but it was glacial by today’s standards. “You had to wait a long time for anything to happen.

“The pace of the advancement of computers is far outstripping the ability to protect them from bad things. Because there is lots of money to be made from nefarious activity, there are untold numbers of cyber-criminals. And because your computer and everybody else’s is tied to the internet, there is the potential for theft of sensitive information. Thieves can be private or working for foreign governments who want to know more about us. Recently there was a breach at the (Federal Government’s) OPM (office of Personnel Management). Twenty-two million records at last count were stolen, including that of people with top-security clearances.”

Rob explained that many other everyday items are soon to be wired to the internet, things like kitchen appliances and even washing machines, security systems, and cars. They have no security protections. Hackers have found a way to disable ignitions in cars driving down the highway. It’s dangerous out there.

“I see lots of problems with malicious documents. Most malicious code arrives in email attachments. When you download something that is infected, it can infect your computer. Particularly PDF files can come with infections. So if someone sends you a PDF file, make sure you know what it is and who it’s from before you open it. There are hundreds of thousands of new pieces of malware being generated and released every day. It’s too much for the good guys to keep up with.

“Some of the bad guys are in business. Some just do it as a hobby. It is a method for gathering data for nation-states. Some people create malware and then rent it to other criminals. There are websites, forums, and chat groups that tell how to distribute and optimize malware. There is malware out there that can disable a corporation’s website by inundating it with requests. There is malware out there that can infect your computer and encrypt all your files so your computer can’t read them unless you pay a ransom. Sometimes the ransom is $500, increasing to $1000 within a week.

“There are really no policemen. The bad guys may live in a country where the government is unable or unwilling to seek them out and prosecute them. So they’re untouchable.”

We talked for awhile about Stuxnet, which is thought to be the world’s first major cyber weapon. It infected only the centrifuges of a nation using them to produce nuclear bomb-grade materials. It was an intensely sophisticated piece of software, likely created by a government agency. The sheer volume of code indicated that many people worked on it. Once it was released, it sped up the centrifuges to the point where they self-destructed. But by then, the Pandora’s Box of code was open and other people could see and understand and potentially use the code themselves. “It showed a lot of people how to do nasty things,” he admitted, ruefully. These days, it may be possible for bad guys to disable power stations or cripple the electrical grid.

I asked Rob how he keeps up. “I listen to lots of PodCasts. I go to lots of (security) websites. I study for industry certifications.”

In terms of protection, Rob reiterated, “Education is the key. Don’t go to websites you don’t know. Don’t open attachments from strangers. If you find a USB drive, don’t stick it in your computer. Never ‘unsubscribe’ to anything, because that certifies a valid email address. Do regular backups.”

In spite of the risks, Rob insists not living in fear. “There are certain disasters that might happen that are out of my hands. It’s too much to worry about. I’m not the kind of person who dwells in fear. I figure we’ll solve problems as they arise.”

* * Leslie Gregg wins a national art award

When portrait artist Leslie Roberts Gregg invites you to collaborate on a project, you jump at the chance. At least I do!

In April, Leslie and I released Keepers of the Tradition, a compilation of a dozen fine art portraits with accompanying full-color, hardbound book. Leslie was just informed by The Artist's Magazine that one of the portraits had made the prestigious finals list out of over 7,500 entries.

Here’s how it all came about.

You may remember from a couple of years ago that I ran an unsuccessful campaign for the Virginia House of Delegates, 7^th District. Leslie is an old friend, preternaturally empathic, and after my loss, she was worried about my inevitable let-down. She called and explained that her father, Ray Sr., had competed for and lost a State Senate race a generation earlier, and she knew the toll.

Originally thinking about a project for me, the idea of a collaboration took shape, “There have been a number of patriarchs and matriarchs that I wanted to paint, but sadly they passed away before I got the chance.” Would I like to work with her on chronicling some of the area’s people who were keeping alive traditions of their grandfathers and grandmothers? The idea appealed to me.

During the course of a twenty-minute conversation, a title emerged: Keepers of the Tradition. We committed to each other to begin right away. Fifteen months later, we were done, ready for the grand unveiling.

It was an astonishing, fabulous event! Ten of the twelve people pictured were in attendance, and none had seen their portrait beforehand. As Leslie and her subjects pulled off drapes one by one in the packed room, they witnessed her work for the first time. There were more than a few moist eyes in the audience.

Leslie and I have been doing presentations, shows, and events since then, and both of us are still floating above the clouds. I can never remember doing anything that made so many people so happy!

Leslie recalled about the inception, “The original phone call was just to check on you. The idea of actually collaborating occurred to me after thinking about a project for you. I thought, ‘What if I took a break from my commission treadmill for awhile and work on some of the things I wanted?’ I had always wanted to paint some of the special individuals in our area. Having you to tell their stories was a perfect match. My commissions have been one after another since 1992.”

Our first subject was restorative forester Jason Rutledge of Check, Virginia. Jason selectively cuts timber from large tracts of land and drags them out with draft-horses that he raises. He’s a brilliant, grizzled, eccentric, photogenic man who was generous with his time and receptive to our project. A few weeks later, well after I’d finished the write-up, Leslie invited me to see the finished portrait. It was stunning!

And so we went, working with twelve carefully selected subjects, including a woodworker, a millstone preservationist, a country preacher, an herbalist, a quilter, a farmer, a violin maker, and more. Leslie spent fifty, sixty, even seventy hours on each one, and she never let me see them until they were done. Each one was miraculously better than the one before. We carefully kept them all under wraps, so to speak, until the last one was completed and professionally framed, and the book was printed.

The portrait of Kerry Underwood, a moonshiner from Floyd, was the award winner. Leslie commented, “He has a roughness about him. He has chiseled features and a strong face. Moonshiners are rebels, a trait handed down in the profession. They’re pugnacious, strong, and independent people. He had a confident arrogance I wanted to portray.

 “From the beginning when I started thinking about this, I knew I wanted to paint them on my terms, not influenced by others, even you. I think the artistic freedom allowed me to paint in such a way that was more appealing to the judges (of the competition). It let me be more creative, passionate, and edgy. I think the judges look for that.”

“I’m extremely proud that one of the Keepers portraits was chosen,” Leslie beamed. “The show continues to grow and evolve. Venues are requesting it for display. Our Keepers continue to participate in presentations. They are adding even more by their presence. They help the portraits come alive with their passion. I love that evolution of this project. Our original concept was to produce a compilation of portraits and a book. What we got was a compilation of portraits, a book, and a group of individuals vested in its success and in each other. They’ve formed friendships and bonds that I never saw coming. It’s been extraordinarily rewarding!”

* * I ride because I can

There’s nothing I love more than a brisk ride around our awesome backroads on my classic Honda CBX motorcycle.

It’s Sunday, and I enter the garage and nudge the CBX off its center-stand and roll it forward into the cool morning air. I dutifully don my reinforced riding boots, my armored pants and jacket, my earplugs, helmet, and gloves. I twist the choke lever, turn the key, and thumb the starter button, and the big six-cylinder engine jumps to life. I throw a leg over the saddle, disengage the clutch, snick it into first gear, feed some throttle while reengaging the clutch, and I’m underway.

Health, aging, and mortality are on my mind as I motor to the end of my street, then head into historic Merrimac.

My heart is heavy. This afternoon, I’ll be attending a memorial service for a former co-worker who died a few days ago. It is my birthday tomorrow, and he died five years younger than my 61 years. He had a rare blood disorder that gradually caused the coagulation of blood throughout his circulatory system, robbing his extremities of needed nutrients. His condition arose nearly 25 years earlier, meaning that he dealt with excruciating pain for almost half his too-short life.

I reach Prices Fork Road and turn west, and then towards Longshop and McCoy. In the fields, rows of corn are tall and vibrant. With all the rain we’ve been having, the pastures are verdant and green, and rows of white marshmallow-like pods of hay line the edges. Vegetable and flower gardens alongside the McCoy Road homes look full and fecund. The magnificent CBX engine purrs along gently.

As we all know, life is a terminal disease. Nobody gets out of it alive. And we never know what hand we’ll be dealt. Some beings never survive infancy. Some die in childhood. Some, like my friend, die in their 50s. Lucky ones live longer.

On Thursday, the speaker at my Blacksburg Rotary Club gave a program entitled, “Growing old gracefully: Good luck on that!” The speaker was a tall man who appeared to me to be in his late 70s or early 80s. He approached the podium holding a long Gandalf-like staff. Listening to him explain the various maladies that await many of us in old age, I noticed some somber expressions from the audience, many of whom had thicker eyeglasses and greyer hair than me. What could we expect? Many elderly people experience a loss of mobility and independence. Many need assistance with everyday functions, including eating, dressing, and toilet. Many lose a sense of purpose and societal usefulness. Growing old ain’t for sissies.

I reach McCoy and the New River, and ride slowly along Big Falls Road, my glances darting from the road to the River to the kayakers playing in the rapids. Trees draped limbs over the road, providing a full canopy. The natural beauty of our area always enchants me.

The speaker listed a litany of his own afflictions, spurring me to take inventory of my own:

• ·       Both my feet have fallen arches. Both have bunions forming, making walking in boots or dress shoes uncomfortable.
• ·       My right hip hurts, lingering pain from a dirt-bike accident in my teens. Carrying a backpack is increasingly painful. I can’t run any more.
• ·       My digestion is frequently problematic. I take medication for high cholesterol.
• ·       I take two pills daily to manage high blood pressure.
• ·       I have arthritic tendonitis in my left shoulder and lifting with that arm is painful.
• ·       A lifetime eyeglass wearer until I had Lasik surgery 10 years ago, my eyesight is now deteriorating again, necessitating eyeglasses for reading and night driving. And I have tinnitus in my ears.

And yet in spite of this inventory of maladies, I still feel reasonably healthy. My parents are in their late 80s, so if nothing serious happens, I have more years to look forward to.

I take Sinking Creek Road to Hoges Chapel and begin the ascent to Mountain Lake on steep Doe Creek Road. I come around a right-hand corner and the bike goes skidding sideways on me, evidently losing traction on gravel or an oil-spot. Reflexively, I get it under control, take a deep breath, and motor onward.

The ageless Mountain Lake Hotel (now the Lodge) has been a forever memory in my life. Ironically, what would seem to be geologically constant, the lake itself, is a mere morsel of its former full-pond existent. All things must pass.

My CBX was made in Japan in 1981. Given good maintenance – and provided I don’t break or crash it – it should be rideable after I’m gone. But I ride it now because I can. When I can’t any more, I’ll stop. Until then, I will savor days like this, when the asphalt roads of my beloved Appalachia pass beneath the wheels of my fine, classic motorcycle, and my heart still pumps life-giving blood throughout my veins.

* * We love our trains

Folks around here love trains.

The biggest, best news in the greater Roanoke area is that the iconic J-class 611 locomotive is back making steam and chugging down the tracks. Dear wife treated us to an excursion from Roanoke to near Radford the other day, pulled by that legendary machine.

The J-Class locomotives were built in the N&W (Norfolk and Western) East End Shop in Roanoke between 1941 and 1950.

Because the Norfolk and Western Railroad was best known for transporting black gold, the rock that burns, from the central Appalachian coal fields to the world’s largest coal loading terminal in Norfolk, the N&W had a longstanding policy of using coal to power its locomotives. From the beginning of the exploitation of the resource, it was a co-dependent relationship, meaning the early engines required coal for power and the mines required trains to transport their product. So trains needed coal and coal needed trains.

The N&W was formed by the merging of over 200 individual rail lines from 1838 until 1982, and during the Civil War it was the largest railroad in the Confederacy. Until its merger with Southern Railroad in 1982, it was headquartered in Roanoke, a city that was essentially built in order to house it.

During most of the N&W’s lifespan, it ran a modest passenger service segment. Lacking the significant ridership of the urban corridors of the Northeast and elsewhere around the country, the N&W nevertheless ran a profitable, top-notch operation. They were the last railroad in the country to run passenger service with steam-based locomotives.

The J-class locomotives were the pride of Roanoke and of the entire N&W line, thought by many to be the most advanced steam locomotive ever produced. They were capable of pulling 10 cars at 110 mph on flat, level track. They had an outstanding service record and ran 15,000 miles per month. They were absolutely massive machines, weighing 494,000 pounds with a 395,000 pound tender, carrying 70,000 pounds of coal and 20,000 gallons of water.

Nevertheless, even before passenger service became less profitable, diesel locomotives proved to be cheaper in fuel and maintenance costs and began making inroads even into stoic N&W.

With the emergence of the automobile as a primary transportation option, railroads fell out of favor overall and eventually passenger service discontinued throughout the N&W service area and other national lines transferred their service over to Amtrak. Of the fifteen J-class locomotives built, only the 611 survived, relegated to dormancy at the Virginia Museum of Transportation in Roanoke.

An era had ended, and with it the railroad dreams of thousands of rail-fans.

Until March 31, 2015, when the 611 was fired up for the first time in over 20 years. And the unmistakable roar of steam once again echoed through the hollows of southwest Virginia.

Jane and I drove to downtown Roanoke where the 611 and a train of 20 or so cars lined up pointed westbound at the track nearest the O. Winston Link Museum across from Hotel Roanoke. There were hundreds of people waiting to board, each paying from $89 to over $300 for a ticket to the New River turn-around. Our movement from a standstill was largely imperceptible as we gradually gained modest speed through industrial west Roanoke and then Salem and eventually into the countryside. Our coach was comfortable, quiet and air-conditioned. I hate to be curmudgeonly about it, but it was TOO comfortable, as we couldn’t hear the roar of the engine, the wail of the whistle, or smell the coal smoke. Other than the puffs of smoke above us, we had no way to tell that we were being propelled by steam.

What was evident, though, was the excitement people had! The train with 15 or so passenger cars was mostly full. And there were people lining the track at every road crossing. The 611 is a rock star!

We chugged up the incline from Elliston to Christiansburg at a blazing 16-mph, according to somebody’s GPS. Over the Roanoke River / New River divide nearing Christiansburg, we picked up speed. But I doubt we ever exceeded 40-mph. Still, the scenery was beautiful and spirits were high. A large crowd of people took photos and waved to us near the Cambria station in Christiansburg. We did an about-face at the wye at the New River below Walton and headed back to Roanoke.

Back home that evening, I watched a YouTube video of France’s bullet-nose TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse, “high-speed train”) reaching the amazing speed of 357-mph. Variations of the TGV have been in service since 1981 and when we rode one fifteen years ago from Paris to Lyon, in everyday service, it exceeded 150-mph. Amtrak, by comparison, is limited in service and painfully slow.

Especially in bad weather or on holiday weekends, I-81 is a nightmare. Perhaps we should be re-thinking passenger rail. Because folks around here love trains.

* * Ada, Suzie, and us

Ada is a gospel singer, a native of Radford, who lives near the majestic New River in McCoy. She’s in her 80s. She’s a friend of mine. I never knew Suzie Jackson. She died last week at age 87.

I met Ada last year while working with portrait artist Leslie Roberts Gregg on our book, Keepers of the Tradition. Ada is a gospel singer, singing in her home, in her church, whenever and wherever she can, bringing her joyful noise to the Lord and to anyone fortunate enough to hear her. When Leslie and I interviewed her at her home last year, she sang an a capella version of A Closer Walk With Thee that made the hairs on my arms jump to attention.

Ada Sherman is one of the nicest, gentlest, most sincere, thoughtful people that I have ever met. In spite of facing unspeakable injustices in her life, she harbors no ill will, no resentment that I could discern, and no negativity towards anybody. She seems like the type of person who would gently pick up a spider in her kitchen and set outside rather than killing it. 

As I mentioned, I never knew Susan “Suzie” Jackson. But from the obituaries I’ve read, she was active and energetic until her last day. According to a lifelong friend, “She cared about others. She would lend a helping hand, and do anything she could help with.” The accompanying photo showed a woman in an elegant lime-white dress suit, with gold earrings, a gold breast broach, two gold necklaces resting against her dark-skin neck, a shock of white hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. She has high cheekbones, a wide nose and full lips, and a pleasant smile. She is the picture of elegance and grace. She was also a singer, a soprano, in her lifelong church, the Mother Emanuel AME in Charleston, South Carolina, where on April 12, 1861 across the harbor, rebels fired on the federal arsenal at Fort Sumter, to start the Civil War.

I imagine Suzie was much like Ada Sherman.

Ada told Leslie and me about not being able to go to Lakeside Amusement Park in Salem when she was a girl growing up in Radford. She never understood why. She still doesn’t. She went to a segregated school that wasn’t as nice, new, or modern as the one where the white kids went. Ada and Suzie lived through Jim Crow and the civil rights movement. Ada dreams of a nation where race no longer matters, where nobody even sees it anymore. I’m imagining Suzie might have as well.

Suzie died last week after a 21-year old racist and white supremacist fired one or more bullets into her. I envision those molten-hot bullets piercing her immaculate white dress, piercing her dark, aged skin, and piercing enough internal organs to kill her. She died alongside eight other parishioners, blood from their bodies spilling into the sanctuary floor, in the one building in the world she probably felt safest. Think about that word for a moment, please – sanctuary – and consider what it would have meant to blacks for decades in Charleston until that horrific moment.

It must be unspeakably tiring, burdensome, to be black in America, where at any moment somebody is ready to kill you for no other reason than your ancestors came – involuntarily – from Africa, rather than Europe or Asia.

My memory is jolted back to April 16, 2007, where another mass murder played out on the campus of my beloved alma mater here in my beloved town. My emotions are washed with an overwhelming dread as I contemplate the nation we have become.

While mass murders have happened in other advanced nations, we by far lead the world. When other nations have experienced mass murders, they have restricted gun access and increased funding for mental health. We’ve done the opposite.

The NRA, which in my youth was an organization that promoted safety and fellowship around the sport of gunmanship, is now the lobbying arm of the weapons industry. They would have you believe that Suzie’s death is her fault for not carrying a gun to church to defend herself and that personal well-being and security can only come from having more firepower than the next person.

Columbine High. Newtown. Aurora. Fort Hood. The Washington Navy Yard. Virginia Tech. The list goes on and on. Once again, we stare into the awful abyss of unspeakable misery we inflict upon each other, and as some of us reluctantly and sheepishly admit that we have a racial problem, a weapons problem, and a violence problem in this country, we remain polarized, immobilized by our pugnaciousness and fears, waiting for the inevitable next one, unable to do anything about it.