Old Faces
I believe that I can tell a lot about people from their faces. No, not young people, but sometimes children wear their personalities on their faces – the quizzical look, the look of anger or sadness, the look of fear and gloom. But for a personality to really burn it’s way into the flesh takes years, no decades. Then there is no escaping it, the face is always with you. So, be careful.
The old people wandered into the room singly and in small groups. They were wealthy, but not rich. The rich are in different places than this, but they are well off. The faces show so many different things, lives that experienced a lot of hard physical work, faces that show grief and anguish, faces that show arrogance and haughtiness, faces that express mistrust and suspicion coming from countless disappointments. Faces with a fear of being taken advantage of even though their lives have been largely free of criminal attacks.
There sits a man with no chin. His face is a straight line from his bottom lip to his neck. I exaggerate, there is a little bump, and his dewlap has filled in the space that might have once helped shape a chin. But the rest of his face has overcompensated for his lacking chin. It has become assertive, a little aggressive, he “projects” more than seems to fit the situation. Hi sits up, leans forward, and is successful in overcoming this unfortunate part of his countenance. I wonder how much he has paid for this minor facial feature, rather lack of a facial feature. “Chinless”jokes must have racked him from a distance, he must have spent hours looking into mirrors with a side view, trying to find ways to push the little chin that he has forward.
There is another man, in this world of retirees, the men have subjugated their wives to replace the staffs they once had, who is glaring –daring anyone to speak to him. Many are reaching out to form some kind of short term relationship; someone to tell about the wondrous things they have done. The wives huddle to the side and speak of grandchildren, clubs, and shopping. But the men are “oneupping” each other with the exploits of modern life. Companies they have worked for, projects they have done, bumptious in their forcefulness of their tales, many covering a strong recollection of inadequacy, fear and luck, luck who should be given most of the credit for their successes. I don’t see any that I want to get to know. My friend is a seriously addicted, extravert. He starts conversations with people at the drop of a spoon. He may specialize in servers, service workers, and other low level staff, perhaps because they are easy targets, and always responsive. He is nearly as likely to begin a conversation with the president of a company – which he does later in the day. He says things that I could not get away with. “Are you an American?” He can say such things, and get away with them because he is genuinely interested in people, and how they respond to being put on the spot – that and the humor that he interjects into the conversation. (One of his frequent comments to wait staff is “You have a great future in the profession”)
I watch as small groups form and disassemble, as pairings or quartets emerge and dissolve, as people turn away from previous connections to try again with someone else. There are tacit agreements – religion, politics and sex are off limits. Although since it is late October, politics may be permitted as a casual, testing topic. Those who really care have loud flags they hoist at the drop of a key word or name. So it becomes quickly a comparison of where you have been, what you did there, and especially, where you have been that no one else has been. (Antarctica used to be a winner, game stopper, but it is too easy to get to now!) So, since these people travel in the same circles, sometimes in different directions, they share a lot of experiences. But it isn’t wasn’t that a great opportunity! A wonderful site, an opportunity to re-experience a great trip. It becomes, “Ah, but did you get to have lunch with the Pope, or work in the kitchen of the Michelin rated restaurant, or ride an unfixed camel. But it is the way we are, and we wouldn’t be here if we were different.
Sometimes I try to listen, reflect, “active listen” but usually that is a weak opening. Countless times I have left conversations thinking ”I know some rather intimate things about that person, much more than I want to, and they would not be able to identify me in a ‘line-up’” The need, the strong unfilled need to be important, or significant makes it easy to feed people a few lines, a nod and an encouragement to talk, and they forget that you probably don’t care a dot about their small, boring, insignificant lives – their grandchildren, their pets, their trips to nowhere. That’s the power of seeming to be interested. Sometimes I think that I could draw them out, nurture the confidence that is building, they scam them – but that’s not me, fortunately for them!
Monday, December 6, 2010
Blase'
Blasé
We don’t see them very often any more. It was a quite a novelty at first, they were so different from us. Friendly, to a point, but you never felt like they were open and real. To me they always seemed to be guarded and slightly uncomfortable. There weren’t that many of them where we lived, it isn’t the most important place on earth. We do have some schools and research installations here, but nothing of any substantial import.
When they arrived, it was the story of the century. It answered the question about whether we were alone once and for all. We aren’t. But very soon, the novelty wore off and things returned to normal. Steven Hawking was wrong, there really wasn’t any reason to hide our existence – of course we couldn’t any way, the electromagnetic radiation was out there. They were neither hostile nor brilliant. A little ahead of us, but not that much. Oh, we learned a lot, moved our science ahead by a couple of hundred years, answered some stubborn questions, got a better handle on energy, and some medical breakthroughs, but you know how short our attention span is – no one pays any attention to Shuttle launches any more.
So, it’s really no surprise that the excitement wore off. Sure there were press conferences, presidential speeches, banquets, video games, movies and all of the things you would expect. But we are so immune to sustained excitement – novelty wears off so quickly the stimulation so quickly deadened. Now, no one seems to care, at all. Most of them have gone; they seem to be bored with us too. Maybe is they had tentacles, or green scales, or wings it would have been different. But they are so similar to us it’s hard to get excited, it’s hard to really care that much. Almost everyone quickly lost their interest. The news conferences were interfering with regular programs. MNF was actually superseded one time, I mean what kind of values does that represent.
It’s okay with me. Maybe the next group will be more interesting, or their timing will be better. Or they will have better stuff for us. I hope so. Or maybe we won’t be so blasé, not so bored.
We don’t see them very often any more. It was a quite a novelty at first, they were so different from us. Friendly, to a point, but you never felt like they were open and real. To me they always seemed to be guarded and slightly uncomfortable. There weren’t that many of them where we lived, it isn’t the most important place on earth. We do have some schools and research installations here, but nothing of any substantial import.
When they arrived, it was the story of the century. It answered the question about whether we were alone once and for all. We aren’t. But very soon, the novelty wore off and things returned to normal. Steven Hawking was wrong, there really wasn’t any reason to hide our existence – of course we couldn’t any way, the electromagnetic radiation was out there. They were neither hostile nor brilliant. A little ahead of us, but not that much. Oh, we learned a lot, moved our science ahead by a couple of hundred years, answered some stubborn questions, got a better handle on energy, and some medical breakthroughs, but you know how short our attention span is – no one pays any attention to Shuttle launches any more.
So, it’s really no surprise that the excitement wore off. Sure there were press conferences, presidential speeches, banquets, video games, movies and all of the things you would expect. But we are so immune to sustained excitement – novelty wears off so quickly the stimulation so quickly deadened. Now, no one seems to care, at all. Most of them have gone; they seem to be bored with us too. Maybe is they had tentacles, or green scales, or wings it would have been different. But they are so similar to us it’s hard to get excited, it’s hard to really care that much. Almost everyone quickly lost their interest. The news conferences were interfering with regular programs. MNF was actually superseded one time, I mean what kind of values does that represent.
It’s okay with me. Maybe the next group will be more interesting, or their timing will be better. Or they will have better stuff for us. I hope so. Or maybe we won’t be so blasé, not so bored.
Failed Dreams
On a Country Road
Another slides past the window of the car. This was once an antique shop; boarded up now, with weeds growing in the sidewalk and the gravel parking lot. No one wants even the skeleton of the business that is left. At one time, perhaps 20 years ago, this was someone’s dream. This was their way out of a dull and boring existence. They knew about local antiques, and people drove past all the time, big city people who really knew nothing about the local things. They were from “up north” and were looking for something to put in their apartments to tell their friends about over cocktails, something to remind them of their week in the hill country. It seemed like it couldn’t fail.
In the preceding 50 miles, there were a surprising number of failed businesses, just like this but offering something else for sale. Some parts of the country seem to foster them more than others. The deserts have a lot of buildings that once held the highest expectations of someone, their dreams, their egos, and their money. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So much traffic, so many people who really needed what was on offer. In retrospect, it maybe wasn’t the greatest business prospect. But none of the friends were good enough friends to tell the dreamer what they really thought. So, now, the skeleton is still there, no for sale sign is even visible, the last one of those blew away years ago. The most surprising are the stone buildings that must have taken an enormous amount of effort and time and resources to construct. Now derelict and going downhill quickly. The guts, everything but the stone is completely gone.
I’m sad when I see these old businesses, business failures really. But I should be delighted. Think about the excitement, the reality that someone had, the work and money and self they invested. They really thought they could be successful. There are dreams enough for us all still out there.
Another slides past the window of the car. This was once an antique shop; boarded up now, with weeds growing in the sidewalk and the gravel parking lot. No one wants even the skeleton of the business that is left. At one time, perhaps 20 years ago, this was someone’s dream. This was their way out of a dull and boring existence. They knew about local antiques, and people drove past all the time, big city people who really knew nothing about the local things. They were from “up north” and were looking for something to put in their apartments to tell their friends about over cocktails, something to remind them of their week in the hill country. It seemed like it couldn’t fail.
In the preceding 50 miles, there were a surprising number of failed businesses, just like this but offering something else for sale. Some parts of the country seem to foster them more than others. The deserts have a lot of buildings that once held the highest expectations of someone, their dreams, their egos, and their money. It seemed like a good idea at the time. So much traffic, so many people who really needed what was on offer. In retrospect, it maybe wasn’t the greatest business prospect. But none of the friends were good enough friends to tell the dreamer what they really thought. So, now, the skeleton is still there, no for sale sign is even visible, the last one of those blew away years ago. The most surprising are the stone buildings that must have taken an enormous amount of effort and time and resources to construct. Now derelict and going downhill quickly. The guts, everything but the stone is completely gone.
I’m sad when I see these old businesses, business failures really. But I should be delighted. Think about the excitement, the reality that someone had, the work and money and self they invested. They really thought they could be successful. There are dreams enough for us all still out there.
Confirmation bias
There is a special satisfaction when you slay a dragon. It gives a warm feeling in the center of your chest and a lightness in the pit of your stomach. A pleasant tightness at the edge of your eyes, perhaps it is simply a slight smile, emerges. There is a general tingle and glow that is enormously satisfying. Have I slain a dragon lately? Not in the flesh, but the kind of dragon to which I’m referring is the metaphorical kind, they are not in short supply.
This morning in the NYT Digest, a column by Ross Douthat was published entitled The Partisan Mind – The body scanner debate would have played out very differently if it had occurred during the Bush Administration. Douthat is one of two slightly right of center columnists that the Times employes.
His arguments are interesting - depending on what you believe before you read the column! But of greater interest are the comments that are posted by the readers. One was up so quickly that I wonder if the writer had access to the column before it was published. I recommend the article, but I find the comments to be more interesting.
There is a psychological concept called Confirmation Bias. In essence, it says that when our minds are made up, we tend to reject ideas that are counter to our belief and to accept confirmatory information. There has been some interesting research lately that not only confirms this idea, but provides a physiological basis for it. When we dismiss information that goes against our beliefs, we are reinforced by the release of endorphins into the pleasure centers of our brains. Recall my opening paragraph – that’s all the result of endorphins, and the dragon is a position that is different from our own.
Ref: Michael Scherner, Scientific American ?
This morning in the NYT Digest, a column by Ross Douthat was published entitled The Partisan Mind – The body scanner debate would have played out very differently if it had occurred during the Bush Administration. Douthat is one of two slightly right of center columnists that the Times employes.
His arguments are interesting - depending on what you believe before you read the column! But of greater interest are the comments that are posted by the readers. One was up so quickly that I wonder if the writer had access to the column before it was published. I recommend the article, but I find the comments to be more interesting.
There is a psychological concept called Confirmation Bias. In essence, it says that when our minds are made up, we tend to reject ideas that are counter to our belief and to accept confirmatory information. There has been some interesting research lately that not only confirms this idea, but provides a physiological basis for it. When we dismiss information that goes against our beliefs, we are reinforced by the release of endorphins into the pleasure centers of our brains. Recall my opening paragraph – that’s all the result of endorphins, and the dragon is a position that is different from our own.
Ref: Michael Scherner, Scientific American ?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
It Felt Smooth in My Hand
As I picked up the item, I noticed how good it felt in my hand. The weight was substantial, the surface was smooth and the material was clearer than crystal. And I put it in the trash container – it had served it’s intended purpose and now it was following it’s planned life cycle. It was a food container that had held a fresh fruit salad and had a life cycle of a few days.
I remembered the conversation from “The Graduate.”
Mr. McGuire: I want to say one word to you. Just one word.
Benjamin: Yes, sir.
Mr. McGuire: Are you listening?
Benjamin: Yes, I am.
Mr. McGuire: Plastics.
Benjamin: Just how do you mean that, sir?
That may have been one of the exchanges that led to the derision and ridicule of plastics. I’m not interested in the utility or the ubiquity of plastics or of our dependency on the extremely wide forms in which they are a part of our daily lives. ( If you have ever been to a museum that displayed products made of Bakelite, or if you are fortunate enough to be old enough to have used those products, you can gain an inkling of life before plastics.)
Somehow, while I wasn’t paying attention, plastics have emerged as an art form, but an art form in daily use. The first inkling that I had missed this transition came as I unpacked a new electronic device. The feel of the connector cords has changed; no longer are they cold, hard and black they are soft, supple, warm and with a surface that is almost silky, a truly wonderful tactile sensation. How can I relive that, expand that sensation.
Then I began to pay attention to other plastic items. Some of the best reds in the visual universe are found in plastics. It is the red of rubies, but lighter and more vivid. There is a fire that is only to be found in the most expensive and most rare jewels. The same is true of greens. The purity and transparency seem to be plucked from a rainbow. The blues are rich, pure and deep, better than the Blue Grotto except on a truly miraculous day. And the clears are pristine, the facets reflect with perfection approaching that of a diamond and they can be made to hold any surface from brilliant through matte to opaque.
For me, discovering a new source of beauty is a rich and wonderful experience. When I look at the ground in an urban environment and see a small shard of plastic, I see it with contempt and feel cheated that it is not a precious jewel, perhaps I can change that.
I remembered the conversation from “The Graduate.”
Mr. McGuire: I want to say one word to you. Just one word.
Benjamin: Yes, sir.
Mr. McGuire: Are you listening?
Benjamin: Yes, I am.
Mr. McGuire: Plastics.
Benjamin: Just how do you mean that, sir?
That may have been one of the exchanges that led to the derision and ridicule of plastics. I’m not interested in the utility or the ubiquity of plastics or of our dependency on the extremely wide forms in which they are a part of our daily lives. ( If you have ever been to a museum that displayed products made of Bakelite, or if you are fortunate enough to be old enough to have used those products, you can gain an inkling of life before plastics.)
Somehow, while I wasn’t paying attention, plastics have emerged as an art form, but an art form in daily use. The first inkling that I had missed this transition came as I unpacked a new electronic device. The feel of the connector cords has changed; no longer are they cold, hard and black they are soft, supple, warm and with a surface that is almost silky, a truly wonderful tactile sensation. How can I relive that, expand that sensation.
Then I began to pay attention to other plastic items. Some of the best reds in the visual universe are found in plastics. It is the red of rubies, but lighter and more vivid. There is a fire that is only to be found in the most expensive and most rare jewels. The same is true of greens. The purity and transparency seem to be plucked from a rainbow. The blues are rich, pure and deep, better than the Blue Grotto except on a truly miraculous day. And the clears are pristine, the facets reflect with perfection approaching that of a diamond and they can be made to hold any surface from brilliant through matte to opaque.
For me, discovering a new source of beauty is a rich and wonderful experience. When I look at the ground in an urban environment and see a small shard of plastic, I see it with contempt and feel cheated that it is not a precious jewel, perhaps I can change that.
The Symphony Hall and the Grasshopper
A symphony hall is a wonderful place. Entering through the portals, being admitted by an usher, and seeing the expanse of seats and the grand brightly lit stage are an important part of the musical experience – sort of getting into the mood for some serious music. Then the orchestra enters in their tuxes and long dresses with rich wooden instruments, bright brasses, and shiny drums. The concert master signals for tuning and the oboe plays an A and the tumult begins as all of the instruments play several notes to make sure they are perfectly in tune. Then the conductor enters and the audience explodes into applause, even though he hasn’t done anything yet. It happens this way in countless concert halls all over the world several times a week as it has for centuries. That’s what makes it classical!
The first half of the program continues to the intermission and everyone gets up for a break, including the orchestra. Then after the bells and the lights signal the second half of the program is about to begin, everyone, including the orchestra, parades back into the auditorium and the music begins again.
That’s the way it is and that’s the way it is supposed to be. What isn’t supposed to happen is for a grasshopper to join the orchestra. No, this grasshopper doesn’t take a seat with the woodwinds or the strings or even the percussion. This grasshopper enters after the first few notes have been played and it rises up from the basses, the very large stringed instruments. It first flies up to about 15 feet, hovers and finally settles on the curtain in back of the orchestra. Then, it flies again into the middle of the stage area over the heads of the violas and flutes and it hovers for awhile, you know how grasshoppers fly, not too steadily and they make a lot of thrashing noise – they are better at hopping than flying, but they can fly when they need to, and this grasshopper really needed to fly, but not too far. And then he was back on the curtain. Did he know the music? Did he adjust his flight to keep the rhythm or the tempo? Did he like Beethoven? I don’t think so, but it seemed like it watching from the audience. I know I should have been so mesmerized by the wonderful music that I didn’t pay any attention to the grasshopper, but I couldn’t take my gaze away. After all, he could have flown into a bassoon, or dropped into the bell of a horn, or alighted on the slide of a trombone, the targets were limitless, and any one of them would have stopped the entire orchestra at once. He flew back to the curtain, higher this time and he seemed to be much more fatigued than before. After all, grasshoppers are certainly not long range flyers, and they don’t have enough energy to hover for a long time.
The grasshopper could have flown into the audience, we were downhill from his perch and he could have reached us easily, but he didn’t. The last I saw of the musical grasshopper was his ultimate flight up and over the curtains in back of the orchestra and into the dark at the end of the stage. Back he went to he outside of the auditorium – to a place much more hospitable for grasshoppers than an orchestra. But he did have some great tales to tell his friends as they sat on a limb and chewed the leaves and spat their tobacco juice and chatted like old friends do.
The first half of the program continues to the intermission and everyone gets up for a break, including the orchestra. Then after the bells and the lights signal the second half of the program is about to begin, everyone, including the orchestra, parades back into the auditorium and the music begins again.
That’s the way it is and that’s the way it is supposed to be. What isn’t supposed to happen is for a grasshopper to join the orchestra. No, this grasshopper doesn’t take a seat with the woodwinds or the strings or even the percussion. This grasshopper enters after the first few notes have been played and it rises up from the basses, the very large stringed instruments. It first flies up to about 15 feet, hovers and finally settles on the curtain in back of the orchestra. Then, it flies again into the middle of the stage area over the heads of the violas and flutes and it hovers for awhile, you know how grasshoppers fly, not too steadily and they make a lot of thrashing noise – they are better at hopping than flying, but they can fly when they need to, and this grasshopper really needed to fly, but not too far. And then he was back on the curtain. Did he know the music? Did he adjust his flight to keep the rhythm or the tempo? Did he like Beethoven? I don’t think so, but it seemed like it watching from the audience. I know I should have been so mesmerized by the wonderful music that I didn’t pay any attention to the grasshopper, but I couldn’t take my gaze away. After all, he could have flown into a bassoon, or dropped into the bell of a horn, or alighted on the slide of a trombone, the targets were limitless, and any one of them would have stopped the entire orchestra at once. He flew back to the curtain, higher this time and he seemed to be much more fatigued than before. After all, grasshoppers are certainly not long range flyers, and they don’t have enough energy to hover for a long time.
The grasshopper could have flown into the audience, we were downhill from his perch and he could have reached us easily, but he didn’t. The last I saw of the musical grasshopper was his ultimate flight up and over the curtains in back of the orchestra and into the dark at the end of the stage. Back he went to he outside of the auditorium – to a place much more hospitable for grasshoppers than an orchestra. But he did have some great tales to tell his friends as they sat on a limb and chewed the leaves and spat their tobacco juice and chatted like old friends do.
The Retirees
It was 10 AM in the coffee shop. The baked goods were excellent and the menu for the rest of the day looked great, healthy and tasty. We were there for a late breakfast before driving up Oak Creek Canyon. I overheard “The iPad has pretty good specs.” I watched the three old men as we enjoyed our snack. They were in animated and wide ranging conversation not focusing on anything. Who were they and how did they get here? Sedona is a strange place now. It used to be beautiful – striking, but how it is a haven for pink jeeps, crystals, and strange beliefs. They drown out the background noise of normalcy.
I fantasized that the men came here following retirement – in large part as a result of pressure from their wives. It seemed like a great idea; hunting, fishing, golf, and a chance to write and paint - things they had intended to do since college. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Now they were here drinking coffee in the middle of the morning with two other guys who were equally bored. Their life here started out much as they had imagined. Then, soon, things started to change. There wasn’t time to write, and no one paid any attention to the few things they tried. Painting classes were populated mostly by old women who did decorative things with flowers and soft subjects. And, they discovered that it was impossible to portray the meaning they felt, without a lot more skill development than they felt they had time for. Hunting was hard to get to and the area was much more barren than they had expected. Fishing was good after a stocking, except that the time without tourists had shrunken to a couple of weeks in the spring and autumn. Golf was okay, but the cost was high, and the handicap was stubborn and rising.
Now, at least one day each week they had to make the two and a half hour drive to the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale. The retirement they had imagined had been startlingly short, suddenly they were old and sitting here in the middle of the morning drinking coffee with other guys who were in the same situation. It would be downhill from here on out to the end; the end that science would push out well into an uncomfortable future.
I fantasized that the men came here following retirement – in large part as a result of pressure from their wives. It seemed like a great idea; hunting, fishing, golf, and a chance to write and paint - things they had intended to do since college. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Now they were here drinking coffee in the middle of the morning with two other guys who were equally bored. Their life here started out much as they had imagined. Then, soon, things started to change. There wasn’t time to write, and no one paid any attention to the few things they tried. Painting classes were populated mostly by old women who did decorative things with flowers and soft subjects. And, they discovered that it was impossible to portray the meaning they felt, without a lot more skill development than they felt they had time for. Hunting was hard to get to and the area was much more barren than they had expected. Fishing was good after a stocking, except that the time without tourists had shrunken to a couple of weeks in the spring and autumn. Golf was okay, but the cost was high, and the handicap was stubborn and rising.
Now, at least one day each week they had to make the two and a half hour drive to the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale. The retirement they had imagined had been startlingly short, suddenly they were old and sitting here in the middle of the morning drinking coffee with other guys who were in the same situation. It would be downhill from here on out to the end; the end that science would push out well into an uncomfortable future.
Monday, April 19, 2010
The End of the Story.
I watched the situation develop. Dolores, a longtime friend of ours was introduced to the other dinner guests as a practitioner of Reflexology – a technique for massaging special areas on the bottom of the feet that are supposed to have a specific healing effect; I suppose there is a connection to acupuncture of acupressure. Andy, who is a great raconteur and has an engaging and very outgoing Type A personality, started to tell a story about a cruise experience he had had. Since he accurately specify the date, I could tell what the reference was going to be. I watched Delores react- she was clearly guarded, her body language was quiet reserved, she was somewhat defensive and closed. Andy described the pleasure of the foot massage, and then he said the reflexologist asked him if he had heart problems, he said no. The massage proceeded. Dolores became more guarded and intensely watched Andy, her body language became louder. A little later the masseur again asked him if he had any heart problems, Andy became a bit indignant. Dolores glared! Near the end of massage the man again brought up the subject of a heart condition. Dolores became agitated, hardly able to stay seated! Andy described his annoyance in some detail. As she listened to the evolving story, Delores became more tense excited and more guarded. She had heard this before, pseudo-science her husband labeled it and so had a lot of other people. She knew what to expect – the “diagnosis by the masseuse was balderdash!” and she was ready to counter his demeaning and derogatory comments with her own experience. Then, Andy continued his story, he told us about the appointment with his doctor that was scheduled for a month or so after the cruise. The doctor initiated a series of tests and found blocked arteries – he was hospitalized and had a quadruple bypass. The Reflexologist was prescient; perhaps there was something to this arcane massage form after all. Dolores didn’t say a thing but her body language again spoke volumes as she relaxed and cooled. I didn’t watch to see if she looked at Dan, her husband, but I’m certain she must have. What a delight to be able to watch the emotions evolve, especially since I knew the end of the story. Two days later I saw a book titled Reflexology for Dummies in the checkout line at the supermarket – perhaps I should have bought it!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Spending Time
Click hiss – time for the perfume to be automatically dispensed. It is right above my head, and as it settles down I can almost feel the sweet, undistinguished fragrance as it gently surrounds me. I wonder what it is hiding? However, the result of this dispenser, another in each room and in the halls, and the other steps they take keep the smell of death and excrement out of our sensitive nostrils.
For the past couple of days, I have been wasting away in a nursing home, make that an extended care facility in “newspeak.” Fortunately I’m a visitor, waiting for my wife whose father is entombed here. So I get to leave, get to eat elsewhere, and get to sit and observe what is happening.
Why are so many of the “care givers” so fat? Is it that the work they do is so repetitive and boring? Is the work low in energy consumption? Do they control the patients to such an extent that they have no need or concern with controlling or caring for themselves? Do they use food to compensate for their lack of stimulation? Are they consummate actors in their dealings with patients, and can therefore delude themselves about their own unhealthy habits? How can they not see then impact of obesity on vitality and physical wellbeing in the lives of their patients? Few of the patients are obese – the obese have weeded themselves out of this population by dying. Is it the norm? Do they see so many other fat nurses around that it gives them permission to be like the others? It is mostly the older ones who have become slovenly, it takes some time to acquire the distorted bodies that are covered by the tight uniforms. For the older patients the concept of a rumple seat emerges from the distant past. The younger ones wouldn’t know the term. Another one just waddled down the hall, short legs moving slowly, pushing the meds cart, really leaning on the cart and letting it carry her bulk along minimizing the burning rate of her extreme caloric intake.
Nurses in other settings seem to have made considerable improvements lately. For a number of years they were rapidly degrading into a team or gang or tribe of distended bodies, fat, slow moving, ponderous in their actions and seemingly thinking – paranoid and defensive in their attitude, but lately, in part because of some incentive programs, the nursing community seems (based on limited observation) to have become more healthy. I hope that is true.
This is a highly rated facility, it is clean and the air is fresh. The staff seems to be competent and caring – or at least not overtly hostile. They are the custodians of what is essentially a storage warehouse for aging bodies. It is hard to see where the pleasure of living comes from. Getting out of bed every morning is a chore that requires a firm and controlling person to achieve. It would be easier to stay in bed, it is warm, and soft, and no muscles need to be made to work. The pain of the joints and tendons is less in bed. Gravity is minimized - the constant need to fight against the pull, the stretching of the skin, the weight of the body, the pressure of fabric on tender and sensitive skin. Let me out of here!
The realization is there, a cure isn’t going to happen. There is no magic potion, no doctor who has the answer, not even an improvement. The best that can be hoped for is a lessening of the pain and irritation, a dulling of the boredom, an occasional relief from the tedium. A visit to a doctor is an uncomfortable and exhausting outing, but it is a break from the routine too. But there is nothing new, he will not have any answers not even any new questions.
Sunday is Easter. The entry area is filled with old ladies in wheel chairs. There are seventeen at first, and some more arrive later. There is one man. The leader, I suppose he is a minister, but he could be a lay practitioner, has a strong and loud voice; loud enough to penetrate the deafness that seems to be everywhere. As he sings in his clear and booming voice, familiar songs and hymns, a few thin and quivering voices join in for a word or a phrase. Some of the faces are blank, two of the ladies drift off to sleep and nearly fall slowly from their wheelchairs. They stop when they are horizontal, but they don’t make any noise, sitting up slowly only to repeat the cycle like the toy birds sitting on the edge of a glass dipping into the water and returning to upright that were fascinating to watch. One grows agitated and loudly says “No!” when the lady next to her touches her lightly. The preacher goes on, he needs little response or encouragement to satisfy himself. He knows that the reactions will be muted or nonexistent and he seems to delight in this. His sermon is strong, simple and aimed at his audience. The certainty of death is replaced by the certainty of resurrection. At times he is certainly talking only to himself, gesturing strongly, his theology intact and clear. I think they are listening; those who are awake and alert. At the end he greets each of the ladies individually and wishes them a Happy Easter. Some of them he will never see again, it is hard to tell them apart.
04/07/2010
For the past couple of days, I have been wasting away in a nursing home, make that an extended care facility in “newspeak.” Fortunately I’m a visitor, waiting for my wife whose father is entombed here. So I get to leave, get to eat elsewhere, and get to sit and observe what is happening.
Why are so many of the “care givers” so fat? Is it that the work they do is so repetitive and boring? Is the work low in energy consumption? Do they control the patients to such an extent that they have no need or concern with controlling or caring for themselves? Do they use food to compensate for their lack of stimulation? Are they consummate actors in their dealings with patients, and can therefore delude themselves about their own unhealthy habits? How can they not see then impact of obesity on vitality and physical wellbeing in the lives of their patients? Few of the patients are obese – the obese have weeded themselves out of this population by dying. Is it the norm? Do they see so many other fat nurses around that it gives them permission to be like the others? It is mostly the older ones who have become slovenly, it takes some time to acquire the distorted bodies that are covered by the tight uniforms. For the older patients the concept of a rumple seat emerges from the distant past. The younger ones wouldn’t know the term. Another one just waddled down the hall, short legs moving slowly, pushing the meds cart, really leaning on the cart and letting it carry her bulk along minimizing the burning rate of her extreme caloric intake.
Nurses in other settings seem to have made considerable improvements lately. For a number of years they were rapidly degrading into a team or gang or tribe of distended bodies, fat, slow moving, ponderous in their actions and seemingly thinking – paranoid and defensive in their attitude, but lately, in part because of some incentive programs, the nursing community seems (based on limited observation) to have become more healthy. I hope that is true.
This is a highly rated facility, it is clean and the air is fresh. The staff seems to be competent and caring – or at least not overtly hostile. They are the custodians of what is essentially a storage warehouse for aging bodies. It is hard to see where the pleasure of living comes from. Getting out of bed every morning is a chore that requires a firm and controlling person to achieve. It would be easier to stay in bed, it is warm, and soft, and no muscles need to be made to work. The pain of the joints and tendons is less in bed. Gravity is minimized - the constant need to fight against the pull, the stretching of the skin, the weight of the body, the pressure of fabric on tender and sensitive skin. Let me out of here!
The realization is there, a cure isn’t going to happen. There is no magic potion, no doctor who has the answer, not even an improvement. The best that can be hoped for is a lessening of the pain and irritation, a dulling of the boredom, an occasional relief from the tedium. A visit to a doctor is an uncomfortable and exhausting outing, but it is a break from the routine too. But there is nothing new, he will not have any answers not even any new questions.
Sunday is Easter. The entry area is filled with old ladies in wheel chairs. There are seventeen at first, and some more arrive later. There is one man. The leader, I suppose he is a minister, but he could be a lay practitioner, has a strong and loud voice; loud enough to penetrate the deafness that seems to be everywhere. As he sings in his clear and booming voice, familiar songs and hymns, a few thin and quivering voices join in for a word or a phrase. Some of the faces are blank, two of the ladies drift off to sleep and nearly fall slowly from their wheelchairs. They stop when they are horizontal, but they don’t make any noise, sitting up slowly only to repeat the cycle like the toy birds sitting on the edge of a glass dipping into the water and returning to upright that were fascinating to watch. One grows agitated and loudly says “No!” when the lady next to her touches her lightly. The preacher goes on, he needs little response or encouragement to satisfy himself. He knows that the reactions will be muted or nonexistent and he seems to delight in this. His sermon is strong, simple and aimed at his audience. The certainty of death is replaced by the certainty of resurrection. At times he is certainly talking only to himself, gesturing strongly, his theology intact and clear. I think they are listening; those who are awake and alert. At the end he greets each of the ladies individually and wishes them a Happy Easter. Some of them he will never see again, it is hard to tell them apart.
04/07/2010
Truth in Advertising
Amazing! There are a couple of recent TV ads that use the extraordinary concept of truth! Domino’s Pizza has run a campaign recently focused on redoing their pizza from the crust up! “We listened to your complaints; the crust tastes like cardboard, we developed a new crust, the sauce tastes like catsup, we developed a new sauce, and if you go to their web site, you will see “The Pizza Turnaround” Documentary! I may even try it!
Burger King has a new ad that shows the creepy plastic King sneaking into the McDonald’s recipe storage vault and steeling the recipe for the Egg McMuffin! WOW - four off the shelf items require a secret recipe and one that must be stolen? It must be that they are really saying that you can now get an egg McMuffin at Burger King. Okay,
Then there is a radio ad where a guy says “I found that I was 1,000,000 in debt. I figured that the same skill that got me into debt could get me out of debt . . .” Think Paris Hilton . . . No, the skills that get you into debt are the opposite of the skills that can get you out. So I’ll pass on your how to become a millionaire scheme, thank you very much!
4/12/2010
Burger King has a new ad that shows the creepy plastic King sneaking into the McDonald’s recipe storage vault and steeling the recipe for the Egg McMuffin! WOW - four off the shelf items require a secret recipe and one that must be stolen? It must be that they are really saying that you can now get an egg McMuffin at Burger King. Okay,
Then there is a radio ad where a guy says “I found that I was 1,000,000 in debt. I figured that the same skill that got me into debt could get me out of debt . . .” Think Paris Hilton . . . No, the skills that get you into debt are the opposite of the skills that can get you out. So I’ll pass on your how to become a millionaire scheme, thank you very much!
4/12/2010
My Favorite Innovation
My favorite innovation of the early 21st Century may come as something of a shock. It isn’t the iPad, and it doesn’t even have an electric chord attached. Certainly the high tech wonders all around us are amazing and have a great impact on our daily lives, but for me, the greatest innovation is curved shower curtain rods in hotels! How wonderful it is to be able to take a shower without touching the shower curtain, the curtain that countless other guest’s naked bodies have touched before, and that can’t be cleaned daily. Now, all of the hotels I have stayed at recently have a shower curtain rod that bows outward; the shower curtain is 6 inches further away than it used to be, and doesn’t touch the person in the shower. My guess is that the concept was invented by a woman, but I may be wrong, it just seems like the kind of idea that a woman would have come up with – if not the idea, the aversion to touching such a common surface. She should be nominated for a Nobel Prize.
April 7, 2010
April 7, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The Panhandler
As we approached the turn lane, we saw another panhandler. He was dressed slightly better than most, but certainly fit the mold. He had a cardboard sign with the usual – HOMELESS, ANYTHING HELPS. As we waited for the light to change, he turned, and puffed on a cigarette. The audacity of him wanting me to pay for his cigarette addiction. Then as we started to move, and passes his station, we read the rest of the hand lettered sign – “Go Green!” clearly he was in the vanguard of begging.
As we approached the turn lane, we saw another panhandler. He was dressed slightly better than most, but certainly fit the mold. He had a cardboard sign with the usual – HOMELESS, ANYTHING HELPS. As we waited for the light to change, he turned, and puffed on a cigarette. The audacity of him wanting me to pay for his cigarette addiction. Then as we started to move, and passes his station, we read the rest of the hand lettered sign – “Go Green!” clearly he was in the vanguard of begging.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Fly an Airplane Into That Building
It was afternoon, February 19, 2010. Yesterday a disgruntled man had flown a light airplane into an IRS building. As I walked past him I heard him speaking into a cell phone. I glimpsed a young man, dressed for Friday business and getting ready to board a plane for San Diego. He said ”They ought to fly an airplane into that building.” My assumption was that he was making a casual reference to an aging and uncomfortable building that he and his coworkers used. Then my imagination went wild. Who might be listening in on the conversation? Who would pick up these nine words from the background noise and put them together? I watched to see if someone eased up beside him and marched him off and out of the waiting area, but nothing happened. I’ll see if anything unusual happens in San Diego as we deplane, but I doubt it. Perhaps we are not under as tight a security watch as many people believe. But still, I do hope in my heart that someone does listen to conversations like the one I overheard, and can pick out certain phrases from the boring, humdrum, inane conversations that populate our cell phone conversations.
Perhaps someone will meet him when we arrive in San Diego. Perhaps someone will sidle up to him and whisper something like “Which building are you going to fly an airplane into? But then, I am reading a good spy novel – perhaps my imagination is too hard at work.
Perhaps someone will meet him when we arrive in San Diego. Perhaps someone will sidle up to him and whisper something like “Which building are you going to fly an airplane into? But then, I am reading a good spy novel – perhaps my imagination is too hard at work.
Waiting in a Small Terminal
On the small commuter airplane it was easy to see the screen on her Mac. There was a very short wait before the cabin door would be closed and all electronic equipment would be turned off, but there was enough time for her to access her Facebook account. I had noticed her in the waiting area, the airport was small and there were only a few people awaiting the early morning flight. She was fourteen, more or less, and her face exuded that look of mixed dependence and insouciance that identifies early teenagers. A look that builds a gulf, a moat of protection. She was not quite attractive, her chin was a little too small and that gave her a look of mousiness, too sharp to be lovely almond shape, and she had a light, spotty coating of acne. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her face and that and her smallish eyes added to an appearance that was interesting more than appealing. Over her shoulder, the view of her Facebook pages let me see into her character or nature deeply and quickly; much more than she would have wanted. She easily moved her fingers over the keyboard, and wheeled through a number of photos. Some were of her friends, individual pictures, a team that might have been soccer of softball, and occasionally a graphic that included words that could have been pieces of a deep friendship, or a budding romance. The objects were too fleeting and secretive to get a clear understanding, and there were the always prying parent’s eyes to avoid. Then she settled on a series of recent photos of herself. Now it became more difficult to see into her mind. One of the photos had been edited with an artsy, softly out of focus look, and converted to black and white. (What I think she would have denied and resented is that this made her look much more like her mother than the harder unedited photo.) Is this the person she would like to be? Is this the person she wants the outside world to see? Or, is this the person she hopes to grow into? How did she feel about the other pictures? Was she pleased? Doubtful for a girl of her age, since most are highly self critical and want to be something quite different from who they are. Perhaps she was pleased with what she saw, and the spinning of the wheel that moved the pictures was self acceptance, appreciation and approval.
Then she went back to her Facebook photos of friends, the friends whose acceptance and disapproval would be so instrumental in shaping her adult personality and values. A hundred years ago, or ten thousand years earlier she would have developed these adult traits through a small group of friends or chums, a gang, girls and boys of her own age, the only ones who could be trusted, the only ones that knew what you were going through and what it meant to be in that in-between-age, adults certainly didn’t know. So, the “social networking” phenomenon started to make more sense to me. There are no legitimate rites of passage, rituals that mark the transition into adulthood are greatly delayed and trivialized, other than the magnificent experience of getting a drivers license. Even the Bar Bat Mitzvah is greatly outmoded since becoming an adult at 13 in a highly complex society is an absurdity. And that’s the role of Facebook, and the other networking systems, at least from my view, and that’s why kids are so much more attracted to these networks than adults, and why adults can’t find the fascination that is so engrossing for kids, it is filling a void that has been created by our society and our culture. I heard recently that the drive to own a car has been reduced primarily by social networks – hard to imagine!
It was a telephone when I was a teenager – so limiting – no pictures, only available when the other person was at the other end, no music unless the headpiece was held up to the radio speaker, highly susceptible to eavesdropping, and always the source of kidding and subtle and not so subtle pressure to keep the phone open by parents and siblings. Ah, but then there was a car, and that changed everything!
If my theory is correct, what is the motivation for so many adults to use Facebook, twitter and the other social media? I suppose the primary reason is a return to youth, it is the electronic form of hair dye. But perhaps, I’m simply excusing my lack of fascination with facebooking. I did reconnect with a cousin after more than 45 years, so there is some level of interest.
Then she went back to her Facebook photos of friends, the friends whose acceptance and disapproval would be so instrumental in shaping her adult personality and values. A hundred years ago, or ten thousand years earlier she would have developed these adult traits through a small group of friends or chums, a gang, girls and boys of her own age, the only ones who could be trusted, the only ones that knew what you were going through and what it meant to be in that in-between-age, adults certainly didn’t know. So, the “social networking” phenomenon started to make more sense to me. There are no legitimate rites of passage, rituals that mark the transition into adulthood are greatly delayed and trivialized, other than the magnificent experience of getting a drivers license. Even the Bar Bat Mitzvah is greatly outmoded since becoming an adult at 13 in a highly complex society is an absurdity. And that’s the role of Facebook, and the other networking systems, at least from my view, and that’s why kids are so much more attracted to these networks than adults, and why adults can’t find the fascination that is so engrossing for kids, it is filling a void that has been created by our society and our culture. I heard recently that the drive to own a car has been reduced primarily by social networks – hard to imagine!
It was a telephone when I was a teenager – so limiting – no pictures, only available when the other person was at the other end, no music unless the headpiece was held up to the radio speaker, highly susceptible to eavesdropping, and always the source of kidding and subtle and not so subtle pressure to keep the phone open by parents and siblings. Ah, but then there was a car, and that changed everything!
If my theory is correct, what is the motivation for so many adults to use Facebook, twitter and the other social media? I suppose the primary reason is a return to youth, it is the electronic form of hair dye. But perhaps, I’m simply excusing my lack of fascination with facebooking. I did reconnect with a cousin after more than 45 years, so there is some level of interest.
I Only Heard a Few Words . . .
I only overheard four or five words “ . psychologist . . . prescribed valium . . .” But that, coupled with a quick peek at the conversant, was enough to construct an entire story, and one with a high probability of being accurate. He, the speaker was in his forties, a little rough looking – but not scary rough and he was seated astride a cheap bicycle. The person he was chatting with was a woman in her early forties, but with street people it’s hard to tell. Living “rough” ages people so quickly. The streets of Escondido are a haven for the homeless; the weather is bland, the streets are quite safe, and there doesn’t seem to be a strong push by the police to keep the streets clear. She was attractive, as far as I could tell, reasonably clean and dressed in strong and warm, but worn clothing that was a good match for the outdoors. The pack was the give-away, she was clearly on the streets. I wonder what led to her current lifestyle. She gave an aura of strength and having her act together, she seemed like she could be outfitted for life in the protected world with only a little care and grooming. People don’t talk about valium while standing on a sidewalk, so the snippet of conversation I heard was enough. She had a mental problem, and one that wasn’t being controlled by medication. Rain was forecast for the next day and I wondered about where she would spend the time when the weather really was unpleasant.
I have seen other similar people on the streets, and I always try to imagine what events in their lives led them to be on the streets. One paycheck away and the paycheck didn’t come, a bad relationship that left them with no money. Illness physical or mental? Each of the stories must be somewhat unique and many must be interesting. But my guess is that anyone collecting the stories would quickly tire of hearing the same thing, the blaming of the outside world, the whining and ducking responsibility – perhaps I am bounding my personal limits of compassion.
I have seen other similar people on the streets, and I always try to imagine what events in their lives led them to be on the streets. One paycheck away and the paycheck didn’t come, a bad relationship that left them with no money. Illness physical or mental? Each of the stories must be somewhat unique and many must be interesting. But my guess is that anyone collecting the stories would quickly tire of hearing the same thing, the blaming of the outside world, the whining and ducking responsibility – perhaps I am bounding my personal limits of compassion.
The Shuttle
The elderly couple climbed the steps into the airport long term parking shuttle with some difficulty, There bags were placed in the shelves by the driver and they sat opposite each other and slightly offset. Her first comment was delivered with a shot of venom “Did you get all of the bags?” “Are you sure?” They counted the bags, there were only two, one for each of them. “How about your backpack?” It was between his legs. He nodded in response to each question or interrogation. He looked haggard, his head hanging, beaten up and it was just past six in the morning. He was destined for a long long day. They had been married for 47 years – that’s a guess, but it takes years to ingrain conversation patterns this deeply. She was dressed a little like an eastern European peasant but slightly upscale. Sensible shoes, leggings and wool socks with a skirt over, and several layers of sweaters and coats – a funny hat like a workers, with a small bill and flat cloth top. “Did you bring a hat?” His response was indecipherable, but I sensed anger or animosity, perhaps it was humiliation or resignation, and the draining of any last semblance of testosterone. I sensed that she was convinced she was doing her job, playing out her roles as they had defined over the years. Had he ever forgotten a bag? I could be wrong, perhaps he was a perpetual screw-up who needed constant care and feeding – but I doubt it. But it didn’t matter, her role was the sweeper, the fixer, the preventer, the guide, the backup, perhaps the one who expected to get the blame for whatever went wrong. So make sure that nothing goes wrong. She had played this role with the children, grown and gone now. Perhaps they were traveling to spend some time with the grandchildren. But the tone and pattern had become bitter, accusatory, and controlling. Had he begun their relationship as a strong person who stood up for himself? Had she beaten him down, eroded his character over years of constant pressure? Was she stronger and had she been from the start? Did he just not care? Or could he excuse himself by having been a good provider? Is he living in a healthy fantasy life where he is a Clark Gable type character, a place to retreat to when the noise becomes too persistent and painful? Quiet desperation.
I suspect that if their interaction was videoed and played back to them they would not recognize themselves, and they would reject that they had fallen into this pattern of sparing, positioning and control. Even more, I doubt that they would have any idea about changing, even less the skills or motivation. This was how they were – and how they were going to be. How Sad.
I suspect that if their interaction was videoed and played back to them they would not recognize themselves, and they would reject that they had fallen into this pattern of sparing, positioning and control. Even more, I doubt that they would have any idea about changing, even less the skills or motivation. This was how they were – and how they were going to be. How Sad.
Hair Snakes and Other Myths of My Youth
I grew up in an unusual area; a residential neighborhood nestled in an agricultural region carved out of the desert. We had a pleasant mile walk to school that in places took us along an irrigation ditch. Yards were watered by being flooded from these canals a couple of times a week. In fact, my first career choice was to be an “Irrigator,” the guy that walked along the canal and let water into the yards by opening a sluice gate. Far better to be surrounded by water than to fight fires in the desert heat! I remember this whenever I work on the irrigation sprinklers in my yard.
The canals were a treasure trove of interesting and exciting things for a small pack of boys waking to or from school. In the winter, the canals would freeze giving us access to large pieces of ice to throw or shatter in the dust. The ice had grass and small stones or mud imbedded in it which made it even more interesting. The canals brought water from the mountains and they collected a lot of debris, plant material and animal carcasses along the way. Along our walk, there were some areas that formed quiet places where the water was constant and slow moving – not big enough to be ponds, but enough to form small communities that we would now call micro-ecosystems. So we had frogs in the spring time and could watch the frogs mounted, laying eggs, tadpoles hatching, legs sprouting and tiny frogs returning to the grass and weeds. Certainly there were thousands of mosquitoes that matured from these same quiet waters and made it uncomfortable to be outdoors in the cool evenings of summer.
Lots of myths emerge from watching nature and the insights of 8 year olds. The one that I recall with the greatest clarity is “How to make a Hair Snake.” Hair snakes are black, 4 to 6 inches long, the size of a thick hair with a slightly enlarged area on one end for a head. I don’t know where else they live, but there were a lot of them in our canal. They didn’t make good pets, and were at most a curiosity. Someone, I can’t recall who told us that if you wanted to make a hair snake, all you had to do was place a horse hair in water and wait. In time it would come to life and become a hair snake! I recall being very dubious about this story, it didn’t seem to make sense to my young brain. Still, I couldn’t disprove the theory.
Jump ahead eight years to a high school biology class. We were learning the distinct characteristics of living matter. One of the characteristics is that it cannot be created from inanimate material. The example given in class has about the belief that people in the middle ages had that rats were spontaneously created from piles of rags! But not for me, I recalled the story of the generation of hair snakes, and my early suspicions were supported.
There were numerous other myths that come from observing natural events and needing to arrive a possible explanation for how things work. It seems that a lot of these inventions have disappeared from my memory, probably many were erased when I learned real explanations from science courses and reading. Many of the myths were related to sex. Our observations were limited to occasional sighting of dogs mating and roosters atop hens. We didn’t have the advantage that farm kids had of exposure to a wide variety of mating processes.
Follow up: After writing this I decided to check out hair snakes on the internet. What I found is that they are really hair worms, a type of nematode. They are not dangerous to humans, in fact the article didn’t even list any method for controlling them. They do not have large heads, and are dangerous only to insects like grasshoppers.
The canals were a treasure trove of interesting and exciting things for a small pack of boys waking to or from school. In the winter, the canals would freeze giving us access to large pieces of ice to throw or shatter in the dust. The ice had grass and small stones or mud imbedded in it which made it even more interesting. The canals brought water from the mountains and they collected a lot of debris, plant material and animal carcasses along the way. Along our walk, there were some areas that formed quiet places where the water was constant and slow moving – not big enough to be ponds, but enough to form small communities that we would now call micro-ecosystems. So we had frogs in the spring time and could watch the frogs mounted, laying eggs, tadpoles hatching, legs sprouting and tiny frogs returning to the grass and weeds. Certainly there were thousands of mosquitoes that matured from these same quiet waters and made it uncomfortable to be outdoors in the cool evenings of summer.
Lots of myths emerge from watching nature and the insights of 8 year olds. The one that I recall with the greatest clarity is “How to make a Hair Snake.” Hair snakes are black, 4 to 6 inches long, the size of a thick hair with a slightly enlarged area on one end for a head. I don’t know where else they live, but there were a lot of them in our canal. They didn’t make good pets, and were at most a curiosity. Someone, I can’t recall who told us that if you wanted to make a hair snake, all you had to do was place a horse hair in water and wait. In time it would come to life and become a hair snake! I recall being very dubious about this story, it didn’t seem to make sense to my young brain. Still, I couldn’t disprove the theory.
Jump ahead eight years to a high school biology class. We were learning the distinct characteristics of living matter. One of the characteristics is that it cannot be created from inanimate material. The example given in class has about the belief that people in the middle ages had that rats were spontaneously created from piles of rags! But not for me, I recalled the story of the generation of hair snakes, and my early suspicions were supported.
There were numerous other myths that come from observing natural events and needing to arrive a possible explanation for how things work. It seems that a lot of these inventions have disappeared from my memory, probably many were erased when I learned real explanations from science courses and reading. Many of the myths were related to sex. Our observations were limited to occasional sighting of dogs mating and roosters atop hens. We didn’t have the advantage that farm kids had of exposure to a wide variety of mating processes.
Follow up: After writing this I decided to check out hair snakes on the internet. What I found is that they are really hair worms, a type of nematode. They are not dangerous to humans, in fact the article didn’t even list any method for controlling them. They do not have large heads, and are dangerous only to insects like grasshoppers.
The Storm - Not in Escondido
Early in the evening there was a gentle shower. Enough to cause some runoff from the streets and sidewalks, and to cool and moisten the air. It seemed like that would be the end of the stormy weather, a last little exhalation before a quiet night. So later, after we were in bed, when we heard a couple of small rumblings of thunder, it seemed like it must be a far distant storm. Then, all of a sudden and out of nowhere there was a flash of lightening and an immediate clap of thunder. Not the rumbling growling thunder that you hear most of the time. Not even the quick sharp crack with sparks that signals a close lightning bolt. This was thunder like the hands of a giant ripping apart a large sheet of canvas, a sweeping hissing sound that says “I missed you this time, but next time, you may not be so lucky!” Where did it come from, we all wondered? Did it form right on top of us – that didn’t seem likely. The dogs barked at the sound and quickly discovered that they couldn’t chase it away so they crawled under the bed. Then the storm began. The trees were lit from behind with a series of flashes just long enough to see how hard the wind was blowing. The flashes were from everywhere all at once, and so was the thunder. Some on top of us, some a long way away, but most close but not close enough to ooze fright or apprehension. The rain came too, heavier this time but without the hail that signals a tall tall storm. I love thunderstorms. The cool that they bring, the smell of the rain, the ozone in the air that is bracing and fresh. With this storm, knowing what causes lightning and thunder and the rain didn’t help. Counting the seconds from the flash to the deep heavy rolling sound was distracting but didn’t help – oh, you now know how far away that bolt was but that doesn’t matter, the next one could be right here. It was all around us and there was no escaping, we were fully in its grasp; the storm could do whatever it liked with us. After a half hour of beating us, the storm moved slowly away. However, just before it retreated from our senses, we got one more flash that was right on top of us, one more sheet ripping clap of thunder that seemed to say “Here’s a little something to remember me by!”
The Music Was Pleasant and Soothing
The music was pleasant and soothing, smooth jazz, you know what it’s like. Soft saxes, muted percussion, synthesizers and guitars. Good music for a glass of wine or a cocktail, great for background, and even worth a concert ticket from time to time. The top item on the menu was a chicken salad wrap and a bag of potato chips decent and one of my favorites. Then it came to me, the average age of the diners was 85, their physical condition very poor! This was the dining area of a nursing home. Wraps were invented after most of these people were well adapted to a diet that certainly did not include a sandwich without bread. Watching the reaction of many of the women; they outnumber men by 10:1, was fun. “What is that stuff – I don’t like it – it is impossible to eat.” I wonder if they serve sushi?
I strolled in to the lobby and found a seat. The upholstery was attractive but slick, as if it needed to be cleaned often – which was probably true. Then I picked up a magazine from a table near my chair. It was titled Interview, which seemed interesting. So I leafed through the oversized pages, pages that were “arty” clearly the people being interviewed, or profiled were famous, famous to someone. I had only heard of one of the 30 or so people who inhabited the pages. Why I wondered did all of the Interviewees need to put on a face of disdain, boredom, or superiority? Then I looked at their work and I understood. It was vital to express - emote extravagance of opinion, a certainty of self to stand beside the work that they had produced. It was flat – flat affect, flat in coloration, flat in conceptualization even some of the faces were flat. But then, I’m hardly Avant Guarde nor “artsy.”
I looked more closely and the full title of the magazine was Andy Warhol’s Interview. I felt smarter, actually only more informed.
Recall that I was in the lobby of a nursing home. I checked the label and found that the Care Center was indeed the owner of the subscription. Strange, I wondered how many of the inmates had devoured the pages of AW’s Interview. It seemed new and untouched. I love the incongruities of life. The normal, mundane, trite is boring beyond belief. I think I must be incredible lucky to have arrived at this place – disdain, superiority, humor, mild antipathy
Some things seem out of place; they look right until suddenly your consciousness stages a small revolt.
I strolled in to the lobby and found a seat. The upholstery was attractive but slick, as if it needed to be cleaned often – which was probably true. Then I picked up a magazine from a table near my chair. It was titled Interview, which seemed interesting. So I leafed through the oversized pages, pages that were “arty” clearly the people being interviewed, or profiled were famous, famous to someone. I had only heard of one of the 30 or so people who inhabited the pages. Why I wondered did all of the Interviewees need to put on a face of disdain, boredom, or superiority? Then I looked at their work and I understood. It was vital to express - emote extravagance of opinion, a certainty of self to stand beside the work that they had produced. It was flat – flat affect, flat in coloration, flat in conceptualization even some of the faces were flat. But then, I’m hardly Avant Guarde nor “artsy.”
I looked more closely and the full title of the magazine was Andy Warhol’s Interview. I felt smarter, actually only more informed.
Recall that I was in the lobby of a nursing home. I checked the label and found that the Care Center was indeed the owner of the subscription. Strange, I wondered how many of the inmates had devoured the pages of AW’s Interview. It seemed new and untouched. I love the incongruities of life. The normal, mundane, trite is boring beyond belief. I think I must be incredible lucky to have arrived at this place – disdain, superiority, humor, mild antipathy
Some things seem out of place; they look right until suddenly your consciousness stages a small revolt.
Free?
“We have a full treatment center, including a lab and it’s right on the high school campus and it’s free!” That’s wonderful, I assume that it is not excessive, although it sounds like it might be, that the resources are tracked for their impact on the population served and that it is managed carefully and responsibly. That’s not my concern – it’s not free! The service is paid for by taxpayers, and unless that is acknowledged, understood and appreciated the service soon becomes a right! A couple of years ago I was teaching a class for the YMCA campaigners and one of the participants said that she had been on financial assistance for several years, but she never knew where the money came from. Now she knows and she also knows how hard it is to ask people for donations.
Freeways are certainly not free, they are paid for from in a different way than through tolls, and that is OKAY, especially I fyou have spent some time in New Jersey the home of the toll road. So many people are employed in the toll collection industry that it probably can’t be automated out of existence or phased out. The constituency is too big.
Words do matter, there is a clear and certain meaning to many words, and free is one of the most misused. We all know there is no such thing as a “Free Lunch” but we continue to hope that there might be one at least for us.
Freeways are certainly not free, they are paid for from in a different way than through tolls, and that is OKAY, especially I fyou have spent some time in New Jersey the home of the toll road. So many people are employed in the toll collection industry that it probably can’t be automated out of existence or phased out. The constituency is too big.
Words do matter, there is a clear and certain meaning to many words, and free is one of the most misused. We all know there is no such thing as a “Free Lunch” but we continue to hope that there might be one at least for us.
Blame it on the Rain
At least daily, often several times each day I push the button that closes the garage door. Usually I am inside the house by the time the door reaches the bottom of its travel and closes completely. Something distracted me, perhaps it was the rain which is so unusual here. I may have taken longer than normal to avoid stepping in the wet areas of the walkway. But whatever the cause, I heard the door reverse direction and start moving up again. I stepped back inside the garage and pressed the button again. The door started down, gently contacted the car, and reversed course. I have a marker dangling from the ceiling to mark the correct spot to stop. I walked back to the car, and noticed that it wasn’t in far enough, that was why the door was hitting the car and wouldn’t close. As I was getting my keys out and preparing to move the car a couple of feet, something caught my ear. The characteristic sound that gives them their name – a humming bird was inside the garage and was trying to exit through a closed window! I went over to him – it – and carefully maneuvered him so that he was able to find and then exit through the open garage door.
In May, we oversaw the growth and fledging of a clutch, can 2 be a clutch? of hummingbirds It wa s a few feet away in our entry way. Could this be one of the fledglings, or perhaps even the mother? It was impossible to know. What was certain is that the hummingbird would not have survived the night in the garage. The temperature was too low and there was no food available. So, the chain of events: Hummingbirds were hatched and fledged in our entry way in May, in January I didn’t park the car far enough inside the garage so that the door would close, it was raining so I altered my usual route to the front door, I heard the door reverse and return to the fully open position, I tried again, I saw that it wasn’t in far enough, I went to move it in further, I saw the hummingbird, I caused it to escape through the open garage door, it was saved. My good deed. Or was it some kind of avian divine intervention? Am I now responsible for the life of this small bird, should I identify it and follow it around. Of course I’ll be certain to refill my hummingbird feeders whenever they become empty now. What happens to a person who saves the life of someone or something and fails to take responsibility for them? Usually it is the one whose life is saved that must take the responsibility for the saver, but with such an imbalance in size the responsibility must shift to the rescuer right? What should I do?
Protection
So far, I have chased the crows away. I watch for them and run outside and throw rocks when they come into the yard. Next week I’ll get an air rifle. Then there are the cats – nasty things that prowl around just waiting for a poor hapless bird to drop his defenses for only an instant. I know what they are thinking, you can read it in their pinched, furry little faces. Cats are evil and would eat us if only they were bigger. The resent our having shrunk them up so that they are no longer a hazard to us humans. They want to revert to the wild and grow again, the way they were tens of thousands of years ago. That’s why they simply tolerate us now, and why they are so distant and so arrogant and so superior. Who would want a cat in their home? They scheme. Whenever they don’t get their way, they begin to plot their revenge. They may cause you to slip and fall down the stairs. They may bring you “gifts” like dead mice or snakes – but those are not really gifts, they are proofs of prowess, a warning that they can and will take you down whenever they please, so mind your manners. Why do you think so many people are allergic to cats? It’s the self preservation instinct kicking in – a warning to stay away from them, and it’s sent from your immune system! Why else would cats scratches become inflamed and infected. Another warning to keep away from them! And why else are kittens so loveable? It’s to keep you from drowning them, like you know you should – and all at once they are grown into full fledged cats.
In May, we oversaw the growth and fledging of a clutch, can 2 be a clutch? of hummingbirds It wa s a few feet away in our entry way. Could this be one of the fledglings, or perhaps even the mother? It was impossible to know. What was certain is that the hummingbird would not have survived the night in the garage. The temperature was too low and there was no food available. So, the chain of events: Hummingbirds were hatched and fledged in our entry way in May, in January I didn’t park the car far enough inside the garage so that the door would close, it was raining so I altered my usual route to the front door, I heard the door reverse and return to the fully open position, I tried again, I saw that it wasn’t in far enough, I went to move it in further, I saw the hummingbird, I caused it to escape through the open garage door, it was saved. My good deed. Or was it some kind of avian divine intervention? Am I now responsible for the life of this small bird, should I identify it and follow it around. Of course I’ll be certain to refill my hummingbird feeders whenever they become empty now. What happens to a person who saves the life of someone or something and fails to take responsibility for them? Usually it is the one whose life is saved that must take the responsibility for the saver, but with such an imbalance in size the responsibility must shift to the rescuer right? What should I do?
Protection
So far, I have chased the crows away. I watch for them and run outside and throw rocks when they come into the yard. Next week I’ll get an air rifle. Then there are the cats – nasty things that prowl around just waiting for a poor hapless bird to drop his defenses for only an instant. I know what they are thinking, you can read it in their pinched, furry little faces. Cats are evil and would eat us if only they were bigger. The resent our having shrunk them up so that they are no longer a hazard to us humans. They want to revert to the wild and grow again, the way they were tens of thousands of years ago. That’s why they simply tolerate us now, and why they are so distant and so arrogant and so superior. Who would want a cat in their home? They scheme. Whenever they don’t get their way, they begin to plot their revenge. They may cause you to slip and fall down the stairs. They may bring you “gifts” like dead mice or snakes – but those are not really gifts, they are proofs of prowess, a warning that they can and will take you down whenever they please, so mind your manners. Why do you think so many people are allergic to cats? It’s the self preservation instinct kicking in – a warning to stay away from them, and it’s sent from your immune system! Why else would cats scratches become inflamed and infected. Another warning to keep away from them! And why else are kittens so loveable? It’s to keep you from drowning them, like you know you should – and all at once they are grown into full fledged cats.
Bombing in the Time of Ozzie and Harriett
The tone came on clearly through the helmet earphones. Even with the sound of the engine at near full throttle, and the wind rushing past the canopy the tone was strong and clean. The horizontal needle on the LABS dropped to the bottom of the instrument and I pulled steadily back on the control stick counting “One potato, Two potato” to get the exact profile. The needle centered at 4 1/2 G’s and I held it steady. The vertical needle indicated the position of the wings so a perfect + meant I was flying the plane to the right position in space. I continued to hold the pickle down, the button on the control stick that was used to release bombs, and after about 3 seconds and with a pitch angle of about 49O the bomb was ejected from the centerline station on the bottom of the airplane. The thump was reassuring, and the slight increase in G load didn’t matter since the bomb, I suppose it should be called a weapon, which weighed about 1700#, was on its way to the target. The sharp smell of cordite, that’s what other people have called it at least, filled the cockpit and then quickly disappeared. Now, I was working for myself. I had done all that I could to put the weapon on the target and now it was time to get out of there. The nose continued to come up to vertical, and I looked over my shoulder to find the ground for a reference. A few seconds more and the nose passed through the horizontal. Inverted at about 1800’ the airspeed had bled off from 275kts to a little over 90 kts, slightly above stall speed. The nose continued to fall through the horizon and the airspeed began to increase slowly. I had to be easy on the controls so that the plane wouldn’t fall out of the sky. A gentle touch on the control stick to let the nose descend a little more and I slowly began to gain a little more airspeed. Now the controls would be more effective, so that I could roll the wings level and begin a gentle pull out. I had done this hundreds of times in practice on the bombing range at Fallon, NV. The official name for the maneuver was the Medium Angle Loft, the aerobatic maneuver was the Half Cuban Eight, but to all of us, it was the Idiot Loop. Practice for this delivery was not particularly safe and several pilots were lost during training, but the accuracy was surprisingly good, well within 100’. (There is a phrase or homily that goes “Close only counts in Horseshoes and Atom bombs.” My guess is that the original version had hand grenades in place of atom bombs.)
No need to be at the 50’ that I had held from the Initial Point (IP) to the pull up where the tone had come on; retracing my previous course was not of much concern since the people on the ground that I had awakened were going to be really busy in a couple of minutes, they had a lot more to worry about than a single navy airplane flying fast through their backyards. I figured I needed a couple of hundred feet of cushion to maintain control when the light flash would blind me and a few seconds later when the pressure wave would overtake me. Was I outside the lethal range of the effects, the thermal and overpressure that would be destroying everything I had just flown over? Who knew! We were told that we could escape, but the flash would certainly penetrate the hand I held over one eye, and we didn’t have the gold impregnated visors on our old helmets that became opaque under illumination from a very bright light source yet. Those came later and went to the big guys. The radiation didn’t matter since it would be hours before I started to feel any of the consequences and I would be back home by then– I hoped. Still. If I could see, I figured I had a pretty good chance of getting back to the carrier – perhaps a better chance than it had of surviving the certain attach that would ensue. But there were options, and I had looked at some airfields on the way in and knew where there were some straight sections of beach that I could land on gear up.
The primitive weapons of the ‘50s took a lot of care and attention on route to the target. After the launch there was a check list to complete that got the bomb ready to detonate. The central fin had to be lowered, the U235 (I recalled it as plutonium) ball had to be inserted into the high explosive sphere using a small electric motor, and other systems had to be armed and monitored through a control panel that had been installed in the cockpit. We were given a small case that contained fuses, spare lamp bulbs and a piece of metal that looked like a bottle opener to pull circuit breakers with. I had signed for the bomb when it was loaded. If I had to divert, I knew how to take it apart to retrieve the U235) sphere, and was expected to keep it with me until I could find a responsible party to take possession and sign for it. Strange set of circumstances to be considering while a nuclear exchange (or should that be called the end of civilization? That term “nuclear exchange” may be the biggest euphemism of all time!) was going on. Strange too that considering these contingency plans tended to create a false sense of normalcy in what was certainly a world gone crazy. (Another bizarre thought: Would I get radiation burns on my leg as it swung back and forth as I carried it to the BOQ room at a divert base?) For more information about the MK7, check the quite extensive discussion at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_7_nuclear_bomb
The catapult launch was always a couple of hours before sunrise, and there was the predictable intense relaxation that came with the warmth of the sun, the brightening of the world outside, and the easing of the tension of the launch. I was alone and on my own, and it was the first time I had not been in a two plane formation. Cruising a hundred or so feet off the water gave a surprisingly safe and secure feeling. The big radial reciprocating engine didn’t need high altitude to be efficient. I knew how to read the wind from watching the waves and could cover long distances and arrive at a land fall with surprising accuracy. Figuring the wind at altitude was always a guess, but down here it was like reading a book or a gauge. However, the coast that I was going to cross was not the California that I had become so familiar with. I thought I would recognize the point I had selected while I was still several miles at sea, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be between the search radars that were constantly looking for intruders, and they would be especially on guard today. Still, I thought I could cross the beach and get into the hills to hide before they could vector the MIGs to intercept me. The 12 wing bomb racks, the four 20mm canons and the armor plate had been removed to make the airplane as light as possible to maximize our range, so the only defense we had was to evade the radar and the fighters. The long practice flights were known as “Sandblowers.” These were not without hazard, we lost a CO on one of them. He ran into a steep canyon near Yosemite Park trying to get his two wingmen out of a box canyon they had flown into. Both of junior pilots survived. .) I remember going through the aviation gasoline soaked personal effects of one of our pilots who was killed. The items in his wallet stuck together and had to be carefully separated and checked before they were sent to his family. (A fantasy: I look out of the cockpit just after the bomb is kicked off the center station and see an Air Force B47 with the bomb bay doors open. . . .)
When most people think of the "Cold War" they remember the Berlin wall, B52's on airborne alert and the development of land and sea based missles. For some of us, the cold war was very different -
What was my target? I’ll never tell, but if you swing an arc 500 miles inland parallel to the coast of a potential enemy at the time, recall the war in Korea was recently over, in the Western pacific, you have covered the five or six targets I planned, and was on alert to attack during my years in the business. (Bizarre recollection – Lead tape. Lead tape is like scotch tape, but it is made with lead. It is unlikely that most people have ever heard about or thought about lead tape. There is only one use that I know of that it has and that is to cover the seams on nuclear weapons. The lead tape was the last thing that was added, and it was to me the most profound item that clearly identified this as something out of the ordinary, this silver colored smooth metal shape was not filled with fuel, or HE, or napalm, it was filled with something that we needed to be protected from
Is this story true, you may be wondering. Yes, everything about the story is true – except for the actual flight. The 1950s was a time of great competition between the nascent Air Force, and the U. S. Navy. Nuclear weapons had caused a total transformation in the priorities. The Air Force was in the early stages of building the Strategic Air Command, and the Navy wanted to build a fleet of large aircraft carriers – and the budget was really tight. Therefore, anything that could move – surface ships, tanks, submarines, helicopters, aircraft of all types and infantrymen were outfitted with nuclear weapons. So, we were added to the list and actually became a somewhat significant part of the deterrent force. Our airplane the Douglas AD (later A1) Skyraider was designed at the end of the 2nd World war and over 3100 were produced. It served in Korea and Vietnam and was retired from service after extensive use in Vietnam in the early 1970’s. With two 300 gallon drop tanks we could stay airborne for over 12 hours and hit a target over 1000 nautical miles away from the ship. We were a part of the nuclear deterrent just like the B47s, B36s and the newly developed B52s. Twelve hours is a long time in a small cockpit, and it was difficult extricating ourselves from the airplane at the end of the flight. We were given Dexedrine to take just before landing to sharpen our reaction time, I took it once and didn’t like the feeling I got. At least one of the pilots saved up his pills and took them when we were in port to increase his stamina on liberty – he would have been classified as a drug abuser now. I was 21 in 1957 when this story could have taken place. Would I have gone on the flight if the “baloon had gone up?” I can’t imagine not going, it was simply expected that we would do what we were told, that is what we had signed up for. The menace was real, and I was from the “Duck and Cover” generation. One of my squadron mates later admitted that his plan was to go over the horizon, out of sight, drop the bomb in the ocean on safe and orbit for 12 hours before returning to the ship – was he telling the truth? I knew him pretty well and I think he was.
(A final bizarre thought: I remember thinking that it would have been wonderfully interesting to watch a half dozen or so atom bombs going off over actual targets – no, I’m not sad that I didn’t get to see it happening, but I always thought . . .)
When I returned to an operational squadron following three years of shore duty, the business had changed substantially. The weapons were smaller, lighter and more modern; the air burst option was largely dismissed so the weapons were “laid down” on the target, no more Idiot Loop, and set to detonate after a specified period giving plenty of time to escape the lethal effects. (I suppose because concerns about fallout had been reduced in favor of increased standoff distance for the pilots – that seems odd.) I don’t recall as much about this time since we were involved in actual combat and standby combat readiness didn’t seem to be as interesting.
No need to be at the 50’ that I had held from the Initial Point (IP) to the pull up where the tone had come on; retracing my previous course was not of much concern since the people on the ground that I had awakened were going to be really busy in a couple of minutes, they had a lot more to worry about than a single navy airplane flying fast through their backyards. I figured I needed a couple of hundred feet of cushion to maintain control when the light flash would blind me and a few seconds later when the pressure wave would overtake me. Was I outside the lethal range of the effects, the thermal and overpressure that would be destroying everything I had just flown over? Who knew! We were told that we could escape, but the flash would certainly penetrate the hand I held over one eye, and we didn’t have the gold impregnated visors on our old helmets that became opaque under illumination from a very bright light source yet. Those came later and went to the big guys. The radiation didn’t matter since it would be hours before I started to feel any of the consequences and I would be back home by then– I hoped. Still. If I could see, I figured I had a pretty good chance of getting back to the carrier – perhaps a better chance than it had of surviving the certain attach that would ensue. But there were options, and I had looked at some airfields on the way in and knew where there were some straight sections of beach that I could land on gear up.
The primitive weapons of the ‘50s took a lot of care and attention on route to the target. After the launch there was a check list to complete that got the bomb ready to detonate. The central fin had to be lowered, the U235 (I recalled it as plutonium) ball had to be inserted into the high explosive sphere using a small electric motor, and other systems had to be armed and monitored through a control panel that had been installed in the cockpit. We were given a small case that contained fuses, spare lamp bulbs and a piece of metal that looked like a bottle opener to pull circuit breakers with. I had signed for the bomb when it was loaded. If I had to divert, I knew how to take it apart to retrieve the U235) sphere, and was expected to keep it with me until I could find a responsible party to take possession and sign for it. Strange set of circumstances to be considering while a nuclear exchange (or should that be called the end of civilization? That term “nuclear exchange” may be the biggest euphemism of all time!) was going on. Strange too that considering these contingency plans tended to create a false sense of normalcy in what was certainly a world gone crazy. (Another bizarre thought: Would I get radiation burns on my leg as it swung back and forth as I carried it to the BOQ room at a divert base?) For more information about the MK7, check the quite extensive discussion at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_7_nuclear_bomb
The catapult launch was always a couple of hours before sunrise, and there was the predictable intense relaxation that came with the warmth of the sun, the brightening of the world outside, and the easing of the tension of the launch. I was alone and on my own, and it was the first time I had not been in a two plane formation. Cruising a hundred or so feet off the water gave a surprisingly safe and secure feeling. The big radial reciprocating engine didn’t need high altitude to be efficient. I knew how to read the wind from watching the waves and could cover long distances and arrive at a land fall with surprising accuracy. Figuring the wind at altitude was always a guess, but down here it was like reading a book or a gauge. However, the coast that I was going to cross was not the California that I had become so familiar with. I thought I would recognize the point I had selected while I was still several miles at sea, but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be between the search radars that were constantly looking for intruders, and they would be especially on guard today. Still, I thought I could cross the beach and get into the hills to hide before they could vector the MIGs to intercept me. The 12 wing bomb racks, the four 20mm canons and the armor plate had been removed to make the airplane as light as possible to maximize our range, so the only defense we had was to evade the radar and the fighters. The long practice flights were known as “Sandblowers.” These were not without hazard, we lost a CO on one of them. He ran into a steep canyon near Yosemite Park trying to get his two wingmen out of a box canyon they had flown into. Both of junior pilots survived. .) I remember going through the aviation gasoline soaked personal effects of one of our pilots who was killed. The items in his wallet stuck together and had to be carefully separated and checked before they were sent to his family. (A fantasy: I look out of the cockpit just after the bomb is kicked off the center station and see an Air Force B47 with the bomb bay doors open. . . .)
When most people think of the "Cold War" they remember the Berlin wall, B52's on airborne alert and the development of land and sea based missles. For some of us, the cold war was very different -
What was my target? I’ll never tell, but if you swing an arc 500 miles inland parallel to the coast of a potential enemy at the time, recall the war in Korea was recently over, in the Western pacific, you have covered the five or six targets I planned, and was on alert to attack during my years in the business. (Bizarre recollection – Lead tape. Lead tape is like scotch tape, but it is made with lead. It is unlikely that most people have ever heard about or thought about lead tape. There is only one use that I know of that it has and that is to cover the seams on nuclear weapons. The lead tape was the last thing that was added, and it was to me the most profound item that clearly identified this as something out of the ordinary, this silver colored smooth metal shape was not filled with fuel, or HE, or napalm, it was filled with something that we needed to be protected from
Is this story true, you may be wondering. Yes, everything about the story is true – except for the actual flight. The 1950s was a time of great competition between the nascent Air Force, and the U. S. Navy. Nuclear weapons had caused a total transformation in the priorities. The Air Force was in the early stages of building the Strategic Air Command, and the Navy wanted to build a fleet of large aircraft carriers – and the budget was really tight. Therefore, anything that could move – surface ships, tanks, submarines, helicopters, aircraft of all types and infantrymen were outfitted with nuclear weapons. So, we were added to the list and actually became a somewhat significant part of the deterrent force. Our airplane the Douglas AD (later A1) Skyraider was designed at the end of the 2nd World war and over 3100 were produced. It served in Korea and Vietnam and was retired from service after extensive use in Vietnam in the early 1970’s. With two 300 gallon drop tanks we could stay airborne for over 12 hours and hit a target over 1000 nautical miles away from the ship. We were a part of the nuclear deterrent just like the B47s, B36s and the newly developed B52s. Twelve hours is a long time in a small cockpit, and it was difficult extricating ourselves from the airplane at the end of the flight. We were given Dexedrine to take just before landing to sharpen our reaction time, I took it once and didn’t like the feeling I got. At least one of the pilots saved up his pills and took them when we were in port to increase his stamina on liberty – he would have been classified as a drug abuser now. I was 21 in 1957 when this story could have taken place. Would I have gone on the flight if the “baloon had gone up?” I can’t imagine not going, it was simply expected that we would do what we were told, that is what we had signed up for. The menace was real, and I was from the “Duck and Cover” generation. One of my squadron mates later admitted that his plan was to go over the horizon, out of sight, drop the bomb in the ocean on safe and orbit for 12 hours before returning to the ship – was he telling the truth? I knew him pretty well and I think he was.
(A final bizarre thought: I remember thinking that it would have been wonderfully interesting to watch a half dozen or so atom bombs going off over actual targets – no, I’m not sad that I didn’t get to see it happening, but I always thought . . .)
When I returned to an operational squadron following three years of shore duty, the business had changed substantially. The weapons were smaller, lighter and more modern; the air burst option was largely dismissed so the weapons were “laid down” on the target, no more Idiot Loop, and set to detonate after a specified period giving plenty of time to escape the lethal effects. (I suppose because concerns about fallout had been reduced in favor of increased standoff distance for the pilots – that seems odd.) I don’t recall as much about this time since we were involved in actual combat and standby combat readiness didn’t seem to be as interesting.
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