Lift Up Your Hearts!

The flag still stands for freedom, and they can't take that away.

You know you're aging as fast as the country when you tell people you were almost a quarter of a century old when America celebrated her 200th birthday, and they say, "Oh, wow...." But I remember celebrating the Bicentennial in Philadelphia, and hearing President Ford speak there.

I approached this post feeling entirely inadequate to write about America's 250th birthday. It demands something more profound, more intense than I can give at the moment, despite my deep feelings. I love our country now more than I ever have, perhaps because never in all my decades as an American have I felt our freedom to be in more danger, and the number of those attempting to take it away—or give it away—to be so overwhelming. But the flag still stands for freedom.

Lee Greenwood's God Bless the USA was from my children's era, not mine, and it doesn't often come to mind when I think about patriotic songs. But the other day I heard it, unexpectedly, and it equally unexpectedly brought tears to my eyes. I paused and stood taller as if I were hearing our national anthem. It's a fitting tribute to a great country.

If tomorrow all the things were gone
I'd worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife
I'd thank my lucky stars
To be living here today
'Cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can't take that away

And I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I'd gladly stand up
Next to you and defend her still today
'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land
God bless the USA

From the lakes of Minnesota
To the hills of Tennessee
Across the plains of Texas
From sea to shining sea
From Detroit down to Houston
And New York to L.A
Well there's pride in every American heart
And it's time we stand and say

That I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I'd gladly stand up
Next to you and defend her still today
'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land
God bless the USA

And I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I'd gladly stand up
Next to you and defend her still today
'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land
God bless the USA

I'm not unsympathetic to those who are genuinely suffering in the heat. I spent the first 30+ years of my life in the Northeast, where air conditioning was almost unheard of, even in critical care hospitals. The laboratory where I worked in the 1970's only had air conditioning in the computer rooms, and that only because—like art—the machines would not work under conditions that people were expected to endure with patience. Even in Florida, my grandparents' house, like most buildings before the late 20th century, had no air conditioning. (It was, however, intelligently built: two blocks from the ocean, and constructed for maximum cross-ventilation, to take advantage of every breeze.) I know unrelenting heat.

So how did we manage?

• Buildings, like my grandparents' house, were built to take the heat into account, with cross-ventilating windows, breezy porches, and shady trees arching over the roofs. Central Florida as it is built now could not exist without the HVAC industry.
• House windows were habitually opened as soon as the outside air cooled off at night, which it did most weeks of the year in the Northeast, and closed when the day began to heat up. This practice has a power that I didn't fully appreciate until we moved to Florida, where the nighttime cooling is ofttimes non-existent.
• Swimming: in ponds, lakes, pools, and/or the ocean. Plastic kiddie pools and running through the sprinkler helped a lot, too. When we first moved to Florida, we kept the A/C set in the 80's, and spent a lot of time in the pool. That kept us cool, but took a terrible toll on our energy. Once we gave in and brought the inside temperature down to the high 70's, we used the pool less—but got a lot more accomplished.
• Another advantage the more northern climes have is that the really unbearable temperatures are only for a short time. When we lived in Rochester, there were usually only two or three weeks in the summer when I was reduced to nursing my baby while immersed in a cool-water bath, and planning excursions based on whether or not the destination was air conditioned. In Florida, sans A/C, that would be the majority of the year.
• A few very lucky people had jobs in air conditioned buildings. As for the rest of us: we suffered; we endured; we dialed down our activities to keep our bodies cooler and our minds saner. And we looked forward to the first hints of autumn.

But that was then, and this is now, and now what makes it possible to have a comfortable, productive society is air conditioning. It's no secret that the closest thing the American South has to a secular saint is Willis Carrier. Air conditioning is as critical in the Sun Belt as heating is in the Snow Belt. Having heard people seriously suggest that the cause of France's heat wave is American air conditioning, I can only say, "Come back and talk to me about giving up my A/C after you've lived a winter in your country without heating." Better yet, discover air conditioning for yourself. Even if you only need it for a few weeks out of the year, you'll feel better, and can be pleased with how low your A/C bills are compared with ours, just as we Southerners feel better about our heating bills in winter when we look at yours.

You might also consider investing in public places of respite, as I've seen in various cities here, where people can come in to get warm, or to get cool, depending on the season. As I said in my last post, one can stand a much greater intensity and duration of heat or cold if one can occasionally retreat to a more comfortable situation.

And gelaterias. We all need more gelaterias.

Now that we're back from three weeks in the Mediterranean region, people are wondering how we survived Europe's heat wave. The answer is simple: the same way we survive Florida's summers. Nowhere that we went did the temperatures exceed Florida's numbers: high 80's to low 90's were the worst we experienced. That's actual temperature. Having lived more than seven decades with that as my measure of ambient temperature, my brain rebels against the modern "feels like" idea, which always makes me feel more miserable than I am. For what it's worth, the UV Index at its highest in a day was generally 8—like a normal Connecticut summer. In Florida at this time of year that number is routinely 12. I was barely aware of the UV Index until I acquired the dminder app for my phone to help me keep track of the vitamin D my body is making. If I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt, a 10-minute walk in the midday sun at UVI 12 easily gets me 2000 IUs (and a warning that it's time to go inside). On the UV Index scale, 1-2 is considered Low, 3-5 Moderate, 6-7 High, 8-10 Very High, and 11+ Extreme.

Our first four days were in Florence, and were undeniably hot, because we wanted to make the most of our short time there. Our hotel was convenient to everything we wanted to see, so we walked everywhere and were on the go most of the time the sun was up. (Sane Floridians avoid the midday hours outside if possible. "Mad dogs and Englishmen," you know.) The Mediterranean sun was intense, the humidity was high, the cobbled sidewalks a challenge to walk on, and Florence's many staircases a trial for legs accustomed to flat surfaces. What made this only a minor inconvenience?

• This was early in our trip, when we were fresh and eager.
• Hats and sunglasses. Generally I hate wearing a hat, but keeping the sun off my face was a necessity.
• A Floridian's practiced eye for finding shade. Walk on the shady side of the street. Rest in a shady spot. It makes a significant difference, even when the humidity is high.
• Air-conditioned respites. This is huge. As with cold in the winter, one can stand a much greater intensity and duration of heat if one can occasionally retreat to a more comfortable situation. In our case, we spent much of our time walking from one museum to another, and generally recognize that great art survives better in a hospitable climate. So do people, but art refuses to be bullied. The museums were comfortably air conditioned—not the frigid situation one finds in Florida restaurants, for example, which is why I keep a sweatshirt in the car at all times and occasionally pull it out even during the hottest summer days.
• We didn't hesitate to adjust our schedule to accommodate our physical needs.
• Frequent gelato stops. Never underestimate the importance of this Italian staple.

For the remainder of our trip, we were on a Princess cruise, visiting Italy, Greece, Turkey, and Montenegro. The ship itself was over-airconditioned, but an occasional trip to the blistering sun of the top decks took care of that nicely. And the otherwise-excessive A/C was admittedly glorious upon returning from a long, midday excursion of hiking, under a cloudless sky, through ancient ruins.

Overall, to those who asked us how we managed in Europe's "terrible heat wave," my first thought was always, "What heat wave?"

But I do understand unrelenting heat, as I'll explain in my next post.

Our resident pilot-in-training has now obtained his Commercial license!  Despite what it sounds like, that doesn't mean you might catch a glimpse of him in the cockpit next time you take a flight. However, he is now eligible to earn money as a pilot—it's the next step in the process. Earning a Commercial license requires more training, new manoeuvers, many more flight hours, and a lot of "book learning," culminating in a written exam, an oral exam, and the nerve-wracking, practical "check ride" flight. We're very proud of him!

P.S. He still makes great desserts, too.

It was a small gesture, but it felt so good.

The government gave us these for free, and they've been stashed in our closet ever since. The last time I used one was ages ago, in order to be able to assure members of our choir that my symptoms were seasonal allergies, not covid. They are now three years past their putative expiration dates, and I needed the space in the closet—and in my mind.

Tossing these boxes into the trash did nothing to undo the harm that was done during the covid era, nor to erase the shame I carry for my own behavior in that time of mass delusion and conformity.

But it still felt really good.

I've been out of the country for three weeks, and I never look at Tik Tok anyway, but I hear that it has been blowing up with European visitors to America (mostly thanks to the World Cup), expressing their pleasure, appreciation, and astonishment at how different their experiences were compared with all they had been told about the U.S. Some of those commentaries made it into Facebook Reels, and I enjoyed seeing them. Everything from the trivial (discovering ranch dressing) to the profoundly encouraging (finding that the Americans they met were friendly, helpful, and delightful—not at all they way we had been portrayed to them back home.

It works both ways, too. During our recent three weeks in Europe, we met many new people from many different countries, including England, Scotland, Canada, Norway, Sweden, Greece, Italy, Germany, Montenegro, Turkey, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Vietnam, Brazil, and the Philippines. We discovered that without exception they were interesting people, delightful to converse with, rational and reasonable, and that we held much in common. What's more, I saw no anti-American sentiment at all. I'm sure it exists, but in three weeks among ordinary folks, we met only friends.

I've often said that the 1960's were a miserable decade. Not for me, personally: a healthy family life protected me from dangers I only recognized years later. Plus, the excitement of the space program and my own love of science fiction kept me optimistic despite the insanity raging around me. But looking back at that time makes me realize that the rot I observe today has its roots set firmly in the 60's and early 70's.

Being at the age of nostalgia, sights, sounds, and events from my childhood will sometimes pop, unbidden, into my mind, and so it was with the song, "Everyone's Gone to the Moon." It debuted in 1965, written by a 20-year-old Cambridge University student named Jonathan King. It became a hit, and I fell in love with it. Most people these days have no idea what it was like to keep the radio on solely for the purpose of catching a favorite song when it played; there was not Alexa to fetch music on demand, and my budget did not allow for buying more than a handful of records.

One day, this song came back to me, and I wondered if I could hear it again. YouTube to the rescue! It's embarrassing to hear the bizarre lyrics again and wonder about my adolescent tastes: but adolescence can do strange things to people, and that time period was the most bizarre and outlandish I ever knew—until the last 10 years took insanity exponentially higher.

To the best of my knowledge, none of my friends shared my love of the song, nor had I heard any mention of it in the intervening 60 years until I searched it out on YouTube. Still, it was fun to rediscover the song, and to realize that as absurd as they are, the lyrics are poetical and have meaning if you're in the right mood.

...Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR armadillos cavorting all around.

They are voracious bug eaters, and welcome. I see them most often in the early morning, just before dawn.  When I can't really see them, let alone capture them with my camera.

We finally saw Lin-Manuel Miranda's Hamilton.

I've been aware of the show for some ten years. In April of 2016 I wrote, 

An Occasional CEO post about entrepreneurship [I've removed the link because it no longer works] has against all odds made me excited about a new Broadway show. I'll be happy to wait for a production that is less expensive and closer to home, or on video. But I want to see "Hamilton."

We did briefly consider seeing it during our visit to New York City in November of that year—before we decided to settle for visiting Alexander Hamilton's grave in Trinity Church Cemetery instead. And then ... Hamilton really took off. It became popular. Everybody had to see it! It became available around the country, and even, I'm told, on Disney+, of all things. So of course, contrarian that I am, I lost interest.

And then...we went on a cruise. And one day, exhausted by our intense excursion schedule—who said cruises were supposed to be restful?—we collapsed in our stateroom, flipped on the video screen, and took a look at the movie offerings. The choices were many, but nothing I wanted to see...except...except...there was Hamilton! A recording of the stage production, with the original cast, including Lin-Manuel Miranda himself. So we settled in for an adventure.

As is the case with much of my family, my reflex upon sitting down in front of a movie or TV show is to fall asleep, no matter how interested I think I am in what I'm watching. That was not the case with Hamilton, which kept my attention from beginning to end.

I wasn't expecting that at all. It's been a long time since I've been so moved by a show. For a few minutes it was disorienting: the style of music was totally foreign to me, and seeing Aaron Burr as a black character was as odd as the time I watched a version of the Mikado in which the characters were all British. But the strangeness passed quickly as I became engrossed in the production. Which was brilliant: from the interpretation of the story to the believability of the characters to the cleverness of the stage set. Best of all, perhaps, was a faithfulness to the historical story that I've rarely found in theatrical adaptations. The production feels authentic despite—or perhaps even because of—its unusual setting 

After that experience, I was shocked to read part of a conversation that my friend Eric—the same whose post had introduced me to Hamilton in the first place—had with ChatGPT about the show, in which the LLM made the following observation:

The Obama-era optimism and "America as an unfinished project" theme landed differently in 2015 than it does after years of political polarization. Historians and writers have increasingly criticized the show for sanitizing the Founding Fathers, particularly Alexander Hamilton's and others' relationships to slavery. The casting and "America then told by America now" concept, which once felt revolutionary, is no longer quite as novel. Some of the hip-hop references and stylistic choices are now identifiable as distinctly 2010s.

That criticism was as shocking to me as Aaron Burr shooting directly at Alexander Hamilton in the duel instead of "throwing away his shot" as Hamilton himself did. Hamilton moved me deeply, for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with immigrants or slavery or President Obama or musical styles or anything that could possibly be considered political or cultural, let alone outdated. It touches on deep subjects and emotions and problems common to "all sorts and conditions of men" at all times, and deserves to be recognized for the classic that it is.

And then there is my own, personal, gut-level identification with the show. Hamilton hit me right where I live.

Just before the intermission, in the song, "Non-Stop":

Why do you write like you’re running out of time?
Write day and night like you’re running out of time?
Ev’ry day you fight, like you’re running out of time
Like you're running out of time
Running out of time
Are you running out of time?

How do you write like tomorrow won’t arrive?
How do you write like you need it to survive?
How do you write ev’ry second you’re alive?

And then, at the very end, in "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?"

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?
When you're gone, who remembers your name?
Who keeps your flame?
Who tells your story?
She tells our story

And when my time is up, have I done enough?
Will they tell our story?
Will they tell your story?
And when my time is up, have I done enough?
Will they tell my story?

In two songs, this crazy musical about one of America's Founding Fathers nailed much of what drives my life and work these days.

It was an incredible experience.

In my More Fun post, I mentioned that my "I've had fun before" cartoon was a "four-way collaboration among me, my grandson, Copilot, and Claude." Here's more about that.

For a long time, I've had simmering in my mind the idea of making a cartoon (meme?) illustrating my frustration with having a far different sense of what activities are enjoyable, or pleasurable, or "fun" than much of the world I live in. The point of the cartoon would be the idea that I've experienced what the world calls fun, and I find it overrated. After finding my father's own commentary on fun, I was inspired to bring the idea to fruition.

My first roadblock was finding a suitable background image for the cartoon, something that illustrated what people conventionally vew as fun, or a fun activity. Searching through clipart and online images was not producing helpful results, and Copilot, which I usually use when I need to create a drawing, was not doing the job this time. Having found Claude extremely helpful in other projects, I decided to move into its space and give it the problem.

Claude was great at helping me figure out just what I wanted the image to convey, but then I ran into a major snag:

Claude can't draw.

This is where my grandson entered the scene. He suggested that I ask Claude to write a prompt for me to use with Copilot to help it understand what I was trying to do. This Claude did with ease, and Copilot nailed the idea in an image. I then refined the image through several back-and-forth sessions: Claude looking at the image and pointing out what worked well with my ideas and what needed tweaking, me questioning Claude for its opinion on what changes might make the point more clearly, and then going back to Copilot to implement the results. Eventually, we reached the "good enough is better than perfect" stage, and the cartoon was born.

I found the process to be an interesting collaboration. Working with Copilot felt like dealing with an excellent artist who was a bit slow on the uptake. Claude couldn't draw but was smarter and had a good eye. Noah provided the key that nudged me out of the rut I was in, and I put it all together. Claude called it a perfect creative team:

• Copilot: the talented studio artist who executes brilliantly but needs very clear direction
• Claude: the creative director with opinions but no hands
• Your grandson: the spark of inspiration
• You: the producer who held the vision, made the calls, and knew when it was done

I call it fun.

A companion to my previous post on fun. A four-way collaboration among me, my grandson, Copilot, and Claude.  Details to come, I hope.

As promised in a previous post, here's a follow-up to my dad's thoughts about happiness, during a 1993 Elderhostel lecture in Uruguay.

An event on the same day inspired similar thoughts on fun.

The same thing happened later that night. A friend of one of the speakers joined us at dinner and he sat across from the man next to me. At one time he asked my neighbor "Which of your activities so far has been the most fun?" My answer would have been that none has been fun. "Fun" describes a roller coaster ride (at least if you are much younger than I). "Fun" describes a short-term activity that has a lot of action with it. Our activities were interesting and/or educational but they were not fun. If you are not happy, you are not necessarily unhappy; if you are not having fun, you are not necessarily bored. Or at least that is the world as I see it. But I think I have the wisdom not to argue about it with anyone.

Living in the land of high-speed theme park thrill rides, at my age I no longer find most roller coasters pleasant, let alone fun. Research, writing, and the process of creation are usually quite enough action for me, and a sufficient response when someone asks, "But what do you do for fun?" Even if they then think I'm crazy.

I agree with my father, even if I generally lack the wisom in his final line.

One characteristic I share with of both my parents is a deep-seated suspicion of psychology and psychiatry, especially in their popular manifestations. Granted, I've known people who have been helped by counsellors, but I've also known those who have been badly hurt by the process. History is littered with examples of "best medical practices" that were more likely to kill patients than to cure them, and practices that mess with people's minds are no exception.

I totallly agree with my father's reaction to a lecture he heard in 1993, while visiting Uruguay.

The lecturer started talking about an article from "Psychology Today" on "The Secrets of Happiness," and I began to have problems. The problems were mainly with semantics and my interpretation of the meaning of words and while this was not a subject for discussion, I spent a fair amount of time thinking about it.

The article listed four important traits of happy people:

1. Self Esteem: Happy people like themselves.

2. Optimism: Happy people are hope-filled.

3. Extroversion: Happy People are outgoing.

4. Personal Control: Happy People believe they choose their destinies.

Of course I got into trouble early by asking what is meant by self esteem. I think she figured it was obvious, but she gave a rather long explanation that I didn't understand either. I suppose the answer is: Of course I like myself—I'm the only self I have.

But what we did not discuss is my dislike of the word "happy." To my mind, "happy" is a rather shallow word that describes a short-term condition. You were happy about Heather's recital; Porter's birthday was a happy event. But over the long run, your life is not happy except at times. You are contented, your life has been very satisfying, but it has always had the ups and downs that make "happy" inappropriate. Anyway, I think there are better words, no matter what others think. Perhaps my problem is that I don't have all the important traits for being happy.

I have still more to say about that letter, and that lecture, but that will be for another time.

This was my father's comment, from a 1993 letter, on the prevalence of creative wedding vows. I think that trend started in the 1960's.

I think the standard words are just fine if people would only listen while they repeat the marriage vows.

I have created my first, and I hope only, anti-Trump political cartoon. I usually give the president grace for decisions he makes that I disagree with, but supporting year-round Daylight Saving Time is a bridge too far. As most of my readers know, I'd be fine with permanent Standard Time, but being so far out of sync with the sun is just not right. (I'll give you time zones, for practical reasons, but see no such excuse for pretending that noon is one o'clock.)

This work was inspired by a political cartoonist whose name I don't know, who published a cartoon using the blanket-snipping idea back when President Nixon had the same crazy thoughts about permanent DST. I tried to find the cartoon online, but failed. So I decided to create my own, with a little help from Copilot. Okay, a lot of help. It can draw, and I can't.

Copilot may be able to draw, but its rules can be very frustrating, as I've said before. However, there's a certain creative challenge in trying to make one's point within the restrictions; it was actually rather fun.

At first I tried re-creating the old cartoon as I remembered it. My prompts are in italics, Copilot's responses in bold. These are excerpts from a much longer conversation, as we worked through the creation and refinement process. Most the design work was mine, but Copilot made the speech bubbles, and I thought they were great so I left them in.

Please draw a cartoon of President Trump in bed, with a blanket and a pair of scissors. In the first panel, he is snipping off the bottom of the blanket; in the second he is sewing the cut-off part onto the top.

I can help you create a cartoon — but I can’t generate or depict current political candidates or elected officials in new images. That includes drawing President Trump in any scene.

All right, make it President Nixon, then.

I still can’t generate this cartoon, Linda — even with President Nixon — because he is a real political figure, and I’m not allowed to create new images depicting actual politicians, even historical ones, in fabricated scenes.

Hmm. How about if you use a generic man but indicate somehow that he is a U.S. president?

It got a little further, but eventually came back with,

I can’t create this cartoon, Linda. The request was blocked because it still counts as depicting a U.S. president, even a fictionalized one, in a political‑cartoon scenario, which falls under the same safety restriction.

At this point, I changed the scene entirely, keeping the main idea but taking the president out of bed (which looked ridiculous; I don't remember how the original cartoon made it look otherwise) and putting him behind a desk, with a salesman selling the blanket-cutting idea. I added the caption to make it clear that the man was president of a fictional country. That passed! and the rest of the work was just refinements.