Friday, November 20, 2009

Plebe Summer - Redux

It is November 20, and I haven't made a posting since September 5. I have had lots to write about, but haven't had the time or energy to do so. I was detailed to a temporary job Downtown, and my pants havebeen on fire since. Simply put, I have adrenalin in my veins and the wind in my face. A project I have been endlessly working on since I arrived seven weeks ago was delivered today, so maybe there will be a break in the pace - at least for the weekend. I have heard that there are times at the Naval Academy when Plebes are deliberately loaded up with more things than they could ever get done in the time allotted, just so they can learn to prioritize under pressure. I guess I am living my middle-aged second young adulthood - my own Plebe Summer.

It is great to have the opportunity to contribute to something much bigger than I ever would have expected to do. Each day it is a half-of-an-hour drive to the New Carrollton Metro Station, and then another 30 minutes to the Smithsonian stop on the Mall. Each morning it is the Washington Monument a distance down Jefferson Street while I walk to the Whitten Building entrance, past the USDA Peoples Garden. The legs of the commute on Metro aren't so bad because on the way into work, I get to prepare my notes for my daily morning brief with my boss, and on the way home, I get caught up with my emails on my Blackberry(1).

At times these past weeks, things come so fast that I sit in front of my computer screen staring straight ahead trying to think which of five tasks that have to be done now I should do first - all the while the emails with parts of the project keep coming in, someone comes in asking for the testimony responses, staff meetings to attend, phone calls to answer, visitors wanting to meet.....other random drive-by distractions.....and then this past Wednesday, just when I am ready to leave early at 4:00 PM.... knowing what I am working on isn't due until Friday.... an email request from the Secretary's office, "send what you have revised by 5:00." Instead of my wife and me catching a quick dinner at home, we rendezvoused in the driveway of the house we were meeting with some friends at 7:00.... and she brought me a couple of tacos wrapped in foil for dinner.

The project had to be "done" today by 10:00 AM, so when I went to bed last night, I knew I had to get up early or there was no way to get it done. The alarm was set for 5:00 AM, but when I woke up at 2:00 the adrenalin release in me (sans any wind) brought me completely to attention: the modified outline clear in my head, the strategy for re-organizing the pieces that took a month to write in place. By 3:00 I was sitting at my laptop and telling myself I knew what I had to do first,.... second,.... third.... assuring myself it will get done. About 5:30 things were in control, I headed to the shower, dressed, and was commuting, with an arrival at the office by 7:00.

Tonight we served eight Midshipmen dinner: three Firsties, two Youngsters, and three Plebes. The Firsties will all be Naval Aviators(2). The Plebes - dressed alike in their navy-colored Navy sport shirts and khaki slacks - well, the adrenalin runs fast in their veins, and I hope the wind always blows at their backs as they sail on fair seas into their futures. As for me, I get to quietly sit back and watch and listen to their tales - relaxing, trying to slow down for a weekend of sleep and gardening in the middle of my own Plebe experience.
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(1) Early this past week I was so engrossed in an email I was composing, that when we got to the end of the Orange Line, I didn't get off and didn't notice until I realized the train was heading "backwards" to D.C. The damage wouldn't have been more than 10 minutes lost, other than one of the secretaries from work emailed me the next morning asking what happened....I didn't figure on a witness.

(2) I received an email this past week from someone at work congratulating me about our son being selected Naval Aviation, along with a request that I pass on to him that "those decks don't stay in the same place all the time." I replied thanks, and wrote that he knows, with a recommendation for the movie "Speed and Angels" found at: http://www.hulu.com/speed-and-angels It is the kind of movie that motivates pilots-to-be, and gives mothers of pilots-to-be one more things to worry about. Go Navy.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Yesterday's News

It is not too often that I write to my elected officials asking them to respond to events I become aware of in the news - last night was one of those times. With email, it is much easier than before when snail mail was the preferred media. I never use those appeal-for-action form-letters that are forwarded by friends to everyone on their mail list - I know those are pretty much ignored - rather make it personal, and let it go, it's not personal - it's just business. I did this sometime ago about something I had read about concerning expanded stem cell research and all the benefits it was going to bring, so wrote to one of the Senators who was opposing that approach - I got a nice personal letter back from Senator Kennedy.

The item of controversy this time was created by the Associated Press news agency - News in the news. I really hope the controversial photographer doesn't get a Pulitzer Prize. Below I have pasted in the American Forces Press Service report from the Department of Defense Website as reference so as to not give credit to the for-profit press. I am bullish about the service Federal Agencies provide our society - I know I am biased because I am a Fed myself. At the bottom of this blog following the news release are the letters I sent to my two U.S. Senators, and our President.

Gates Objects to News Photo of Dying Marine

American Forces Press Service
WASHINGTON, Sept. 4, 2009

Defense Secretary Robert M. Gates used the strongest terms in trying to persuade the Associated Press to refrain from running a graphicpicture of a Marine taken shortly after the service member was wounded in southern Afghanistan, Pentagon Press Secretary Geoff Morrell said here today. Lance Cpl. Joshua M. Bernard later died on the operating table Aug. 14. The Marine’s family in New Portland, Maine, asked the Associated Press not to run the photo, which was taken by Julie Jacobson, who was embedded with the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines, in Afghanistan’s Helmand province. The AP put out a series of photographs of the Marine patrol, and Gates objected to one showing Bernard clearly in anguish while being treated. He had just been hit in the legs by a rocket-propelled grenade.

When Gates heard the AP was going to send the photo to its subscribers, he called Thomas Curley, president and chief executive officer of the news service, asking him to pull the photo, Morrell said.

Morrell quoted the secretary as saying to Curley, “I’m begging you to defer to the wishes of the family. This will cause them great pain.”

Curley told the secretary he would reconvene his editorial team to re-examine the release. The secretary followed his call with a letter to AP.

“I cannot imagine the pain and suffering Lance Corporal Bernard’s death has caused his family,” the secretary wrote. “Why your organization would purposefully defy the family’s wishes knowing full well that it will lead to more anguish is beyond me. Your lack of compassion and common sense in choosing to put this image of their maimed and stricken child on the front page of multiple American newspapers is appalling. The issue here is not law, policy or constitutional right – but judgment and common decency.”

Curley got back to Morrell later yesterday afternoon and said his crew had “seriously considered the secretary’s concerns and the families concerns … but ultimately decided that they wanted to proceed with pushing out this image to their clients,” Morrell said.

Morrell said Gates was extremely disappointed that the Associated Press did not adhere to the wishes of the family. The vast majority of news outlets did not run the photo, he added.

_______________________________________________

Dear Senator Mikulski,

and

Dear Senator Cardin,

Please see the news report at: http://www.comcast.net/articles/news-general/20090904/Afghan.Death.AP.Photo/

I am very concerned with the behavior of the Associate Press, particularly with the requests of the Secretary of Defense for AP to not do so. I would appreciate any efforts that you can to express displeasure with the Associated Press as well. I have a son who served four years in the Army, and another who is now a Midshipman at the Naval Academy. Our sympathies and prayers are with the family of Lance Cpl. Joshua Bernard.

Sincerely,

/s/


Dear President Obama,

I wish to compliment the recent stand that Secretary Gates took in protesting the behavior of the Associate Press concerning their publishing the photograph of a fallen Marine in Afghanistan. I would appreciate any efforts that you can to express displeasure with the Associated Press as well.

My wife and I have a son who served four years in the Army, and another who is now a Midshipman at the Naval Academy, so our sensitivities run deep for the honor of our service men and women who have volunteered, and for the sacrifices that their families make. Thank you for your confidence in such leaders as Secretary Gates.

Our sympathies and prayers are with the family of Lance Cpl. Joshua Bernard.

Sincerely,

/s/

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Finding Neverland

In my mind, our backyard is just a bit like the English garden scene towards the end of the movie Finding Neverland - the part where the Johnny Depp character wheels the Kate Winslet character into a fantasy-like world filled with gentle beasts, fairies, and other creatures that Peter Pan would appreciate. Our inspiration comes from the garden at Heart's Ease (1) which is one of our favorite shops to visit when we vacation on the Central California Coast in Cambria. Jan and I love to sit on our patio when the weather is not unbearably hot and humid, and enjoy our evening dinner, and on weekends, breakfast. Trees towards the back of the yard block the view of Georgetown East Elementary School beyond our fence, and provides a green backdrop to the gravel paths and plantings we have installed, all serviced by a drip irrigation system to ensure that the occasional dry periods in summer are supplemented by artificial rain between summer thunder showers.

And what respectable Neverland cottage garden would be complete without a managerie of wild beasts, fowl, and bugs just waiting to be described. Since we are relatively new comers to the East Coast, near the Chesapeake Bay, like naturalists of old in the nineteenth century, we are assembling a compilation of species and their descriptions - sans stuffed specimens to later document their authenticity.

Birds of the Sky:

The Tufted Titmouse is among the smallest of birds seen in our yard. It is known to frequent our bird feeder occasionally. Most notable is its hair style, much like Sting in his old days with the band Police. Though its call is "Peter, Peter, Peter", I would gladly borrow from Paul, to pay Peter and catch more glimpses of this little might than the more common birds seen in our yard.

The Ruby Throated Hummingbird is the only hummingbird species west of the Rockie Mountains which contrasts greatly with the diversity of species we saw in the west. As a side note, when doing research experiments in red clover seed fields across the Willamette Valley - 53 sites over a three year period - two years in a row I saw hundreds of Anna's Hummingbirds swarming over the lavender-colored flowers sipping the nectar of each small floret. In our small garden, we have only seen a few of the plain-colored throated females. Hopefully, the new feeder we recently purchased will draw more.

Not to be confused with the tufted titmouse, the White-breasted Nuthatch is true to its form as described in my "Birds of Maryland & Deleware Field Guide" by Stan Tekiela. A few weeks ago, Jan and I observed two of these little wonders flying from their perch on the top of the fence between our yard and our neighbor Linda's, to the bird feeder that hangs from a tall crooked hook mounted on a pole that has been specially engineered to with a hood to prevent the Eastern Gray Squirrel (see description below) from shimmying up to the catch of seeds. The nuthatches would grab one seed, fly back to their perch, and then proceed to crack the seed open with repeated blows with their beaks. These little wonders should be more obvious in winter, since they also occupy environs of western Maryland in winter.

One morning before taking my shower, as I usually do I looked out our master bathroom window and down at the finch feeder in the flower bed next to our patio, and saw for no more than 3.4 seconds, a Piliated Woodpecker land, pick-a-peck-of....well a seed or two, and then fly out of the yard. That was a large bird, much like the Walter Lantz Woody Woodpecker (2) that I remember which occupied the black and white television set in my parent's Central Valley, California home when I was young. Friends who live in Oklahoma who have a five acre yard that is occupied by large metal sculptures - one of which resembles a large, many toothed bottom fish - claim the call of the piliated kind of woodpecker greatly resembles that of the television kind's call.

The Northern Carninal - known as the Red Bird by my Southern friend from Alabama who now lives in Arkansas - was first seen by this native Californian, who was displaced to Oregon for 17 years and then promoted and transferred to the East Coast, while lying on a queen-sized mattress with the master bedroom blinds drawn wide open on a Saturday morning, in a leafless cherry tree before his mate joined him - the human kind - in late-winter or early-spring. The only thing that can be said: what a delight. It is easy to see why the early English settlers to eastern North America were impressed by the colors of the new birds seen in their new world. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are frequent visitors to "our" bird feeder, and are very territorial about "their" garden.

Among the largest of our back yard visitors, the Mourning Doves live peacefully among the plenty of seeds that are scattered from the bird feeder above by birds that at times are not peaceful at all (see description of the common grackel below). I have counted as many as seven at a time walking back and forth across the ground, bobbing their heads and cooing as they fill their crop to the brim. The doves I hunted on the farm when I was young were much like these close cousins, only now I would never think of wanting to shoot them out of the air in the early September morning or evening after flying back from harvested grain fields to native trees that lined the dry creek beds that cut through valley-bottom pastures where hereferd and angus cows rested in the shade. Such little bites of meat that were baked in my mom's oven, after plucking, and gutting, and washing under the faucet on the northeast corner of the barn behind our house. I cannot remember if the limit was 10 or 12 birds per day, but as I remember, my younger brother Dan was a better shot than me.

I read today in my book "Of a Feather * A Brief History of American Birding" that the House Sparrow was an introduced species to North America. It was quite the craze at the time in the mid-1800's to introduce species from one continent to another - and quite the debate as well. Regardless, this simple brown bird has a beautiful song, and flies in and out or our yard with great frequency. Though I have never seen it happen, these little critters are quite aggressive and will kill the young of other birds to take over a nest - sort of a gremlin of the bird world.

The House Finch is a simple, but recognizable by its rusty red head, but in no way confused with the Piliated or Walter Lantz Woody Woodpecker. We were welcomed many mornings to the sound of a house finch that had a nest in the wall across from the headboard of our bed in our second floor bedroom. For two seasons we heard the scratching and pecking and eventually the muffled sounds of chirping young house finches. A year ago we had our house painted, but before the painters came, I pulled out our extension ladder and plugged the hole - we could hear the sounds of house finches hovering and trying to get a foot hold, but to no avail. Our neighbor John, on that side of our house, hasn't paid close attention to his visitors, so we still can see nesting house finches, but in his wall instead.

The Hairy Woodpecker, or could it be the Downy Woodpecker - it is only a matter of whether there are two red spots on the back of the head or a continuous red band - visits our finch feeder and proves only a rare appearance. Its black and white checkered coat gives it the appearance of Las Vegas lounge lizard with a red comb-over at the back of its head. With woodpeckers around, there is always the worry that they could decide to be urban developers and provide prime real estate for displaced house finches that have been evicted by evil tenement landlords.

After the Eastern Cardinal, the Gray Catbird is my sentimental favorite of the eastern fowl. As I first began to establish the flower beds in the back yard, a gray catbird followed behind, picking insect larvae out of the soil hours on end. Most notable was what appeared to be a closely cropped haircut around the sides of its head, with slightly longer darker-colored "hair" on top. In honor of our soldiers and marines with similar haircuts, we dubbed the gray catbird: Mr. High-and-Tight. His name - catbird - is fitting, because with some frequency we hear the sounds of cats perched in our trees. As for the grubs the catbirds were likely picking up - Japanese beetles (adult see below).

The Common Grackle is the pig of the bird world. They fly into the feeder, shovel the seed every direction but into their mouths, and then fly away, only to return again and repeat the cycle. If not for their manners, these birds are beautiful with an iridescent blue-black head and a purple-brown long body. They seem to travel in large numbers, as many as seven or ten at at time in our backyard. The best defense of bird feeders seems to be deprivation - don't feed them, they don't come; feed them, and they will come - in that regards, somewhat like Midshipmen, but without manners.

Another messy eater, the Blue Jay can cause as much havoc to a full bird feeder as a grackle, but their transgressions are more easily over looked because of the beautiful bright-blue coloration. They too can arrive in packs, and scatter seeds all over the created garden. One redeeming aspect of this behavior (as well as that of the grackle) is the obvious co-evolution over many millenium of this species with lower-on-the-food-chain species such as the mourning dove and gray squirrel that depend on poor table manners of the higher species for their subsistence.(3)

The American Robin, like the gray catbird, benefited greatly from the tillage of garden soil to establish the garden. Unlike the catbird that seemed to relish insect larvae, the robin prefers worms. According to news reports, the robin populations have been greatly reduced due to this species' susceptibility to West Nile Virus. Our robins seem to be doing just fine, other than the lack of an abundance of juicy worms.

Perhaps the most sought after bird in the garden for viewing, the American Goldfinch lives year-round in the garden vicinity. The males are especially striking because of their bright yellow color. The females have a more subtle green hue, the same as which the males have during the winter. It is important to check the special finch feeder to be sure the summer rains have not turned the seed inside into a brick of seed which is not desirable to finch, just as empty hummingbird feeders are to hummingbirds. As many as four or five goldfinches can be seen on two feeders at a time. This species announces its arrival with a simple chirp, and flies in an interesting, darting fashion, typically to view the feeder where it had just flow from, and then viewing again the feeder to where it will fly next.

Beasts of the Land:

The Eastern Box Turtle is known to inhabit various natural covers in the garden including the pallet that the compost bin sits on top of and under various shrubbery (4). When its hiding place is discovered by an unexpecting gardener pulling weeds - typically when the box turtle moves it prehistoric reptilian head - the gardener will go into self-defense flight behavior immediately after leaving a clear yellow liquid between himself and the reptile to thwart being followed while in flight. Initially the naming of this species "Mr. Slowski" by the gardener's wife seemed appropriate and very creative, but the gardener was humiliated when he discovered the same-named species on Cable Television commercials preceded the wife's naming of the species - this too caused the gardener to desire going into flight mode, but hung in there and had a good laugh.

There are more than enough Gray Squirrels in our yard at a time to fill a stew pot. These rascals will likely be the culprits who prevent urban agriculture from being a viable enterprise, at least in this part of Annapolis. For two seasons, our peach trees that are destined for espalier like the ones at Mount Vernon, have been picked bare. This past spring, a squirrel must have wanted to rub it in our face, because a single pit rested on the top of a fence plank - perfectly balanced, gleaming under a clear blue sky. The only consolation is that they are observed to take bark mulch bathes in late summer, so perhaps the other pestilence will prevail on their sleek little bodies. One must be careful when putting out expensive bird feeder poles that are fitted with devices to prevent them from climbing up to the feeder - when such poles are placed within jumping range of overhanging branches, fences, or shrubbery, the garden owner must either treat squirrels as doves in Central California (see above under Mourning Dove), or move the pole.

Eastern Cottontail Rabbits eat young azalea shrubs......and newly planted blueberry bushes......and $7.00 a pot echinacea plants shortly after transplanting....and countless who-knows-what-else-failed-in-the-English-cottage-garden. Other than that, this species provides one of the closest links to the enchantment of the garden shown towards the end of Finding Neverland movie. Both young cottontails and adult cottontails can be found in the garden, especially in spring. Rarely are they found splattered in the road like squirrels. It has also been observed when given the opportunity to slam one of these beasts with the backside of a shovel, it is best not to ask your wife for permission. Due to this fact, it will be a long time until this species becomes endangered in our English cottage garden ecosystem.

Winged Insects in the Air:

Monarch Butterfly. I remember a quarter mile long row of fig trees that lined the dirt road on my dad's farm which led back to the cattle corrals, squeeze pen, and ramp for loading the cattle onto trucks to either take to far pastures, or to market. It was along this road one winter when my dad's horse slipped on a quick turn to head off a bolting cow and fell on his leg, producing compound fracture. When I rode up, Dad told me to get off my horse and run home and get Mom, and tell her to call an ambulance because he had broken his leg. My mom still recants years later how she responded she would take the car, but I protested and said that wouldn't do because his leg was broken off.

I remember one year the fig trees were swarming with Monarch Butterflies during their migration north from Mexico. We lived 302 miles from the Mexico-U.S. border, so our trees must have been an Interstate freeway rest stop, still, quite a feat for such delicate insects. I also remember going back to my house and getting my butterfly net and a canning jar with cotton balls soaked in lighter fluid so I could capture and collect as many of these travelers as possible for posterity, not too unlike Victorian era naturalists who shot and stuffed their specimens for display at world exhibitions in great cities, or maybe even for the Smithsonian Institution or other museums of learning and wonder for young barefoot boys.

The Eastern Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly looks the same to me as the Oregon Swallowtail butterfly. Both frequent impatience blossomes, roses, marigolds, and such. As far back as I can remember, the yellow swallowtail butterflies were real butterflies. The sulfur butterflies, both white and yellow, were not real butterflies - real butterflies have spectacular-sized wings and are bright colored, or have interesting patterns on their wings. As a child, they are worth pursuing, capturing, asphyxiating in jars filled with petroleum distillates. As an adult, they are worthy of viewing for unlimited amounts of time, to just get to know them - let them be undisturbed as the light gently from one flower to the next, like sampling all the dishes at an all-you-can-eat buffet, but somehow their waistline stays trim.

The Spicebrush Swallowtail Butterfly was a new find in the Neverland cottage garden. When doing this research, I had to confirm that indeed, in the wild, there are bright-blue colored spots on the lower part of the wings - I was first impressed by the dark black that dominates their wing color. Like the swallowtails and monarches, the spicebrush quietly floats from one flower to the next. Like a good backpacker hiking through virgin wilderness, walks lightly along invisible trails through the air.

Japanese Beetle. "So that's what is eating our rose buds." This inhabitant of the eastern garden was not known to the western Willamette Valley, Oregon gardener. There the only rosebud eaters were White Tailed Deer who roamed the Corvallis suburbs in the coastal mountain foothills. Before six-foot fences or fenced off patios, the gardener could easily loose not only rows of annual flowers planted in bordering beds, but also succulent rose buds and leaves - typically right before full bloom was about to happen. The remedy for Japanese Beetles is much less expensive than deer fences - a simple $5 phermone trap fitted with a small black plastic bag which must seem like Dante's Inferno when an unlucky victim is swallowed up by the black abyss right below the artificial scent of its mate - without the passion.

Common Buckeye Butterfly (Junonia coenia) is found in all parts of the United States except the Northwest states. For me as a child, it was a special treat to see one, and reading a reference about butterflies, I now realize that I had missed it all those years in Oregon. An important trivial fact is that the Common Buckeye was featured on the 2006 United States Postal Service 24-cent postage stamp. Such knowledge is critical is one is serious about wanting to win parlor games.

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(1) The Weblink for Heart's Ease is: http://www.heartseaseshop.com/

(2) For a more complete description of the Walter Lantz Woody Woodpecker, see the link at: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Lantz

(3) Still to be worked out in this theory is what role expensive bird feeder poles fitted with access denial devices had in the evolution of squirrel behavior, particularly it impact on their reach from convenient jumping platforms provided by elements of English cottage gardens.

(4) For a re-enactment of the first documented need for shrubbery to be used in English cottage gardens, see the link at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2UbtcmjfKa8

Friday, August 21, 2009

Just a Little Hospitality

As I merged onto Route 50 on my way to work this morning, I noticed a hearse in my side mirror coming up from behind in the middle of the three lanes. I now drive my new Prius for economy mileage by using the heads-up display gauges in the dashboard, so I don't accelerate like I used to - there is nothing like getting 55 miles to the gallon. As the hearse passed me, I saw a flag draped coffin inside, and following close behind was a dark Ford Focus - likely a military escort I thought - I didn't feel like listening to the rest of the long version of Creedence Clearwater's Susie Q on the XM Satellite radio station I was tuned into. I turned off the radio and pulled in behind the subcompact Ford, what was likely a rental. There was no need to go my typical 75 miles per hour - 69 would do fine - I had a good idea where they were heading, west on Route 50 towards Washington. It was like I had seen this before.

I am usually slow wanting to see new movies. For me, it is such a big commitment to get into the plot, get to know the characters, and figure out whether their chemistry is going to work. It was the same way when I caught glimpses of advertisements for HBO's Taking Chance, I didn't have a clue what that movie was about - another military story. There may have been mention of Taking Chance on the Naval Academy Parent's list serve, I don't really remember, but by the weekend it was to show on television, I wanted to see it.

Taking Chance is a gut breaker. I sobbed off and on throughout the entire movie, and have watched it four or five times since then. I am getting better at handling it emotionally - but still not all that much better - Jan asks me each time from another room why I keep torturing myself - she doesn't want to watch.

The hearse and trailing car stayed in the center lane most of the 15 miles from Annapolis, through Bowie, and to I-495 - I stayed close behind, close enough to see the Delaware license plate - that made it more likely they had come from Dover Air Force Base. I had known of Dover, but when the first clandestine photographs of flag-draped coffins coming in from Iraq hit the news, I began to understand what the base represents. When our Army son was first posted at Fort Myer, he made a couple of "Dover Runs" in Blackhawk helicopters to escort fallen soldiers from Dover to Arlington - that was before he was assigned to the Tomb of the Unknowns - these soldiers where Knowns. By now, there have been many similar escorts to all points of the country - to date, 5127 fallen service men and women have been received back in the U.S.

If not for Taking Chance, I would not have fully grasped what I caught a glimpse of when I first got on the freeway. But the methodical detail of the journey Lance Corporal Chance Phelps made from Iraq to Dubois, Wyoming is fixed in my memory for life - a hearse, the flag, a trailing rental car, now me following - like the procession in the movie: not in a hurry, not wanting to pass, a part of a procession, but not with my headlights on - it was just a little thing I could do. As we got to the Beltway interchange, the hearse and I merged into the lane to Richmond, I-495 S. I could tell that the escort was a little panicked by the way he kept looking back over his right shoulder for a way to pull back in behind the hearse - I briefly saw a young soldier with close cropped hair in his Class B Dress Uniform. I slowed down and held up the cars behind me, making space between the hearse and me so the escort could slide in between us. As he fell in behind the hearse, I made my next merge to the I-495 N lane as the two others continued in the south-bound exit, pretty much confirming they were likely headed to Arlington National Cemetery - me, I was on my way to Beltsville.

The meaning of the word hospitality in Greek is to show kindness to strangers. That is what I thought about when I was following behind the short procession in front of me. Two strangers I will never know: one a fallen soldier and the other an Army escort; me not rushing to work, quietly following, yielding to a car needing to keep pace, a soldier doing his duty as his Nation asks him to do, on their way to a quiet place for rest.

The detailed story of Chance Phelp's journey written by Lt. Col. Mike Strobl (USMC, ret.) can be found at: http://www.chancephelps.org/?page_id=126

Be sure to watch the movie Taking Chance, it is out on video.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Fireflies Illustrated

One of the few positives about hot and humid summer days here in the east is the appearance of fireflies (1). I think I became aware of these little beetles when I first rode the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Those little faux creatures were probably light emitting diodes hanging from black-colored wires that gave the appearance of small Christmas lights strung out across the bayou - blinking on and off to the plucked stings of a banjo. My next encounter was as a graduate student trying to repeat seed energetics experiments using a liquid scintillation counter. A carefully measured amount of luciferin-luciferase (2) reagent was injected from a micro-syringe into a cocktail of ground up sugarbeet seeds and chemical buffers in the hope that the resulting amount of light that glowed was proportional to the amount of active adenosine triphosphate (ATP) in the seeds - an indicator of the energy capacity of the sample. The relevance of all this is that the source of the glowing concoction was none other than fireflies that were raised for their abdomens in a controlled environment by a chemical supply company - they gave their all for science.

For those poor little ones - there was no justice.

Jump ahead 25 years, it was early June 2006 and my wife was making final preparations for her move East to join me. On my way West to join up, attend our youngest's high school graduation, watch the movers pack up our house and turn our keys over to the new owners, see our second grandson born, then fly back to Maryland, and three days later deliver our son to the Naval Academy - I went south to Georgia to do location visits at two of my agency's laboratories, and speak at a conservation society meeting in the mountains north of Atlanta. After arriving at Watkinsville, one of my friends at the laboratory invited me to join him and his wife for dinner at their home - Southern hospitality. After sitting out on their back deck - perched over a steep grade that dropped down through the woods to a creek - and having an enjoyable dinner and conversation, my host offered to show me the front yard. We went through the house and out the front door where to my amazement was a stunning display of twinkling lights covering the shrubs and trees. When I asked Harry how he had set out all of those twinkle lights, he just laughed and said: "Those aren't twinkle lights, those are lightning bugs!" - it may as well have been a Southerner taking a city-raised Yankee out for a snipe hunt (3). Even this past week, three years later, he mentioned that he had told someone that story about me.

The bug's revenge - there is justice in the world.

Regardless of how hot and humid the day, I know that the pleasure of fireflies' company will be the summer's treat - I can count on it. Whether taking a walk down the street in the neighborhood, or sitting in the backyard with the patio light off.... the silent, cool flashes of these floating wonders against a dark background will be there - an evening display well worth the wait (4).

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(1) Lampyridae is a family of insects in the beetle order Coleoptera. They are winged beetles, and commonly called fireflies or lightning bugs for their conspicuous crepuscular use of bioluminescence to attract mates or prey. Fireflies are capable of producing a "cold light", containing no ultraviolet or infrared rays. This chemically-produced light, emitted from the lower abdomen, may be yellow, green, or pale red in color, and has a wavelength from 510 to 670 nanometers.

There are more than 2,000 species of firefly found in temperate and tropical environments around the world. Many species can be found in marshes or in wet, wooded areas where their larvae have abundant sources of food. These larvae can also emit light and are often called "glowworms", particularly in Eurasia. In the Americas, "glow worm" also refers to the related Phengodidae.

(2) In luminescent reactions, light is produced by the oxidation of a luciferin (a pigment):

luciferin + O2 → oxyluciferin + light

The most common luminescent reactions release CO2 as a product. The rates of this reaction between luciferin and oxygen are extremely slow until they are catalyzed by luciferase, sometimes mediated by the presence of cofactors such as calcium ions or ATP. The reaction catalyzed by firefly luciferase takes place in two steps:

luciferin + ATP → luciferyl adenylate + PPi

luciferyl adenylate + O2 → oxyluciferin + AMP + light

The reaction is very energetically efficient: nearly all of the energy input into the reaction is transformed into light. As a comparison, the incandescent light bulb loses about 90% of its energy to heat.

(3) A snipe hunt, a type of practical joke that involves experienced people making fun of newcomers by giving them an impossible or imaginary task. The origin of the term is a practical joke where inexperienced campers are told about a bird or animal called the snipe as well as a usually ridiculous method of catching it, such as running around the woods carrying a bag or making strange noises. Incidentally, the snipe (a family of shorebirds) is difficult to catch for experienced hunters, so much so that the word "sniper" is derived from it to refer to anyone skilled enough to shoot one.

(4) The numbers of fireflies where we live are not at all as great, so the displays here are not as spectacular as the one I saw in Georgia. But here the advantage is I can watch and concentrate on only one or a few at a time - following each one's path, either slowly flying on a calm night or invisibly catapulted by a breeze between flashes to the next sighting. The pleasure of studying one here is inversely proportional to the attention to each in a great crowd, but together they provide the same collective pleasure as watching one alone.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Dan in Real Life/Haiku

I do a lot of reading. Since moving to the East Coast three years ago, much of that content has been American History, since these places I drive past, and to, and from, are connected to times much older than my experience out west. It is amazing how much of history is intertwined with conflict, and the biographies of great leaders and common people alike revolve around the wars of those and these times. George Washington fascinates me: I live in the capital city of Maryland where he resigned his commission from the Army after the Revolutionary War; I work near the Federal center of government that carries his name; drive on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway; and I see the Washington Monument every time I come up out of the Mall Exit at the Smithsonian Metro Station. I love to visit Mount Vernon, his restored estate, where near the memorial that honors his African-American slaves, is the columbarium that holds his and Martha's crypts and an obelisk engraved with the name Col. John Augustine Washington, C.S.A. Also, I am most fond of Arlington National Cemetery, where at its highest land point is the Lee Mansion where another famous general resigned one commission, and accepted another - the same army as Col. Washington - married to the great grand daughter of Martha, whose father adored his step grand father, our first President (1). The longer the record of family histories, the greater the opportunity for drama and heartbreak to occur, perhaps even more so for the lives of great leaders.

In addition to various books related to work and business that I also read, at times I pick up on some pretty random themes - though in retrospect when looking back over this blog, it turns out that they too are historic by nature. For example, a friend from work recommended a title "Casting a Spell: The Bamboo Fly Rod and the American Pursuit of Perfection" by George Black, which is an account of the history of the American bamboo fly rod makers. Another book I happened on that I have been working through slowly is "Of a Feather: A Brief History of American Birding" by Scott Weidensaul (2). However, a completely random pursuit of mine has been to investigate haiku - a Japanese style of poetry. I don't know what was triggered in my mind, but for some reason I just wanted to read up on it. About a year and a half ago, I bought a book that described and gave examples of different styles of poetry, of which haiku was one. But no matter how many times over the last year I have gone back to those pages, I never seemed to get what haiku was about, and visions of original haiku never appeared.

A month ago, and for what ever reason, I put "haiku" in the Amazon book title search, and saw several promising titles, and even more promising tables of content - I never judge or buy a book by its cover. I ended up settling on W.J. Higginson's "The Haiku Handbook: How to Write, Share, and Teach Haiku" (1985, Kodansha International, Tokyo. I was disappointed when it arrived in the mail because it turned out to be a paperback and pocket book-sized. Also, when I opened it up and browsed quickly through it, I thought it was going to be pretty dry ..... but was I wrong. With the blend of history about the haiku masters, the short narratives highlighting the evolution in its forms, and the great examples, all made the book stimulating reading - at least to me. However, it took a flying vacation to Oregon and back, sitting through the jury selection process at the U.S. District Court in Baltimore, and slowly pouring through the first 47 pages until I began to get a feeling in my head for the flow of what haiku is, and how to construct ones.

Below is my first haiku. It is not a wholly traditional one (no seasonal reference, and not with formalist 5-7-5 structure), but it is three lines and 17 syllables - not too bad for a first try, if I say so myself (3). I composed it while laying on my son's couch after watching as he returned with his high school church youth group from a mission trip to Pueblo Country. The convoy of vans arrived together, filled with kids and volunteers who trekked together in procession from Oregon to Arizona and back. Having slowly read the haiku examples, my thoughts began to collect around the images I had just seen earlier that afternoon - in living haiku.

The vans return
Across the upper lot
His children run to Daddy

The accompanying photograph helps make the meaning of the haiku lines more clear than a pure haiku'ist would want to do. But then, looking at the trees in the background and kinds of clothes everyone was wearing, you don't need a literary clue to hint at what is the season (4), or need to guess the result of the anticipation of the three kids, and Mom, to having Daddy back home. Perhaps, a snap shot photograph, itself is another form of haiku.

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(1) To experience how the histories of George Washington, Robert E. Lee, and Arlington National Cemetery crisscross, see the National Geographic Society video: "Arlington: Field of Honor." There are also 4.2 seconds of content where this video visually crisscrosses our family history - connected through our Army son.

(2) The later of the two books is appropriate, because my wife has titled her blog "Empty Nesters", because this is our stage of life since moving to Annapolis: http://emptynestersonwindwhisperlane.blogspot.com

(3) The point of haiku is not the content of the experience, but the quality of experience, and of perception. The Haiku Handbook, p. 91.

(4) Summer, July in Oregon, long past the time of cherry blossoms.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Happy Cows Come from Mars

We are merely placeholders in the landscape. If not for the names of places, much of what we see has changed with time. Scenes we remember of these places would seem to always be there - last forever - but given enough time are gradually rearranged or suddenly shifted. In the end, things will never be the same again, and likely never return to what they had been, no matter how long the wait. Given enough time, even with the same names, places change so much they would now be unrecognizable to past inhabitants - strange as images transmitted from a neighboring planet, after a successful NASA rover landing. For me, Wisconsin is one of those places.

Some cultures have an oral tradition for passing on their history to future generations - my mom must be from one of those people groups. As far back as I can remember, I have known about Wisconsin through the stories or short comments she made as I was growing up. As I drove recently from the Milwaukee Mitchell Field airport to visit my Uncle Gordon while on the way to a meeting in Madison, the GPS map and road signs bore familiar names: Calumet County, Green Bay, De Pere, Chilton, New Holstein, Brillion, Chilton, Potter, Oshkosh, and Lake Winnebago - a body of water I knew of before there were recreational vehicles. That these names are familiar is somewhat remarkable, because even when taking the shortest driving route, it is still 2,183 miles from my home in Visalia to these places, and my relatives and their lives - etched in my mind because my mom stayed in touch - letters, phone, and occasional visits and returned visits.

Her Wisconsin is the Wisconsin I picture in my mind. She was born in a white house, next to a red dairy barn with silos, near the village of Hilbert - the homestead is more than 150 years old. She had three brothers - Uncle Earl who worked at the Brillion Steel Mill, Uncle Gordon, a World War II Veteran and the Hilbert Postmaster, her kid brother, Uncle Mike, an engineer at Allen-Bradley - and Earl's wife Aunt Rosie, and Mike's wife Aunt Maggie, but Gordon: a life-long bachelor. I remember Grandma and Grandpa on the farm when we visited before I was five; but the farm was sold in 1963, so when I next saw them in 1964, they lived in a house in town, near the village park where the Fourth of July Celebration was held. When my mom and we four kids came through the door, a polka dance show was on the television. Mom's cousin Lucille, always referred to as "Cousin Lucille", was married to Sam, who worked for American Can. They lived in the first twin cities I knew, Neenah and Menasha, until they moved to Connecticut - they were my God Parents. That was the year of the Summer Olympics in Tokyo, when I first became aware of large eastern European women who could throw the shot put great distances; Sam commented so, and I remember it to this day. All of this may have not included me, if not for certain people in irregular orbits having their paths unpredictably cross - like country roads the connect farms and towns and the people that live there.

If not for my grand mother's sister being married to a man whose sister was my dad's mom, and they having another brother who got his wife-to-be pregnant before they were married, that family would not have left Wisconsin and moved to California; and my mom would have had no reason to visit her aunt in Visalia where her aunt's husband's sister lived half of a mile north on another farm and married to a man who was to be my paternal grandfather; and would not have met their son who would chase after my mom all the way back to Wisconsin - 2,183 miles; and eventually marry my mom and which resulted is me - one of three brothers with a sister - a West Coast bookend family the mirror of my mom's Midwest family one generation earlier with the same sibling compliment that is carried forward to the present with my wife's and my clutch: three boys and a girl.

If not for time, Wisconsin, America's Dairyland as the license plates read, should always be a place of dairy farms, corn and alfalfa hay fields, milk trucks, cheese and Sheboygan summer sausage factories.... a land with rivers of beer - Pabst Blue Ribbon and Miller Genuine. Even as my mom migrated west to California, so have many of the black and white holstein cows. So much so, that my home county where my mom now lives is the greatest dairy producing county in the greatest dairy producing state - sans the red barns with clusters of silos and white farm houses with old hand pumps out front that drew water up from wells drilled deep into the dark earth, set upon rolling hills bordered by woods, where the only remnants of the long-gone yellow cheddar cheese wheels are the golden flowered trefoil flowers that line the country roads and interstate freeways that crisscross north and south and east and west - the only similar thing about Wisconsin and California, because the California cows can now speak. But like the times past in Wisconsin, the memories carved in my mind are like the names carved in stone that are found in St. Mary's Cemetery, south of the village, on the highway from Chilton, the place I stop to look at first, the two times I have returned in the last 15 years, like bookends on time - later in midlife, complimenting two times earlier when I first visited as a little one.

If not for highway construction detours that kept me from driving straight west to see Lake Winnebago, I would not have seen the new Wisconsinians - tall white sentinels that tower over the silos surrounded by pastures empty of black and white cows. Against the tall blue sky capped with thunderheads, on the way to Fon du Lac, near the south end of Lake Winnebago, stand new giant engines of industry, whipped by rivers of wind carried over the neighboring bluffs - so quiet and different than roaring rivers of air that stoked the iron smelting furnaces of the Fox River Valley in years gone by, as are the long-gone mill workers, like my Uncle Earl. These giants dominate the rolling hills and red barn landscape, dwarfing the once tall silos, like something machine out of a science fiction short story - likely also to be gone sometime in the future, when even long memories in comparative times are relatively short, sneaking up and passing us when no one expects anything to be different. When these giants are no longer useful, future inhabitants who remember them will either choose to go with the flow, or be drug forward kicking and screaming into the times future - people displaced by events they fail to see or realize, events over which they have no control.

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I was struck by the presence of wind generators that seemed so out-of-place across the Wisconsin landscape near Fon du Lac. I pulled over along the back roads I took for the highway detours on my way to Madison. But then, maybe they are not as out-of-place as the soybean fields growing in the foreground, whose ancestors originated in China, twelve time zones - half-way around the world. For some reason, the first thing that popped into my mind was remembering my reading of the Martian Chronicles way back in high school. There was a time before long ago when instead of taking formal English courses, electives such as Science and Fantasy were offered. Ray Bradbury's collection of short stories around the theme of Earth settlement on Mars was one of the books I remember (1). So, as I was driving through this wind farm, I thought of how this scene related to the end of the book when an Earth family looked down into the waters of one of the Martian canals (remember, the stories were written in 1948, long before Neil Armstrong, the Hubble space telescope, or interplanetary rovers), and saw the reflections of the new Martians - those who came after the original inhabitants. This is the story of the flora, fauna, and peoples in North America as well. Thus were my thoughts of this new Wisconsin landscape, my relatives, places, and times.

They reached the canal. It was long and straight and cool and wet and reflective in the night.

"I've always wanted to see a Martian," said Michael. "Where are they, Dad? You promised."

"There they are, said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder and pointed straight down.

The Martians were there. Timothy began to shiver.

The Martians were there - in the canal - reflected in the water. Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad. The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water....

The Martian Chronicles, Ray Bradbury, 1948

While on vacation in Oregon, I found a hardback copy of the book at the Book Bin used book store in Corvallis. My youngest son and I had made it a quest: looking in a bookstore at the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, and Border's Bookstore in Corvallis. I enjoyed each chapter, and remembered most all of them, but may one or two.

(1) It wasn't until I had to start writing for a living - first my Ph.D. dissertation, then publications that went to refereed journals, and now, on a Program Staff that at times has to write more than there is time to think - that I really had to sharpen my composition skills. I don't think I can describe how I know how to write, I just do from the repetition of it. Penmanship and spelling are different issues - I am grateful for the spell checker in Microsoft Word.

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It is no wonder that dairy cows in California are happy in their new environs, able and willing to talk. Though the quaint rural settings shown in the cheese commercials are more like idyllic Wisconsin (or Mendocino Country) than Tulare County - where the land is flat and dry, and the pens are bordered by pipe with cable fences that hold the black and white cows as they wait to be milked two or three times a day, their massive frames spent after a year or so, and only able to dream of green rolling hills and rustic barns, in distant places only remembered by past generations - where Western farmers find Midwestern wives - almost like a Hallmark Channel romance movie. But then, these dreams may be more believable than illusions of evidence of alien visitors buried deep in the New Mexico desert - contrasted to here where talking cows, happy as they watch their time pass them by, waiting for the next migration, maybe to Mars .... or even back to Wisconsin where giant white windmills stand in empty green pastures bordered by woods, and turn silently twenty-four hours a day, driven by rivers of air bordered by invisible canal banks, reflecting back the images of old and new inhabitants alike - memories that float through minds past and present, waiting to be spoken of by future tellers of oral history traditions, and remembered by their young listeners.

See the Happy Cow Commercial at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Up880afV_qs&feature=related