Comets, Asteroids, and Shooting Stars

Comet

A few years ago, when my grandson was in fourth-grade, there was a lot of interest in Comets; mostly because we had one coming as close to earth as anyone could remember.  There were plans to take samples in an effort to explain more about the creation of our universe, and there was even talk of the feasibility of landing on a comet.

Asteroid

I decided that I would ask my grandson what he might know about comets.  “Do you know anything about comets?” seemed a reasonable question.

“I know the difference between comets, asteroids and shooting stars,” was his response.

Meteor (Shooting Star)

“What is the difference?” I asked.

“Mostly it has to do with their size and the distance they are from earth,” he replied.

That got me thinking.  Some college counselor told an incoming freshman class that at graduation, half would be working in a job that had not been invented yet.  I heard that story fifty years ago, and it certainly has been prophetic.  What might my comet-wise grandson be doing when he graduated from college?

At the time of our conversation, They had picked thirteen candidates to train as astronauts to live on Mars.  As I understand it, their journey would require being placed in a “sleep-state” to survive the long journey and in a life-imitating-art they would subsist on potatoes in much the same way as Matt Damon in Bring Him Home.

By the time Ethan (my grandson) is old enough to be an astronaut, that will probably be too blasé for his interest.  He stays current with the times.  For example, he has a small drone now, albeit without a camera. He built his first rocket in third-grade and scored second in his class for distance, height, and time aloft.  And he has a wide variety of interests: for example he learned the violin in fourth-grade and the flute in fifth.

He enjoys swimming, tennis, is learning golf, and has seen two Chicago Cubs games in Wrigley Field. He makes friends easily and is very social, showing empathy and concern with those who may not have his level of intelligence.

I did hear last week that NASA was interviewing for a position as a Planetary Protection Officer.  There are only two positions in the world; one with NASA and the other with the ESA.  As I understand the position it entails knowing and limiting the harmful effects of earth visits to other planets and the effect on earth of samples intentionally or unintentionally brought back from space exploration.  Background would include knowledge of “clean rooms” and ways to assess and limit contamination.

So what if there are only two positions right now.  Who knows what might exist in 10 years, when Ethan enters the job-market?  And if there are still only two, my mother used to say, “They have to choose someone.  It might as well be you.”

Good luck, Ethan.

Please join me next time when I recall how an old memory of a piano tune; Heart and Soul entered my life and what I learned from the memory.

Wedding Dances

Weird Al Yankovic

What is that tune you’re humming?”  This to my teacher son sitting in the back seat.

“What do you think it is?” was his response.

“Well, it’s familiar but I don’t know the name.”

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s often played at weddings.”

And then he explained that he was teaching a dance class at his elementary school, and three of the dances were wedding-specific; The Chicken Dance (which is what he was humming), the Macarena, and the Polka.

That got me thinking of how each of those and several other dances played a role in my upbringing, and a wonder as to what has happened to dance with our grandchildren.

I never actually danced the Polka until I went to Marquette, in Milwaukee, where it seemed ubiquitous.  

The Chicken Dance

The Macarena has an even stranger history. I was working as a Dental Director for a company whose major clientele was Las Vegas Culinary.  When the owner decided to marry for I think the third time, he had the wedding and reception in one of the hotels on The Strip.  The service lasted about 4 minutes, and might have been longer had the person performing the service had a more imaginative material writer.  The Macarena had just been introduced and wedding guests were having a ball at the reception learning the dance, Mary and I among them.

The Chicken Dance was introduced into the US in the early 1970’s, so I would have had some contemporaries getting married then and several nieces and nephews along the way.  That was probably my introduction.  

Tinikling

It is easy to see why Tim would chose all three of these dances as part of a Physical Education curriculum, since they are all very energetic.  A fourth choice, probably because he spent two of his formative years in the Philipines, was Tininkling.

When I was growing up, we actually went to Dance Classes, a sometimes-bitter experience as we tested our popularity.  Sock Hops were routine in high school, and American Bandstand was there for all of us to help us hone our skills.

I was always considered a pretty good dancer until I reached an age where, as I would tell Mary, “I could sit her and dance all night”, moving my feet and my hands while seated at the table.  With my iconic love of jazz, music was more to be listened to than to participate, but when dancing was expected I was comfortable joining the fray.

It seems to me that dance for the young is less frequent and perhaps more special.  I know Tim and other school chaperones keep a watchful eye on the sensuality of danced.  I’m not seeing the proclivity of film and concerts featuring dance as they did a generation ago.  I did find it interesting when someone commented that this young generation of Millennials is the first not to have their “own” music since before WW II. Fandango and Hula allow for eclecticism never before possible.  What’s on your play list?  Another pundit said you can tell when someone was born by the music they remember from high school; a fact I reminded a friend who was more than a little forgetful about when she was born.

In my next Post I will exercise a grandparent’s right to boast about their grandchildren.  I hope you will join me.

Vacations

Sacking of Rome

At this time of year when people are talking about and planning their vacations, I find myself remembering a theory about the Fall of the Roman Empire, that I came across when I was in college.

There are easily hundreds of theories as to why the Roman Empire collapsed with little or no agreement on even when exactly it happened.

Most prevalent is the theory that the reign collapsed because of the ferocity of the Goths and Visigoths, but equally as compelling is a theory that the Caesars, proclaiming themselves as deity, were struck down with hubris, or that the Romans became victims of hiring mercenaries to be their army.

The one I remember and like is that they had too many days’ vacation.

The article I read theorized that when days off work exceeded days spent working, it is only a matter of time before an empire collapses.

The Roman Circus certainly qualifies, much as do the Hunger Game series.

Roughin It

Our family is finalizing plans for the nine of us to return to Door County for our annual vacation.  We have had to make plans around Sean’s family vacations, which include: a trip to Orlando next week with Cecelia’s extended family to a time-share her father owns; a trip for her girls to Singapore to visit their natural father, a side trip from Door County to see the World Champion Cubs, and Tim’s summer vacation, which returns him to work in August.

Sean and Cecelia also were able to use our play tickets in New York when my health took a south turn and caused us to cancel the GNYDM, the five of us took a day in San Francisco to celebrate the Battle of Midway and Sean and Cecelia’s anniversary.

If summer vacation were extended, Sean might come close to that 50-50 work split.

I don’t begrudge them their trip plans.  They are fortunate to be able to have the time off work. When I was in the Navy, we got 30 days a year, but no one took all of them.  At 60 days, further accumulated days dropped off, so I had 60 days on the books when I retired.  My days at WellPoint were much the same, although when I started with them Sick Days were separate from Personal Days.  I remember when I retired the doorbell rang and I had a check for $15,000 for unused personal days.  A VERY pleasant surprise!

As a teacher in the Diocese, Tim has a use it or lose it policy on his personal days.  That benefits me because he uses many of his days restoring his mental health by golfing.

I heard recently that Middle Class is now defined as having time and money sufficient to take a vacation.  Upper Class was defined as having the means to buy a boat.  While we never owned a boat, we were able to ski as a family in the winter and SCUBA as a family in the summer for several years.  The memories for all of us have filled a lifetime.

When I wrote my book Harnessing a Heritage part of the motivation and all of the format was to instill in my grandsons a sense of their own heritage.  That has been a grand success, as they look forward to their vacations now with anticipation of familiar places and things to do.

Hopefully when and if they have their own families the tradition will continue.

In my next Post, I will recall somethings about dance that I remember and why I remember them.  I hope you can join me now that I am writing again.

Guillermo del Toro

Mary and I belong to several Museums.  Some local, like the Orange County Museum of Art and Bowers.  Others far distant, like the Haggerty Museum on the Marquette campus. Several in Los Angeles, most, purchased because of a certain exhibit that we wanted to see or that we wanted our grandchildren to see.  That explains LACMA with Van Gogh and the Natural History Museum with the Space shuttle.  The Museum of Latin American Art also falls into that category.

And there are membership perks.

In September of last year, we received notice of a Member’s Only preview of an exhibit soon to open at the Los Angeles County of Museum Art (LACMA). The promotional images were exceptional.  It turns out that they were lifted from several of the films del Toro has directed.

While this might be expected to make the show a disappointment, the fact is anything but.

It turns out that Mr. del Toro is a bit of an eccentric, even by LA standards.  He lives in the Hollywood hills in a seventeen-room house with each room a virtual museum in its own right.  He collects and displays sketches, objects d’art; even costumes and set pieces from his many, unusual films.

Since he was a child in Mexico, he has been fascinated by horror, terror, and fantasy.  This might seem strange for a child raised in a very Catholic upbringing, but he may have been affected by the violence in his home state of Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico.  He is now a self-proclaimed involuntary exile from his native country.

My favorite film he produced is Pan’s Labyrinth but he is also singularly responsible for the Hellboy series and is co-credited for The Hobbit series, although he left the project when MGM had multiple delays from financing problems.

One of the things that made the display unique and memorable was the staging.  There were several stations, each with its own identity: One with costumes from his films, another with film clips of unique sets from his films, a third with clips from the actors in his films, several with artifacts from his home, including early figures of Frankenstein’s Monster.

His obvious love for his country and his Mexican heritage were probably responsible for the collection displayed.  Los Angeles is, after all an essentially Spanish speaking culture.

I was reminded, as we went through the collection, that Museums are changing, as are libraries from traditional collections to collections focused on more timely subjects.  Even libraries now have Curators, who conceive and collect for more interesting events.

I am dedicated to returning to writing my Posts on a more regular basis.  Join me soon for a look at vacations and what they might mean.

Cursive

Recently my grandson celebrated his twelfth birthday.  Mary and I picked out an appropriate card and as usual each penned a short note to celebrate the occasion.  We were surprised when he opened the card and said to our son, “I can’t read this.”

It turns out that in his school they no longer teach cursive.

My son isn’t concerned commenting, “My penmanship was always a little suspect anyway.” Others I have shared this story with also point out that the exercise of writing will be phased out as voice recognition improves.  My wife’s concern as to how they will sign anything prompts a response that few signatures are recognizable anyway.  No one seems concerned that my grandson's one weak point in his development is small motor acuity (developed by learning handwriting).

And it may be more isolated than I think.  Another friend, with a similar-aged child in the same general school system says his son’s school still teaches “handwriting”.

I was reminded of several other periods in my life when major changes in education were predicted to have cataclysmic negative effects.

About 25 years ago there was a major change in secondary education: specifically, Fine Arts practically disappeared from the curricula.  Mary graduated with a degree in Fine Arts and is one of the best-rounded persons I know.  I expected that we would never see books or film that reference the classics, and yet the Coen brothers, not known for their high-minded intellectualism, came out with O Brother Where Art Thou?  Screen credits for story went to Homer.

As the years have gone by, there are many other examples that show the curiosity of the creative mind that have kept the classics alive and an inspiration to current and future generations.

Well before fine arts became unnecessary, I was concerned when Latin was no longer taught in schools.  Mary and I both had at least two years of Latin.  One thought at the time was that Latin provided a foundation for understanding the English language.  I helped in spelling too.  As a matter of fact, I have a better-than-average vocabulary and, while in high school, went to the Regional finals in Spelling competition.

But my older son was in a vocabulary class in high school, taught by a teacher who changed her name and still writes as Elizabeth George.  His vocabulary probably exceeds mine.  As time has passed I find it increasingly difficult to work the phrase “Omnes Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres” into any normal conversation.  Maybe Latin wasn’t as important as I thought it was.

Does anyone here read Script?

I was somewhat concerned when I saw a cartoon in the New Yorker that depicted a group of our Founding Fathers, wigs, quill pens and all, gathered at a table where one of them turns and asks rhetorically, “Does anyone here read Script?”  What if my grandson can’t read the Declaration of Independence?  Luckily, I found a copy of it and the Constitution, perhaps sent to me by Khizr Kahn.  This is printed in block letters.  Whew!

In my next post I will share some recent and not so recent facts I have found on Norman Rockwell.  I think you will find it interesting.    

Pushing Pills

I take fourteen pills a day, only four of which are prescription.  Mary, my wife takes three, two of which are the same kind.  She would actually take five except she doesn’t take pills very easily.  Consequently one of her medications uses a nasal delivery system.

Most articles on pills deal with the need to take them, or the cost of them, or where R&D fits in.   But today I am going to talk about HOW to take them and why, at an advanced age and with nine years of post-graduate education, I learned something from my son.

I was trying to think of when and why I started taking pills.  My mother was a good pill-taker.  She used to chew Aspirin and more than once helped a pill to her stomach by chasing it there with Scotch Whiskey.  She also was interested in the health of her children: didn’t allow coffee until high school, fed me cod-liver oil until I was strong enough to take the spoon away, and taught me to put wheat-germ on my cereal.  Of course we sopped up the grease in the broiler with lightly toasted bread when she grilled well-marbled Iowa beef steaks and wolfed the toast down, chasing it to our young arteries with express train speed.

I started taking more pills early in our marriage when I contracted cold sores, probably from Mary, although she would probably deny that.  I attended a lecture at the Chicago Mid-winter dental meeting on treating Herpes Simplex, and even preventing reoccurrence by taking Bioflavonoid and Lysine.  This was designed mostly just to prevent reoccurrence.  If I had an active lesion, there was other treatment.  In that case I would apply some medication (I think it may have been in the Iodine family) and subject the lip to fluorescent light.  Thinking back on that it sounds like a recipe for cancer, but I didn’t follow that regime very long.  I do, however continue to take the Lysine and Bioflavonoid and believe it works.

Around the same time I started taking another pill that I still take.  Mary had an Uncle Mike, also a dentist.  At one time in my life I found myself going through a reception line and congratulating him on one thing or another.  At the time he must have been in his mid-seventies and looked about fifty.  I commented on this and with a spark in his eye he said, “The secret is Vitamin E.”  I probably have read thirty articles that disclaim that theory, but I still take my daily dose of “E”.  Perhaps coincidently, I still see mostly brown through my thinning grey hair.

Somewhere around my fiftieth birthday I started taking a multivitamin, probably enticed by the “Centrum Silver” label, and sometime five years or so later I faced the inevitable medication control of my cholesterol and blood pressure: two pills each.  And then I had to add enough Calcium and iron to counter the effects of age and the medications I was taking.

Not that long ago I found myself at a meeting in Chicago with a group of peers and discussion revealed that I was the only one not taking something for my aching joints.  Enter Glucosamine.  Now I take something else that is popular at Costco.  Two very big pills a day.  Even a good pill taker has limits.

Watching me gag one evening while taking my ration of nine evening pills, Mary must have felt sympathy, because she shared with me what our son, Tim imparts to his grade school students.  The lesson is to open the throat rather than tossing the pills down.  So, now I tip my chin down after I have a mouthful of water and gently place the pill on my tongue.  It’s almost relaxing to swallow a pill.

So, that’s the secret.  Fill your mouth with a swallow of water, slip a pill in, tuck your chin to your chest and swallow.  I find it helpful to start with the largest pill first.  If I have two of the same size the uncoated one goes first.  I bought a pill-cutter for Mary but it never worked out too well and even coated pills become uncoated when divided.

Most people my age get techy tips from kids or grandkids.  I’m fortunate to get more practical advice, something I can use every day.  Thanks, Tim!

I was going to tell my DMV story today, but it is still playing out, so probably will be a week from now.  Stay with me, the story is worth the wait.

Two-hundred Words for Snow

“What do you want for Mother’s Day?” I asked Mary the other day.  “Anything except pasta”, she said.  Thinking that rather strange, I pursued the matter, and in fact inventoried the pasta in the cupboard to see what she was talking about.

I found dried Capellini, mini Ravioli, Orzo 47 (presumably there are at least 46 other varieties of Orso), Spaghetti, Linguini (regular and whole wheat), Fusilli, Tortellini, Fettuccini, Farfalle (in four colors), Tagliolini (in three colors), a Fantasy package, which had described contents of six colors, and an observed fifteen shapes, and some non-Italian varieties including  Pansit (Filipino), Bahn Pho (Thai rice sticks), and a non-descript egg white pasta with no cholesterol, presumably better for us than what came from Italy.  I would have found Macaroni, but she used it Wednesday night for Mac and Cheese.

I confess most of that came from my Trader Joe purchases, and probably over a long period of time.  One has a short memory of what one stores deep in the pantry, and I do have an inclination to impulse-shop at TJs.  But my exploration started me thinking…

Many years ago, while skiing in New England, a friend shared what may or may not be a truism:  the Aleut language has two-hundred words for snow.  The concept is that if variations are meaningful, new descriptions are necessary to differentiate the variations.  Maybe you can’t drink some snow (I know I wouldn’t).  Maybe some snow makes Igloos and other snow doesn’t.  Maybe some snow stores blubber better than other snow.  You get the idea.  For some reason English doesn’t feel that necessity.  True, in Wisconsin snow is pretty much snow.  It falls, gets shoveled, melts and life goes on.  But even in California where this year a drought was pronounced “over” because the moisture content of the mountain snowpack was 131% of normal instead of normal, the Governor didn’t feel the need to rename that snow.

It just doesn’t seem important.

The Italians need different names for their pasta because they put stuff on it that needs to be featured in the best possible manner.  Some sauces need tubes to deliver the correct amount of sauce.  Some need small shapes or large, flat surfaces, to enhance flavors.  Some need fillings to augment the classic sauce and provide variety.  While I don’t claim to have the best recipe for even the pastas in my pantry, I understand the concept.

Maybe our experience increases our vocabulary.  I know that is true with my six-year old grandson.  I like to think of him as a protected eater.  His parents have always encouraged him to eat familiar foods, under the premise that he would then be more likely to approach a meal as a  communal event.  The fact that it hasn’t worked, doesn’t seem to deter my son from bringing familiar food for Ethan when they join us for the occasional supper.

Ethan’s protein vocabulary is limited when it comes to meat.  He recognizes, eats, and seems to enjoy chicken, hamburger, an occasional hot dog (but does not recognize the word sausage), and lately he has learned to enjoy and even ask for ribs.  Everything else is labeled and spoken of as “steak”.  That includes every kind of traditional beef cuts, commonly called steak, as well as all roasts, tenderloins, and pork of any fashion.

Since he now lives across the street and common meals are becoming more frequent, I don’t mind this affectation, as he seems to be more adventurous in his choices, but I feel the vocabulary limitation may slow down his maturation process in food selection, once he moves out of fast food dining.  Oh, and last week his dad didn’t bring anything and he ate the whole meal; “Could I have some more potatoes?”

In response to Mary’s answer about a Mother’s Day gift, I may change the menu tomorrow from Beer-can Chicken with potatoes, gravy and Fava Beans to some sort of pasta.  Or I may just plan menus for my once-a-week cooking that use some of our supply.

On another note, if you haven’t yet read Billy Collin’s poem, “The Lanyard”  visit http://www.billy-collins.com/2005/06/the_lanyard.html in preparation for Mother’s Day, and get your mind set tuned for the proper appreciation.  You won’t be disappointed.