NO BRAIN AT ALL

  Yesterday I discovered that an ant colony has been mining the peanuts I use to bait my squirrel trap. With a cursory visual check from the kitchen window it seemed nothing had been going on there. After several days, all that remained was a thin film of peanut dust on the trigger plate. So I cleaned the trap, moved it from under the cypress tree to a spot on the patio. This morning while checking my garden I checked out the the squirrel trap. It was an (ah ha) gestalt moment, like scientists in Africa, flying over great herds of migrating wildebeest and zebras. Too far down to single out one animal from another but certainly many, many thousands of them all strung out like gridlock on the freeway, as far as you could see. 
I got down on my hands and knees for a closer look. Too small to distinguish one from another there must have been thousands of ants so tiny, brown pinpoints with legs too small to see, I wouldn’t notice one if it were on my countertop in front of my face. The stream of living creatures, maybe a half inch wide, crawling all over each other, it stretched from the wire/cage into the grass a foot away at the patio’s edge. Some ants were carrying their microscopic morsel back to the colony while others were moving up to collect their portion and follow the leader home. The idea that such complicated creatures exist, so small, so many and they cooperate so remarkably; that kind of stuff blows my mind.   
I have been watching the Olympics, gymnastics in particular. Watching young women twist and spin, leaping, somersaulting their way along a four inch balance beam from end to end then launch airborne, still twisting/somersaulting, off the beam without missing a beat and stick the landing, that’s mind blowing too. But I understand how that works. From many thousands of little girls around the world who want to be olympic gymnasts, only a few have what it takes and of those, you can count them on your fingers, they do their routines while (not falling off) a four inch beam, then fly like a bird and with a cloud of chalk dust, stick their landing. I understand how it works. What I don’t understand is how tiny ants, crowded together by the thousands, cooperate without incident. They do it without a brain, no brain at all. All an ant has is a few (ganglion) small clumps of nerve cells that control and regulate the ant’s life. Considering their size, how big can a ganglion be, and it works just like it’s supposed to! 
I cleaned and moved the trap again. I don’t think that ant colony will suffer from the loss of my feeding station. I put the trap on a hard-pack gravel pad where I park my utility trailer. I have no idea how long it would take those ants to relocate my trap again. It’s about a hundred feet from the patio and the same from the cypress tree. That would seem far enough but then again, why should I believe the other ants in the far corner of the yard didn’t wake up to a peanut buffet on top of their hill? All I want is to relocate a pesky squirrel.
I wasn’t completely truthful when I said I didn’t understand the ants, they just leave me slack jawed with wonder. I am not an authority but I do read their books. Ants, like humans, are a super-social species. E.O. Wilson is one of, if not the world’s authority on ants. His book, ‘Sociobiology’ was controversial in 1978, the idea that he could correlate human behavior with ant activity. But after 40 years his then-critics have all come around to embrace Sociobiology and super-social species. 
Wilson identified a dozen or more species that have a much more demanding social requirement in their nature than other similar animals. Most of them were insects, ants and bees in particular. They must be able to cooperate in very large numbers (ants farming food, waging war, attending the queen, etc)  Like the proverbial coin, the thing has two sides. The 'tails' side, drawback, is that they cannot adapt to change. They can’t change the rules. If Something happens that interrupts their continuity, the colony dies, all of them. A few dozen free thinking ants can not sail off like the Pilgrims and start a new colony. 
Making it more complicated, there are other super-social species that cannot cooperate in large numbers the way ants and bees do but what they can do is, they can (flip the coin) be creative, manipulate the situation to meet the need and they can change the rules, create and use tools. Chimpanzees are good examples. They cooperate with puzzles that require teamwork getting to the food. One pulls the tree limb down, another gives a third chimp a leg up to reach the low hanging fruit and they share the food. They are clever, smart, creative and cooperative as long as it is with familiar (usually related) friends. The number of individuals a chimp can know and trust is about 20-25. Beyond that they can’t deal with belonging, authority, proximity and identity issues, too much to overcome and turn into a bunch of frustrated, dysfunctional, fight-or-flight monkeys. 
Now comes the revelation: only one super-social species is capable of both cooperating in large numbers and creative, rule changing diversity. No surprise, they are us. What other species could send hundreds of students (strangers to each other) to fly on airplanes flown by strangers to study under dozens of other strangers, learn multiple new, different skills, then trusting each other to do what they are supposed to do, cooperate in teams and apply the new skillset to address needs that had never been satisfied? Only Humans can do that. 
This super-social  capability isn’t perfect. Humans have problems that have gone unresolved since pre history. The rational, logical part of the brain that gives us unparalleled diversity does not (no it doesn’t) control the primitive, stone age emotional part that tells us how we feel. Not surprising, humans would much rather feel good than be right even though they believe the opposite. There is an ongoing struggle between ‘reason’ and emotions, in all humans, all of the time. Sadly, the stronger the emotion the less likely ‘reason’ can set aside the feeling and prevail. What usually happens when feelings overrule logic, the human subconsciously creates an alternate story (we are really great at creating story, even if it isn’t true) that feels better and, in a convoluted way, satisfies the perceived need. The conscious part is in the believing as it feels perfectly reasonable and if that’s not an oxymoron I give up. Those two parts of the brain are in constant negotiations with each other without either our knowledge or permission. So being doubly super-social has its up side that we wear like a crown, grant diplomas: and there is a down & dirty side that we haven’t learned how to manage yet. We are born selfish/greedy, and we never get over it. We covet more than we need and that makes material gluttony feel really, really good. I will take on Selfish/Greedy another day. It is time I checked my squirrel trap. 

SWEET DECEPTION

  This story has come to life after a very long sleep. For whatever reason (how am I supposed to know) something jogs my memory and off we go. I was in the Army with a guy named Jerry Paavola. We weren’t best friends but we worked together and he was a good guy. It was ‘Cold War’ peace time in the late 1950’s, early 60’s and being a G.I. was not the “Thank you for your service” thing it is today. The military was for draftees, out of work or trouble with the law. The (. . . my life if need be) part was crystal clear but at the time nobody was shooting, at 19 the travel and new experience was hard to resist and I needed a job. 
Jerry P. and I met at Fort Bragg, North Carolina in the 82nd Airborne Division. In that first year of service you sense whether or not it feels like something you want to invest in. He didn’t make any pretense, he didn’t like the army and his superiors got the message. I knew enough not to insult the lords of RHIP (rank has its privilege). I fit in alright. They never saw me as another malcontent but I was never tempted to reenlist for a second tour.
I remember Jerry now because his name was different, unusual spelling. All of my adult life I have been remembering people who passed in and out through the revolving door of my life. I wonder where fate and fortune have taken them and how they are doing. By now I have lots of time and the internet lets me track down former amigos and I learn something. I have better luck when their names are unusual in some way, less duplication. Jerry’s last name was Scandinavian, not many Paavola’s in the white pages and I remembered he was from Detroit. 
Everybody has a story, some better than others but I am a sucker for just about any ‘Story’, it doesn’t take much to hold my attention. Jerry and I were both reassigned to a new unit, the 2nd 503/Airborne Battle Group on the island of Okinawa (Japan). We were both parachute riggers which meant we went to work in a shop, packing and repairing parachute equipment rather than chasing around in the bush, playing war games. 
In 1960, young soldiers could be lumped into one of two categories; hard drinking, womanizing, macho men and then there were prudent dudes who could feel good without the booze and testosterone. Jerry was quiet, prudent enough but he did go to the bars, drink some and usually come home sober. I stayed out of the bars, saved my dollar. My memories of being intoxicated were mainly of throwing up and feeling miserable. I didn’t fit the macho profile anyway but this is Jerry’s story, not mine.
The girls who worked the bars sat and drank with you, getting a commission on how many drinks they sold. Any after-hours activity was between the two individuals. Over the next year Jerry fell in love with a bar-girl named Yoshiko and eventually moved in with her. As his ETS (expiration term of service) approached he started making plans to take her home with him to Detroit. He filed paperwork but Military Intelligence considered her a security risk and disapproved everything. It was only 15 years after the end of World War 2 and the hierarchy didn’t want any poor, Okinawan bar-girls contaminating the homeland. The week came, Jerry and Yoshi got married quietly, without permission, in a Buddhist wedding. On the day before Jerry was to fly back to San Francisco, Yoshi flew to Tokyo, changed planes and connected to San Francisco with a Japanese passport. They rejoined in San-Fran before flying together to Detroit. There was a second wedding in Detroit for the record. Jerry P. and Yoshi had simply, quietly outflanked the system and for most of us still on the island, it was a sweet deception. I made the same (ETS) trip to San Francisco a few months later. With no rush to get home I hung out with family in California for a while and then back to Kansas City, to a job I was good at, to college and on into my own story. 
I tried once before to locate Jerry and Yoshi but I gave up too easy. They were there all along. By then I lived in West Michigan near Kalamazoo and could have reconnected. How many Jerry Paavolas in Detroit? Then I tried again last week, who knows what made me think of him again but I hit pay dirt on the first stroke. The down side is that Jerry died in 2006 at age 68. His obituary was brief but detailed enough to know it was the Jerry I knew. He was retired from the Detroit Police Dept. His kids spoke affectionately of him. I don’t know what I might have said to them or to Yoshi, she is still alive. But that story has come full circle back to me. I know I run the risk of sounding like a fool but I love all my stories. Famous actors on the big screen can entertain for a few hours but then it’s like yesterday’s news, old stuff. I have thousands of little stories that keep coming back, my finger prints all over them and I don’t need explaining or interpretation. Having that connection is awesome, no make believe, real people who touched my life, their stories overlapping with mine even for just a few hours or days; in Jerry’s case a couple of years. 

A SLOW OVEN

  I woke up from a dream I can’t recall but then no matter. I can’t remember a dream that I would take comfort from. Like digging at the bottom of a hole, when you’ve moved a lot of earth, unrewarding work, you realize you are still in a hole. I lay there for what seemed a very long time, mind in gear, someone I eschew who worked their malice against some other one I care about. Then I checked the time, 4:17 a.m. If not strange then interesting, how much easier it is to forgive people who have done their grudge at my expense than against someone I love. 
It comes with age I suspect, like a cow chewing its cud, the mind trying to digest bad news. Awake now, I am consoled by my own sense of well being. It isn’t me on the hook. If nothing else, all the time and spent hopes have left me with meaningful experience and that requires heat. Raw wisdom isn’t wisdom at all, only feelings that have no legs. To make wise, it has to cook in a slow oven, for a long time. 
That sense of meaning and purpose we all long to satisfy, it moves to its own tune. ‘Karma’ sounds mysterious but not really. It is about making the most of the moment. You can be in the game or be a spectator and I’ve never been good a good spectator. So you turn the cards over to see what you’ve been dealt and you play them. They are the cards that you have. Win or lose, the hand plays out and new cards come around. The clock just chimed 5:00 a.m. and, if I have good cards, I can get back to sleep. 

TURN CIRCLE

  My son, daughter in law and their dog were here for a long weekend before making the leap north (Chicago). It is a task, seeing everyone who needs to be seen, never enough time. While everyone was in the kitchen, Felix (dog) and I were in the living room, not that he was interested in me, quite the contrary. He was totally engaged with his own thing, looking out the window, listening, moving one ear then the other. On the other hand, he had my undivided attention. He lets me pet him now and it has taken years to gain that privilege. Satisfied with the yard and passing cars he hopped up into a plush, upholstered chair, dropped his head slightly to the right, turned a full circle and lay down. 
I love it. Nothing is simple or uncomplicated if you pay attention. It meets some paleolithic purpose I’m sure that has survived their domestication. Circle before you lie down. Maybe it corresponds with humans, men and boys in particular, picking their nose. Buried in the subconscious we harbor a dog-sensibility. Good thing we lack the flexibility to lick our butts. But watching a dog turn circle is no less engaging than lady bug beetles climbing to the highest point before spreading wings and taking to the air. I love watching that too. 
Imagination + language = story and that is the equation that truly separates us from the other animals. It is the difference between Felix barking at squirrels on the fence rail and Clapton picking out, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” In the past week I have written several times but nothing came out that I would share. My stuff can lose its way with condescending views on what is wise or good or not so good. If not human nature then certainly I think it cultural bias to believe we have something important to say. I start out with good intentions but then the voice in my head thinks it knows best. Sometimes I can’t help myself but when I can, I hit ‘delete’.  

IT HAS TO WORK

  When I sit down, like right now, to write whatever it is the child trapped inside my head tells me, it will require just a few paragraphs. I tend to be a minimalist, not necessarily with art or music, not so much in politics or government but as a life style. By definition it means removing things that distract from living with intentionality. No surprise, I am seriously engaged with words and language. No other human invention has empowered the species so. Language has propelled us into a civilization that most take for granted. Without language, the fundamental rule of life would simply be, monkey see - monkey do. Even casual thoughts and ideas would be wordless, just conceptual imagery. I would never have experienced  the satisfaction of identifying with Bob Seger, “We were young and strong, we were runnin’ against the wind.” 
Yuval Harari is a highly regarded, contemporary historian, philosopher, writer/author. A master of metaphor, he consolidates all of human experience, for both individuals and for the collective in terms of the meaning those experiences represent. He refers to it as ‘Their Story’. He goes on to make his point about the human paradox; for individuals as well as the culture, the ‘Story’ doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work. That is incredible. Nothing about what we believe need be true, it only has to work. He means that for us to avoid extinction, the cultural construct must meet the needs of the species, Homo sapiens. Among other things but likely most importtant, survival hinges on producing viable offspring, generation after generation after generation. Nothing we believe need be true, it just has to work. 
This phenomenon opened the door to the rise of Myth. Some parts of the ‘Story’ were then, still are incomprehensible, too much to fathom but absolutely important. If necessity is the mother of invention then we can credit it as the origin of Myth. With large measures of timely imagination and metaphor, they fashioned a ‘Story’ that worked. Joseph Campbell, deceased but recognized as the leading authority on Myth and Mythology made the observation; “Myth is as deeply rooted in modern human experience as it was in prehistory.” We humans continue to join metaphor with imagination in attempts to understand events and experiences that fall outside of our understanding, that can only be approached from ignorance. It gives legs to the myth of ‘Common Sense.’ In professional circles they know and make no bones about it; Common Sense is neither common nor sense. Albert Einstein said of it, “Common sense is a list of prejudices that one acquires in their youth.” For those who still cling to the common sense myth it validates believing in what they want to believe: it works for them. That is what myths do. 
I’ve lived up to my claim as a minimalist. I finished a story in three paragraphs. Efficient use of language is a priority and I used to tell friends, “If I can’t say it in two or three pages, it’s more than I want to take on.” But with growing old things change and I think my longer, collective ‘Story’ needs to go down in print. I cannot do that in several pages. It will certainly test my organizational skill and efforts toward purposeful continuity. But it is what it is. I am already into the fourth chapter, if you want to call them chapters. It is going slowly. I edit as I write which all of the experts tell you not to do. They recommend writing a rough draft, beginning to end as quickly as possible and then edit, rewriting as needed. But I don’t do that very well and I’m the one hanging on the hook. I have no idea how long this task will take. 
At this point I have titled it, “How The World Works”. That would be a metaphor I’m sure and it may change but my ‘Story’ will not. My experience and what it means to me, not a memoir but most certainly an indirect reflection of my journey. I do not plan on posting it on my blog but neither do I mean to keep it a secret. To that end I would share it with anyone who wants to sample my much longer, more complex work. All I need is a prompt. So for now, all things said and done, five paragraphs, I’ve said enough.

A PAID DAY OFF

At first I thought they were gun shots, up the street a few blocks but near enough. Then I figured, the end of June, fireworks, Independence Day, it’s that time. Several weeks ago I heard that fireworks were in short supply and would be very expensive this year. Both manufacture and shipping from China have been interrupted by Covid yet our appetite for rocket’s red glare has not. Large pyrotechnic companies may still have their inventory from last year’s Covid-cancelations. Their big shows might not be in jeopardy but for the amateur fire cracker & bottle rocketeer it’s a different story. A typical $250 package of driveway zingers will cost three times that if they can be found at all. That’s what I heard. 
Last night all I heard was a bang, followed a few minutes later by bang-bang, not smoking a whole package in one stroke like Chinese new year. The locals were probably saving it for the 4th. I remember blowing stuff up, exciting but I didn’t need my mom’s caution to know it was dangerous. My big brother set our barn ablaze with firecrackers and my little brother got second and third degree burns from a roman candle malfunction, all while my parents were giving him directions on how to hold it safely. A neighbor up the road, two years older than me, was able to get his hands on a case of dynamite (I was 12). He included me I think to show off and as a back up should he screw up. He assembled the crude devices, did all of the placement and detonation. I was a sidekick and that was excitment enough. 
Deep in the woods with nobody near, we dug under small (15-ft) trees, planted the explosive and launched trees like NASA rockets. They went straight up a few feet before tilting off to one side and toppling back down with roots still smoking. We found another tree, I was good for that, and we did it again. A year later he did screw up making pipe bombs in his garage, lost the ends of two fingers, took glass chards in his legs and one through his glans (tip of his penis). Summertime with no school they, his family, kept it quiet. In school that fall I had my friends ask if they could see his scar, his other scar. He played dumb but between us I thought it was funny, he didn’t. After that, I don’t know if I was overcome with a case of sanity or just moved on to something new but blowing things up lost its appeal. Fireworks, even at that young, foolish age, (Flash-bang and it’s over. The thrill only lasted a few seconds but my dollar was gone for ever.)  I still echo that sentiment; must have been a good lesson.
When I watch fireworks displays now it’s for the crescendo at the end. The show begins with the far away ‘ka-thump’ at the launch tube, watching the sparks trail up into a dark sky, the pop at the top and surprise, maybe it’s whistling, silver swirlies or a thousand green and red starbursts but even that wears thin. If every batter hit a home run then baseball would be as exciting as watching a dog scratch. Still, I must admit the big finale at the end does get your attention, all that pressure on your chest, cover your ears and it still hurts. But the explosions go off at altitude, far up away from people. I cower under that barrage, identifying with cities bombed in World War 2 just to destroy public morale, London, England first and then Germany in retaliation. Churchill was really pissed and he wasn’t about to forget. He wanted all patriotic, Hitler loving Germans to experience that deadly insult. So in retribution, residential cities of Hamburg and Dresden were fire-bombed into rubble heaps. Casualties, English or German it didn’t matter. They added up by the tens of thousands, a steep price for non combatants born under one flag or another. 
Uncle Sam’s happy birthday will unfold here in a day or two with fireworks, patriotic speeches and parades. For the most part they have morphed into self indulgent displays of nationalistic ego and appetite. Nationalism and patriotism are not the same. One is about military/economic dominance while the other is about love of country. I think the best thing that can happen is for families to hang out together and celebrate each other. Enough; I am not going to preach. I wish the flag, the myth, the fact and the fiction, I wish them all a happy birthday. Best of all, most working people get paid for not going to work.