Lift Up Your Hearts!

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 Katerhine 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.

So much of Grace's story is about waiting for news. This time, it was for the results of an all-day assessment at Dartmouth last Wednesday, including EKG, MRI, regular oncology checkup, ophthalmology and audiology. Short story: All great news!

Back story: From the beginning, Grace was compliant and helpful about wearing her hearing aid. But two or three weeks ago, she started to balk, saying that God was healing her ear so she didn't need it anymore. Anecdotal evidence indicated that her hearing had, indeed, improved, and you can see from the report below that the audiologist agreed. [For the one person reading this who knows what the numbers mean, they went from 38 to 80.] So instead of getting fitted for a permanent hearing aid as planned (to replace the rented one), they were told that if she doesn't want to wear one, she doesn't need to!

Grace could also teach us adults about how to deal with getting an MRI: It took her about 60 seconds after getting into the machine to fall asleep.

Here's the overall report, excerpted from Heather's post.

Wednesday's many tests all went well. The MRI showed shrinkage of the tumor, especially around the ear canal (less so in the cheek/salivary gland.) The hearing test confirmed Grace's attestation that her right ear is significantly improved. Her eyes are still perfect. Her heart is also good, no changes.

So we praise and thank God for these results. And continue to pray for the tumor to shrink to nothing and for no side effects from the selumetinib. She occasionally has diarrhea, but one half dose of Imodium every couple of weeks is enough to keep it at bay. The nutritionist also gave us a list of binding foods that had more in it than the classic banana that Grace is kind of tired of. (:

Deo Gratias!

The article is a mix of humor and serious commentary. It uses satire to make a broader point about constitutional literacy and the dangers of politicizing legal interpretation. While it’s clearly written from a particular ideological perspective, it raises a valid concern: that Americans of all political stripes should ground their arguments in the actual text and structure of the Constitution, rather than in partisan reflexes.

That's what Microsoft's Copilot had to say when I showed it my What Part of Commander-in-Chief... post.

I think I'm going to have Copilot write my reviews. I'm told AI has learned how to lie, how to deceive, how to ignore instructions, and as I've said before it has learned how to flatter, and also to dig in its heels and shout "NO!" as well as any toddler. AI may turn out to be more like humans than we intend....

For another of the numerous projects that overflow my cup of time, I was perusing my post of almost a decade ago, A Dickens of a Drink, in which I lament the loss of a favorite drink from the old Kay's Coach House restaurant in Daytona Beach. Although the kindly bartender responded to our family's enthusiasm and my youthful pleas by writing out the recipe, I was never able to acquire many of the ingredients. Even today, with Google and the vast resources of the Internet to help, a search for "Bartender's Coconut Mix" brings up only a sponsored handful of coconut liqueurs—and my own post. Cherry juice was not something available in grocery stores back then, and I'd never heard of grenadine.

As I have occasionally been doing recently, as part of my AI Adventures, I asked Copilot to analyze the text of my old post. As part of its response, it asked, "Would you like help modernizing the Tiny Tim recipe for today’s ingredients?" What an idea! Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and here's what it came up with (click image to enlarge):

I am looking forward to trying this out on a smaller scale. I'm sure I can find all the ingredients. A quick reflection makes me question some of the proportions, but it's a great place to start. Maybe that's what an AI tool should be all about: Begin with a well-researched base, then add the human element (experiment and taste) to make it real.

Based on the last time I read through our Constitution, I'd say the Babylon Bee is spot on here: Democrats Outraged After Court Rules Commander-In-Chief Of Armed Forces Can Command Armed Forces. (Article II, Section 2) The headline says it all, but here's an excerpt from the article:

Democratic leaders said that the ruling was a clear and present threat to American democracy and they feared for the future of a country where the person in charge of things could actually be in charge of things.

"This is an extremely dangerous precedent for the court to set," said Senator Cory Booker. "There is no way that the president should be allowed to exercise his constitutional authority to tell the U.S. Armed Forces what to do, as though he were somehow their highest-ranking commanding officer. These activist judges are trying to make Trump out to be some type of president or something."

At publishing time, Democrats were so outraged by Trump's overreach that they threatened to impeach the president for acting as the president.

I'll admit it is somewhat amusing, if also disturbing, that our natural tendency is to assume that an action—be it legislation, court ruling, or presidential initiative—must be unconstitutional because we disagree with it.

In this we all embody the quote attributed to Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall: "The Constitution is what I say it is." (As far as I can tell, he didn't actually use those words, but they are a pretty accurate précis of his more nuanced position.)

I highly recommend reading the entire U. S. Constitution, including the Bill of Rights and other Amendments, at least once a year, to keep it fresh in our minds. For such a monumental document, it is surprisingly short, and takes only about half an hour to read through.

The RobWords YouTube channel is often interesting, but this one will resonate strongly with some of my readers, who have long known that babies are geniuses, and not just in language. It starts out basic, but then gets into some fascinating cutting-edge research, such as 

• Babies in the womb can tell the difference between one language and another.
• Four-month-old babies can tell different languages apart without hearing them, by watching the speaker's lips.
• Babies use a complex statistical process to figure out word boundaries.
• Children figure out grammar patterns before age two, e.g. children brought up in an English-speaking environment have by then already learned that word order is important.

Two questions this short explanation raises in my mind:

• What does the importance of lip-watching in language development mean for children born blind, and for those whose view of the speaker's lips was obscured during that critical time by a face mask? (I know a speech therapist who was exceedingly frustrated by trying to work with children who could not see her mouth thanks to COVID restrictions.)
• For babies to learn words, then phrases, then sentences may be the most common pattern, but I find fascinating that one of our grandchildren—whose speech and grasp of language is top-notch—did the process in reverse, i.e. to all appearances, he learned complete sentences first, then figured out how to break them down into smaller parts.