Years ago I read a book by Peter Schwartz, The Art of the Long View, about scenario planning. The section that made the biggest impression on me was that planners at Royal Dutch Shell - using publicly available information - identified the possibility that the U.S.S.R. would collapse long before it did. Sometimes, we can identify a range of scenarios and come up with decent estimates of probability. But sometimes we can't, or at least we don't.
I don't know if any of the people whose job it is to think about these things really saw the Arab Spring coming. Gregory Gause wrote about this in the July/August issue of Foreign Affairs in an article with the self-explanatory title, "Why Middle East Studies Missed the Arab Spring." He says that they missed it because no one had been paying attention to the military. "Most scholars assumed that no daylight existed between the ruling regimes and their military and security services." International donors have pressured the non-oil-producing states to modernize their economies. "Some Middle East specialists thought that economic liberalization could establish new bases of support for Arab authoritarians and encourage the economic growth necessary to grapple with the challenges of growing populations...Meanwhile, Western governments pushed the idea that economic reform represented a step toward political reform." Of course, saying so does not make it true.
Looking for this issue yesterday afternoon, I found the January/February issue, with the cover story, "The Political Power of Social Media," by Clay Shirky. He makes the case that one of the most important roles that social media play in promoting democracy ultimately will be in facilitating the development of civil society. "Political freedom has to be accompanied by a civil society literate enough and densely connected enough to discuss the issues presented to the public." In the long run, it's more important that a country's citizens can talk to each other than that they have access to Google and The New York Times. "Access to information is far less important, politically, than access to conversation."
Last week I went to a very interesting presentation on Cuba. While I've been following events in the Middle East and North Africa, I didn't know much about Cuba, so I learned a lot. There is a little progress on the civil society front, and the Ladies in White have continued to march each Sunday since the arrests of dissidents in 2003 (although I've read since that their founder, Laura Pollan, recently died, so the future of that group may be uncertain). And there are now lots of cell phones in Cuba, and some freedom of communication even if the government doesn't like it. The speaker talked about the blogger, Yoani Sanchez, who has bravely written about life and politics in Cuba. But the most interesting thing to me in his presentation was the observation that everyone in charge in Cuba is old - they are all in their 70s and 80s. Every time someone younger starts to become prominent, they get removed from their position - there's a phrase for it in Cuba, which means staying home in your pajamas. So, one way or another, change will come to Cuba. The speaker would not let himself be drawn into speculation about what that future might be like. In the meantime, if you want to know about Cuba present, read Yoani Sanchez's blog. Her most recent post is about unmasking the people who monitor telecommunications in Cuba.
Yesterday the Wall Street Journal reported that a U.S. Internet security company made the devices that the government of Syria is using to block access to the Internet. In the meantime, the government crackdown against the demonstrators continues. The U.N. estimates that more than 3,000 people - most of them civilians - have died since the uprising began in March.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
On Delta 1138 to DCA
I saw them, first, at the gate while the plane was boarding. They stood out in the mass of business-suited men and women on the early morning flight, a family of four, standing together at the edge of the swarm of frequent flyers filing on to the plane. Someone ahead of spoke to them - probably asking is this was their assigned boarding zone - and the man, wearing a straw cowboy hat trimmed in leather, shook his head "no." The line moved passed them.
Later they boarded and stopped at the row ahead of me. It rapidly became clear (even though only the father appeared to speak English - his wife seemed to only speak Spanish) that they had the two seats on one side of the aisle on the row in front of me, and two seats on the row behind me, but they didn't want to sit in their assigned seats. So they just stopped in the aisle, preventing anyone from getting past them. One of the flight attendants tried to get them to sit in their assigned seats until everyone boarded, and then swap people around, but the father wouldn't sit down with his younger daughter in the row behind me. So the flight attendant moved two people from the row in front of me to the row behind me, and the father and the younger child moved to the same row, but across the aisle, from the other two family members.
Then, the younger child began to wail. Children do sometimes cry on planes, and their parents do their best to settle them down so they don't disturb other passengers. Parents travel with backpacks of small toys and coloring books and special treats to distract their young children, at least in part to prevent the evil stares from fellow passengers. I remember once, travelling to Oklahoma with Iain when he was around three, when he began to cry when we had to put the tray table up for takeoff. He didn't cry for very long but I remember the exaggerated sighs from the woman across the aisle, who apparently not only did not have children but had never been one herself, and the less-than-helpful flight attendant who could have shown up with a plastic cup of apple juice, but instead told me I should get my son to stop crying. So I try to avoid staring disapprovingly at parents of crying children - I'm just happy that it's not my child that's crying - but we all couldn't help but notice that the father, sitting in the aisle seat with his young daughter next to him in the window seat, did nothing to try to comfort the child. Not a thing. No arm around her, no whispered words of comfort and reassurance, no reaching for the backpack with the Gummy Bears, nothing. It's like she was someone else's child, and he was in the awkward position of having to sit next to her on the plane. I heard someone say, "It's going to be a long flight."
The flight attendant in the red dress who had previously seen to seating the family in a single row reappeared. She said to the father, very graciously, maybe your daughter is crying because she wants to sit with her mother. She offered to move the remaining person in the row, a woman trapped at the window seat in the row in front of me, who jumped at the offer (I think they put her in an empty seat in first class). Now they had the whole row. The mother moved to the middle seat, with a daughter on each side of her. The younger girl stopped crying and the father settled into the window seat across the aisle, his hat on the empty aisle seat. We were all hoping now that we would be able to sleep, or work, or whatever it was we were planning on doing on the short flight. The plane took off.
As soon as things quieted down, I heard the exclamations from the row in front of me; every few seconds, someone would repeat a two syllable word, with the accent on the second syllable. It was the older child, and I think the word she said over and over during the hour and forty-four minute flight was "Mama." Later, after the seatbelt sign was turned off, I got up to get something out of my backpack and I stole a glance at the older child. She looked happy, but she didn't look like a developmentally normal child. Down syndrome, I guessed. And the younger child wasn't a toddler - I would guess she was five or so.
Before the plane landed, the flight attendant who had gotten them all seated made a final pitch for contributions to breast cancer research, and made another trip down the aisle with a small pink paper bag, wearing a pink feather boa over her red uniform. I don't know what made other people reach for their wallets - maybe memories of their own medical histories, or those of friends or family members - but I did by way of saying thank you for how well she handled us all during boarding.
The plane landed. The younger daughter and the mother got up out their seats; the father took the older girl by the arm and pulled her up out of her seat. I saw the mother wrestle two roll-aboard bags down from the overhead compartment. Then they all walked up the jet way, the mother holding on tightly to her older daughter.
Later they boarded and stopped at the row ahead of me. It rapidly became clear (even though only the father appeared to speak English - his wife seemed to only speak Spanish) that they had the two seats on one side of the aisle on the row in front of me, and two seats on the row behind me, but they didn't want to sit in their assigned seats. So they just stopped in the aisle, preventing anyone from getting past them. One of the flight attendants tried to get them to sit in their assigned seats until everyone boarded, and then swap people around, but the father wouldn't sit down with his younger daughter in the row behind me. So the flight attendant moved two people from the row in front of me to the row behind me, and the father and the younger child moved to the same row, but across the aisle, from the other two family members.
Then, the younger child began to wail. Children do sometimes cry on planes, and their parents do their best to settle them down so they don't disturb other passengers. Parents travel with backpacks of small toys and coloring books and special treats to distract their young children, at least in part to prevent the evil stares from fellow passengers. I remember once, travelling to Oklahoma with Iain when he was around three, when he began to cry when we had to put the tray table up for takeoff. He didn't cry for very long but I remember the exaggerated sighs from the woman across the aisle, who apparently not only did not have children but had never been one herself, and the less-than-helpful flight attendant who could have shown up with a plastic cup of apple juice, but instead told me I should get my son to stop crying. So I try to avoid staring disapprovingly at parents of crying children - I'm just happy that it's not my child that's crying - but we all couldn't help but notice that the father, sitting in the aisle seat with his young daughter next to him in the window seat, did nothing to try to comfort the child. Not a thing. No arm around her, no whispered words of comfort and reassurance, no reaching for the backpack with the Gummy Bears, nothing. It's like she was someone else's child, and he was in the awkward position of having to sit next to her on the plane. I heard someone say, "It's going to be a long flight."
The flight attendant in the red dress who had previously seen to seating the family in a single row reappeared. She said to the father, very graciously, maybe your daughter is crying because she wants to sit with her mother. She offered to move the remaining person in the row, a woman trapped at the window seat in the row in front of me, who jumped at the offer (I think they put her in an empty seat in first class). Now they had the whole row. The mother moved to the middle seat, with a daughter on each side of her. The younger girl stopped crying and the father settled into the window seat across the aisle, his hat on the empty aisle seat. We were all hoping now that we would be able to sleep, or work, or whatever it was we were planning on doing on the short flight. The plane took off.
As soon as things quieted down, I heard the exclamations from the row in front of me; every few seconds, someone would repeat a two syllable word, with the accent on the second syllable. It was the older child, and I think the word she said over and over during the hour and forty-four minute flight was "Mama." Later, after the seatbelt sign was turned off, I got up to get something out of my backpack and I stole a glance at the older child. She looked happy, but she didn't look like a developmentally normal child. Down syndrome, I guessed. And the younger child wasn't a toddler - I would guess she was five or so.
Before the plane landed, the flight attendant who had gotten them all seated made a final pitch for contributions to breast cancer research, and made another trip down the aisle with a small pink paper bag, wearing a pink feather boa over her red uniform. I don't know what made other people reach for their wallets - maybe memories of their own medical histories, or those of friends or family members - but I did by way of saying thank you for how well she handled us all during boarding.
The plane landed. The younger daughter and the mother got up out their seats; the father took the older girl by the arm and pulled her up out of her seat. I saw the mother wrestle two roll-aboard bags down from the overhead compartment. Then they all walked up the jet way, the mother holding on tightly to her older daughter.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Fall Break
Sarah and Iain didn't have school last week, so Wednesday afternoon the dog went to the dog hotel and that evening we drove to Cloudland Canyon. We had expected to have to pick up the keys from the after hours key box, but someone was in the office, and while we were there we were able to buy some firewood. After we got to the cabin, a quick supper of grilled cheese sandwiches. Sarah and Iain and I played Apples to Apples, and Tom cut some kindling from our newly-purchased firewood. He said the wood wasn't dry enough to burn and proposed putting the kindling in the microwave. Sarah and I didn't think this was a good idea but he did it anyway. Although it may have been damp, it did catch fire in the microwave, suggesting that this is not an optimal way to dry kindling. (Continuing our series of Problems with Appliances: see here and here and here.) So he put it in the oven instead, along with a couple of the logs, and baked it for a while, uneventfully.
Thursday we went to the Tennessee Aquarium. We looked for the leafy seadragons but couldn't find them. Tom asked someone and was told that they had all died of old age and they don't have any anymore; they do still have weedy seadragons, but they are not as unbelievably outrageous as the leafy ones. We reminisced about the time - when Caroline was young - that she was splashed by a duck in the Delta Country exhibit; a new, higher barrier now prevents drenched children, unless parents with good upper body strength and poor judgment lift them up and drop them into the fake bayou. We saw Oscar, the sea turtle that survived an encounter with a power boat that damaged his shell and amputated his back legs, but is doing fine in the all-you-can-eat environment at the aquarium. We spent a long time watching the river otters, who exited the pond at exactly the same time onto opposite ends of the ledge, no doubt a provision in the otters' contract, that they did not have to swim around constantly for the entertainment of visitors. I didn't remember seeing mossy frogs before this visit, but maybe they were there and I just missed them in the display; another example of either the effectiveness of natural selection or the Creator's sense of humor.
We had lunch at Big River Grille. As we were being shown to our table, there was a glimpse of CNN on the TV over the bar, with the report that Qaddafi was dead. Our order was slow coming, so every few minutes I would head back to the bar to try to find out what had happened, but on CNN they didn't seem to know, only that Al Arabiya had reported that Qaddafi was dead. Someone being interviewed who was saying that this was 2011 was the Arab world's 1989.
Later that afternoon we walked up the street to a used bookstore and on the way I asked Sarah if she remembered the time we took the ride in the horse-drawn carriage; she didn't remember the carriage ride, but she remembered the Dalmatian that was sleeping on the seat next to the carriage driver. We got back to our cabin and Iain and I played frisbee outside. That night we tried to build a fire, but in spite of having been baked in the oven, the wood still wouldn't burn. Friday, we walked around on the east rim of Cloudland Canyon, and down to the first waterfall, but got home in time for Iain to drop by Morningside and visit with some of his former teachers. It was followed by a busy weekend - Iain started confirmation, Sarah and I made a dress for her to wear in the Little 5 Points Halloween parade, and Caroline came home for her improv class.
We had a good time, in spite of the fire in the microwave oven but no fire in the fireplace, but probably the memory that will stick with me of this trip is hearing Tom say, as we were being shown to our table on Thursday at lunch, "Qaddafi is dead."
Yesterday, in the New York Times, there was a story about the leader of the transitional government in Libya announcing that the revolution is over, and it's time to build the new Libya. The story ends with a quote from a woman in Benghazi, celebrating with a crowd in the recently renamed Victory Square, telling the reporter, "This is the greatest day of our lives."
Revolutions don't come with guarantees, and no one knows what the future will hold for Libya, but a future without a mad dictator must be preferable even with all its uncertainties to a past where that's all there was.
Thursday we went to the Tennessee Aquarium. We looked for the leafy seadragons but couldn't find them. Tom asked someone and was told that they had all died of old age and they don't have any anymore; they do still have weedy seadragons, but they are not as unbelievably outrageous as the leafy ones. We reminisced about the time - when Caroline was young - that she was splashed by a duck in the Delta Country exhibit; a new, higher barrier now prevents drenched children, unless parents with good upper body strength and poor judgment lift them up and drop them into the fake bayou. We saw Oscar, the sea turtle that survived an encounter with a power boat that damaged his shell and amputated his back legs, but is doing fine in the all-you-can-eat environment at the aquarium. We spent a long time watching the river otters, who exited the pond at exactly the same time onto opposite ends of the ledge, no doubt a provision in the otters' contract, that they did not have to swim around constantly for the entertainment of visitors. I didn't remember seeing mossy frogs before this visit, but maybe they were there and I just missed them in the display; another example of either the effectiveness of natural selection or the Creator's sense of humor.
We had lunch at Big River Grille. As we were being shown to our table, there was a glimpse of CNN on the TV over the bar, with the report that Qaddafi was dead. Our order was slow coming, so every few minutes I would head back to the bar to try to find out what had happened, but on CNN they didn't seem to know, only that Al Arabiya had reported that Qaddafi was dead. Someone being interviewed who was saying that this was 2011 was the Arab world's 1989.
Later that afternoon we walked up the street to a used bookstore and on the way I asked Sarah if she remembered the time we took the ride in the horse-drawn carriage; she didn't remember the carriage ride, but she remembered the Dalmatian that was sleeping on the seat next to the carriage driver. We got back to our cabin and Iain and I played frisbee outside. That night we tried to build a fire, but in spite of having been baked in the oven, the wood still wouldn't burn. Friday, we walked around on the east rim of Cloudland Canyon, and down to the first waterfall, but got home in time for Iain to drop by Morningside and visit with some of his former teachers. It was followed by a busy weekend - Iain started confirmation, Sarah and I made a dress for her to wear in the Little 5 Points Halloween parade, and Caroline came home for her improv class.
We had a good time, in spite of the fire in the microwave oven but no fire in the fireplace, but probably the memory that will stick with me of this trip is hearing Tom say, as we were being shown to our table on Thursday at lunch, "Qaddafi is dead."
Yesterday, in the New York Times, there was a story about the leader of the transitional government in Libya announcing that the revolution is over, and it's time to build the new Libya. The story ends with a quote from a woman in Benghazi, celebrating with a crowd in the recently renamed Victory Square, telling the reporter, "This is the greatest day of our lives."
Revolutions don't come with guarantees, and no one knows what the future will hold for Libya, but a future without a mad dictator must be preferable even with all its uncertainties to a past where that's all there was.
Monday, October 17, 2011
More Family History: The People Not Found
Sarah is named after an ancestor on the Ward side of the family, Sarah Berryhill. My mother was a little ambiguous about where exactly Sarah Berryhill was in the family tree - maybe a great-great-grandmother, or a great-great-great-grandmother - but she was said to have been Cherokee (or maybe half-Cherokee). (In retrospect, we should have realized it was significant that my mother was unclear about the relationship; up until the time she had a stroke, my mother never forgot anything.) When I was a child, I went to a Ward family reunion in Winfield, Alabama - my parents drove my grandfather there, so he could go - but I don't remember anything much about it. Then there were all those years we drove to Oklahoma for 2 weeks in the summer and again over Christmas, to see my parents; we would go through Winfield, and I always assumed that when I got ready to learn about the Wards it would be straightforward because so many of them were still there.
Willis Monroe Ward was my great-great-great-grandfather. He was born in 1802, possibly on the Cherokee Reservation in North Carolina, or maybe in Spartanburg, South Carolina, or maybe somewhere else. His father, Solomon Ward, was said to be from Spartanburg. Willis married Mary Ann Berryhill in the 1820s in Franklin County, Tennessee, and by 1830 they were in Jackson County, Alabama, just across the border; by 1840 they had moved westward to Marion County, Alabama. They had nine children (at least I think they had nine children - these things sometimes are not so clear).
The oldest son, born in 1831, was named Solomon; presumably he was named after his grandfather. In the early 1850s or maybe a little earlier he married Lucy Ann Northcutt. By 1860 they had established their own residence and had three children. By 1870, Solomon, Lucy, and the youngest child no longer showed up in the Marion County census, and the older two children were living with Willis and Mary Ann.
There were at least three Solomon Wards from Alabama who served in different units of the Confederate Army, and I don't know which if any of them was Willis's son. One, who served in the 11th Regiment, was killed in 1862 at Fraziers Farm in Virginia. Another one, who served in the 58th Alabama Regiment, was wounded severely with both legs broken at the battle of Chickamauga in September 1863 and died the following month. Another one served in the 9th Alabama Battalion and was hospitalized in Selma for "vulnus sclopeticus" in September 1863. I didn't know what vulnus sclopeticus was (not a term I learned in medical school) - it's a wound inflicted by gunshot.
In the 1866 census of Marion County, households were asked about deaths among soldiers, and Willis reported that one was killed, and one died of sickness. One of Willis's sons-in-law died of disease in 1862, so I think that Solomon was killed in battle or died of injuries from battle.
But I don't know what happened to Lucy, or to the youngest child. I'd like to think she remarried, and I can't find her because she had a different name, by 1870, but I don't know.
And to circle back to the beginning of the story, another person I haven't found is Sarah Berryhill, who Sarah was named after, and who was supposed to be Cherokee. Willis's wife was Mary Ann, and went by Polly, not Sarah, although her last name was Berryhill. But Willis may have been born on the Cherokee Reservation, so maybe Sarah was his mother (and maybe her last name wasn't Berryhill).
Since I don't think my daughter wants to change her name, I guess I need to keep looking.
Willis Monroe Ward was my great-great-great-grandfather. He was born in 1802, possibly on the Cherokee Reservation in North Carolina, or maybe in Spartanburg, South Carolina, or maybe somewhere else. His father, Solomon Ward, was said to be from Spartanburg. Willis married Mary Ann Berryhill in the 1820s in Franklin County, Tennessee, and by 1830 they were in Jackson County, Alabama, just across the border; by 1840 they had moved westward to Marion County, Alabama. They had nine children (at least I think they had nine children - these things sometimes are not so clear).
The oldest son, born in 1831, was named Solomon; presumably he was named after his grandfather. In the early 1850s or maybe a little earlier he married Lucy Ann Northcutt. By 1860 they had established their own residence and had three children. By 1870, Solomon, Lucy, and the youngest child no longer showed up in the Marion County census, and the older two children were living with Willis and Mary Ann.
There were at least three Solomon Wards from Alabama who served in different units of the Confederate Army, and I don't know which if any of them was Willis's son. One, who served in the 11th Regiment, was killed in 1862 at Fraziers Farm in Virginia. Another one, who served in the 58th Alabama Regiment, was wounded severely with both legs broken at the battle of Chickamauga in September 1863 and died the following month. Another one served in the 9th Alabama Battalion and was hospitalized in Selma for "vulnus sclopeticus" in September 1863. I didn't know what vulnus sclopeticus was (not a term I learned in medical school) - it's a wound inflicted by gunshot.
In the 1866 census of Marion County, households were asked about deaths among soldiers, and Willis reported that one was killed, and one died of sickness. One of Willis's sons-in-law died of disease in 1862, so I think that Solomon was killed in battle or died of injuries from battle.
But I don't know what happened to Lucy, or to the youngest child. I'd like to think she remarried, and I can't find her because she had a different name, by 1870, but I don't know.
And to circle back to the beginning of the story, another person I haven't found is Sarah Berryhill, who Sarah was named after, and who was supposed to be Cherokee. Willis's wife was Mary Ann, and went by Polly, not Sarah, although her last name was Berryhill. But Willis may have been born on the Cherokee Reservation, so maybe Sarah was his mother (and maybe her last name wasn't Berryhill).
Since I don't think my daughter wants to change her name, I guess I need to keep looking.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Insert Coins Here
At work, we moved into a new office building during the summer. On our floor there's a break room with a wall of windows and a nice view of the campus. It's a very pleasant room. Up until a couple of weeks ago, there were empty spots along one wall -- room for two more refrigerators, I thought. Then vending machines appeared. There's a soft drink machine, that isn't quite right yet (a co-worker told me if I wanted water to select ginger ale, and if I wanted ginger ale to select Sprite), and another machine that at least when I last saw it on Friday was still empty. Presumably it will eventually be filled with snacks -- potato chips and Hershey bars and trail mix and salted peanuts -- but at the moment it is empty. But it's been turned on, and the inside is illuminated, the chrome racks inside gleaming, and blue lights on the control panel sequentially turning on and off, over and over, urging you to insert your money and make your selection. It's hypnotic, really, those lights. But there isn't anything in the machine, so it doesn't seem right that it keeps demanding that we insert money. (Although a co-worker suggested that perhaps it wasn't empty, but that the snacks were just really small; perhaps our employer has insisted on extreme portion control from the vendor.)
This Vending Machine Encounter got me thinking about other Notable Vending Machines I Have Known. Last summer when we were in Chicago, Caroline and Sarah and I went to the Chicago Cultural Center to see an exhibit; while we were there, we wandered through the first floor reading room and got something to drink at the snack bar. Somewhere on the first floor there was a vending machine that caught our eye. It had previously vended cigarette packs, in another life, but now it dispensed small Works of Art (or at least Crafts) in cigarette-pack-sized boxes. The machine took tokens that you had to purchase at the shop; I think they were $5. It was tough for the girls to make their selection; you didn't get to see what was in your box, only select a category. Sarah got an ornament on a string (was it a harlequin? I don't remember for sure) and Caroline a necklace, a polished stone on a string.
The first time I saw a vending machine that sold small Works of Art was in Durham, North Carolina, when I lived there in the mid-1980s. At the Carolina Theater downtown there was a vending machine that sold bits of art for a dollar (the price of everything has gone up since the 1980s). This was more like a machine that might have sold sandwiches in a previous life, so you did get to sort of see what you were getting before you purchased it. I was the proud owner of two color photocopies of pictures of Snap-on tool trucks. I assume there were more in the series, but I only had two of them. For a long time, they were framed and up on my wall, but I don't know what ended up happening to them.
Back to the vending machine in the break room. I find it unnerving, this gleaming illuminated machine with the insistent sequentially illuminating blue lights, demanding that I put in money, even though there's nothing in it. Hopefully, when I go back to work tomorrow, it will be full of granola bars and packets of M&Ms, and I won't have these feelings of existential dread any more, when all I wanted was to get myself a cup of coffee.
But if you want ginger ale, be sure to select the Sprite.
This Vending Machine Encounter got me thinking about other Notable Vending Machines I Have Known. Last summer when we were in Chicago, Caroline and Sarah and I went to the Chicago Cultural Center to see an exhibit; while we were there, we wandered through the first floor reading room and got something to drink at the snack bar. Somewhere on the first floor there was a vending machine that caught our eye. It had previously vended cigarette packs, in another life, but now it dispensed small Works of Art (or at least Crafts) in cigarette-pack-sized boxes. The machine took tokens that you had to purchase at the shop; I think they were $5. It was tough for the girls to make their selection; you didn't get to see what was in your box, only select a category. Sarah got an ornament on a string (was it a harlequin? I don't remember for sure) and Caroline a necklace, a polished stone on a string.
The first time I saw a vending machine that sold small Works of Art was in Durham, North Carolina, when I lived there in the mid-1980s. At the Carolina Theater downtown there was a vending machine that sold bits of art for a dollar (the price of everything has gone up since the 1980s). This was more like a machine that might have sold sandwiches in a previous life, so you did get to sort of see what you were getting before you purchased it. I was the proud owner of two color photocopies of pictures of Snap-on tool trucks. I assume there were more in the series, but I only had two of them. For a long time, they were framed and up on my wall, but I don't know what ended up happening to them.
Back to the vending machine in the break room. I find it unnerving, this gleaming illuminated machine with the insistent sequentially illuminating blue lights, demanding that I put in money, even though there's nothing in it. Hopefully, when I go back to work tomorrow, it will be full of granola bars and packets of M&Ms, and I won't have these feelings of existential dread any more, when all I wanted was to get myself a cup of coffee.
But if you want ginger ale, be sure to select the Sprite.
CSI: Wessyngton Road
I think Iain was the first one who noticed them. In the afternoon, we'd see them under the birdfeeders in the back yard - they weren't full grown, and Sarah thought they were cute, but they were absolutely and definitely rats. Fortunately when startled they ran away from the house, toward the wooded area behind the fence, so we didn't think they were actually living in our house. Still, it's not exactly the kind of wildlife you like to see in your backyard, snacking the sunflower seeds that fall from your birdfeeders. The squirrels are bad enough.
But that was a few weeks ago. I haven't seen them for a while. Maybe I just haven't looked at the right time of day.
Then, yesterday afternoon, Iain and I found some clues in the back yard:
Exhibit A.
Exhibit B.
This afternoon we found gray feathers scattered over a large area in the back yard - clumps of feathers (Exhibit A) or individual feathers, of all kinds (Exhibit B). The bird to whom these feathers had been attached had almost certainly been eaten by something - but what? My first thought was a cat. Cats are very effective predators, and a cat certainly could have staked out the bird feeder; Dan used to complain to us when our cat, Rocky, used to stake out their bird feeder. But I don't think I've seen a cat in our back yard since before Rocky died; the very large Labrador retriever who usually is asleep somewhere in the yard may have something to do with the absence of cats in our yard (it certainly kept Rocky away, and he nominally lived here). So, we didn't think it was a cat.
The fact that the feathers were scattered over such a large area suggested at least to me that it was a hawk. A week or two ago Iain and I were walking back from the farmer's market and he spotted one, soaring over the back yards on our side of Wessyngton Road. I've looked, since, and I haven't seen one, but I think at least yesterday it was dining high above my back yard. (I hope that the meal wasn't the catbird I saw at the bird bath the other day.)
In May and June, I watched the red-tailed hawk family in the nest outside the NYU president's office. I started watching soon after the unexpected hatching of Pip (it had been too long, the experts said, none of the eggs are going to hatch), and got anxious when she started wandering around the nest, especially when her mother was out hunting (the experts said she wouldn't fall out, but they were the same ones who said none of the eggs were going to hatch), and then when she finally flew away. But while she was there, we would see her parents would return from hunting with tasty rats, squirrels, and the occasional bird.
I don't know much about hawks - I know that many of the hawks in this area are red-tailed hawks, but I don't know if there are other species too. But I love the idea of a hawk patrolling the neighborhood and dining on rats. For what it's worth, I haven't seen the rats at the bird feeder in a while. I really hope they were lunch. Or maybe dinner, or breakfast.
And I'll keep looking up, to see what I can see.
But that was a few weeks ago. I haven't seen them for a while. Maybe I just haven't looked at the right time of day.
Then, yesterday afternoon, Iain and I found some clues in the back yard:
Exhibit A.
Exhibit B.
This afternoon we found gray feathers scattered over a large area in the back yard - clumps of feathers (Exhibit A) or individual feathers, of all kinds (Exhibit B). The bird to whom these feathers had been attached had almost certainly been eaten by something - but what? My first thought was a cat. Cats are very effective predators, and a cat certainly could have staked out the bird feeder; Dan used to complain to us when our cat, Rocky, used to stake out their bird feeder. But I don't think I've seen a cat in our back yard since before Rocky died; the very large Labrador retriever who usually is asleep somewhere in the yard may have something to do with the absence of cats in our yard (it certainly kept Rocky away, and he nominally lived here). So, we didn't think it was a cat.
The fact that the feathers were scattered over such a large area suggested at least to me that it was a hawk. A week or two ago Iain and I were walking back from the farmer's market and he spotted one, soaring over the back yards on our side of Wessyngton Road. I've looked, since, and I haven't seen one, but I think at least yesterday it was dining high above my back yard. (I hope that the meal wasn't the catbird I saw at the bird bath the other day.)
In May and June, I watched the red-tailed hawk family in the nest outside the NYU president's office. I started watching soon after the unexpected hatching of Pip (it had been too long, the experts said, none of the eggs are going to hatch), and got anxious when she started wandering around the nest, especially when her mother was out hunting (the experts said she wouldn't fall out, but they were the same ones who said none of the eggs were going to hatch), and then when she finally flew away. But while she was there, we would see her parents would return from hunting with tasty rats, squirrels, and the occasional bird.
I don't know much about hawks - I know that many of the hawks in this area are red-tailed hawks, but I don't know if there are other species too. But I love the idea of a hawk patrolling the neighborhood and dining on rats. For what it's worth, I haven't seen the rats at the bird feeder in a while. I really hope they were lunch. Or maybe dinner, or breakfast.
And I'll keep looking up, to see what I can see.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Girl Effect
Today lots of bloggers are writing about The Girl Effect, and even though I don't usually blog during the week, I didn't want to miss the chance to write about this. I believe in this one, and if we really want to Make the World a Better Place, and get an optimal return on our development investment, this is something we should support.
Here's the idea. If we invest in keeping girls in school, they will have a chance for a better life, not only for themselves, but for their families and for their communities - and if we keep enough girls in school, it will change things for the better for whole countries and eventually for the world. A few years ago, the Nike Foundation funded the creation of the first of the Girl Effect videos, and even though there have been several others since, this one is still my favorite. If we really want to do something to improve life for people in poor countries, one of the most effective strategies - with the best return on investment - is educating girls.
For years - I don't actually remember how many - the Girl Scout troops in our neighborhood have donated money to help keep a girl in school in Cambodia. The concept is a simple one: every month the girl stays in school, her family gets $10. This small amount of money reduces some of the financial pressure on poor families and help keeps the girls in school. The first year we did it, it was the girls who decided to support this particular cause, and the girls have continued it, every year since.
It was in the New York Times today, that because of the pressure on the Federal budget, foreign aid is taking a big hit. Times are tough, and we do need to focus our investments in the areas where they are most effective.
One of those areas is supporting the education of girls.
And the Girl Scouts can't do it alone.
Here's the idea. If we invest in keeping girls in school, they will have a chance for a better life, not only for themselves, but for their families and for their communities - and if we keep enough girls in school, it will change things for the better for whole countries and eventually for the world. A few years ago, the Nike Foundation funded the creation of the first of the Girl Effect videos, and even though there have been several others since, this one is still my favorite. If we really want to do something to improve life for people in poor countries, one of the most effective strategies - with the best return on investment - is educating girls.
For years - I don't actually remember how many - the Girl Scout troops in our neighborhood have donated money to help keep a girl in school in Cambodia. The concept is a simple one: every month the girl stays in school, her family gets $10. This small amount of money reduces some of the financial pressure on poor families and help keeps the girls in school. The first year we did it, it was the girls who decided to support this particular cause, and the girls have continued it, every year since.
It was in the New York Times today, that because of the pressure on the Federal budget, foreign aid is taking a big hit. Times are tough, and we do need to focus our investments in the areas where they are most effective.
One of those areas is supporting the education of girls.
And the Girl Scouts can't do it alone.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
High Stakes Testing
I remember taking those tests in high school. They weren't given at my high school, so my mother and I would leave early in the morning and drive to the testing site at Alva or Weatherford, with my sharpened number 2 pencils. This was before there were calculators of course; perhaps I took a slide rule, I don't remember. I took both the ACT and SAT just once, and I didn't take a prep course, and I didn't even have one of the phone book-sized preparation books with sample tests that now are piled up around our house. And - as far as I recall - no one asked me for any evidence that I was who I said I was.
Now there's a whole industry around these tests that didn't exist when I was in high school in the early 1970s. There are practice books and preparation courses, and kids take them over and over, trying for better scores. There are subject matter tests and an essay section, with peculiar grading rules that do not actually include getting a lower score for writing things that are factually incorrect. You get graded down for errors of "grammar, usage, and mechanics," but not of fact. (One can imagine why. "Grammar, usage, and mechanics" are not open to debate, really, or litigation. Facts are, so why deal with them?)
Taking it a step further, there is also the commercial enterprise of hiring someone else to take the test for you. It was in the New York Times yesterday, that an Emory sophomore was arrested for taking the SAT in exchange for payment for six Long Island high school students. According to the story, there are - as far as the Educational Testing Service (ETS) is concerned - no consequences for cheating. "When the Educational Testing Service, the company that administers the test, detects irregularities, it simply notifies the affected students that their scores are being withdrawn. Neither colleges nor high schools are ever alerted that cheating was suspected." According to the Nassau County District Attorney, four of the students who have admitted that Samuel Eshaghoff took the test for them are now in college, presumably based on Mr. Eshaghoff's test scores; "the colleges have not been notified by the testing service of their statements." ETS has said that confidentiality laws prevent disclosure.
So let's get this straight. We have a system that doesn't do much to assure that the people taking these high stakes tests are who they say they are, and yet we base college admissions on them, and no one tells the colleges if kids get caught, hiring someone to take the test for them. What kind of a testing system would work this way? One more concerned about not getting sued than doing the right thing. The same kind of system that grades you down on grammatical mistakes, but not on errors of fact.
Facts don't matter, and neither do rules. Whatever it takes.
Now there's a whole industry around these tests that didn't exist when I was in high school in the early 1970s. There are practice books and preparation courses, and kids take them over and over, trying for better scores. There are subject matter tests and an essay section, with peculiar grading rules that do not actually include getting a lower score for writing things that are factually incorrect. You get graded down for errors of "grammar, usage, and mechanics," but not of fact. (One can imagine why. "Grammar, usage, and mechanics" are not open to debate, really, or litigation. Facts are, so why deal with them?)
Taking it a step further, there is also the commercial enterprise of hiring someone else to take the test for you. It was in the New York Times yesterday, that an Emory sophomore was arrested for taking the SAT in exchange for payment for six Long Island high school students. According to the story, there are - as far as the Educational Testing Service (ETS) is concerned - no consequences for cheating. "When the Educational Testing Service, the company that administers the test, detects irregularities, it simply notifies the affected students that their scores are being withdrawn. Neither colleges nor high schools are ever alerted that cheating was suspected." According to the Nassau County District Attorney, four of the students who have admitted that Samuel Eshaghoff took the test for them are now in college, presumably based on Mr. Eshaghoff's test scores; "the colleges have not been notified by the testing service of their statements." ETS has said that confidentiality laws prevent disclosure.
So let's get this straight. We have a system that doesn't do much to assure that the people taking these high stakes tests are who they say they are, and yet we base college admissions on them, and no one tells the colleges if kids get caught, hiring someone to take the test for them. What kind of a testing system would work this way? One more concerned about not getting sued than doing the right thing. The same kind of system that grades you down on grammatical mistakes, but not on errors of fact.
Facts don't matter, and neither do rules. Whatever it takes.
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