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Thursday, June 18, 2015

1622 Apis mellifica

The year was 1622.  A ship arrives in the New World.  A small sample of organisms were carried with the cargo, with the specific intention of releasing them on the new continent.  Once introduced, they immediately spread across the continent, only stopping briefly at the Rocky Mountains.  (They eventually crossed over to Utah and California in the mid-1800s.) 

Larson's take on invasive species in North America. Not the species I am talking about.

These invasive species pirated resources that the native species had relied on for millennia.  They fought with the natives and quickly destroyed them. More and more, native population levels plummeted, unable to compete with this invasive species. 

And they are still out there today.  They were almost defeated recently, but not quite. In 2007, their population dropped precipitously; a result of a poorly understood combination of chemicals and unintended consequences.  But even this drop was not enough - the numbers have returned, and they are ever increasing.  This scourge of the New World has now infested every corner of the globe.

Like the Asian carp.  Like the zebra mussel.  Like kudzu. And as is the case with all of those other invasives, we need to enact anything necessary to eliminate the threat from this predator species.


Silly?  Yes.  But it really illustrates the problem of the one-size-fits-all solution.  The call to eliminate all invasive species will result in the removal of the water hyacynth, but also the Assateague horses from Maryland beaches (as well as the beautiful feral horses on the Outer Banks.)  It would result in the removal of wheat, and rice, and most species of grass from our shores.  Cows and goats. Our herds of wild elephants.  (OK, I made that one up.) 

And worst of all: barley and hops?  Gone.

We can't let that happen, obviously.

It all comes down to a question of limiting the scope of what we want to change.  My agency has a mission of ecosystem restoration.  But the question always has to be answered: restored to what?  Are we restoring what was there in the 1920s - the period before the swamps were drained to facilitate agriculture?  To the era before white man arrived with an army of new invasive species? Before humans arrived on the continent?

What is our benchmark?

Recently, I have been involved in some pretty contentious discussions with people that I highly respect.  One of those people - Dr. Chris deFrancisco - gets very hot under the collar about GMO issues.  I get hot back - very quickly countering that there is plenty of baby in that bathwater, and that painting with too broad a brush yields indefensible conclusions (he is in favor of keeping barley and hops, for what it is worth).  He reminds me that science does not always result in ethical decisions, especially when there are huge profits involved.  I counter that without the profit motive, there is limited reason for investing in larger, juicier tomatoes. He points to the dangers of unintended consequences.

We have held most of this discussion offline.  We have kept it civil.  We have locked horns on stuff before, and have remained friends for decades now. We are skeptical of each other's viewpoints, but are both reasonable and can be swayed.  We are scientists.   We use rhetoric, but also are able to see the other side. 

So it is with delight that I throw down the gauntlet.  Chris - how about it?  Let's take turns.  I'll open this weekend with a brief piece talking about one side of the GMO debate.  I'll then publish a response piece. 
 

Breaking the rhythm

"OK.  That is one pastrami sandwich on an onion bagel.  Would you like tomatoes on that?"
"Yes"
Not one of my sandwiches.  Our bagels were better...
Lettuce?
"Yes"
Mustard and mayo?
"Yes"
Pickles?
"Yes"
Onions?
"Yes"
Sprouts?
"Yes"
Sauerkraut?
"Yes"
Spam?
"Yes, wait.  Um, what?"

I worked at a bagel shop outside of Chicago when I was in graduate school.  The work was very much mindless - very little to stimulate the brain.  And so I would do little things to add spice to my otherwise boring task of taking the order and making a sandwich.  (I did, however, take pride in making a pretty good sandwich.)

But one of the things that I did was that in the middle of the recitation of condiments that we could add was I would insert one item that didn't belong.  Sardines.  Spam.  Dragonfruit.

My little joke took advantage of a tendency of people to get into a rhythm.  Once you are lulled into a rhythm, you are much less likely to notice other items in the background.  You  have all seen the video where the people are passing the basketball back and forth and you are asked to count the number of passes?  If not, stop everything and watch it here.

Once the rhythm has been set, everything else literally fades into the background.  The person taking your order, the food you want to eat.  What is peripheral disappears. 

What I love is breaking that rhythm.  Once that happens, then every part of the subsequent conversation is genuine.

A buddy of mine tells the story of going in to buy a new car.  I am prepared to buy the car today, he said, if you give me your sales pitch without mentioning the duel overhead can. (Yes, I know that is wrong.  But it makes at least as much sense to me as a cam does.... is there photography taking place in there?).

"I know that it has the DOHC.  I am looking at buying it because of the DOHC.  If you mention that, I know that you are just reciting the lines, and not listening to me."

Turns out that the salesman couldn't do it.  He recognized his error as the words were coming out, 7 minutes into his schpiel.  But he couldn't stop them. And he lost the sale.

So it is with so many of our interactions - we do so many things from rote memory that we miss the opportunity to interact. Like the rote memory salesman, we can't seem to help ourselves. When I accept the refill on my coffee in the diner without looking up, I reduce that person to a rote interaction.  When I slice my card to pay for groceries and never once look at the cashier, I have reduced the human in front of me to a function.  

That is not good.  I like live humans (Well, some of them). 

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Bumper Stickers

A car near my house has a bumper sticker that says "babette ate oatmeal." All lower case. 


I like bumper stickers.  I get a kick out of trying to figure out what a person is like by the text on their car:

ERACISM.
La Nouvelle Orleans - C'est Chez Nous 
WWOZ (or ZOMM, if they put it on upside down). 
College allegiance. (LSU?  Clemson?  Arkansas?  Alabama?)
NPR or NRA supporter (almost never both).
Proud parent.
Fraternity/sorority.
MOLON LABE.
Church affiliation. 

Seems like everyone has a desire to choose their "tribe", announcing to all other drivers (and maybe a frightened pedestrian or two who thought they were safe on the sidewalk) what group they belong to.

Then there is the occasional pop-culture reference.  You'll see Trekkers that make a reference to Death Stars, or something.  Brownsuits that make Lightning Bug references.  Bronies that have subtle mentions of Princess Twilight (I had to look that one up - I swear. And now I have that blasted song in my head...)

And those who are in the tribe see the reference and grin.

My personal tendency is towards the unexpected pun or inside joke.  I know.... surprise, surprise.  But the "LEGALIZE ZAMATA" sticker has been on my tailgate for quite a while now.  And I always get a chuckle when I see one that I didn't expect. My current favorite is "WATCH OUT FOR THE IDIOT BEHIND ME". I am not sure how that identifies my tribe, exactly.  But it amuses me nonetheless.  Maybe my tribe comprises people who appreciate goofy humor.

So, after first seeing the neighbor's bumper sticker around the corner, I walked around mouthing the Babette phrase for a while. Not looking it up, of course, because that would be gaining entry into a tribe without going through the initiation ceremony.  Who does that?  Every time I walked the dogs around the block, I'd try again.  To no avail. What does it mean?  Is there an oatmeal pun

Friday, June 12, 2015

Thank you.

Gratitude is tough.

I don't like inequality.  I don't like feeling like I am only on the receiving side of a relationship.  I like giving a dollar's work for a dollar's pay (and vice-versa), and I like things being balanced.  It is a good feeling settling old accounts, getting closure on things that have been on my 'to-do' list for too long. 

But I have also been on the receiving end of unequal relationships quite a bit.  I was a graduate student for a long time - and I do mean a LONG time. Grad school means debt, and lots of it. It means a lot of things that are different from my 9-to-5 existence now.
  • It means working part time jobs, because you have to be available for out-of town research opportunities.
  • It means you have to fund that research with grants (which are very competitive) or on the credit card.
  • It means living tight.
  • It means buying used.
  • It means renting. And usually renting in low-income areas.
  • Biking, walking, Ramen noodles, depletion of meager savings... all part of grad school.
And occasionally, it means being on the receiving end of a handout.  From family, or from friends. To do that graciously is an art.  Because gratitude is tough.

A good friend of mine once told me that the hardest part of becoming wealthy (her small company grew from 15 people to an enormous multi-national corporation in a few years) was that she wanted to share the wealth with people she loved.  And her friends saw the money as some sort of indebtedness, rather than as a gift. And since they couldn't reciprocate, the relationship was unequal. They began to accept her invitations less, and included her in on their activities less.  She lost friends because of money.  Just not for the reasons she thought she might.

Hearing that statement was a turning point for me.  So instead of demurring, and declining her offer of the Sony Walkman (yes, I know.  It was a while ago), I turned to her and said "Thank you."

The delight on her face was amazing.

I did not change overnight into a 'receiver'.  I still love being in a position to help or to provide, and I love being able to find the perfect surcee (for the definintion, see my previous blog entry here) and give it for no reason at all.

But that encounter changed my attitude about receiving gifts.  I am now able to recognize the gift for the expression of affection that it is.  And I can appreciate it as such, rather than assuming that it is creating a debt peonage that I can never repay.

So I find my greatest kinship with those who

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Age is just a number

Her white hair, tied into a messy bun.  Her face, deeply lined, framing the brightest blue eyes you have ever seen.  Her face, permanently creased into a smile, looking like she is responding to a delicious joke you just told.

Skippy is friends with my uncle Harry, and when I came into town last time - for the funeral of my cousin - she offered to put my mother and me up for the night.  We showed up, and got loved on by the most delightful 87-year-old there is.  We talked for hours - about her garden, about her doll collection, about the beautiful land she has overlooking the marsh on Myrtle Island.

She reminds me of Cool MA. My compadre's grandmother lived around the corner from me when I was growing up in Greenville, and she was one of the most amazing, kindest women I have ever met. The stories I hear of her bestow on her the status of a minor deity.

Cool MA reminded me of my Nana, who was a chief cheerleader for everything her grandkids did.  She walked the beach for hours, marveling over evey shell we found, remarking with ineffable happiness how smart, how strong, how fast, how observant we were.

My Nana was very reminiscent of my Aunt Lolo.  Lolo was the brightest, happiest, kindest, most adventurous woman I have ever met.  I always loved going over to her house, even when I was at an age where going over to an older family member's house holds no appeal.  She was just cool, and had fascinating stuff to look through from her many travels.

Beautiful, strong, smart, kind, loving women.  And as they grew older, impossibly, their beauty deepened. In a culture that worships youth and strength and virility and unlined faces.... and in a culture that subsequently discards the young and beautiful when they become neither, I am blown away by these ladies, who seemed to weather the process with such incredible grace.

My cousin Andrew (genetic researcher, runner, musician, and dancer extraordinaire) is running in his second marathon, and blogging about it as he does his prep.  His running of the Chicago marathon is benefitting a charity that provides safe, affordable housing for seniors (if you feel so inclined to do such things, please support his effort).  His writing explores some of the issues about aging, and includes inspirational stories of people who bloom in old age.

As I am solidly (and getting more so every year) middle aged, I find myself fascinated to read what a scientist is thinking about the aging process.  The issues with memory.  The loneliness (so far his best blog entry here, which included a nice bit on juggling.) The life changes. 

And as I read his blog, reflecting on these amazing women in my life, and I find myself trying to figure out what made them special.  How did age develop such a lovely patina on

Family Heirlooms - Cut and Light

Last night Kathe and I sat with family members at the dinner table in my mother's house and 'talked story' about family for hours.  One of the most delightful stories concerned the enormous table that had been the setting for Thanksgiving dinners at my great grandmother's home back when my mom was a little girl. 

There were a hundred people who sat at the table.  It was enormous.  You could walk underneath this magical table, standing upright, and it took forty people on each corner to lift it.

Such is the nature of magical tables at your grandmother's house.

The table now sits in my mother's kitchen in Bluffton, SC.  It is a beautiful table with claw feet and spiral turned legs.  It is roughly four feet by six feet, and there are a couple of additional leaves to extend it. 



It is a fine piece of furniture.  But it is no Arthurian table of legend. 

While we were talking, I looked down and admired the table.  The antiquarian in me always finds it fun to see pieces that have an old connection to me and my family, and this one was cool.  The wood was quarter sawn oak - a beautiful way of cutting red and white oak (well, mostly those two species are used) that shows off an interesting pattern.

I have always been attracted to quarter sawn oak.  I grew up with wood all around me - from the molding manufacturing business to the building supply business - and I love the fact that there is a 'revealed pattern' if the piece is cut a certain way.  The medullary rays and the growth rings combine to show off a fingerprint - unique to each tree. (For those who are curious to see how you make quarter-sawn lumber, there is a neat video here).

Each quarter sawn pattern is unique to the tree, and is only revealed by alternating the cuts the way the video shows.
 
The color difference increases with age - the light bands stay light, and the dark color deepens, and the beauty of the wood just intensifies over time.  Add to that the patina of old wood, and I can hardly tear my eyes away.

Even if it doesn't seat a hundred people.

After looking up the quarter sawn video, I was talking about the process with my mom, and mentioned a similar lapidary process that I still don't fully understand.  Iris agates are very thinly sliced agates, and when they are lit from behind, display a stunning rainbow.  Not every agate will do it, but some will, when subjected to the hand of a master cutter.


Iris Agate.  http://www.lhconklin.com/Gallery_II/QuartzIris.htm
As with the oak plank, it requires a specific cut and a specific play of light to bring out beauty that is already there. 

Isn't that the way it is with people, too?  If you get the right light, make the right cut, and show people off at their best angle, they shine in a unique way.  I look around and see people who are really spectacular at one thing or another.  The most amazing biologists, engineering wunderkinds, woodworkers, public speakers....

And then ones that impress me the most.  Parents.  These guys are ones who are cutting, and buffing, and adding patina to their kids, and like the master cutters, shine the light on their kids to make them shine. 

I look at friends like Allie Griffeth, and I see the shine.  I look at Sarah and Craig Williams and find myself loving the display of the pattern that was carefully buffed and polished to a striking beauty.  I see Joshua Adams and the light shining through him is just amazing.  All around me are kids who have been loved and lovingly molded by their parents.

To me, that is what a family heirloom really is. It is something that is passed down from one generation to another, deepening with time, and becoming more beautiful with each passing year. 




Monday, June 1, 2015

Geology and Kintsugi

I think it was my sister who pointed me towards the concept of kintsugi.  I don't remember which trauma it was I was dealing with at the time, or whether she was simply sharing something that she had read.  (She knows I have a love for the odd and quirky detail.)  Kintsugi is a Japanese technique, introduced in the 15th Century, of mending broken pottery with gold.  The technique essentially focuses on the beauty of the break, rather than on the unbroken vessel.  The resulting vessel is simply better for having been broken and mended.
.

I read the blog entry Caroline had linked me to, and it resonated very strongly with me.  I have long since lost the original link she sent, but the concept is also beautifully expressed here.

I love the idea.  The metaphor for life is amazing.  The biggest fractures in life require more gold, and the scar tissue shines brighter than any glaze.

I find the same metaphor applies to the science of geology.  I am fascinated by geodes, agates, crystals, endocasts, fossils, lamina, foliation... anything that change one substance into another is simply magical to me. 

Thunderegg from Oregon
One of the only semiprecious stones available to me locally are agates - they can be found in Louisiana in the outwash gravel from previous glacial eras.  Agates are interesting, because they are formed (geologists think - they have not been able to prove it) by the slow filling of voids in rock with silica. The voids fill from the outside inward, and do so very slowly, forming bands of different colors.  Sometimes, they fill slowly enough to form crystals, leaving a geode.  Other times, they fill completely, forming a "thunderegg". 
"Tortured agates" from Mississippi and Louisiana
 Figuring out what happened to form the stones - any stone - is a fascinating process to me.  Some times, it is as simple as cross-cutting relationships, with hot molten quartz comes through the rock, leaving a vein.  Other times it is more subtle, with layers of sediment with slightly different coloring grading from one to another.  The beauty comes in the unique distinctions among them. 

Like with the kintsugi, the stunning beauty is the result of healed fractures, where weak points are filled with something special.

The rocks on my counter are like the people in my life.  The weak spots provide the basis for being filled with unexpected richness.  And the result is beautiful.