Lift Up Your Hearts!

This excerpt from Village Diary by Miss Read (Dora Jessie Saint) captures both my frustration with the disservice our educational system does to bright children, and my nostalgia for conversations that can be both contentious and contented.  The speaker is a schoolmistress in a small, rural English village. The book was published in 1957, and the author was herself a teacher.

[We had] a most agreeable and stimulating argument about children's reading. Mr. Arnold ... maintained that children are not ready to read before the age of six, or even seven; and that all sorts of nervous tensions and eyestrain can be set up by too much emphasis on early reading.

I maintain that each child should go at its own rate, and that the modern tendency is to go at the rate of the slowest member of a reading group, and that this is wrong. There are, to my mind, far more bright children being bored and very frustrated because they are not getting on fast enough with their reading, than there are slow ones who are being harmed by too-rapid progress. I have known several children—I was one myself—who could read enough simply-written stories to amuse themselves at the age of four and a half to five. We were not forced, but it was just one of those things we could do easily, and the advantages were enormous.

In the first place we could amuse ourselves, and reading also gave us a quiet and relaxed time for recovering from the violent activity which is the usual five-year-old's way of passing the time. ... Secondly, the amount of general knowledge we unconsciously imbibed, stood us in good stead in later years. ... Even more important, the early poems and rhymes, read and learnt so easily at this stage, have been a constant and abiding joy. ...Thirdly, the wealth of literature written and presented expressly for the four to six age-group—the Beatrix Potter books are the first that spring to mind—can be used, loved and treasured to such an extent that is not possible to a late reader.

The battle raged with great zest. ... Mr. Arnold twinkled, and said I was a renegade, but that he must admit that he had seen no cases of nervous disorders in my school. And after school [we] enjoyed a cup of tea in my garden, among the apple blossom, with the greatest goodwill, each knowing that he would never convert the other, but content to let it be so.

I've been watching the Cracker Barrel brouhaha with some amusement. Not that it concerns me directly: Despite having lived here for 40 years, I haven't developed a taste for Southern cooking. Except for hush puppies, fried green tomatoes, pulled pork, and Key lime pie, oh my! Unlike several of my friends, I almost never eat at Cracker Barrel. Not that that hurts the company any: Another reason I don't go there is that they're so crowded and the wait is too dang long. So I can't imagine why their CEO decided the restaurant needed to be de-Southerned. Don't mess with success.

As the Coca-Cola Company learned 40 years ago, when they decided to change the formula of their iconic product. New Coke was an instant failure, and so was New Cracker Barrel.

Which leads me to the following speculation: Did Cracker Barrel's CEO wake up one morning and ask herself, What can we do to spruce up our bottom line? How can we make more people aware of our restaurants?" And did a sly smile spread over her face as she realized the value of offending people? It's risky—that strategy bit Bud Light rather badly—but if you do it right, you can generate a big storm, make your regular clientele remember why they love your product, and get people talking about you who had never even walked across your threshold. If the reaction to your changes is bad, you can admit your mistake and backtrack—if you do it quickly enough, people will forgive you, and may even have a greater appreciation for something they had taken for granted. And if nobody really cares about your changes, you can congratulate yourself on moving the company in the direction you want to go.

People are calling those who promoted the Cracker Barrel change idiots, or worse. But I wonder. It may turn out to have been a smart move, as long as they can convince their loyal and enthusiastic customers that they've learned their lesson and didn't really mean to insult them, their tastes, their traditions, and their ancestors.

Having lived through more than seven decades of holidays, I decided it would be of interest (to me, if no one else) to consider how the various annual celebrations have changed, or not changed, as I've lived my life.

As a child, I knew that holidays were about three things: family, presents, and days off from school. Not necessarily in that order—since family was the ocean in which I swam, I didn't necessarily recognize how central it was to our observances. The only celebration from which we children were excluded was my parents' anniversary. I remember being sad about that as a child, and I admire those who celebrate anniversaries as the "family birthday." What a great idea! But "date night" was unheard of in that era, and their anniversary was one of the rare times my parents would splurge on dinner in a restaurant.

Yes, folks, basically the only time we ate out was on vacations, where Howard Johnson's—with its peppermint stick ice cream—was the highlight. Solidly middle class as we were, with an engineer's salary to support us, restaurant meals simply did not fit into our regular budget. "Not even McDonalds?" you ask. Brace yourself: I was born before the first McDonalds franchise. But even when our town did get a McDonald's, the idea of paying someone to fix a meal my mother could make better at home seemed crazy.

But back to the holidays. I'll go chronologically, which means beginning with New Year's Day, which could just as well go last, as New Year's Eve. Other people may have celebrated with big bashes and lots of champagne, but we almost always spent New Year's Eve with family friends, either at their home or ours. My parents and the Dietzes had been friends since before any children were born, and by the time each family had four we made quite a merry party all by ourselves. I think the adults usually played cards, and we kids had the basement to ourselves. Of course there was that other important feature at a party: food. Lots of good food, homemade of course.

Those who didn't fall asleep beforehand counted down to the new year, and toasted with a beverage of some sort. The adults may have had a glass of champagne. One year Mr. Dietze set off a cherry bomb in the snow, which was amazing (and illegal) in the days before spectacular fireworks became ubiquitous. I miss the awe and wonder that rarity engendered. After a little more eating and talking, we gathered up sleeping children and went home. As it was the only time of the year we were allowed to stay up to such an hour, that too was a treat. Once a year past midnight is still about right for me, though sadly it didn't stay that rare.

Valentine's Day was next. This was not the major holiday it is today, and it was mostly child-centered. In elementary school we created paper "mailboxes" for delivery of small paper Valentines to our classmates; Here's an example of what they looked like. (Click to enlarge.) Some of them may have sounded romantic, but nothing could have been further from our minds. It was just a friend thing, and we enjoyed trying to match the sentiments with the personalities of our friends. Back home, if there was anything romantic about it for my parents, I missed it, being far too concerned with chocolate, and small candy hearts with words on them. Sometimes I'd make a heart cake, formed using a square cake and a round cake cut in half, and decorated with pink frosting and cinnamon candy hearts.

There were two more February holidays that no one celebrates anymore: Abraham Lincoln's birthday on the 12th, and George Washington's on the 22nd. We would get one day or the other off from school, but not both. Nowadays they've morphed into President's Day, which is in February but I never remember when because it keeps changing.

March brought St. Patrick's Day, which was bigger in school than anywhere else, chiefly through room decorations with green shamrocks, leprechauns, and rainbows with pots of gold. In elementary school, some of our neighborhood kids had formed a small singing group—we mostly sang on the bus, but one year our teacher heard about it and persuaded us to go from classroom to classroom singing what Irish songs we knew. Back then, my family didn't know we had some Irish ancestors, so as far as I can remember, the holiday never went beyond the school door.

Easter, of variable date, was of course a big deal. Unlike Christmas, it had mostly lost its Christian significance in favor of bunnies and chicks, eggs and candy. Except for when we were with our grandparents and had to dress in our Easter finery and go to church. The going to church part was okay; the finery not so much.

We kids would put out our Easter baskets the night before, and awaken to find them filled with candy; often toys appeared also. Our baskets were sometimes bought at a store, but often homemade—I remember using a paper cutter to make strips from construction paper, and weaving them into baskets.

For me, the best part was our Easter egg hunt. None of this plastic egg business! We had dyed and decorated real hard-boiled eggs beforehand, and our parents hid them around the house, supplemented by foil-wrapped chocolate eggs, before going to bed on Easter Eve. What a blessing it was to live where it was cool enough at Easter time that eggs could safely be left overnight without fear of spoilage or melting.

Easter dinner was almost always a ham, beautiful and delicious, studded with cloves, crowned with pineapple rings, and covered with a glaze for which I wish I had the recipe. I know we did not always have a "canned ham"—for one thing, I remember the ham bone—but the experience of a canned ham was memorable, since they had to be opened with a "key" at risk of life and limb—or at least of mildly damaged fingers.

May brought Memorial Day, which was always May 30, not this Monday-holiday business. When it fell on a school day, it was a day off, which we always appreciated. There was usually a Memorial Day parade, in which we sometimes participated, with band, scout, or fire department groups. There was always something related to the real meaning of the holiday, but we kids never paid attention to the speeches. Our family was well-represented in wartime contributions, but rarely talked about them, and no one had died, so the holiday has no sad associations in my memory.

Mother's Day was in May, also; what I remember most was fixing breakfast in bed for our mother. For some reason, in those days, eating breakfast in bed was regarded as something special. I have no idea why. For me, the practice is associated with being sick, as back then children were expected to recuperate in bed for a ridiculously long time. We even had a special tray, with games imprinted on it, for sick-in-bed meals. Why a healthy adult would voluntarily eat a meal in bed is still beyond my comprehension.

We sometimes had outings on Mother's Day, and otherwise just did our best to make sure that at the end of the day Mom was in no doubt that she was a mother many times over.

Father's Day, in June, was also low-key, although it was a bit more exciting in the years when it coincided with my brother's birthday.

Independence Day was, like Memorial Day, an occasion for parades and speeches. Our neighborhood usually had its own parade, with decorated bicycles and scooters. Occasionally we would go somewhere to see a public fireworks display, which wasn't anything like the spectacular events seen these days; nor did ordinary people generally have fireworks. Sometimes we had sparklers, and the little black dots that burned into "snakes" when you lit them. One time our neighbors had imported some mild fireworks from a state where they were legal, and we enjoyed them—all but my mother, who protested by staying inside and playing the 1812 Overture loudly on our record player (which, by the way, was monophonic).

August was entirely bereft of holidays, though we kids were busy squeezing the last drops out of our summer vacation from school. Since Labor Day was always on a Monday even before the Monday holiday bill came into being, and school always started right after that, the week or two beforehand was a favorite time for family vacations. This holiday was completely divorced from what it was intended to honor; I think I was in college, or even later, before I made the connection with the labor movement and unions.

October 12 was Columbus Day, as it will always be for me. Its chief value was in being a day of vacation. I could tell you that "In fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue," and that his boats were the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, but that's about it.

Now Hallowe'en, that was a children's holiday! We didn't have it off from school, unless it fell on a weekend—and if it did, our schools were certain to celebrate it anyway. Costumes—usually homemade, often very clever—a parade around the school, and no doubt some special treats were the order of the day. Parents were invited to watch the parade, which was almost always held outdoors. Most of the kids walked to school, and most had parents at home who could come. Some costumes obviously had more parental help than others, but none that I recall were store-bought, nor were there any of the outlandish, sexualized, and violent costumes I've seen today—or even 35 years ago when I watched Hallowe'en parades at our own children's elementary school. Today's society would no doubt be horrified, however, at our Indians with war paint and bows and arrows, our cowboys and soldiers with toy guns, and our knights with swords.

At night, trick-or-treating was nothing like it is today. For one thing, there wasn't nearly as much loot, since we were restricted to our own neighborhoods, and most households gave our much smaller quantities of treats than is common today. None of this business of parents driving their kids all over to increase their hauls, no trunk-or-treat, no candy distributed at businesses and malls; there was little commercial about it. But we sure had fun, and much more freedom, being turned loose to roam freely within the set bounds of our neighborhood, without regard for darkness or danger or costumes that were difficult to see out of and were not festooned with reflective tape. Younger children went trick-or-treating with their parents—who had the grace to stay in the street while the children rang the doorbells on their own—or more likely, older siblings, who tended to stick a little closer in hopes some kind neighbor would offer the chaperones some candy, too. Back home, we'd gleefully sort through our haul, occasionally trading with siblings, without any concerned parents checking it out first. And of course we ate far too much candy. Only the oldest of my brothers had the strength of will to ration his; the rest of us finished ours up within a week, but he usually had some left in the freezer until the following Hallowe'en.

Most of the time, the creation of my costume was a father- and/or mother-daughter collaboration that I looked forward to all year. Offhand, I remember being a clown, a cuckoo clock, a salt shaker (to go along with my best friend, the pepper shaker), a parking meter, and a medieval knight, among others that will not immediately come to mind. After elementary school, my Hallowe'en costume days petered out, except for one year after we moved to the Philadelphia area and a group of my friends persuaded me to make the rounds with them. That's when I discovered why they were still clinging to childish pursuits: we were in a wealthier neighborhood, where rich people gave out full-sized candy bars!

Another treasured family project was carving pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns. We used real knives to cut as soon as we were responsible enough to handle them, and always illuminated our creations with candles, even though a finger or hand was bound to be mildly burned in the lighting process. Often we kept the seeds when we hollowed out the pumpkins, salting and roasting them. It was so much fun!

But there was a worm in the apple: One year, when I was at a very tender age, our jack-o-lanterns were set outside on our porch, as usual. A gang of teenage boys came rampaging through the neighborhood and viscously smashed our creations. It was heartbreaking. I still remember the sound of their stomping feet on the porch, and their gleeful yells.

On the brighter side, with some help from my mother, I once created a Hallowe'en party for my friends, with a "haunted house" in the basement, games, a craft, food, and watching Outer Limits on our little, black and white television set. (I've set the video to show just the opening theme. If you happen to watch the whole thing, and get hooked, Part 2 is here.)

As with the best holidays, there was good food, not just candy. Apple cider—real apple cider straight from the farm, unfiltered and unpasteurized, a delight that few know today. Sometimes cold, sometimes hot and mulled, depending on the weather, which at Hallowe'en in Upstate New York could be just about anything. Apples themselves, tart and delicious, of varieties difficult to impossible to find today. My mother's homemade pumpkin cookies! And pumpkin bread! A plate of cinnamon-sugar donuts, sometimes homemade but often store-bought and nonetheless delicious. Sometimes popcorn, too.

Thanksgiving. We frequently had guests for Thanksgiving dinner. My father's parents lived 200 miles away, and while it wasn't the three-hour trip it is today, it was short enough for us to get together for Thanksgiving. If it wasn't my grandparents sharing our Thanksgiving dinner, it was friends, and sometimes both. The meal was pretty standard: typically turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, sweet potatoes, peas, creamed onions, Waldorf salad, cranberry sauce, and rolls, with pumpkin and mincemeat pies. Once we acquired a television set (which happened when I was seven years old), there were parades on TV in the morning for the kids, and football games in the afternoon for the men. The women, no doubt, were cooking!  Much later, when we lived in Pennsylvania and had grown up a bit more, the annual "Turkey Bowl" in our own backyard attracted enough friends to make an exciting touch/tag football game in the crisp November afternoon.

And finally, the best for last: Christmas.

These days, there is a Great Divide in the way Christmas is celebrated: Christian and Secular. In my youth it was not so. Christian or not, we all knew the origins and history of the occasion, and everywhere—in stores, in schools, in the public square—Santa, reindeer, snowmen, Christmas trees, presents, Mary, Joseph, Jesus, animals around the manger, shepherds, and angels mingled happily together. Even the Star and the Three Wise Men worked their way out of their proper setting of Epiphany to join the joyous throng.

I loved choosing and decorating our Christmas tree, especially the many years when we cut our own. Christmas tree farms back then were not what they are now, with their carefully-shaped trees in neatly-planted rows. Each tree had its own personality, and we often had a choice among several varieties. Finding our special tree was an adventure I looked forward to every year. The freedom of choice, and cutting the tree ourselves, were important to me. But somehow I never minded when we ended up adopting orphan trees: those chosen and cut down by other customers, then abandoned after some flaw was discovered. Our hearts went out to the poor things, often beautiful in our eyes. And our decorations easily accommodated any flaws.

Tree decorating in our household followed a standard pattern. After trimming the branches to his satisfaction, my father would set the tree in a large can (#10 comes to mind, but I can't be sure) that he filled with sand and mounted in a wooden frame that he had made. It was placed on a sheet and dressed in a homemade Christmas tree skirt. At that point, he put the light strings on. The lights were multi-colored, and much larger than the tiny lights that later became popular. Unlike the practice that continues in Switzerland today, our lights were not real, lighted candles. But burns were still possible: those incandescent bulbs could get quite hot, and Dad had to be careful with their placement.

As soon as that was done, the whole family went to town on the tree! Decorating was a joyous family affair. Each year we created anew popcorn strings, using red string and large-eyed needles. These went on first, after the lights. (Birds enjoyed the popcorn after the tree was taken down.) We had plastic ornaments that were put on the lower levels, where toddlers could reach. We had lovely glass ornaments for higher places. We had an ornament handmade by my grandmother, and several made by young children. Atop the tree was either a star with a light in it, or a glass spire, depending on our mood. The pièce de la résistance? Draping the branches with "icicles." These are hard to explain if you haven't seen them, but they were an essential part of our beautiful trees. Here's a description I found on Reddit that explains them well.

Growing up in the 50s and 60s, there were two types of "tinsel" (we called them "icicles"), the crinkly kind that was metallic, and the plastic kind that was coated with shiny silver. The crinkly kind, which I assume was the lead type, were a tad heavier so they hung straight, while the wispy plastic type was shinier and might fly around a bit. I remember once the static electricity caused them to sway when I walked right near the tree. You had to put these on one strand at a time, which was tedious. Taking them off was also an issue, you could never get all of them off. Both types seemed to fade in popularity and garland tinsel became more common by the 80s. As artificial trees became more common, "icicles" became less practical, and even garland seemed to fall out of favor. "Icicles" looked best on an open-style Balsam Fir type of tree, and not so good on fuller trees like a Scotch Pine and Douglas Fir.

Even our family became less enthusiastic about icicles when the lead kind was replaced by the plastic, which we considered a very inferior substitute. Not the same thing at all! We did (usually) wash our hands after handling the lead....

I haven't mentioned music, which was always an important part of the season. Everyone knew the standard Christmas carols back then, and just as with the displays, Silent Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem, and O Come, All Ye Faithful mingled happily with Jingle Bells and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. We sang at home, we sang in school, we sang at community events. Instead of a solitary volunteer manning a red kettle and ringing an annoying bell, the Salvation Army band treated passersby to carols in excellent brass arrangements. And of course we played our favorite Christmas records while decorating our tree. One of my favorites was Sing We Now of Christmas, with the Harry Simeone Chorale. Although the album cover featured on this YouTube playlist is different, it has the exact songs from our record, and I was thrilled to discover it.

During my young childhood, my family went reasonably regularly to church—a small Dutch Reformed church in tiny Scotia, New York. We did not, however, go to church on Christmas. Christmas Eve and Christmas morning were strictly family time.

Christmas Eve. What do I remember about Christmas Eve? Chiefly that my father always read "A Night Before Christmas" (aka "A Visit from St. Nicholas") just before we children went to bed. My parents stayed up late wrapping and assembling gifts, but for me it was all about anticipation. Back then, Christmas was not even thought of (except by those needing to mail overseas packages) before Santa appeared at the end of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and the month between then and Christmas seemed to me to stretch half a year. Since then, that time period has somehow shrunk to about half a week, even though the "Christmas season" now starts before Hallowe'en.

In my earliest years, we did not have a fireplace, and hung our stockings on our bedroom doorknobs. Somehow, Santa managed without a chimney.... When we moved to a house with fireplaces, the stockings, as I recall, still didn't hang in front of them. You see, we children were allowed to wake up very early and open our stockings; there was some lower limit to the hour, but it was early enough to please us and late enough to give our parents some much-need additional sleep. But we were not allowed to peek at the Christmas tree—so our stockings were hung on an upstairs railing.

I don't know when the gift inflation started, though it is undeniable. Our stockings were rather small—I remember mine being one of my father's old hiking boot socks—and did not hold a lot, but I don't ever remember being disappointed. (Oh yes; there was one year that I was. At one point my mother, in a bit of exasperation at my never-ending Christmas wish list, exclaimed, "You want the world with a string around it!" So I put that on my list. Lo and behold, in my stocking was a small bank in the shape of a globe, and my parents had attached a string to it. Today, I recognize it as a clever joke, but at the time I was bitterly disappointed that Santa had so misunderstood my request.) In addition to small toys and candy, in the toes of our stockings were always a small coin and a tangerine.

Our own children had huge stockings, hand knit by Porter's mother; they were always stuffed full, and the stocking gifts even spilled over onto the floor. Part of this was no doubt because we always had guests with us for Christmas, and everyone wanted to be Santa. Part was because societal expectations had greatly increased. I was aware of the inflationary pressure, and knew it was dangerous, but had very limited success in fighting it.

On Christmas morning, after we children had opened our stockings and spent some time playing with the toys inside, we were allowed to invade our parents' bedroom and show them our treasures, bringing their own stockings to them.

Next on the agenda was breakfast. I don't recall anything particularly special about Christmas breakfast, only that our parents took an unconscionable long time drinking their coffee! Eventually we persuaded them to finish their drinks in the living room, where the tree was. What a wonder! If there weren't as many presents there as our own children experienced, it certainly seemed an abundance to me. Especially after the family grew to six people. One thing I think we did better with our own children was our practice of opening only one gift at a time, so that everyone could enjoy everything. When I was growing up, my father often passed out gifts to multiple people simultaneously, so sometimes we missed seeing other people opening their presents. It did keep the event from lasting all day, however.

The rest of the day was glorious, as we relaxed and enjoyed all our gifts. Except, of course, for my mother, who spent time fixing Christmas dinner. Unlike Thanksgiving and Easter, the menu wasn't fixed: sometimes turkey, sometimes ham, often roast beef, but always something special.

I didn't discover until much later the joys of being in a church that celebrates the Church Year, where Christmas is not a day but a whole season, of 12 days—until Epiphany. I had happily sung, "The Twelve Days of Christmas" all my life without ever thinking about what that meant. So in our family the Christmas tree usually came down around New Year's Day. Nonetheless, for us children the holiday lasted nearly 12 days, as any time we had off from school was a holiday to us.

And that's a look at the year's holidays as I remember them from my youth. I hope some of you have enjoyed this look into the past as much as I did recalling it.

I found the following list in in The Art of Manliness, a publication I rarely read, but have respect for, and not just because their site is hosted by our own Lime Daley, which also hosts this blog. Their article reprints The Children’s Morality Code for Elementary Schools from 1926, which is old enough that I have no qualms about reproducing it here. You're unlikely to see these rules for being a good American in any public elementary school today, more's the pity.  I believe I can heartily endorse all the precepts, except for the penultimate, XI-2:  I will be loyal to my school.  I supposed one has to expect that, given that this list was intended for school children, but I see no particular reason for loyalty to a school any more than to a favorite grocery store or brand of jeans.

As for the rest of them, I say we should bring them back, beginning with our politicians.

THE ELEMENTARY MORALITY OF CIVILIZATION

Boys and girls who are good Americans try to become strong and useful, worthy of their nation, that our country may become ever greater and better. Therefore, they obey the laws of right living which the best Americans have always obeyed.

I. THE LAW OF SELF-CONTROL

GOOD AMERICANS CONTROL THEMSELVES

Those who best control themselves can best serve their country.

1. I will control my tongue, and will not allow it to speak mean, vulgar, or profane words. I will think before I speak. I will tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

2. I will control my temper, and will not get angry when people or things displease me. Even when indignant against wrong and contradicting falsehood, I will keep my self-control.

3. I will control my thoughts, and will not allow a foolish wish to spoil a wise purpose.

4. I will control my actions. I will be careful and thrifty, and insist on doing right.

5. I will not ridicule nor defile the character of another; I will keep my self-respect, and help others to keep theirs.

II. THE LAW OF GOOD HEALTH

GOOD AMERICANS TRY TO GAIN AND KEEP GOOD HEALTH

The welfare of our country depends upon those who are physically fit for their daily work. Therefore:

1. I will try to take such food, sleep, and exercise as will keep me always in good health.

2. I will keep my clothes, my body, and my mind clean.

3. I will avoid those habits which would harm me, and will make and never break those habits which will help me.

4. I will protect the health of others, and guard their safety as well as my own.

5. I will grow strong and skillful.

III. THE LAW OF KINDNESS

GOOD AMERICANS ARE KIND

In America those who are different must live in the same communities. We are of many different sorts, but we are one great people. Every unkindness hurts the common life; every kindness helps. Therefore:

1. I will be kind in all my thoughts. I will bear no spites or grudges. I will never despise anybody.

2. I will be kind in all my speech. I will never gossip nor will I speak unkindly of any one. Words may wound or heal.

3. I will be kind in my acts. I will not selfishly insist on having my own way. I will be polite: rude people are not good Americans. I will not make unnecessary trouble for those who work for me, nor forget to be grateful. I will be careful of other people’s things. I will do my best to prevent cruelty, and will give help to those who are in need.

IV. THE LAW OF SPORTSMANSHIP

GOOD AMERICANS PLAY FAIR

Strong play increases and trains one’s strength and courage. Sportsmanship helps one to be a gentleman, a lady. Therefore:

1. I will not cheat; I will keep the rules, but I will play the game hard, for the fun of the game, to win by strength and skill. If I should not play fair, the loser would lose the fun of the game, the winner would lose his self-respect, and the game itself would become a mean and often cruel business.

2. I will treat my opponents with courtesy, and trust them if they deserve it. I will be friendly.

3. If I play in a group game, I will play, not for my own glory, but for the success of my team.

4. I will be a good loser or a generous winner.

5. And in my work as well as in my play, I will be sportsmanlike—generous, fair, honorable.

V. THE LAW OF SELF-RELIANCE

GOOD AMERICANS ARE SELF-RELIANT

Self-conceit is silly, but self-reliance is necessary to boys and girls who would be strong and useful.

1. I will gladly listen to the advice of older and wiser people; I will reverence the wishes of those who love and care for me, and who know life and me better than I. I will develop independence and wisdom to choose for myself, act for myself, according to what seems right and fair and wise.

2. I will not be afraid of being laughed at when I am right. I will not be afraid of doing right when the crowd does wrong.

3. When in danger, trouble, or pain, I will be brave. A coward does not make a good American.

VI. THE LAW OF DUTY

GOOD AMERICANS DO THEIR DUTY

The shirker and the willing idler live upon others, and burden fellow-citizens with work unfairly. They do not do their share, for their country’s good.

I will try to find out what my duty is, what I ought to do as a good American, and my duty I will do, whether it is easy or hard. What it is my duty to do I can do.

VII. THE LAW OF RELIABILITY

GOOD AMERICANS ARE RELIABLE

Our country grows great and good as her citizens are able more fully to trust each other. Therefore:

1. I will be honest in every act, and very careful with money. I will not cheat nor pretend, nor sneak.

2. I will not do wrong in the hope of not being found out. I can not hide the truth from myself. Nor will I injure the property of others.

3. I will not take without permission what does not belong to me. A thief is a menace to me and others.

4. I will do promptly what I have promised to do. If I have made a foolish promise, I will at once confess my mistake, and I will try to make good any harm which my mistake may have caused. I will speak and act that people will find it easier to trust each other.

VIII. THE LAW OF TRUTH

GOOD AMERICANS ARE TRUE

1. I will be slow to believe suspicions lest I do injustice; I will avoid hasty opinions lest I be mistaken as to facts.

2. I will stand by the truth regardless of my likes and dislikes, and scorn the temptation to lie for myself or friends: nor will I keep the truth from those who have a right to it.

3. I will hunt for proof, and be accurate as to what I see and hear; I will learn to think, that I may discover new truth.

IX. THE LAW OF GOOD WORKMANSHIP

GOOD AMERICANS TRY TO DO THE RIGHT THING IN THE RIGHT WAY

The welfare of our country depends upon those who have learned to do in the right way the work that makes civilization possible. Therefore:

1. I will get the best possible education, and learn all that I can as a preparation for the time when I am grown up and at my life work. I will invent and make things better if I can.

2. I will take real interest in work, and will not be satisfied to do slipshod, lazy, and merely passable work. I will form the habit of good work and keep alert; mistakes and blunders cause hardships, sometimes disaster, and spoil success.

3. I will make the right thing in the right way to give it value and beauty, even when no one else sees or praises me. But when I have done my best, I will not envy those who have done better, or have received larger reward. Envy spoils the work and the worker.

X. THE LAW OF TEAM-WORK

GOOD AMERICANS WORK IN FRIENDLY COOPERATION WITH FELLOW-WORKERS

One alone could not build a city or a great railroad. One alone would find it hard to build a bridge. That I may have bread, people have sowed and reaped, people have made plows and threshers, have built mills and mined coal, made stoves and kept stores. As we learn how to work together, the welfare of our country is advanced.

1. In whatever work I do with others, I will do my part and encourage others to do their part, promptly.

2. I will help to keep in order the things which we use in our work. When things are out of place, they are often in the way, and sometimes they are hard to find.

3. In all my work with others, I will be cheerful. Cheerlessness depresses all the workers and injures all the work.

4. When I have received money for my work, I will be neither a miser nor a spendthrift. I will save or spend as one of the friendly workers of America.

XI. THE LAW OF LOYALTY

GOOD AMERICANS ARE LOYAL

If our America is to become ever greater and better, her citizens must be loyal, devotedly faithful, in every relation of life; full of courage and regardful of their honor.

1. I will be loyal to my family. In loyalty I will gladly obey my parents or those who are in their place, and show them gratitude. I will do my best to help each member of my family to strength and usefulness.

2. I will be loyal to my school. In loyalty I will obey and help other pupils to obey those rules which further the good of all.

3. I will be loyal to my town, my state, my country. In loyalty I will respect and help others to respect their laws and their courts of justice.

"How do you decide what to write?" I know that other writers have been asked this and similar questions, and I don't speak for anyone else, but for me this is not the problem. The question I wrestle with constantly is, How do I decide what NOT to write? I find it more like sculpture: somewhere inside that big block of marble is an angel; the trick is to know what to take away (paraphrasing Michelangelo).

Earlier this year, I set out to declutter and organize the nearly 400 links that I had bookmarked and saved in a folder called simply, "Write." For years, whenever I had come across an article, or a podcast, or a blog post, or a news event that inspired me to write, but which I couldn't deal with immediately, I dumped it into the Write bucket. That folder was my closet, my attic, my basement, and it was no easier to clean out than any of those physical locations.

As with physical accumulations, some things were easier to deal with than others. Some links had been taken down, or put behind pay walls, so "delete" was an easy option. Other subjects were too topical and had become out of date. Delete. It was harder to deal with subjects that were still interesting to me, but which I knew would be less so to most of my readers; they'd be fine for filling in on a slow news day, but I haven't had one of those in months, and I've been accumulating a large stock of more interesting fill-ins anyway. Delete, if somewhat reluctantly. Ditto for the stories and videos that didn't quite express themselves as well on a second look as they had at first. I could have filled in the missing pieces—but I'm not looking for extra work!

That process whittled my stock down by about half. I was determined not to leave the rest as simple bookmarks. If they were worth keeping, they were worth starting blog posts for, if it were but to create a title, give it a category, and put the link in the post body, saving the result as a draft in my blog software. Sometimes I would then get inspired, and make a good start on the post. Sometimes I even completed it.

You guessed it: I have returned to my earlier practice. If I have an idea I create the beginnings of a blog post and save it as a draft. I'm not sure that's an improvement over the Write folder, although it's a little more organized. But now I have well over 200 blog posts in various stages of completion. If I were to publish one a day it would take more than half a year to go through them all. And that's only if I never get inspired to write something new—which we all know just isn't going to happen as long as I'm conscious.

I don't have to bring them all to completion; they're there to provide inspiration. But I must write. Writing is how I communicate; writing is my therapy; writing is how I relax. Writing is how I think. More than that, while many of my posts are personal, light-hearted, or trivial—though good humor is anything but trivial—I often cover serious subjects, and believe I need to make available to others whatever knowledge and wisdom I've gathered in my long years. That may sound arrogant, but what's the point of learning and experience if you don't share it? I feel this especially strongly because I"m aware that nearly all of the good ideas I've implemented in my life were inspired by someone else—usually what someone else has written.

To use the old-fashioned term, I also believe I am called to speak out, and as long as this is my calling, I must write. The question, always, is not so much what to write, as what to leave behind. For that, the pressures of time and everyday life are for better or worse the broadest chisel: better in that I'm forced to prioritize; worse because it biases what I publish away from what takes long, hard work to write. Maybe that's not all bad; every diet needs variety. I pretty much follow my gut, keep praying to be useful, and hope that enough of the time I can distinguish a piece of stone from the feather of an angel's wing.

I have been expressing my thoughts online since the end of the last century. In 2015 I set myself a goal of writing at least 10 posts each month, or about one every three days. This I have done without fail for more than 10 years. My posts now total over 3500, more than half of that since 2015. Sometimes I write a lot more than 10 posts per month, due to an inundation of noteworthy events on every level, from personal to international. Sometimes I must work harder to meet my goal, when the necessities of life make finding time to write difficult.

I do fear overwhelming my audience. But that's the beauty of the blog format: it's up to the audience if, when, and how much to read. Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, should someone eventually have time and interest in what I have to say, it will be found here, patiently waiting. I'm called to write, I'm called to speak the truth as I've been given to see it—but I'm not called to convince anyone of anything. Changing other people is above my pay grade.

So, yeah. That's what goes through my mind when someone asks, How do you decide what to write?

This research comes from Carnegie Mellon University, so it must be good, right?  In these days, as the cracks in our system of scientific funding, research, reviewing, and reporting are becoming evident, it's nice to find results I can embrace wholeheartedly.

In a carefully controlled laboratory at Carnegie Mellon University, researchers exposed more than 400 healthy volunteers to the common cold virus. However, before the viral exposure, researchers spent two weeks meticulously tracking something most scientists might overlook: whether the participants had been hugged each day. ... Participants who were hugged on most days had about 60 percent lower odds of becoming infected than those who were rarely hugged. Additionally, those who did get sick recovered more quickly and had stronger immune responses than those who received fewer hugs.

When we hug someone, a cascade of events unfolds in our bodies and brains, affecting us on multiple levels—neurobiological, neurochemical, and social. Neurobiologically, hugging stimulates a network of sensory nerves under the skin, particularly a specialized group called C-tactile afferents, sometimes referred to as “cuddle nerves.” ... When triggered, cuddle nerves also release endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers that help boost mood. ... On a neurochemical level, hugging triggers the release of several “feel-good” chemicals. Chief among these is oxytocin ... which enhances feelings of bonding, trust, and safety. In addition, hugging releases dopamine, which is associated with pleasure, and serotonin, which stabilizes mood and promotes happiness. From a social and psychological standpoint, hugs convey support without the need for words, serving as nonverbal affirmations of shared emotion, reinforcing social bonds.

Hug duration was also considered in the study.

When researchers tested different types of hug styles and durations, they discovered precise requirements: one-second hugs felt unsatisfying and provided minimal benefit. At the same time, five to 10 seconds proved optimal before longer contact became uncomfortable. For intimate relationships, 20-second embraces produce the strongest measurable effects.

The article does not specifically mention one vital category of hugs: those between parents and their young children. (And grandma hugs!  Never forget the regenerative power of grandma hugs!) Possibly it was included in the "intimate relationships" category, but I'm inclined to suspect that there were not enough people in the parent/child cohort for meaningful data. Many university studies are done on their captive audience of college students; I'd like to know the demographics of their volunteers.

Read the whole article for more, including previous studies. Here's one from 2003:

Couples who had 10 minutes of hand holding followed by a 20-second hug with their partner before giving a speech had lower blood pressure and heart rate by half compared with those who sat quietly without contact. These results suggest that affectionate touch provides physiological protection, which partially explains the heart health benefits associated with supportive relationships.

Are you a bit short on the opportunity for hugs in your life? Do not despair!

Regular affectionate contact produces benefits that extend far beyond stress reduction and a healthier heart. People who receive consistent physical comfort—whether from humans, pets, or even weighted blankets—sleep more soundly and wake more refreshed than those lacking such contact.

Tom Lehrer didn't quite make it to his 100th birthday, and I'm sure he could have written a song about that.

I discovered him when I was in junior high school, and his album That Was the Year That Was is one of the few records I owned before marriage.  I can't say as my parents approved of all of the songs—in retrospect I can see why—but they generally put up with my adolescent idiosyncracies.

Here's a great obituary for Lehrer from The Economist, cleverly interwoven with lines from his multitudinous satirical songs.  You can read it for free, but you have to jump through a bunch of hoops that may or may not be worth the trouble.  You need to enter, not just the usual name and e-mail address, but also your profession and industry.  Worse, you have to fit your life into their limited boxes, which has never been easy for me.  "Retired" and "Homemaker" are not options.  On the other hand, writing homeschool reports has made me pretty good at stuffing whatever it was we were doing into conventional terminology.

His childhood had been a breeze of maths and music, with a preference for Broadway shows. He entered Harvard at 15 and graduated at 18, the sort of student who brought books of logical puzzles to dinner in hall, and, on the piano in his room, liked to play Rachmaninov with his left hand in one key and his right a semitone lower, making his friends grimace. He seemed bound for a glittering mathematical career, but then the songs erupted, written for friends but spreading by word of mouth, until he was famous. He wrote each one in a trice and performed, increasingly, in night clubs. By contrast his PhD, on the concept of the mode, vaguely occupied him for 15 years before he abandoned it.

Oh fame! Oh accolades! He had toured the world and packed out Carnegie Hall. Yes, they really panted to see a clean-cut Harvard graduate in horn-rimmed glasses pounding at a piano and singing: sometimes stern, sometimes morose, but often joyose, as he twisted in the knife. [Is that a typo for joyous, or a deliberate portmanteau of joyous and morose?]

When he suddenly stopped, and the output dropped, he was presumed dead. No, Tom Lehrer replied. Just having fun commuting between the coasts, teaching maths for a quarter of the year, ie the winter, at the University of California in sunny Santa Cruz, and spending the rest of the time in Cambridge, Massachusetts, being lazy. Never having to shovel snow; never having to see snow. And, being said to be dead, avoiding junk mail.

I wonder how he managed the last.  We're still getting junk mail for Porter's father, who has been actually dead for six years.

Did he ever have hopes of extending the frontier of scientific knowledge? Noooooo, unless you counted his Gilbert & Sullivan setting of the entire periodic table. He would rather retract it, if anything. He still taught maths, along with musical theatre, and that was his career. He had never wanted attention from people applauding his singing in the dark. His solitary, strictly private life made him happy; to fame he was indifferent. In 2020 he told everyone they could help themselves to his song rights. As for him, he returned to his puzzle books, as if he had never strayed.

Requiescat in pace, Tom Lehrer. Thanks for all the fun.

It began as a student project by Professor Jamie Rector's class at the University of California, Berkeley. They wanted to investigate methane emissions from abandoned and sealed oil wells. What the students discovered could turn the approach to California's environmental concerns on its head.

As they researched California’s abandoned oil wells, Rector’s students discovered an abundance of natural oil seeps located above the same fields—and came to a surprising conclusion. Geologically driven, natural oil seeps are a major contributor to California’s greenhouse emissions, they say. And drilling—long seen as the problem, not the answer—might be a panacea for emissions.

Natural seeps occur when liquid oil and gas leak to the Earth’s surface, both on land and under water. California sits on actively moving tectonic plates, which create fractured reservoirs and pathways for the oil to escape. ... Waters off Southern California are rife with seeps, and oil and gas fields ... have some of the highest natural hydrocarbon seep rates in the world, emitting gases such as methane, as well as toxic volatile organic compounds (VOCs). But these geologically driven seeps, Rector notes, have been largely unaccounted for in assessing how oil production fields contribute to California’s greenhouse gas emissions.

“There are hundreds of studies linking oil and gas fields to greenhouse gas emissions, to cancer rates, to climate justice, to groundwater pollution and everything else,” said Rector. “And yet none of these studies ever considered the possibility that it wasn’t from equipment or production, but natural seeps above the oil fields.” ... Rector’s team calculates that natural seeps, together with orphaned wells, produce 50 times more methane emissions than oil and gas equipment leaks in Southern California.

If seeps are driving emissions above oil fields, Rector reasons, plugging abandoned wells may do little to help pollution. In fact, he posits, the only demonstrated way to reduce natural seep emissions is by depleting underlying reservoirs—that is, by drilling.

Pointing to studies showing that oil production has reduced and even eliminated seeps, he suggests California’s current regulatory environment may be counterproductive.
“The crazy thing is, by stopping oil and gas production in California, after we’ve regulated and really gotten equipment emissions way down, we may be increasing seep emissions,” Rector said. “Because these seeps come up through the oil and gas fields, and the only way to stop it is by producing oil.”

The article is much longer than these excerpts, and the situation is of course complex, both scientifically and politically, but I see it as yet another demonstration of the truth that simplistic solutions with the best of intentions often lead to harmful, unintended consequences.

Here's an interesting look at attempts to replace farms and ranches with industrial food production facilities.

I'm not totally against efforts to use technology to create flesh; I'm quite excited about the possibility of using 3D printers to create hearts, kidneys, and other organs for those who need them. That, too, is still a far-off dream, but it sure beats re-defining death so that more organs can be harvested for transplant, as was recently suggested in the New York Times. (The link will be useless to you if, like me, you can't get into the NYT, but you can see the headline.)

The main reason I like that video is how it reveals the incredible complexities of natural life, which we take for granted until we try to mimic them. Lab-grown meat is no more likely to replicate—in taste or nutrition—a fire-grilled steak from a purely grass-fed steer than vanillin can replace a vanilla bean, or oat milk the marvellous liquid that comes from a well-tended cow.

Here's another Imprimis article I enjoyed, Victor Davis Hanson's 2025 commencement address for Hillsdale College.

Some excerpts:

Harvard University suddenly wishes to be free of Washington, D.C.—at least as long as the current administration remains in office. ... In answer, the public has been directing Harvard to consult Hillsdale, whose model disavowal of federal funding is long-standing and principled. Hillsdale’s declination of government money does not hinge on any particular administration, Republican or Democrat, being in power. Instead, Hillsdale has taken the position that the federal government should not dictate to private colleges, and that to ensure its independence, Hillsdale will neither seek nor accept taxpayer subsidies.

You students of the Class of 2025 have been instructed in, have absorbed fully, and will pass on a code of honorable conduct that has become a natural part of who you are. ... Hillsdale has taught you not to worry if you are not one with the current majority of youth, because you are certainly one with most of the past—and future—generations. ... Because your values are real, permanent, and ancient, you will not be won over by those who justify their lapses of behavior by situational ethics or feelings of victimization. Without such individual vows of honesty and compassion for others, civilization in aggregate cannot be sustained. It instead descends into the age-old banes of tribalism, disunity, and chaos.

Much of our society’s current crisis derives from this personal refusal or inability to respect the property of others, to tell the truth, to stand up to the bully, to protect the weaker, and to end each day in contemplation that you were more a moral force for the common good than either a neutral observer or on the wrong side of the ethical ledger. When individual behavior and decorum falter, so does a country, which is, after all, only the common reflection of millions of its individuals.

So often in the age of presentism, we in our narcissism and arrogance confuse our technical and material successes with automatic moral progress. We seem unaware that thinkers of the past ... worried about just the opposite: they worried that material progress and greater wealth would result in moral regress, given the greater opportunities to gratify the appetites with perceived fewer consequences and to use sophistry to excuse the sin.

Without traditional reverence for the past, an ungrateful nation not only suffers a loss of knowledge but is plagued by hubris—so often the twin of ignorance—believing that it alone has discovered ideas and behaviors unique to itself and its own era, when they are in fact ancient.

Key to the endangered idea of reverence for the past is a recognition that it is neither fair nor just to dismiss easily those of earlier generations based solely on the standards of the present. ... The Hillsdale reverence for the Western tradition and the American past is a reminder that we should not easily condemn and erase the dead, lest we and our times be judged capriciously by future generations and found wanting—whether for the medievalism of our dangerous cities, the electronic cruelty of the Internet, or the fragmentation of the family.

Your generation is now witness to a counterrevolution of sorts. Millions of Americans are asking for a reexamination of our culture and society with an eye to restoring ancient decency and looking to the good of past generations. Critical to this restoration is your optimism. Such positivity is the child of gratitude for all that we have inherited and all that we wish to enhance and pass on to others not yet born. With optimism and confidence in the citizenry, a civilization grows rather than shrinks. It becomes secure, not depressed or beset by self-loathing. It looks to the future with reverence for the past, rather than with shame or hatred.

The strength of this country ... has always been its singular ability to remain not just unshaken, but confident in its values, its resilience, and its inherent strength to overcome all challenges.

Many years ago, when Inspector Morse first aired on PBS, we watched several episodes, and have since enjoyed the whole series, plus the spin-offs Lewis (aka Inspector Lewis) and Endeavour. The stories, especially the more recent ones, often reflect objectionably "Hollywood" values, and there's a tinge of darkness that might not make them good fare for one who is already depressed. But it's hard to have police shows and murder mysteries without darkness, and the series are so very well crafted and acted that even the depressing parts are more like the spices that add depth and flavor to a stew.

And I love the music by composer Barrington Pheloung.

Here's the Morse theme:

The theme for Lewis (aka Inspector Lewis) I didn't find as moving as that for Morse and Endeavour, but it fits the show, which might be my favorite of the three due to Lewis' sidekick James Hathaway (played by Laurence Fox) and their interactions.

Endeavour brings back a variation on the original theme. I love those horns!

It's time to bring back a post from eight years ago, which I called Leadership. It was inspired by the funeral of a man I wish I had known better.

I've never aspired to be a leader. I learned that in elementary school, when my parents and teacher were talking about "leadership qualities" and I thought, "Doesn't sound like fun to me." I don't mean I necessarily like to be a follower—mostly I like to do my own thing (child of the '60s) and other people can come along, or not, as they wish.

But a man at our church, who died not long ago, is making me rethink the idea of leadership. I barely knew him, but our choir sang for his funeral, and what I learned about him then made me wish I had found a way to cultivate his friendship.

He was accomplished enough for 10 people. He graduated in Mechanical and Electrical Engineering from Princeton. He was a marine, serving in World War II and Korea. He followed that up by working for the CIA, earning the highest possible award for valor. For three years he endured Communist prison camp in Cuba. His civilian life achievements and community activities are too numerous to mention.

And they played bagpipes at his funeral.

Most amazing of all for someone so distinguished, everyone who knew him remarked about his humility. Churches talk a lot about "servant leadership" but apparently this man actually embodied it. He was, indeed, a "humble servant."

And yet....

The other thing said about him was that people did things the way he thought they ought to be done. He was humble, he was gentle, he was soft-spoken—but you didn't cross him. Somehow, he induced people to see things his way without pushing them around, without exerting his power—which is real power, indeed.

What might the world be like with more leaders like that?

There are a lot of things about the good ol' days that I don't miss—smoking on airplanes is at the top of the list—but recently I was gloriously reminded of one of the benefits that we took for granted at the time: good showers.

I don't think anyone born after 1990 has any idea what a good shower feels like. For almost 25 years it has taken me twice as long as previously to take a shower, because the flow from today's emasculated nozzles is so weak. Maybe if you've stood under a waterfall, or a tropical rainstorm, you have an idea of the joy of a shower free from unnecessary regulation, but it's pure bliss after all this wimpy stuff, let me tell you.

As I stood under the shower, the thought crossed my mind: I know President Trump has a lot of more important things to think about, but I sure wish he'd get rid of the shower head restrictions.

I thought it was just a useless wish. But like my similar dreams that companies would get rid of the junk that fills much of our food, or that someone would take seriously the catastrophic rise in allergies, autism, ADHD, and other afflictions that have replaced measles, mumps, and chicken pox as parental concerns. But at last, we as a country are attempting to address those and other long-time concerns of mine, so I though maybe shower heads had a chance.

Lo and behold, today I learned that President Trump has already rescinded—not the original 1992 regulation of showerheads, which I would have preferred, but at least the subsequent re-interpretations of the rules that were considerably more onerous. I'll celebrate victories when I see them.

There are many ways to conserve resources. One size fits all rarely works well. I'll take shorter, more powerful showers; you're welcome to take longer, wimpier ones.

Maybe it's time to stimulate the economy by buying new showerheads. As long as they're made in America.

Make showers great again!

I'm inclined to believe that any comfort angels have to offer comes after the terror part. And that's probably a good thing.

At Heather's suggestion, I am now reading Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race, by Margot Lee Shetterly. We'd enjoyed the movie version very much, but so far the book is orders of magnitude better. Especially if you don't mind a bit of math and the technical aspects of airplanes and flight. Even if you do, it's a well-written story, and it covers so much more than the movie.

I'm a third of the way through the book, and have just now reached the point of Sputnik. It would be hard for the story to get more interesting, however, at least for me. I see in the stories of WWII-era female mathematicians, black and white, a possible glimpse into that stage of my own mother's life, of which I know very little. She graduated in math from Duke University in 1946, and worked as an Engineering Assistant at General Electric for a few years after that.

There's enough to say about my mother's story to warrant its own post, so it will have to wait. In the meantime, here's an excerpt of one of my favorite tales from the book.

For Katherine, being selected to rotate through Building 1244, the kingdom of the fresh-air engineers, felt like an unexpected bit of fortune, however temporary the assignment might prove to be. She had been elated simply to sit in the pool and calculate her way through the data sheets assigned by Mrs. Vaughan. But being sent to sit with the brain trust located on the second floor of the building meant getting a close look at one of the most important and powerful groups at the laboratory. Just prior to Katherine’s arrival, the men who would be her new deskmates, John Mayer, Carl Huss, and Harold Hamer, had presented their research on the control of fighter airplanes in front of an audience of top researchers, who had convened at Langley for a two-day conference on the latest thinking in the specialty of aircraft loads.

With just her lunch bag and her pocketbook to take along, Katherine “picked up and went right over” to the gigantic hangar, a short walk from the West Computing office. She slipped in its side door, climbed the stairs, and walked down a dim cinderblock hallway until she reached the door labeled Flight Research Laboratory. Inside, the air reeked of coffee and cigarettes. Like West Computing, the office was set up classroom-style. There were desks for twenty. Most of the people in the space were men, but interspersed among them a few women consulted their calculating machines or peered intently at slides in film viewers. Along one wall was the office of the division chief, Henry Pearson, with a station for his secretary just in front. The room hummed with pre-lunch activity as Katherine surveyed it for a place to wait for her new bosses. She made a beeline for an empty cube, sitting down next to an engineer, resting her belongings on the desk and offering the man her winning smile. As she sat, and before she could issue a greeting in her gentle southern cadence, the man gave her a silent sideways glance, got up, and walked away.

This is where my brain threw an interrupt, and I paused in my reading. I'm willing to bet that my reaction was quite different from that of most people reading about the encounter. The obvious response is to label the engineer a racist, sexist bigot—of which there are certainly many examples in the book. But what I saw in his reaction was not a bigot, but an engineer.

The people at Langley were not just engineers, mathematicians, and physicists; they were some of the brightest of their species in the country. That kind of intelligence is often accompanied by what in my day we called "quirkiness." I know that not all engineers are alike, any more than all black female mathematicians are alike. But I know something about engineers. There are five generations of engineers in my family, and a goodly number of mathematicians. My father was a mechanical engineer with a master's degree in physics, and he worked for the General Electric Company's research laboratory in Schenectady, New York. With its abundance of mathematicians, physicists, and above all engineers, living in Schenectady was in its heyday like living in Silicon Valley or Seattle today. And no doubt much like the world of the the Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory in Hampton, Virginia. It was the air I breathed, the water I swam in. It wasn't until we moved to Philadelphia's Main Line when I was in high school that I encountered a broader world.

So when I read of the encounter between Katherine and the engineer, here's what I saw: Not the clash of race, sex, or social position, but this: An engineer is sitting by himself in his own world, working on a project, his thoughts very far away, when another person unexpectedly invades his space, looks right at him, smiles, and even makes eye contact. His concentration is broken, his train of thought is derailed, and he flees to safer territory. Or maybe not—but that's the scenario as I imagined it.

The real story is better.

Katherine watched the engineer disappear. Had she broken some unspoken rule? Could her mere presence have driven him away? It was a private and unobtrusive moment, one that failed to dent the rhythm of the office. But Katherine’s interpretation of that moment would both depend on the events in her past and herald her future. Bemused, Katherine considered the engineer’s sudden departure. The moment that passed between them could have been because she was black and he was white. But then again, it could have been because she was a woman and he was a man. Or maybe the moment was an interaction between a professional and a subprofessional, an engineer and a girl.

Outside the gates, the caste rules were clear. Blacks and whites lived separately, ate separately, studied separately, socialized separately, worshipped separately, and, for the most part, worked separately. At Langley, the boundaries were fuzzier. Blacks were ghettoed into separate bathrooms, but they had also been given an unprecedented entrée into the professional world. Some of Goble’s colleagues were Yankees or foreigners who’d never so much as met a black person before arriving at Langley. Others were folks from the Deep South with calcified attitudes about racial mixing. It was all a part of the racial relations laboratory that was Langley, and it meant that both blacks and whites were treading new ground together. The vicious and easily identifiable demons that had haunted black Americans for three centuries were shape-shifting as segregation began to yield under pressure from social and legal forces. Sometimes the demons still presented themselves in the form of racism and blatant discrimination. Sometimes they took on the softer cast of ignorance or thoughtless prejudice. But these days, there was also a new culprit: the insecurity that plagued black people as they code-shifted through the unfamiliar language and customs of an integrated life.

Katherine understood that the attitudes of the hard-line racists were beyond her control. Against ignorance, she and others like her mounted a day-in, day-out charm offensive: impeccably dressed, well-spoken, patriotic, and upright, they were racial synecdoches, keenly aware that the interactions that individual blacks had with whites could have implications for the entire black community. But the insecurities, those most insidious and stubborn of all the demons, were hers alone. They operated in the shadows of fear and suspicion, and they served at her command. They would entice her to see the engineer as an arrogant chauvinist and racist if she let them. They could taunt her into a self-doubting downward spiral, causing her to withdraw from the opportunity that Dr. Claytor had so meticulously prepared her for.

But Katherine Goble had been raised not just to command equal treatment for herself but also to extend it to others. She had a choice: either she could decide it was her presence that provoked the engineer to leave, or she could assume that the fellow had simply finished his work and moved on. Katherine was her father’s daughter, after all. She exiled the demons to a place where they could do no harm, then she opened her brown bag and enjoyed lunch at her new desk, her mind focusing on the good fortune that had befallen her.

Within two weeks, the original intent of the engineer who walked away from her, whatever it might have been, was moot. The man discovered that his new office mate was a fellow transplant from West Virginia, and the two became fast friends.