Lift Up Your Hearts!

My sister-in-law, ever the teacher, saw some children catching blue crabs from our bridge.  Walking over, she engaged them in conversation and taught them a bit about the crabs, in particular how to tell the males from the females.  One of the children, a ten-year-old from the District of Columbia, caught on right away:

Oh!  One is the Monument and the other the Capitol!

Brilliant.  Absolutely brilliant.

(Photo credit Hackensack Riverkeeper)

Here's a quick post because the article frustrated me and I need an excuse to get off my feet for a few minutes.

For the record, I know that New Worship Conference Seminar: How To Talk To Note Readers is humor, and it did make me laugh.  But it perpetuates an unfair and inaccurate stereotype that pains me.  (Unless it's my over-worked legs and back.)

A note reader is someone with formal musical training who can look at a page covered with lines and dots, and actually sing it or play it.  Note readers aren’t normal humans.  Unlike me, they actually studied music in high school and college, whereas I didn’t have time to learn things like scales and signatures; I was too busy smoking weed and listening to Revolution #9 on the Beatles White Album....

First, the kind of "note reader" he's talking about can't just look at a note and hit the right pitch.  Okay, the instrumentalists can, but the human voice is a different kind of instrument and rare is the person with the ear to look at a note on the page and sing the correct pitch.

As for what I think he means—that is, being able to look at the patterns of notes in a song written in standard musical notation and know when to go up, when to go down, and whether to do so by a little step or a big leap—I learned that, plus a lot more, in elementary school, back in the 60's.  Ordinary, small-town, public elementary school, not high school, not college.  So if time signatures, notes, keys, and dynamic markings are foreign concepts in our culture, the first thing I'd ask about is what is going on in our schools.

You may have note readers on your worship team. You can recognize them because they usually have pocket protectors....

I know, I know.  It's humor.  But it reminds me of jokes about women drivers, or [insert ethnic group of your choice], which we have rightly come to recognize as in poor taste, at least.

(H/T Jon—thanks, my feet are feeling better now.)

Welcome home, Atlantis.  A moment of silence, please, to mark the end of an era.

No more will we step out our front door to marvel at the soaring arc of light as a space shuttle climbs into orbit.  No more will our whole bodies thrill to the iconic double sonic boom as it returns to earth.  I'm glad that this morning we were able to hear the boom-boom one final time.

Listening to the prepared statements and commentary on the television reminded me of a funeral—or worse, of the kind of laudatory speeches you hear from organizations when a long-term, once-valued employee retires or takes another job and everyone tries to pretend that his departure was voluntary.

What would John F. Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, and Nikita Kruschev think to know that for an American to get to the International Space Station he must now be transported there by the Russians?

I like to hope that the drive, energy, enthusiasm, sacrifice, daring, and sense of adventure that powered America's space program still exists, flowing into other, less visible but perhaps even more productive, channels.  I look around and am not convinced, but I'd be glad to hear of examples, especially from the young people who are almost always the beating heart of such endeavors.  Not that a full-range of age and experience is not also necessary—and I'm still eager to hear more of this hopeful story of a 95-year-old visionary from the Occasional CEO.

Where I see such dedication and enthusiasm these days has a decidedly non-technological bent, even though the science-and-engineering types are well represented.  I see it in homeschoolers, homebirthers, midwives, alternative medicine, radical homemakers, large families, family farms, local and sustainable agriculture, heritage breeders, small businesses—in short, among the outliers, rather than mainstream America.  But perhaps that's due to my own skewed persepective.

Where do you see life, drive, commitment, and energy these days?

At Home, by Franz Hohler (translated from the German) (Bergli Books, Basel, Switzerland, 2009)

Franz Hohler observes the same situations you or I might, but sees them quite differently.  He sees stories.

At Home was a Christmas gift to Porter (thanks A&M!), and he found it the perfect book to read for his hectic life:  the stories are for the most part very short, and thus the book can be read in bits and snatches, here and there.  Not that you'll want to put it down if you can help it.

Some of the stories are a bit on the weird side (though not nearly as weird as Ray Bradbury's), but most show a very interesting perspective on life, and nearly all are enjoyable.  The tale of the man who inadvertently brings a baby devil home from the pet store is fascinating, perceptive, and frightening (though not at all in the modern gross-out horror film sense).  I, of course, enjoyed reading about and recognizing aspects of Swiss life; Hohler is Swiss and lives in Zurich.

Because it's very short, and because of its steel connection, I'll quote in entirety the final story in the book, hoping Herr Holner would consider it "fair use" and good advertising.  It's called The Mailbox, and provides a good snapshot of his style.

"I wish I were a racing bike," said the mailbox to the garden gate, "and could flit through wide plains and conquer mountain passes."

"You and your wishes," croaked the garden gate, "when you don't even meet the official postal regulations."

"One can always wish," sighed the mailbox, and continued to swallow bills, magazines, advertisements and postcards.

A little later he was unscrewed and replaced with a new one.  He was melted down.  Then together with old metal chairs, torn wire fences and bent screwdrivers, he was processed into light steel, landed in a racing bike factory, and was soon flitting across wide plains and conquering mountain passes and could hardly believe that he had stood for years in the same place and every day nearly choked on the mail.

From every room of our house we knew it was 5:45 in the afternoon, when my father’s fire radio announced the time as part of its daily test.  The radio was an exciting addition to our lives, because now we were not solely dependent on discerning the fire station’s loud siren to call my father to his duties as a volunteer fireman.  Even better, we could listen in on some of the activity.

For most if not all of the years we lived in the district, my father was a member (and usually an officer) of the Beukendaal Volunteer Fire Department in Scotia, New York.  It was a good time and place to be a fireman, as in our rural area there were few buildings more than two stories high, and most of the calls, while important, did not involve anything gruesome.

The whole family became involved, from making sure he heard the alarm (“Dad!  Dad!  The siren’s blowing!”), to pouring him hot coffee after an icy 3 a.m. call, to stuffing envelopes for the department newsletter he edited, to (my personal favorite) helping with the weekly fire engine inspections.

 The officers of the Beukendaal Fire Department, sometime between 1961 and 1967.  My father, Warren Langdon, is at the top left, with the mustache.  Unfortunately, I can’t identify the other men, but perhaps someone will see this post and be able to help.  Some possibilities (culled from old newspapers, alternate name forms in parentheses) are:  James Christopher, Lee Darby, Armond Dorazio, Wayne Duval, Bernie Fertal, Ernest Hitchcock, Ken Hitchcock, Kenneth Holden, William Lewis, Stanley Marynowski, Joseph Morette (Morrette), Charles Mowers, Barney (Bernard, Barnard) Revelia, James Ortoleva, Robert Revelia, William Riddle, Douglas Rifenburg, Phillip Schell, Paul Shatley, Charles Silva, William Spencer, Donald Stavely, John Thomas, Jay Woods, Milton Flansburg, Floyd Lewis, Robert Remus, James MacCracken, Gordon Streeter, Allen Tyler, Jeffrey Noonan, Kenneth Hitchcock, Roderick Rowledge, Willard Bailey, John Brennan.  If I had to guess, I’d say the person in the middle of the front row was Armond Dorazio, and the person to his left (right in the picture) Phillip Schell—but most of my readers know how face-and-name disabled I am.

It was a happy time.  Dad enjoyed the company of his fellow firemen, although the department didn’t, as far as I can tell, have the social functions it does now.  Or maybe Dad just preferred to do his duty and leave most of the socializing for family events.

In light of this, I am extraordinarily pleased and proud that our son-in-law has become a volunteer fireman.

Times have changed, of course.  Fire calls come via a tiny pager-radio, and instead of gathering around a crackling speaker, his family can follow the action on the Internet.  But the work is still important, and I’m thrilled to have a fireman in the family once again.

It's a good thing I have an economist for a husband, because ever since I weaseled my way out of a mandatory high school economics class, the subject has confused me no end.  (I took advanced physics instead, but that's not helping either.)

One of my little side pleasures on visits to Switzerland has been the purchase of Swiss Army knives.  So far, just the little keychain versions, but I've bought three of them (at different times, and from two different stores).  For years I had had one that I liked a lot, but it had lost parts and eventually become lost itself, so I was delighted to be able to replace it.

The second purchase was because I live in fear that the TSA will take the first one away from me, some day when I forget to take it off my keys before attempting to pass through airport security.

The third was a birthday gift for a grandson.

For each of these knives I paid some 15 Swiss francs, about $18.50 at today's exchange rates (which are considerably worse than when I actually bought the knives, but that's another story).  I thought the price was reasonable, and paid with no regrets.

Then two days ago I happened to be wandering through the sporting goods section of our local Target store.  It's a department I hardly ever see, but I was looking for fishing line.  (Deleted: story too long to bother with, having nothing to do with fishing.)  Lo and behold, there was The Knife:  not some cheap Chinese rip-off, but the genuine, Victorinox, made-in-Switzerland Real Thing.  Selling for $9.99!

How do they do that?  How can they cart it all the way from Switzerland to the U.S. and sell it for not much more than half the Swiss price, expecting to make a profit in the process?

Porter suggests that the Swiss respect small businesses and won't allow a big-volume company to undercut the local knife stores.  I can see that as a good thing.  But I still wonder how much profit Victorinox must normally make in Switzerland that they can afford to sell in volume to Target at a price that allows Target to profit on a resale of $9.99.

So ... a word to Noah:  Your Swiss Army knife is the Real, Real Thing.  It came from a wonderful little knife store in Basel.  If the TSA ever takes it away from you, try telling your parents you really ought to pay a visit to your Birthday Buddy, Joseph.  But if that fails, maybe they'll fund a trip to Target.

One of my regular walks takes me across a small bridge, under which flows a stream.  This stream can be a pathetic trickle or a rushing torrent, depending on the recent weather.  Yesterday we had a good deal of rain, so today I was treated to a lively, chattering stream that flowed and leapt with great enthusiasm.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

In the time of the writer of Psalm 23, sheep (and therefore shepherds) must have had quite a different persepective on water.  He's clearly praising the still waters (and God for providing them), but when I think of still water, I picture something stale, flat, and unprofitable:  fetid ponds, or the unpalatable alternative to mineral water that Swiss restaurants will serve you if you make the mistake of asking for water that's not fizzy instead of for that blessed, delicious Swiss Hahnewasser.  (Tap water, that is.  Switzerland has wonderful drinking water, and it flows freely in the city fountains, yet restaurants will charge you an arm and a leg for something flat and boring unless you know the secret password.  Remember it:  Hahnewasser.) 

Still water smells of death and decay.  Moving, flowing, leaping streams project life, health, freedom.  Why was the psalmist so happy with God for leading him to still waters?

I guess I'll have to learn a lot more about a shepherd's life in ancient Israel to be able to answer that.

H/T to Jon:

In Google maps, get directions from "Beijing, China" to "Taipei, Taiwan."  Look at direction 40.

Then do the same thing from Beijing, China to Tokyo, Japan, and look at direction 32.

A quick search didn't turn up anything else as interesting.

Our library finally came through with Introverts in the Church, into which I will dive as soon as I finish the other two books I’m currently reading.  I wonder if it will touch on the question that came to me while I was waiting:

Could Jesus have been an introvert?

Going with the standard definitions of extroversion as having one’s energy renewed by the presence of other people, and introversion as having one’s energy renewed by solitude, it makes no sense that God—the source of all energy and in no need of renewal—could be considered either.  But in taking on human form, he took on human limitations, and just as he was male instead of female, had brown eyes instead of blue, and spoke Aramaic rather than Chinese, he was most likely one or the other.  I think there’s plenty of Biblical evidence to suggest that he may have required solitude for refreshment and renewal, especially in times of stress and after being with large crowds.  For example:

• Luke 5:16  But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.
• Matthew 14:13 (after the beheading of John the Baptist)  When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place….
• Matthew 14: 23 (after the feeding of the 5000):  After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray.
• Mark 1:35   Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.
• Luke 4:42  At daybreak, Jesus went out to a solitary place.

Pressed in on all sides by crowds, exhausting himself with teaching and healing, when Jesus needed rest he sought lonely places and the company of his Father alone.

Sounds like an introvert to me.

This is a mighty sad article.  The British government has issued official guidelines aimed at getting the under-five crowd moving.

The British government says children under five, including infants, should exercise every day. The guidelines recommend children under five be physically active for at least three hours per day, they also say that babies should be doing tummy time or in-swim lessons with their parents to help them gain strength.

Well, good for the British government, if it's really necessary.  Is this the fruit of the back-to-sleep campaign, long rides in car seats, baby swings, strollers, bouncy seats, playpens, walkers, baby videos, and other well- and not-so-well-intentioned interventions?

All the under-fives I know (not to mention more than a few five-and-overs) have no problem whatsoever being active for three hours practically every waking minute each day.  Every mother of a toddler from the creation of the world has no doubt groaned more than once, "If I could only bottle that energy...."

The British government's expressed concern is with the later risk of adult obesity, but if our toddlers must be prodded to be active, we're looking at more of a problem than that.  It's nothing less than a sea change in the development of the human race.

The Raw Milk Revolution:  Behind America's Emerging Battle Over Food Rights, by David E. Gumpert (Chelsea Green Publishing, White River Junction, Vermont, 2009)

That the forward to The Raw Milk Revolution was written by Joel Salatin—whose Polyface Farms is the poster child for independent, sustainable farming—gives the reader a good idea of where the book ends up.  That's a lot more than the author knew when he began his investigation.  He was over 50 when he had his first glass of raw milk, and hadn't given milk of any form much thought for some 30 years.

But for a writer with interests in both small businesses and health, the growing demand for unpasteurized, unhomogenized milk—and the increasing governmental interference with the small dairy farms that are its only source—was a natural field to investigate.

I had my first glass of raw milk at lunch, with a homemade chocolate chip cookie....  Suddenly I was back in my childhood, with my all-time favorite snack.  The milk was as creamy and rich tasting as it looked, with a slight sweetness I didn't recall from my childhood milk. ... But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that overhanging the experience was an anxiety-laden question provoked by my American history classes highlighting the importance of pasteurization in saving lives:  Might this wonderful milk kill me?  I actually went to sleep wondering whether I'd wake up. ... Of course, there was no bad reaction of any sort, and I became a regular customer.

Gumpert is lucky.  The places one can legally purchase raw milk are few.  In Switzerland Janet lives an easy walk from a local dairy, where she can buy all she wants at a good price.  Pennsylvania is one of the few states in the U.S. where raw milk is legal, and Heather can get some for the cost of a long drive and a lot more money than the grocery store charges for their agri-business milk.  In Florida we can't buy it legally at any price, except as (very expensive) pet milk, "not for human consumption." (More)

Don't ask me how I came upon Sporcle, but beware—it's addictive!  There are quick quizzes for a wide array of subjects, and I've found them useful for refreshing the ol' memory on things I should know, as well as learning new interesting facts and just plain trivia.  Not to mention spelling, as it doesn't matter if you do know the capital of Iceland if you can't spell Reykjavík, which I can't—yet.  But I'm learning.  Here are some of my favorites:

Countries of Europe  Also North America, South America, Africa (up-to-date with South Sudan!) Asia, Oceania, and—if you have more time than I do—the world) and other geography games.

Books of the Old Testament (oh, those minor prophets!)  Also New Testament, Apostles, Seven Deadly Sins, Roman and Greek gods.

U.S. Presidents:  easy version (in order), hard version (random, by term of office).

Elements of the Periodic Table (accepts either "aluminum" or "aluminium").

Here's one for parents:  can you name all the words in The Cat in the Hat?

Interesting trivia:  common U.S. street names.

There's lots more, some more interesting and useful than others.  I find the music category almost useless, although there are a few good ones if you dig, like Symphony Orchestra Instruments. Composers by Country was kind of fun.

Enjoy!  And please post a comment here if you find good quizzes I haven't mentioned.

There's nothing like a small-town Independence Day parade, and when we're not attending weddings or births or other such out-of-town occasions, the Geneva (Florida) parade is where we like to be.  That's because we're privileged to march with the Greater Geneva Grande Award Marching Band, the parade's star attraction.  (Well, we think so.  Some of the other participants may disagree.)

I've written about the band and the parade before; this year we actually had a whole article about us in a real newspaper, albeit one i'd never heard of until the photographer introduced himself to ask my name.  No, the paper did not choose to run the photo of me, no matter how crazed I must have looked crashing the cymbals.  Instead they very appropriately featured Geneva's own Richard Simonton:  good man, good friend, and the one who makes the band happen (and gets us our free hot dogs). (More)

If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all.

At no time was that old advice more pertinent than in this age of instant communication.

Not once, but twice in the past couple of months I have inadvertently sent an e-mail to the wrong person.  I rely too much on the auto-complete function of my mail program, and certain keyboard shortcuts, and don't always double-check.

In both cases, the unintended recipient was our daughter's mother-in-law; as near as I can figure out, some common typo for one of my other correspondents must auto-complete to her address.  The first e-mail would simply have confused her, but the second could have been a disaster, as I had written quite a bit about her and her family in an e-mail that was supposed to go to my sister.

Fortunately, I only said good things -- she's the kind of person about whom it's hard to find something bad to say.  But I can think of contexts in which I could have gotten myself in very hot water indeed.

When our kids were little, we had a record of children's songs (yes, vinyl -- I'm that old), one of which had verses that began, "Be careful, little eyes, what you see," "Be careful, little ears, what you hear," and "Be careful, little hands, what you do." 

Be careful, little fingers, what you type.

The Longevity Project:  Surprising Discoveries for Health and Long Life from the Landmark Eight-Decade Study, by Howard S. Friedman and Leslie R. Martin (Hudson Street Press, New York, 2011)

In the early part of the last century, Dr. Lewis Terman began a long-term study of children identified by their teachers as particularly gifted academically.  Although Terman was interested in intelligence and intellectual leadership, his study left behind a great collection of sociological data, which Friedman, Martin, and their colleagues have mined for information on the factors that predispose human beings to long and productive lives.

The authors expound at length on why the data and their studies are valid, and the results applicable to most people, not just intellectual geniuses.  And the results—no surprise—are much more complicated than conventional wisdom would lead one to believe.  So interesting and complex are the relationships that it would be an insult to the researchers to attempt to distill their findings in a simple review.  But I will note a few items of interest.

• Conventional wisdom often confuses correlation with causation.  For example, although it is commonly believed that happiness promotes good health, and vice versa, the relationship is not in either direction cause-and-effect.  Rather, the same underlying factors promote both happiness and health.
• The best personality predictor of longevity—as children and as adults—was what the authors call conscientiousness:  people who were prudent, persistent, dependable, thrifty, detail-oriented, and responsible.

  It is not only that conscientious people have better health habits and healthier brains, but also that they find their way to happier marriages, better friendships, and healthier work situations.  That’s right, conscientious people create healthy long-life pathways for themselves.

• Another key factor is social network, but as usual, it’s more complicated than simple sociability.  Being an extrovert, having many friends, and abundant social activity do not presage a long life.  Sociability itself, the authors say, is “a wash.” An active social life is a two-edged sword; how it cuts depends on the quality of the friends and of the activities.

  Social ties, however, are critical:  having a large support network is directly correlated with longer life.  Interestingly, feeling loved and cared for did not improve longevity, but helping and caring for others did.

 (More)