A Good Definite Maybe

It must be rough being a scientist. First, believing in anything has to be somewhere between problematic and impossible and second, it’s a business where (surprise!) your whole life’s work having been based on a presumption that turns out to be wrong gets thrown out the window. Ouch.

We all know what happened to “the world is flat” theory. The smug have had a good laugh over it. Fast forward to Einstein’s theory of relativity which sets the maximum speed limit in the universe at 300,000 km per second or, the speed of light. Over the nearly hundred years the theory’s been around we’ve done all kinds of experiments proving it. This is it. We are smart. E=mc².

But then…

Last month the folks at the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) dropped a bombshell. They’ve been beaming subatomic particles known as neutrinos from their facility outside Geneva, Switzerland to another in the Italian mountain Gran Sasso (or Great Pebble, a rather conservative choice of reference for the usually sensuous Italians), and measuring their speed with great care. Lo and behold, the little things are traveling, “at a velocity 20 parts per million above the speed of light.” * Skeptical, CERN has repeated the experiment some 15,000 times and exhaustively checked for errors. So far it looks like the 300,000 km/sec speed limit is no longer valid and others in the scientific community are scurrying to either refute or establish the finding.

Looking out the window, the world appears not to have changed. Photons, neutrinos and FedEx trucks are zooming around, business as usual. So what’s the big deal? For the most part I don’t know, but the discovery does put a fly in the murky ointment of time. According to the theory of relativity, time, going forward, slows down as we increase our velocity and eventually at the speed of light stops. Ok, I sort of got that. Presuming this part of the theory holds, CERN’s finding implies it is possible that time travels backwards. At least for the neutrinos in question.

Oh yeah… time traveling backwards. Like the world being round, at first it would be a bit of a stretch. The movie Time Bandits suddenly becomes a documentary and some day as we listen to President Lincoln give his Gettysburg Address, we may muse over the so passé notion time only goes forward.

Gordon Bunker

* http://public.web.cern.ch/press/pressreleases/Releases2011/PR19.11E.html

The, A, New Leaf

A few weeks ago I was corresponding with a GTI buddy about reprogramming the headlights in my car and somehow we got sidetracked to the new Golf R coming to the U.S. next year. It’s easy enough to get jazzed about another 50 horsepower and all wheel drive. I offered encouragement that he buy one – this after all is what car friends are for – but he said he’d just traded his VW on a Nissan Leaf, and I noted didn’t exactly gush with enthusiasm about the transaction.

To go from a GTI to a… Leaf? My heart sank to the bottom. What could be next for the poor S.O.B.? Trying out for castrato?

But then driving in town recently I saw a Leaf (certainly didn’t hear it), and as luck would have it we were headed in the same general direction so I had a chance to study it a bit. Much to my surprise it looked like a real car; of course it is a real car as opposed to an illusionary car but still it surprised me. It made its way in traffic rather peppily and I even found its bulbous butt kinda cute. The “Zero Emission” sticker, well, ok… but have you hung around a coal fired power plant lately? The sticker is misleading and has to go.

In the mean time, big oil in Montana and North Dakota is big news and a report from NPR states the U.S. is sitting on an estimated 2 trillion barrels of crude, making the Middle East and North Africa’s combined 1.2 trillion look rather ho-hum. With BMW, Ford and Mitsubishi all coming on line with mass market electric vehicles next year, who knows? Timing is everything and there’s nothing worse than bad timing.

I’m most definitely not trading in my GTI any time soon - 39 mpg at 65 mph thank you Volkswagen - but I am going to drive a Leaf just for the heck of it. Before they blow away.

Gordon Bunker

photo thanks to ecoautoninja

Limmer Boots

My mother once said if you can count your true friends on one hand you live a very fortunate life. On about finger number two of my second hand I count my Limmer boots (the previous six spots are occupied by people) and so, I am indeed blessed. Over a span of twenty six years they have served me through thick and thin on hiking adventures in all conditions in every mountain range of the continental United States. Every time I slip my feet into them and lace them up they feel just right, snug and good. It’s a funny thing to consider inanimate objects as friends, but in this case it’s as close a description as any of my feeling toward these boots.

Yesterday R and I went on a short hike in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to enjoy the brief and intense display of fall foliage. Entire slopes of the mountains forested in aspen are ablaze in yellow. Every hike with R is special; like me she loves to be in the mountains and comes into a natural peacefulness and stride on the trail. This hike was particularly special in that it was the first wearing her new Limmers. R has never before had a pair of boots like these.

She literally sprinted up the steep slope into the aspens. Gone was the fatigue from boots with thin soles transferring uneven surfaces into the feet. Saved was the energy spent anticipating twists and slips coming down hill in boots with little support and grip.

Taking a moment now to think of other objects as friends, there are only a couple which come to mind – a Sabatier kitchen knife, a Starrett carpenter’s square, each have been with me for the better part of thirty years – and like the Limmers their value lies in the commitment to craft made by their makers. This is immediately apparent handling these objects, and they are as much a pleasure in use today as when new… perhaps even more so.

It was a treat to watch R yesterday as she experienced the dimension a fine pair of boots adds to hiking. It appears she and her Limmers are going to be friends, for many years I hope.

Gordon Bunker

Civil Disobedience

We stop at stop signs. Well, ok, in New Mexico this would be mostly, some of the time, sort of. Then to get on a foolish airplane, and, but, in the name of national security, we leave our shampoo at home, line up like cattle, empty our pockets and take our shoes off in airports. All the while trying to figure out how to respond to people whose job it is to scowl at us.

Then there’s junk mail. We don’t ask for it and despite any and all efforts to block it, somehow it shows up in our mail boxes. And we accept it. Entire hillsides of forest get mowed down and thousands of gallons of diesel fuel burn for the sake of junk mail and yet we hardly look at it, if at all, between the mail box and the trash can.

But not me. Mine never makes it to my trash can. Call me a Walter, but fair is fair and I am taking my stand. The U.S. Postal Service sees fit to give me this stuff so I see fit to give it back, even though I am probably <Gasp!> breaking the law!

As any fighter pilot will tell you, situational awareness is key. Keeping a low profile, I cruise the perimeter road at the mall while scanning the landscape for Security Patrol. They’re easy to spot – they’re the only guys who would not die before driving a base model Ford Ranger, you know, the ones with the dinky little hub caps on the white painted steel rims. But still, you gotta watch out for them. Most of them failed the cut for real PD work and so they’re on a mission. I roll up to the blue post office box and make one more quick scan. If the coast is clear, I grin and leave it in gear for a quick getaway. Down goes my window and into the mailbox goes my bundle of junk mail.

Ha-ha, Post Office! It’s yours now!

Gordon Bunker

Summers In A Tent

In one of his essays in Hackers & Painters, author Paul Graham asserts the public education system in this country bears too much resemblance to the prison system: in brief, we use it to keep a population we are scared of, off the streets with as little man (and woman)-power as possible.

Summer vacation is something school boards seem to be nibbling away at and there is discussion of eliminating it altogether. Apparently children would benefit from greater continuity in the schedule and taxpayers from more efficient use of facilities. But if we were honest about it, how much of the reason is to keep the troublesome little weirdos out of the adult world’s hair?

When I was a kid – oh Gawd, I’ve avoided this phrase at all costs – summer vacation lasted, well, for the summer. On the first day I took my shoes off and by the second my family was at the lake. And we stayed there until Labor Day. In a tent. It was a great arrangement; camping was within our modest financial means and the lake was close enough my dad commuted to work. Poor guy. Anyway, for my sister and me it was eat, run around, swim, canoe and boat, sleep like logs, get up the next morning and repeat, with slight variations on the theme like read a book or pester each other when it was raining.

Much more than goofing around in the fresh air, it was life away from the routine of school, it was rich with experience and educational in ways being in a system, cooped up in a classroom with a teacher could ever hope to provide. But then again, being chained to a desk in a climate controlled room with little or no view outside while being ministered to by someone in a position of authority is a life many people do. I’ve given it my best shot a couple of times and failed. After politely tendering my resignation I go screaming and running out the door. And right now sitting here at the keyboard of self-unemployment (with no shoes on) I’m itching to get outside.

So, what the hell do I know? Perhaps year-round education isn’t such a bad thing. Except for a few of us. Those kids, I already pity if it happens.

Gordon Bunker

What We Bring To The Table

Companions at the table are usually people we already have some relationship with and so have a hint of what to expect. Not so on the train.

The spry old-timer extended his well worn hand, his knuckles swollen likely from arthritis. He looked me in the eye and said, “take my hand in yours.” This was about five minutes into meeting Peter Dukich in the Amtrak dining car. We were beside each other in close quarters. I hesitated but it seemed harmless enough so I took his hand in mine. Then he said, “now, squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”

I met his intense gaze, smiled to make myself a little more comfortable and said, “No, I don’t think I should do that.”

“Go ahead! I’ll match you!” He exclaimed with bravado, almost a dare.

We were there for dinner, rolling along somewhere in the southeast corner of Colorado, headed for Chicago. In the few minutes before the handshake, Peter informed me he had just turned ninety, and with a sly twinkle introduced me to his wife Charlotte telling me she was (I do not recall the exact number), on the order of forty years younger than he. Charlotte smiled demurely. Peter then quickly moved on to expounding the virtues of physical work, especially outdoors, and especially in the garden.

I gave his hand a squeeze. And he met it. And he said, “Go on.”

There was no doubt Peter had life force. I thought, “ok, I’ll ease into this,” and said, “Peter, I refuse to hurt you.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he said with steady resolve. “Go ahead.” He was serious about this.

And I squeezed his bony old hand a little more and he squeezed back and I squeezed more and he squeezed back… until the two of us were in all-we-got vise grips, with faces turning red, staring at each other, our arms shaking from the strain and I thought to myself, “… white linen table cloth, flowers in vase, dining car, 90 year old man… and I’m sitting here in a lock grip about to crush his hand… if I made this up no one would believe it!” After a life of mostly physical work I am capable of a substantial grip and this was getting crazy and finally, thank goodness, one of us backed off. We were both breathing hard. Peter had made his point. Yes, physical work, outdoors…

Dinner arrived, my lamb chops a little overdone, but as the high plains landscape swept by, as the light failed, Peter and I continued our conversation about food and energy and life. He was sure to tell me about “Peter’s Powder,” a super concentrated compost he makes and speaks of with great enthusiasm. I’m sure it has some kick. Peter Dukich is a fascinating man in amazing physical shape for any age, not to mention 90. No doubt he has touched many, if not with his iron grip certainly his spirit. Dinner was among the most memorable I’ve had.

After a night of pounding and rocking over poorly kept track, a night of the train stopping and starting and the horn blasting I hadn’t slept well if at all. Brushing my teeth and washing my face while bouncing and lurching along in the teeny bathroom with the teeny-tiny sink didn’t help my demeanor much. But coffee would, so I looked forward to breakfast. Running into Peter and Charlotte again would be a plus but did not come to pass. The steward directed me to a table where a lone woman sat, bleary as me but wearing a suit. I was dressed in my usual attire, permawrinkle cotton. We said good morning to each other, silently acknowledging the insincerity of it. Just give us the coffee. Then two other women came to the table, each also in crisp business suits. Polyester has its advantages. Neither of them looked particularly happy – fatigue as I found out, is not conducive to congeniality.

A bit of small talk went around the table, pleasant enough and then one of them fired the first shot, some comment on politics with an inflammatory barb in it and without warning these three were growling, snapping their teeth, straining against the leashes of civility and generally going for blood. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a sharp knife. I’m glad we didn’t have a sharp knife, because it would have been used it to settle the dispute in a decisive manner and then we would have made the news. I have never before or since found so much to focus on in a plate of eggs and bacon and toast. So I managed to stay out of the fracas, and got the hell out of there and back to the safety of my economy sleeper asap. Oh sleeper, sweet sleeper.

Farms and prairie and the back yards of America slipped by. St. Louis was a stream of vacant factories and warehouses with broken out windows, empty parking lots, derelict cars and a few lost souls wandering around in it all. I looked forward to lunch and knew I would give the steward an argument if I saw any one of the breakfast Valkyries within spitting distance of my table.

Fortunately they were nowhere in sight and I was seated with an elderly and very stately woman of African American descent. She smiled primly and as other diners were seated at tables around us, informed me her daughter and granddaughter would be arriving soon. And in walked a woman who could give Koko Taylor a run for her money and a girl of about sixteen who was, in a word, HOT! The daughter eyed yours truly over suspiciously, then sat down beside me thus cornering me in. The granddaughter smiled and twinkled and wiggled and I wondered, “who would have guessed this combination?” Being the one lone skinny white guy, if I knew what was at all good for me I better mind my manners. To a T. So I mostly paid attention to the grandmother and kept my hands on the table.

Slowly the uneasiness, the what the heck do we do now feeling we were all feeling - except the granddaughter who knew what she wanted to do - melted away and I found out these three were from Bronx, New York, and Grandmother, whose deceased husband had been a train conductor all his working life was treating to a train trip around the country. As we bore down on Chicago we talked about life in New York and New Mexico, and train travel and I loved their New Yourk accents. We told jokes and laughed and had a wonderful time. Where else would I have lunch with the matriarch and two succeeding daughters of an African American family from the Bronx?

The Amtrak dining car is a place and experience not to be missed. Dining with strangers was by far the coolest part of getting to Chicago. The next coolest part was at the station where the bag I checked was the first to come off the conveyor belt.

Gordon Bunker

Photo courtesy of Amtrak.

An Interesting life

I have picked apples, built boats, managed the collection of a museum, swung a hammer, been responsible for multimillion dollar construction projects, and done a dozen other jobs. I’ve rolled in the dough and lived on the edge of poverty. Now I write and so far it is the toughest job.

Like any art and craft writing requires an open heart, it requires one to look and see and listen and hear very, very carefully. This all comes naturally enough; the tough part is living with the accumulated experience and knowledge which makes one acutely aware of the good and bad of life, every minute of every day in the thick of it. That many writers become raging alcoholics or commit suicide is no surprise. Writing requires unending honesty and empathy, it requires not slipping into the comfortable cloaks of judgment, of cowardice. It requires love and acceptance.

My sister Vic sent me a birthday card quoting Helen Keller: “Life is a daring adventure, or nothing.” Yes. Thank you Vic for getting it, you’re a gem.

The fellow who lives down the road drives in and out of his place three, four, five times a day. What the heck is he up to? (A friend suggested he’s dealing drugs.) He must be the itchiest guy on the planet. While his one man parade is annoying, I feel for him.

I watch a bird fly and marvel at the shapes of the wings and body, nature’s work, constant honing. The bird slips through the air, free, slips through the bounds of gravity and earth. It goes about its way, shrinking to a point in the sky and then disappears from sight. But it is still there. The sky and the light change. I feel joy and thanks for the mystery of things unseen.

I puzzle at how we’re smart enough to get ourselves into all sorts of trouble but not smart enough to get out. Conversely our intelligence may be our undoing. The sadness, the horror and pain we cause one another in war and myriad other atrocities tears me apart.

The balance tips back and forth between beauty and ugliness and life goes on.

And so there are times I cannot write, my mind and heart lock and I spend a day or a week or a month agonizing over it all. Nothing comes out, the screen stays blank. This is the worst. I pace or sit. I look out the window. I do something else, anything else, just to get away from the not writing.

Things happen which may not gel until later. I stand at the sink washing dishes and remember – the image in my mind overwhelms me – the simple joy, the brilliant smile of a little girl I saw yesterday at a taco joint. She sat with her dad and would sip her drink through the straw and they talked, and she would tip her head back and look around with her twinkling dark eyes and giggle and smile. And for those moments the world laughed, the world sang with unmitigated joy. Her dad would smile and tenderly stroke his hand over her head and down her back. They were so happy, it was wonderful to see this. Their tacos arrived, each a present in crinkly paper they eagerly unwrapped. Daughters can bring out a tenderness in men rarely seen. It is so very sweet.

I hear the swish and whoop of a raven’s wings beating the air as it lands on the roof of the house, it clucks and chortles and in a moment flies away, swhoop, whoop, whoop. The sun is going down and I finish doing the dishes.

Then there’s a year’s work tossed off by publishers with notes to this effect coming back, copied on strips of paper and this only because I supplied an SASE. And money, if there is any money is only slightly greater than zero, unless some day I win what is essentially the lottery. So why write? Because when the words come it is magic. And every once in a while I hear from a reader that something I wrote touched them, and it just don’t get better than that.

Gordon Bunker