Race to the End

My wife the other day shocked my New Balances right off my feet with a racial epithet here in our home. She asked me,

"Can you take those colored clothes out of the dryer?"

"They're clothes of color!" I scolded.

Just when you think you know someone.

I grew up in a blue collar racist New England household. Northeast racism is intimately connected to unionized factory jobs, filled by white workers who feel minorities are lazy and use the union for protection. My father worked as a silversmith for 45 years in a factory. He used to say that black people and hispanics never got along, but he used a more colorful vernacular. He often said that the hispanics were short, and when they fought, they usually pulled a knife. The rest was left for the police, the union and paramedics to sort out.

I went to college then the military which luckily purged any racist sentiments from my head. My father retired and joined a gym which he attended regularly. When I worked out with him once, I noticed that he greeted everyone, and everyone was eager to interact with him, retelling the latest joke or funny story they heard. I discovered that my father, the guy who hadn't a single friend outside of work in decades, and often harbored racist sentiments, was the gym ambassador. It didn't matter the age, the race or gender, he knew them all by name, and they often found common ground over laughter.

During the Gulf War in the early 90's, he had a running gag that he and two other older guys at the gym were going to get called up due to their past military experience. He would say that they were in "the First Infantry Canon Fodder." The others guys went right along with it. Two of his closest friends were a black man, named George and a puerto rican, named Roman. They were both retired factory workers like my father. They helped him pull off some of the best pranks the gym had ever seen. One time, on April Fool’s my father set up this kid by telling him,

"Go ask George how his sister is doing with her swim lessons. It'll be real funny."

So the kid obliged asking, "Hey George, how's your sister's swim lessons coming along?"

George, who was in on the joke, answered, "You think that's funny? My sister drowned when she was seven years old!"

George didn't have a sister that drowned. Usually, the person being set up would fumble with an apology, and forget that my father told him to do it. It was a mean joke by anybody's standards, but that's what the generation that survived the Great Depression and world wars came up with. They all got a laugh out of it, and the dude being setup was usually suitably relieved that it was just a gag.
 

There was a lot ribbing going on at the gym, some racially oriented, but they shrugged it off. When it happened near me, my laugh was the only one that was awkward. One time a middle-aged guy called my dad and George,

"Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr."

My father said, "I must be Sammy because I'm missing an eye."

George retorted, "I'm Dean because I'm taller than you."

They roared with laughter as they crossed the racial divide. George wasn't taller than my father who wasn't missing an eye. Roman would make the sign of the cross when my father and George would go at it, and say,

"Forgive them for they know not what they do."

These old guys were friends on their own terms which certainly wouldn't meet the standards of civility today, but it worked for them. They saw each other as people first, and they laughed about everything else. My father changed with the times as his experiences broadened, and he saw people as individuals, not merely as unionized, factory workers.

There was a big Italian dude at the gym who exchanged "wop" jokes with my father all the time. He got busted for drug dealing and served ten months in prison. When he got out, word had spread around the gym about his felony conviction, so no one would talk to him. When my father saw him, he walked up, shook his hand, and said that he was glad that he was back, and that he missed him. The big man broke down in tears. When I asked my father what that was all about, he explained to me that the guy served his time, and that was okay with him.

Rap today comes with a whole set of confusing rules wrought with double standards. A slew of misogynistic and racial terms are used in lyrics in a far more general and derogatory manner than the comments made by my father and his friends. One time at the gym, during a cardio session, a newscaster on an overhead television reported,

"Seventy-two percent of the country's oil comes from abroad."

My father loudly exclaimed, "Really, I thought it came from overseas."

Of course, my father's friends all split a gut. Connie, a prim and proper retired executive, said with a smile,

"Oh, Raymond, you're so bad."

I couldn't help but think the gym was a place where my father was reliving his version of middle school. He was the guy who made them all laugh, sometimes uncomfortably, but no one ever felt like they didn't belong. He had changed when he got into a world in which he realized that everyone was pretty much like him. When he died, very suddenly on a Thursday morning, 19 years ago, an endless stream of people attended his wake. They all described my father as "their closest friend." That was an astonishing achievement for someone who for most of his life wasn't friends with anyone.

Would I want my sons to banter with their friends who are minorities like my father did with his friends and acquaintances? Probably not, but I would prefer that they manage it themselves in an inclusive way that works for them rather than living a standard set forth by our elected officials or community leaders. My son, Aidan, is colorblind like most of his generation. When he was in second grade, his African American teacher once stopped me to relay a funny story about him. She told me,

"I have to tell you what Aidan said. We showed his class a picture of a group of kids, telling them that one of their teachers was in the photo, and went to this school twenty years ago. We asked who they thought it was? And you know what Aidan said?"

Not a clue, I shrugged.

"He said, 'You, Miss Crawford.'"

To which I responded, "You're too young to have gone to this school twenty years ago."

She continued, "No, Robert, that's not it. There were no black people in the photo."

I smiled as I understood her amusement. I also got the sense that the last thing on the mind of my seven year old was the color of his teacher's skin. Like my once racist father, the first thought that came to my once racist head in regards to the photo was his teacher's age. I don't agree that bigots need to die out to change society. Everyone can change.

Despite all my mistakes as a parent, my sons won't have to.

Editor's Note: Today, colorblindness in terms of race is a micro aggression. Originally posted on November 8, 2016.

Trump's First Dog?

Obama Avoiding Bo

Almost all presidents pick a pet for the White House. Historically, only three didn't, Millard Fillmore, the last Whig Party president, Franklin Pierce, the first president to deliver an inaugural address entirely from memory, and Chester Allan Arthur, who took over after Garfield was assassinated. Some presidents had quite the menagerie at the White House, including horses and farm animals.


George Washington's wife, Martha, had a parrot named "Snipe." Jefferson was gifted two grizzly bear cubs which he deemed "too dangerous & troublesome for me to keep." Andrew Jackson had a foulmouthed parrot, named "Poll." Historians believe that the bird picked up the predilection for colorful language from listening to Old Hickory. The bird was present at Jackson's funeral. Just before the eulogy by Reverend William Menefee Norment, the bird got excited and started swearing so loudly that attendants removed it from the house. Abraham Lincoln signed a proclamation on Oct 3, 1863 establishing the last Thursday in November as a "day of Thanksgiving and Praise." A turkey sent to the White House for Christmas dinner was named "Jack" by Lincoln's son, Tad, who adopted the bird as a pet. When Tad learned the fate of Jack, he interrupted a cabinet meeting to plead with his father to spare Jack's life. Lincoln, having a soft spot for his young son, pardoned the bird.


Roosevelt Refusing to
Shoot Mickey Mouse

Theodore Roosevelt had his own zoo at the White House with dogs, horses, snakes, guinea pigs, an owl, some lizards, five bears, a lion, a hyena and a zebra. On a hunting trip in Mississippi, Roosevelt refused to shoot an old bear that his guides tethered to a tree. Cartoons, depicting a benevolent Roosevelt refusing to cap a frightened bear cub, soon made it into the newspapers. A Brooklyn candy shop owner put two stuffed bears that his wife made in his window, calling them "Teddy's Bears."

Calvin Coolidge had a load of animals as well including a donkey, a bobcat and a pygmy hippo. He is best known for the Immigration Act of 1924 which was drafted to limit immigration to the United States from Southern and Eastern Europe. The act restricted immigration from Africa, and outright banned it from Arab and Asian countries.

Nixon Explaining How
Much He Pays for
Toilet Paper 

When Nixon was selected as Dwight D. Eisenhower's running mate in 1952, he came under scrutiny for misappropriating campaign funds which threatened his place on the ticket. Nixon appeared on television giving a speech detailing his household finances. He concluded with a story about how his family received a black and white cocker spaniel as a gift which his daughter named "Checkers." He said,

"I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we're gonna keep it."
 

Naturally, Nixon's story about the little dog resonated with the American people, and weeks later Eisenhower and Nixon were swept into office.
 

Happier Times for
Socks, Hillary and
Monica

The more recent presidents seem to opt on just cats and dogs. Clinton had "Socks" the cat while George Bush had a Springer Spaniel named "Spot." Obama took months before he selected "Bo," a Portuguese Water Dog, due to his daughter's allergies. Obama is rarely photographed playing with Bo or Sunny, the second First Dog, leading many people to believe that he doesn't actually like them. If that's true, it can't be over the odor since I'm sure the dogs don't smell as bad as cigarette smoke.

In this country, the president has to have a dog if they want to be reelected otherwise dog owners, which is everyone but me, won't vote for them. In the United States, you have to like dogs or people will assume that there is something wrong with you. We should just get on with it, and make it a law that every household has to have at least one dog. The medical brain trust is split down the middle in regards to allergies and pet ownership. Half claim early exposure to pet dander and hair provides immunity while others believe it exacerbates allergies. Hillary Clinton had a coughing fit during a campaign stump speech which she blamed on her rival by saying,

"Everytime I think about Trump I get allergic."

She also claimed that her private email server was hypoallergenic and helped with her sinusitis.

President Trump

Trump had a case of the sniffles during the first debate which he blamed on a faulty microphone. I think he suffers from allergies as well since the events were held in the middle of ragweed season. Or it could have been the excessive amount of Charlie cologne Hillary was wearing.

I've been wondering what kind of dog President Trump will pick for the White House. Perhaps a Great Dane? That would work. They only live for about eight years. Or maybe a Doberman Pincher, named "Bull." Whenever Trump is dissatisfied with someone in the Oval Office, he'll yell,

"Sic balls, Bull!"

Trump's first wife, Ivana, wrote in her tell all book that Trump hated her poodle, "Chappy," who would aggressively bark at him. When Trump is dissatisfied with someone, he often tweets that they were fired or choked "like a dog." Ivanka Trump was criticized for giving her daughter an all white dog named "Winter." Television producer, Jared Kotler, tweeted,

"...when you want to seem human and get a dog, maybe a shelter dog would show humanity. But all white and blue eyes is on brand. Fuck off."

To think poor Winter was force castrated without consent, and now people think he's a symbol of racism.

My prediction is that Trump will go against the recommendation of all his top advisors and won't get a dog for the White House. A self described germaphobe, who doesn't like to shake hands, who vetted women he wanted to date for STDs, and who likely suffers from allergies, certainly will not allow an animal into his home. Trump won't care that you won't vote for him for not having a dog. He favors his own instincts over politically correct maneuvers.

Just maybe, that's what we need right now.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on November 11, 2016. Trump is the fourth president to pass on a pet for the White House which is the real reason why Democrats are trying to impeach him.

The Birth of a Family

My wife, Christine, and I remained childless for seven years after we were married. She never spoke, even once, about children, until we nearly completed a renovation of our first home. Out of the blue, she said,

William and Aidan

"Now that we have a house with all these rooms, we should fill them up with, you know, people."

"You mean babies?" I asked.

"Of course, what did you think?" she responded.

I was relieved that she was open to the idea of children. For a moment, I thought she was talking about homeless people.
 

Now, a routine doctors visit led to a test which came back with very bad news. A condition my wife had meant that we were not likely to conceive without help. It was one of the two times in life I saw my wife cry. Even if we were not going to have children on our own, I wanted a turn at bat. Thirty days later, much to the puzzlement of the medical experts, she was pregnant.

With a baby on the way, I started reading articles about how it's normal for some men to take a few months to love their newborns. We don't carry them so their birth is a step change for us. I remember thinking,

Aidan

"Who is this stranger coming to invade my life with my wife?"

Three weeks ahead of schedule, I was painting the oil tank when Christine went into labor. We had gone through several false labors including one trip to the hospital, all resulting in a gentle pat on the head as we were sent home. Now, I was covered in a thick mess of black, tarry paint. We had a routine appointment scheduled for the next day so I said with a certain conviction,

"I'm going to clean up, and we're all going to bed. We're gonna ignore this, and we'll deal with it in the morning."

Even though I hadn't a clue what I was talking about, it worked. The labor pains vanished. All three of us went to sleep. The next morning, just before we left for her appointment her water broke. Now, for those of you in the medical profession, mid wives, and with a stitch of common sense, you all know when the flood gates open, where do you go? To the hospital, dumb ass. We had this appointment in our heads so that's where we went. When we arrived, we were early so we sat in the waiting room. I looked to Christine and said,

"I think we can go right up there because, you know, you're in labor."

Seemed logical to Christine so she did that pregnant walk up to the counter, then stated,

"I'm in labor."

The nurse receptionist person who was wearing that odd mix of goofy medical person clothes said,

"Sure, you are, honey. Go sit down. We'll call you in a minute."

She sat back down next to me.

"What did they say?" I asked.

"They told me to sit down."

Now, I'm not a doctor, but I've watched a lot of medical shows on TV so I was pretty sure we should just go right in. I went up to the counter and said,

"My wife's in labor, and her water broke."

So they reluctantly agreed to take her in right away. The nurse person in her mismatched outfit of scrubs and flower patterns escorted us into the examination room very slowly and casually, but things changed once she examined Christine.

"Oh my God! You are in labor and your water broke. You have to get out of here!" exclaimed nurse person.

Nurse person looked directly at me and scolded, "Why didn't you take her straight to the hospital dumb ass?"

I don't think she said "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. She did have a valid question and getting more valid by the minute. I wasn't going to go over the earlier, multiple labor scares that were dismissed on the phone. Sure, it made sense now that nurse person was giving me the stink eye, but I didn't have time to discuss all that. I was collecting up my wife to drive carefully to the hospital. On the way out of the office, nurse receptionist person hit me up for a copay. In the medical business nothing is ever so urgent that we all can't stop, calm down, pull out a valid credit card and pay up. Turned out Christine had another twenty hours of labor to go. We watched the finale to Survivor, Pearl Island, Season 7, and Home Alone through it all. It was a long day and a longer night.

When Aidan finally arrived, I held him as I sat in a rocker and told him about all sorts of things we would do, the color of his room, the big tractor we had, the horses in the fields surrounding our house. Christine needed minor surgery six weeks later to correct that condition and that was that.

When Aidan was an infant, daycare wasn't for us. The idea of someone else comforting our child didn't work for my wife. I never expressed my view because she was having no part of it, and that was that too. We had picked up a lot of relevant education the seven years we were childless, and it worked out for both of us. She became a top person at a Fortune 500 company, and I had a good job in the software industry. When it came time to decide who would leave their job, the choice was obvious. My paycheck looked like a banking error compared to hers. So I left my exciting career as a software engineer for a minimum wage job, that is, nothing per hour.

If this was my life now, I was going to learn how to be the best at it. I got me a subscription to Parenting magazine. There was a wealth of information in that periodical on how to get stains out of things. There was also tips on how to get your kids to say "please" and "thank you." There was an article about "Toddler Tantrum Tactics." There were other pieces about recovering from pregnancy, what to do about postpartum syndrome, and taking the all important "me time." It didn't take me long to figure out that Parenting magazine was focused on moms. Just the moms. They didn't even hide it. Many of the articles were entitled "What Moms Do About..." or "Moms Speak Openly About..." They might as well write an article entitled, "Dads, Who Gives a Shit?"

I read a piece about my post pregnancy body, how it has changed, and how my spouse should accept me the way I am. I looked in the mirror. Looked the same to me. I wasn't into warm baths with candles and chamomile tea to steady my nerves either. My "me time" usually involved some ongoing house renovation replete with multiple trips to the hardware store. Apart from getting a stain out of the carpet, I didn't find the magazine all that useful.

I discovered that most of what you need to know about keeping a child warm, fed and secure is already prewired. It was actually pretty easy and a lot of fun. Much easier and way more rewarding than nodding off in some status meeting listening to Ted explain why he's six weeks behind an eight week project that he's been "working his ass off" on. Or sitting in a cube farm near the men's room and mentally noting that half your male colleagues don't use the sink after you hear the toilet flush. When my little boy was sleeping, I spent my time thinking. Taking care of a baby is a lot like being on sabbatical. You have no deadlines, no pending presentations, no projects to complete. It was very freeing. Leaving work offered the opportunity to freely think like I did when I was a kid. I still had some demands on my time, but holding that boy, making him laugh, feeding him, pushing him on a swing, even changing his diaper, never seemed like work to me.

And so I freed my head which started me thinking about recursion, a computer science concept in algorithms. I would do my heavy thinking while mowing the lawn. This led to a paper and a presentation at a prestigious software conference. My wife flew out to meet me in California after a well received presentation. As the saying goes "absence makes the heart grow fonder." Now, at the time we were in our 40's, and it didn't look like anymore children were likely. You can plan your life, but you can't plan your family. Sometimes, it just works out the way it does. Many women lose babies, and when you're an older parent, you just don't have time to try again. I'm fond of saying that I'm glad my wife and I listened to the doctors when they said we couldn't have anymore children. No more worrying about birth control. But life breaks free. Life expands to new territories. Painfully, maybe even dangerously. Life finds a way. There it is.

On that trip to California after a successful presentation in which I published the concepts surrounding my now world famous algorithm, Christine, against all the odds, biology and the cosmos, became pregnant once more. I guess when you think about it, your body doesn't know how many times it's been around the sun. So many people were simultaneously dumbfounded and happy for us. They all figured we went to a fertility specialist due to our forty something age. One friend said,

"We know how much hard earned money you invested in this, the sacrifices. We're so happy for you."

She actually used that term, "sacrifices." Christine was patient zero at her OBGYN. She was the first patient they had seen when they opened their office twenty five years ago when they were all fresh out of medical school. When she called to tell them she was pregnant, the nurse receptionist person put her on hold, then went to find her doctor. He took over the call,

"Are you sure?" her doctor asked.

"I'm sure of it," Christine announced.

Incredulous, her doctor yelled into the office, "Hey Ted! You'll never guess who's pregnant?"

"Margret Thatcher," Ted summoned.

"No, Christine Languedoc!" he exclaimed.

No pregnancy since Jesus elicited so much joy from so many people than our small, random miracle that was on his way. I used to ask Christine what she was going to do with all that frankincense and myrrh? She warned me not to tempt fate, but I knew we were already past that. Christine became the poster mom for women trying to have babies in their 40's.

I said to a friend once that kids are great because they ensure you won't be alone when you're old.

"There's no guarantee they'll come back," he schooled.

In our case, they wouldn't have left yet.

This time around, I was very concerned that I couldn't love a second child as much as the first. It just didn't seem possible. I wondered,


William

"Who was this stranger coming to invade my life with my wife and son?"

My friend, Bill, and his wife, Julia, have two girls, Caitlin and Allison. When I discussed my concern with Bill, he told me,

"Julia and I can't imagine life without Ally. You'll find you have an infinite capacity to love."

Bill was right. The moment William was born, I was in love again. It was like William was always with us. He was just waiting for his time to come.

William and I are renovation buddies. He's always up for a trip to the hardware store, and he's quick to help with any home repair project. He's also intrinsically funny and enjoys a good belly laugh. Once, I was exiting the bathroom, William asked,

"Did you go poopies, Daddy?"

"Yes," I answered. To which, William exclaimed,

"Way to go, Daddy! Good job."

Recently, I was reading William a bedtime story when he announced,

"I have to go to the bathroom," then he asked, "Can you pause that?"

We both laughed heartily. A lot of kids William's age are very stoic. They're quiet, shy, on the other side of a shell. I often think stoicism is an inability to make someone laugh. There's none of that in my house.

I think of the circuitous route that led us to where we are now. A long courtship, a marriage, education, a first born, a job, time to think, a white paper, a conference, another child, wise friends, laughter. They seem all disconnected, but they're not. They're blazes on the trail, marking even the path least taken. I believe now, more than ever that these events are all connected. Some more obviously than others. I'm not sure of all that much, but I am of this. Life is not meant to be abided.

It's to be journeyed.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on October 18, 2016.

The Most Interesting Cat in the World

Aidan with a Broken Arm

Back in 2009, when my son, Aidan, was five years old, he broke his arm on the monkey bars at school. I got the call, and was on site in no time. A quick trip to the emergency room confirmed the break with an X-ray. I was baptized as a parent when Aidan received a cast past his elbow. It was one of those nightmare days made easier by how calm Aidan was through the whole ordeal.

When I finally got home, I sent an email to my family and circle of friends. It read,

"Aidan is fine, but he broke his arm today."

It included a picture of Aidan smiling in his cast as well as the X-ray showing a clean break. He was very lucky that the bones stayed in line. It could have been worse if a bone had punctured the skin. So if there was any good to fall back on, no surgery was necessary.

Everyone responded with relief, that is, everyone except my pet friends. They were a couple who

Actual X-Ray

have eleven cats and unfortunately for them, one died the same day Aidan broke his arm. They elected not to respond to my email or show any concern for my son. Instead they sent this to a distribution list,

"We have some very sad news. One of our beloved cats, Felix, suffered sudden heart failure this afternoon just shy of his 8th birthday. He developed blood clots and unfortunately there was very little his veterinarian could do. Both of us are devastated by the loss of Felix. For those of you who knew him, you know how loving and amazingly talented he was and if ever there was a cat who tried to be human, it was Felix."

"Felix meant a lot to both us, and we sorrowfully mourn his loss."

Okay, I get it. Some people really like their pets. I could understand how they overlooked Aidan's injury in the clutches of the demise of their cat. Surely, they just didn't read my email. They closed with,

"Some of you don't know how lucky you are. Bones heal, but death is forever."

Felix the Cat

Now, that was seven years ago and the statute of limitations on stupid pet comments has finally expired. As Aidan got older, and asked why we no longer see this couple, I let him read their email. Instead of being upset, he laughed heartily to which, I, of course, joined in because I'm a crummy parent. I know people have an unrealistic perception of their pets coupled with a belief that they are part of the family, even human. It is so prevalent we have a word for it, "anthropomorphize."

A hundred years ago, advertisements showed dogs through a window in their doghouse in the backyard. People saw animals as beasts of burden, a horse pulling a cart, a cow being milked, an ox pulling a plow. Pet memorials in the papers referred to a dog that died as "man's best friend." Then in the 1930's ads showed pets curled up by the fire and memorials indicated "a loyal friend." After World War II, advertisements showed dogs sleeping on a bed and references that indicated "a member of the family." What is it about our culture that has elevated the status of animals to that of our children?

As the years passed, Aidan and I created an obituary for Felix the Cat which we recited for amusement on long car rides when only he and I were awake. It got increasingly farcical. Before we forget the life of a cat who so wanted to be a human, we decided to post our thoughts here. I welcome anyone to share their fond memories of Felix in the comments.

Felix The Cat

2001 ~ 2009

Felix was a most gifted cat. He was the youngest feline in history to circumnavigate the globe in an open rowboat. Felix served a six month tour on the International Space Station as "Special Payload." In 2004, he lost his bid for the presidency after winning a nomination from the Black Panther Party, where he ran on a platform of feline suffrage. Felix was an accomplished concert pianist. He dealt with his share of discrimination for his lack of an opposable thumb, but he didn't let that stop him. He was struck down with sudden heart failure just short of his PhD dissertation defense entitled, Feline Discrimination in Postmodern America. Felix was taken from us all too soon. He could always be counted on to find the cleanest spot on the floor whenever he had a hair ball. He will be missed by his family, friends and the world community. Felix was well known as The Most Interesting Cat in the World.

Stay frisky my friends.

Many childless pet owners have told me how I will never understand. Unlike our former friends, I've had pets, and I have children. I prefer the latter. When Dinkles the Dog plays a trumpet solo in the school jazz band, and you're beaming with pride in the audience, then maybe we can talk about family membership, but until then, I favor my own species. There's a lot of advantages of children over pets. You can talk with them, they often express their love, they rarely bite anybody, they are more than likely genetically related to you, they don't get fleas or worms, they don't chew holes in things, eventually they learn how to wipe their own butts, and they shed far less.

Bones do heal, and death is forever, but you can get a cat for under ten bucks at Petco.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on December 1, 2016.

Scientists Identify the Builders of Stonehenge

It’s true. Scientists recently determined through DNA analysis who the builders of Stonehenge were. If you're like me you thought it was the druids, the ancient Celtic pagans who were exempt from military service in Rome and from paying taxes, and possessed the right to excommunicate people from festivals, turning them into social outcasts. Druids were probably also lousy tippers and gave the least to charity. Apparently, druids culturally appropriated Stonehenge as their religious site and in no way had the ability to actually make something as complex and, quite frankly, as heavy.

New research published in the journal Nature, Ecology & Evolution has revealed that the ancient masons were migrants who arrived in Briton in 4000 BC. Apparently, the Neolithic people travelled from modern-day Turkey and were basically farmers who liked to build things out of stone. Eschewing the nomadic hunter-gather lifestyle, popular in Briton at the time, for a more bucolic existence meant the new inhabitants could stay in one place and build huge monuments aligned to celestial events. Farming gave these people a shitload of food allowing them to engage in leisure time activities like dragging a forty ton stone for twenty miles. You might ask the question,

How did researchers link DNA to Stonehenge?

Genetic analysis can tell you a lot of things beyond mere ancestral relationships. DNA can tell us the likelihood of contracting certain diseases as well as when and where a people migrated, even which of your siblings is more of a specific nationality than you. It can tell us why your ancestors went on the move as well as what bonded them together for thousands of years, but how can it tell us who actually built such a massive structure like Stonehenge? 

My Latest Insulation Job

I've been a home improvement guy for what seems like forever. I've plumbed piping, snaked electrical wire, shingled roofs, poured concrete, built stone walls, painted ceilings, hung I-beams, refinished floors, installed windows and doors, ran ductwork, trenched services etc. I've renovated kitchens and bathrooms. Most recently, I wired up a geothermal heater for my swimming pool. Working on 220 volt circuits always has me on my toes which is the best way to keep them on your feet.

Smashing my Finger,
circa 2014

Last week when I was insulating my pool pipes, I cut my finger pretty deeply. So deep that I dropped the knife and headed right for the house, figuring that if I didn't make it, people would think that I owed OJ Simpson money or something. I probably should've got stitches, but I didn't really have time to sit in a waiting room for two hours only to pony up a $30 copay so a nurse person in oddly mismatching clothing would glue my finger shut. Another time I pummeled my finger while on the roof. That really hurt. I almost blacked out due to the pain. Passing out on the roof usually involves a hospital stay. Not wanting to negotiate a ladder just yet, I taped my finger with a strip of Grace Tri-Flex XT Synthetic Roofing Underlayment. That stuff sticks to everything.

In 2006, I was setting some granite steps when I dropped a 400 pound stone on the pinky finger of my left hand. My guts shot out like a Play-Doh fun factory. I went to the emergency room for that one. In the triage area, they took a woman who needed a stitch in her head removed before me. I had fish bait hanging out my finger while her wound had already healed, but they made me wait anyway. Eventually, they stuffed all my innards back into my finger and sewed me back up.

So how do researchers know who built Stonehenge? They must have found DNA crushed in between the rocks. If they're lucky, they might discover an ancient finger flattened in a joint. Back then an injury might have led to an imbalance of the humors. After paying a chicken, three potatoes and a bag of grain as a copay, they would apply a mixture of fat and clay to your wound. On your way home, you'd swing by the local alchemist to pick up a healing crystal, a few leeches and a bit of mercury. To ward off evil spirits, you'd put the crystal on your forehead, drink the mercury, then have a go with the home bloodletting kit. If none of that made you feel any better, you'd call on your barber in the morning.

Some researchers believe that ancient people thought Stonehenge had healing powers due to the many nearby graves containing skeletons with broken bones. It took thousands of years to build Stonehenge. Those peeps in the ground near the monument were likely workplace mishaps. I'm no scientist, but it seems to me that Stonehenge probably caused more injuries than it healed.

The Middle School Infatuation with the Scientific Method

It's impossible in this country to traverse middle school without a thorough examination of the scientific method, which usually involves multiple full on projects, topped with presentations. Most of us have studied the scientific method more extensively than the Constitution, the seminal document written by the founding fathers that defines your rights as a citizen. People in this country learn the Pledge of Allegiance to the scientific method all through middle school.

Bill Nye

It's great that our preteens learn to make a hypothesis, collect data and evaluate the results. That's science. Bill Nye would stand in ovation and clap like one of Pavlov's dogs at the mere utterance of the term. It's been around since the 17th century. If it wasn't for the scientific method, we would still be going for a haircut, and a blood letting to balance the humors.

It's great that everyone has to learn about the scientific method so we don't have to argue arcane stances against creationism or intelligent design. We can simply pull out our scientific method banner and march, lock step, over anyone who doesn't agree with our well-formed, thoroughly researched, extensively tested hypotheses. The only issue I have with the middle school infatuation with the scientific method is that most of us in the course of our daily activities for better part of our entire life will never have need for the scientific method. What we more likely will need to do is some form of reengineering.

Now, reengineering is likely something you didn't study in middle school. Simply put, reengineering is figuring out how something is made, how it was assembled, how it works. You reengineer something for a very important reason, to fix it. A lot of things are going to break in your lifetime, and being able to fix things is a valuable skill. Calling in the trades every time something doesn't work is an expensive proposition. If you own a house, a car, a boat, a computer, a bicycle, anything you got to be able to fix things.

A good example is a 3-way switch which is used when you have a need to turn on a light from more than one location. I'm sure you have a 3-way circuit in your house. My son, Aidan, did in the science room in sixth grade. There were two doors in the science lab with light switches at each. The simple circuit for a switch and a light looks like this,

Simple Switched Circuit

Obviously if you have two switches at different locations you need something more in the wiring and switches to allow one switch to operate independently of the other. Understanding how this works is crucial to repairing a 3-way circuit. You can call an electrician, but it will cost you a minimum of $400, or you can fix it yourself in about twenty minutes. Your choice, Einstein.

When it came to the science fair, Aidan became very interested in the operation of a 3-way circuit. He wanted to teach his friends how to set up the circuit given wires and switches, a battery and a light. Commensurate with his generation, he developed a simulated three way circuit in Minecraft, a popular, creative building, sandbox video game.

His teacher initially rejected his proposal on the grounds that it didn't follow the scientific method. He asked if she knew how a 3-way circuit worked. She didn't. True, he wasn't purposing a possible solution to a problem plaguing mankind, but if you ever worked on one of these circuits without knowing what you’re doing, you know how difficult it is to get the wiring right. There are six connections to be made which offers you 720 possible combination with only two of them being correct.

After some negotiations, he managed to convince Madam Curie to let him proceed. He did a fantastic job explaining how a 3-way switch is actually a logical OR gate. He traced out the circuit from the power source to the light for each switch position. He even called his presentation The Or Gates Around Us.

Van da Graaf
Generator

When the judges voted on the best science project, a student whose father build a Van da Graaf generator out of some copper gutters won first prize. I sat through the kid’s explanation of how it worked, and he was under the impression that the charge came from the cord to the electric motor. Wrong answer, Tesla.

Second place was a girl with an orange and some litmus paper. As far as I could tell, she was technically correct with all her findings. It's just not very hypnotizing to hypothesize that dipping litmus paper into a glass of milk would give a neutral response, however true. Not bad, Rachel Carson.

Third place was a balloon on a string. The hypothesis was that when the clothespin was removed, the balloon would zoom along the string. Since tape was used to form a loop through which the string passed through, when the clothespin was removed, the balloon popped. Good enough for third place, Orville Wright.

Aidan got "honorable mention" because he didn't follow the scientific method. The kid who won didn't either, but when you got electric bolts shooting across the classroom and students hair standing on end, you got a winner with or without the scientific method.

I know what you're thinking. I'm a disgruntled, snowplow parent, who's annoyed that my son didn't win. That's what a friend of mine told me. He's probably right. The other day at his house, I flipped a switch, and he said,

"Don't touch that switch. If you do, the other switch over there won't work anymore."

Aidan said,

"The travelers are hooked to the wrong screws."

He was right. I took out my Swiss Army knife, and he and I wired the switch up correctly. I don't know much about snowplows, but if I had a problem with mine, my son and I would certainly figure out how to fix it.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on October 20, 2016.