MAY YOU STAY

I have almost given up on Face Book. With nearly 100 friends it became a burden so I canceled myself. I had my fill of strangers and their ideas on what I should buy or believe. Months later I opened a new FB account but under a different name. I have 4 friends now and it feels better. In the meantime I’ve increased my YouTube habit. I still have to wade through some advertising but I can mute the sound. Still they track your habits to anticipate your appetite, recommending one video or another; somebody has to profit after all. Looking at the previews I am informed again, what I’ve viewed in the past; lots of airplanes, camping, World War 2, boats, rock climbing, movies and music; tons of music. 

It can be ironic, humorous, even cathartic, the suggested still frames and titles that pop up next to each other. Last night I scrolled down, looking for something interesting. Lots of spam there too but you can spot them by photo shopped pictures and tabloid titles. Two different offerings appeared together, next to each other. The photographs were unmistakable but the proximity and the pairing seemed to me just too much. On the right was a 70 year John Wayne being interviewed by Barbara Walters while on the left was a 90 year Pete Seeger, with children; singing “Forever Young.” 

If you push past the Duke’s movies and Seeger’s songs, they were icons of political upheaval during the mid 1950’s, the McCarthy era, fear of Communists in high places. In Hollywood, the Duke was deeply involved with rooting out film industry people who had socialist connections. Senate hearings were held to question and identify not only communists but anybody who sympathized with them. Pete Seeger was one of those called to testify. He, like many others, refused to cooperate with Senator McCarthy, would not name names, wouldn’t comment on any of his personal beliefs. He lectured them on the 1st amendment but he along with others was convicted of contempt and sentenced to 10 years in prison. The conviction was soon overturned but those entertainers were blackballed from working in the entertainment industry for many years. In the end, standing up against a draconian, heavy handed inquisition was more virtuous than his sins were damning. McCarthy came out the villain and clearly, patriotic zeal had been over sold. 

Half a century later, with both men dead in the ground, they are remembered as much for their ideals as their careers. Wayne, the rough, tough patriot with his swagger and his fists is counter balanced by Seeger, the soft spoken progressive with his banjo and a song. Of all John Wayne’s movies only one stands out to me, a WW2 flick with great supporting cast, “In Harm’s Way”. On the other hand, I can’t think of a Pete Seeger song that I don’t identify with. The Duke appeals to hard shelled, steely old patriots while Seeger’s music draws children like flies. If I have to choose between the two, experience tells me kids may not keep score so well but they read the heart.  “. . . may you always do for others and let others do for you: may your heart always be joyful, may your song always be sung; and may you stay, forever young.” 

BLISS

I remember the late 1960’s when I went off to graduate school, all of my peers, all of us, we were there to measure something, lots of somethings then organize that information into tables, tables into graphs and then do a lot of math. In the end, we were supposed to learn something. If we were lucky, that something would be important to someone, somewhere; at least it would make sense and be factual. I was advised, by my advisor of course, “The only reason for you to be here is to learn to do research.” It would follow naturally, if you don’t know how, you can’t. All that talk about method would be just talk, like theoretical sky diving. Not only would you not be able to do credible research but neither would you be able to appreciate (critical review) the work of others. 

I shared an office with seven other graduate assistants. We shared one mechanical adding machine the size of a small foot locker. It had dozens of small windows with rotating dials; each dial with numbers 0 through 9. When you enter a problem and hit the big ‘Run’ lever it growled like a food processor gnawing its way through plywood. All of the dials would spin for 3 or 5 or 8 seconds and stop with an audible chime. The problem (equation) had been solved. In the large set of windows at the upper right, you could read the result. With a slide rule you could make some of your own calculations, pre set them on the operational dials and speed up the process. Some equations were long, requiring several operations and there were eight of us needing the machine. 

None of us were researching the same subject: some were the results of surveys, some were based on biometric data, others with performance levels. Regardless, we all struggled with the same kinds of obstacles. How do you find time to review related literature, to know everything you need to know before you can begin; how do you narrow the scope, control variables and determine the best tool and its best application? In the real world, dead ends are not only necessary but incredibly important. But for grad students, they are deadly. Standard deviation and statistical significance can be the answer to prayer or the fly in the ointment, all depending on where they lead and where you need to be. In the end it didn’t matter what we learned; all that mattered was we know how it works. It’s not as important where you land as you know how you got there. 

I live better now with two hearing aids, each one with more/better technology than the computers that got our astronauts to the moon and back. My grandchildren have at their fingertips, magical machines that text and tweet on command. But I doubt they will ever understand, even in principle, how energy from fossil fuels or water falling down hill reach the USB port on their smart phone. I doubt they will ever grasp how that energy is stored once it gets there. That disappoints me but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Evolution is not predicated on civilization, a higher standard of living or moral principles. They are side effects. Evolution is dedicated to only one purpose, a sustainable birth rate. To that end, it is like any other form of research; many dead ends. To think we can avoid that dead end is naive on our part. 

I’m afraid we are obsessed with “Forever” when we should be focused on “Now” - not tomorrow or later today but right now! I’m still hung up on E. O. Wilson’s observation: “The problem with humanity is that we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions and God like technology.” In just the last half of my lifetime, we’ve come from graduate schools with mechanical adding machines to global tweeting, between people who can’t remember anything about the periodic table other than it was boring. How many cell phone junkies recall what happened at Runnymede or the significance of, “Let them eat cake”? If I frame my own observation it will certainly parallel a better one, made by someone who understands better then I; but it’s all I can do. “Ignorance is bliss but it’s no better than your last breath: it won't take you very far.” 

ROOST

I consider myself extremely lucky to have found my niche, my livelihood if you will with children. They called us ‘Teachers’ but I was never comfortable with that; I was the oldest kid in the room and like a big brother when my mother was away, responsible for the youngsters. I learned early that my agenda, my lesson plan was never as important as what children brought with them to my classroom; and that my boss was never as important as he or she thought they were. Oh, we got the job done and some of those kids can still, I’m sure, explain the difference between mitosis and meiosis, between momentum and inertia.
My job for six years was as an environmental issues resource teacher. That involved many, many field trips with urban kids who didn’t like to walk off the sidewalk because that’s where creepy-crawly things lived and where squirrels poop. One of our best trips was in March to the Platte River in Nebraska. My thing; my window to the world of wild, growing things was wetlands and the Platte in March is awesome. My part was to create a workbook with assignments to be completed on the 5 hour bus ride, out and back. The object of our quest was to see the migration of Sandhill Cranes from their winter retreats in Mexico and south Texas to their breeding range in Canada. 

For millions of years, the Sandhills have been making this trek, north in spring then return south after their young have fledged in the fall. Farmers have been growing corn here for not even 200 years but they have filled, plowed and cultivated pocket wetlands out of existence. Now the Platte River is the only place left where migrating cranes can stop to rest and replenish themselves. Cranes are uncompromising when it comes to choosing a roost. For them to sleep at night they must be standing in moving water, with unobstructed vision for several hundred feet; a wide, shallow stream. The Platte River, that’s it, from Texas to Canada. 

With students it was always too cold for them and they complained. But we went to the observation areas as the sun began to sink and the Sandhills, who had been foraging in fields all day, began returning to the river for the night. In groups large and small, they came from all directions, high and low. The noise grew from distant calls on the wing to a raucous din of squawking, croaking birds gathered in the shallows; it was surreal. On a 40 mile stretch of river, nearly three quarters of a million cranes would bed down for the night. 

The next morning before dawn we were back with binoculars and cameras. Cranes are extremely wary. They stay away from things civilized and far away from people so we have to be stealthy. If we cause a disturbance they roost farther from us, up or down stream. So as the dawn breaks with steamy, frosty breaths we listened to the birds, still croaking in the dark. Soon they would be coming up off the water in family groups, off to surrounding fields where they feed on roots and grain left over from the fall harvest. They eat snails and worms, salamanders and frogs still hibernating. It may take a week for the birds to regain strength and weight lost on the flight so far and the way to their mating grounds is still hundreds if not a thousand miles. 

Two nights ago I was on the bike path bridge at Kearney, Nebraska. There were too many of us for the birds to land nearby but the fly-over was great and you could see them settling up and down stream in the distance. Then, yesterday early I went to a viewing stand at a backroad bridge near Grand Island. There was just a thread of dawn glowing down stream but the birds were awake. As the horizon went from gray to pink then gold; there they were. Not a quarter mile away, thousands of Sandhill Cranes, on a sand bar, knee deep in the Platte, waiting for a reason to take off. If it’s windy they may rise straight up, several hundred at a time. If calm they can skim along the water in long lines, gaining speed then lofting just in time to clear the trees along the shore. It was calm yesterday and if you weren’t paying attention, you could miss it all together. I took photographs. 

I’ve been back to see the Sandhills several times since the old days with my students. For the most part I share the experience with old white people who care about nature, who appreciate wild life and like me, can’t resist the feel that comes with it. Part of that good feel comes from knowing I had a hand in bringing urban, street savvy kids to see the cranes. If we hadn’t, most of them would never know what they had missed. They complained of the cold and of boredom and they all wanted to eat, all the time. But on the way back to the city, all they talked about were the cranes and they were happy. Life is incredibly complex, so much so that we can’t digest it all. But in small bites you can chew on the wonder from every morsel. I’m old, and that is what I’ve learned. 

LAKE EFFECT

I was supposed to be driving today, on my way to Nebraska to see Sandhill Cranes at dawn as they come up off the water and then again when they come back at dusk to roost. That was the plan but when something changes without your permission you bend or something breaks; plans go like vapor in the light. There is a great Nor’easter dumping snow on New England today, her hame is Stella. It’s all you see on the weather channel but off to the southwest, Chicago has its own snow. When the lake is warmer than the land, moisture rises, meets super-cold air and poof, like doves from a magician’s hat; snow. It comes down gentle and soft but it keeps coming until something gives. The Windy City may be shy on wind today but it’s bold with snow. If I’d kept to the plan this morning I’d surely be stuck in a traffic jam on I-80, if I were lucky.  

Across the lake and up the shore, I’m in the sunny cold, in my favorite Lake Michigan town. Grand Haven is typical, summer on water’s edge, kites in the air and beach volleyball. But it’s still winter with locals shuffling along sidewalks, no tourists, no soft ice cream or trinkets; who would go to the beach when it’s covered with snow? I know who. I got there at about 10:00 this morning and there were lots of fresh foot prints so the answer would be; lots of us. 

It’s been a mild winter. The last of the beach ice is all gone. The pier looks naked without its signature cat-walk. They pulled it down last fall for repairs but it will come back this summer, better than ever. I walked the road, taking photographs with dunes and grass in the foreground and then up the beach. You notice an icy sheet on the sand, below the snow line, above wave action. No gulls flying today; when it’s too cold to look for food you hunker down in the sun, out of the wind. It’s cold enough my bare hand aches. If I put on a glove or use a pocket it takes too long to ready the camera and some photos won’t wait. 

If a season goes by and I don’t get to walk the winter beach it’s like sleeping through Christmas. Summer is its own reward. I don’t think much about summer when I’m on a winter beach but every time I stand in the swash, waves sliding back down around me, feet sinking in the sand; I anticipate beach ice and winter cold. Like having a lover who snores; you love that too. If it wakes you up then you know you’re in the right place. 

WEDGE OF LIME

I’ve cut back on driving time. Where I used to drive all day, now I take two days. Where I used to hammer for two days, now it takes as long as it takes. I would put my camera on the seat next to me and promise myself that I’d look for photographs begging to be taken. I would stop; I meant to turn around and go back for the right photo but it never happened. Something happens when you have the steering wheel in your hands, some place you need to be and mile markers going by; it’s like eating peanuts. Going back is not an option. So I drive for 11 hours and the camera takes a long rest. But I’m changing my ways. Pushing less, driving slower, I see more and stopping is an option. 

This way you have time to slow down, stop in just the right spot. If walking is required, it’s a nice break and it’s good for you. Today I was on a stretch of interstate that I’ve driven so many times I can’t remember. The sun was low enough it came in the side window; not good for driving but low angle sunlight is great for photographs. Early March holds the promise of spring but nothing more. Grass may be starting to green but blackbirds still forage together in flocks and last year’s corn stubble is winter’s grim foot print. It occurred to me there may not be anything worth the stopping but you don’t know until you look through the lens. 

People ask what it is that I look for. How do I know where to point the camera? Honestly, I don’t really know. Whatever it is, it's about geometry and contrast, a frame of reference, lines and angles that draw you into that moment. I see shapes and colors, edges and patterns that I can’t ignore. When I look through the lens it either begs a story or it’s just stuff. I’ll hit the shutter and look at it later. I’m attracted to things people leave behind. I like windmills in particular. After the man has gone his machine is still there. It may still work and it may not, maybe just rusty old bones. Someone was here and this is what they left. If they don’t come back someone else will. I like hay bales in the field, light houses, things with peeling paint, wheels and gears. People come and go; they dig holes and plant fence posts. I can’t know the stories but I have imagination. 

In a split second I looked over into the sun and saw a blur of green with a two-track, a gate, some naked trees and a small building. In that split second I thought I saw balance. Somebody had been there, once upon a time, not so long ago. It took 20 miles of turn arounds and back track to re-arrive. The building turned out to be an old grain bin and the service road between the fence and the gate was poor foreground for a photo. Still the photograph works, there is a story there and I can wrestle with it for as long as I like. The trees and two-track hold it all together. I made it through the ditch without getting my feet wet and came away with a photograph. I ask myself, what would you rather have in hand, a steering wheel or a camera? I’m opting for the camera now more than before. I really like looking through the lens. The rectangle puts things in context, what stays in and what is left out.

         I speculate: who last closed the gate? Maybe he is an old man whose wife has Alzheimer’s, who drives around the farm all day so he doesn’t have to be in the house. His kids all moved to the city so he drives the fence rows. It’s an awful story so I take it in another direction; the farmer who uses this gate took the winter off, took his surf board down to Baja to ride the waves, washed shrimp ceviche down with some Corona and a wedge of lime. I bet he’s a little sunburned now, another week before he heads back, parks his surf board and fires up a monster tractor, starts planting those mile long corn fields. It’s his farm but it’s my photograph and by default, I get to pick the story.

BLOW

I sat on a step about half way down the basement stairs, in pitch dark except for the glow from my smart phone. Outside, wind, rain, thunder and lightning were having their way. Under it all was the rise and fall of the local severe weather warning siren. Before that I was watching television where the weather had preempted normal programming. There was a long, narrow band of storms reaching from the Oklahoma pan handle up through western Iowa. Normally the radar shows green bands of rain layered up against yellow with the most severe weather in red. This front was all red except for tiny threads of green and yellow on either margin. We had known it was coming, forecast two days earlier. Wind in the tree tops had been howling all day. My cell phone app does a better job of detailing the map so I was checking it as well. The storm was moving west to east but on an angle. The effect was severe weather moving south as it crossed the state line. There were reports of hail and a funnel cloud north of Kansas City. As the thin green line moved across I-435 it started raining hard.

What had been distant thunder and lightning rolled in quickly. I went to the door and watched as rain began to blow horizontal under the street light. Then the neighborhood went dark. Power hadn’t been out even a minute when the sirens came on. With I-phone in hand I headed for the basement. My weather app stopped working so I texted my son in San Antonio. He booted up his weather app and gave me a blow by blow account of what was happening on my end. After about 15 or 20 minutes he sent a photo of our radar. The red band had moved on to the east and we were out of harm’s way. I thanked him and he replied, “de nada.” 

So the sirens came back on for a minute or so to sound the all clear. I checked on a friend up the street. She had candles going and her pets were still spooked. There was a big tree down across the street and I had to drive around the block to get there. When I got home it was after 10:00, with no idea how long the power would be out. Sleeping in a recliner in front of the TV, I knew I’d wake up when it came back on. I woke up to the sound of morning news, reporting on storm damage around the area. There were 19 tornados reported but widely scattered, no monster storms, no fatalities and few injuries. Not to minimize any storm damage but tornado stories are so often about F-5 storms that level a path blocks wide and miles long. Death and destruction that rivals war can come on the same breath; I felt we had dodged the bullet. 

But that was last night. It’s just March and this storm season could run on through June. I don’t put much stock in destiny or fate but there will be more nights with storm sirens, sitting on basement steps before tornado alley settles down. If my house blows down we’ll make a new house. If it kills me, I’ll be dead. But I like my weather app. When you can watch the signature, echo hook of a super cell, the exact spot where a funnel will drop if it’s going to drop: that is pretty awesome. 

I could expand with observations and opinion on climate change but it would’t change anybody’s mind. Tornado season will come and go like it should but not the medieval, knee-jerk bias against science. If it pushes back against popular ideology then it must be a subversive conspiracy. In that mode, self righteous opinion is more appealing than disciplined research. But your opinion depends on you, it belongs to you while facts are independent, you can’t frame your own facts. Oh, I don’t want to go there. When it blows, climate doubters retreat to the basement just like I do. 

CHRISTIANS AT MY DOOR

Yesterday I wrote a piece about evangelical christians who prowl the streets, door to door, in pairs or by threes or fours. This morning it didn’t read very well so I started over. I understand perfectly; perfection in this case meaning both unflawed and complete. I understand: nothing left out, nothing overlooked. My father was devoted to my mother. She was devoted to Jesus. We never spoke in tongues or shouted out, we didn’t stand or wave our arms in church. But Christianity in the 1940’s & 50’s was ‘literal.’ We were poised and constrained as opposed to passionate and animated but the world was created in 6 days plus a day of rest, about six or seven thousand years ago. The difference between evangelical and literal is the difference between a Guns & Roses concert and James Taylor, simply volume and phrasing still, everybody moves to the music. 

I should have just said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for you today.” I could have closed the door and they would have moved on. But I’m old, live alone and I don’t get many chances to dialogue, with anybody. Small talk is just that, small. When I hook a fish I like to play it for a while before I reel it in. So we took turns, all agreed on the wonderful weather and why they were at my door. With tact and consideration for their faith, I shared mine. I talked that talk and tried to walk the walk for a very long time but I don’t do that anymore. I think I was trying to please my mother. When she died so did the last thread of my religious upbringing. I have moved on to what I like to think is spiritual enlightenment; it does not require an omnipotent, omniscient, supreme being. 

The exchange descended into a predictable quagmire. They couldn’t begin at any point that wasn’t validated by “In the beginning - God” and “For God so loved the world,” and I don’t go there. I hate cliches but it was one of those ‘Been there, done that,’ moments. The chance at a conversation erodes and I just needed to let them go in peace. But evangelicals don’t give up easily. I concede that civilization without religion would be worse than with. Cooperation in large groups would be near impossible. The ‘Selfish Gene’ is at work whether we like it or not and religion does expand the bond of kinship. But the history of God’s people killing God’s people in God’s name is an insurmountable contradiction. When it came to books and research they don’t like mine nor likewise me theirs. We tend to like what we already believe and dismiss what we don’t. I trust math and physics more than myth traditions and that is the hurdle we couldn’t clear. 

I resisted that urge to explode the gathering with my own bias. They had no appreciation for critical thought and no patience with pushback. I could have finished with a flair but I let it go. If I had, it would have been something like: If the fear of God keeps you from murdering your neighbor then pray hard. If God allows you to discriminate against people who are different, who believe different, then your God sucks and so do you. 

WHO SPEAKS FOR THE TREES?

I turned on the PBS channel one night to catch the last few minutes of a two hour special on E.O. Wilson. Ii was too good to miss so I ordered a DVD copy. Beginning with Biology Professor Emeritus at Harvard University, his list of titles and awards runs off the page. In short, he is an 87 year-old researcher who follows the data wherever it leads. The world’s leading authority on ants and Sociobiology, he coined the term, ‘Biodiversity’ before environmentalism became a hot topic.  

  From individual ants to ant colonies, to surrounding ecosystems, he couldn’t ignore behavior parallels between insect societies, brains (ganglia) no bigger than the head of a pin and big brain, human cultures. In the 70’s & 80’s, leading Social Scientists criticized his theories and urged him, stick to insects. Wilson challenged popular ideas that nurture was the primary force in shaping human behavior while nature’s influence was only minimal. In the last thirty years, his predictions have been substantiated and his critics have been stilled. In the program, one of the contributing experts was Jonathan Haidt, one of my favorite writers, an expert on the evolution of ethics and morality. From different directions, different sets of data; they arrive at many of the same conclusions. Wilson doesn’t mince words: “The real problem with humanity is that we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions and God-like technology.” 

The program ended on a positive note. The old entomologist is engaged with environmental projects around the world, hopeful that we can get it right and happy to be sharing his experience with anxious, eager, young scientists. I used to take comfort each morning knowing that Carl Sagan was waking up to the same new day. Sagan, a renowned astrophysicist, could communicate complex, scientific ideas in simple language. His appeal bridged the gap between hard core science and the lay community. He said, “Our species needs, and deserves, a citizenry with minds wide awake and a basic understanding of how the world works.” When he died I wondered, like the Lorax, who will speak for the trees; who will be that bridge? Now-days it is E.O. Wilson who makes me feel good, speaking simply, still collecting and naming new species of insects, still pushing the bubble against knee-jerk, tribalistic, wannabe-wisdom. 

What I like about science is its simplicity. You don’t have to be a math wizard or a computer geek. What is required is some level of curiosity, patient persistence and integrity. The discipline side of science is unforgiving; you must follow it or what comes out the other end is worthless. You have to know as much as possible about whatever it is you pursue and that may be more work than you are willing to invest. You have to be meticulous in the way you observe, collect and analyze data, and you may lack that discipline. What you learn may not be what you hoped for but that’s how it works. The task is never finished; we amend what we know or believe with what we have learned and move on. There are no ultimate solutions, only the best available. But Wilson is right; we are beset with Stone Age fears. Our institutions (religion & government) have not kept up with God-like technology; human society requires absolute answers that make us feel good, and we want them right now. Even God-like technology moves too slowly for anxious soul savers and self serving chiefs. They need something in hand that will save us from ourselves, save us from the next imminent calamity. After attributing most of the world’s problems to tribalistic religion he was asked if he was an atheist. “No,” he replied “I’m not an atheist, I’m a scientist.”