Human Drama and Carpe Diem

“Spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport. The thrill of victory. And the agony of defeat. The human drama of athletic competition. This is ABC’s Wide World of Sports.”

Narrated by Jim McKay at the show’s introduction

Like many people around the world, I’ve recently spent my evening hours consumed by the Olympics. I loved watching them on TV as a kid and that thrill hasn’t diminished over the years. It’s hard to pass up the pulse-quickening races, moments of physical grace, Oh!-inducing crashes and of course, the heart-warming stories that are always part of the Winter Games.

This year, I’ve noticed two themes running through the stories of the participants. Sadly, one of them is sudden death. The deaths of the young Georgian luger before opening ceremonies and the mother of one of the Canadian figure skaters a few days before her daughter was to skate on home ice are untimely, to say the least. How ironic that Visa is running a commercial highlighting Dan Jansen’s experience with losing his sister just prior to a race.

I’m guessing that these deaths have had one of two effects on the athletes. Some have perhaps unconsciously held back a bit, all too aware of what the tiniest mistake could lead to, given the great speeds and heights they reach with metal-edged apparatus strapped to their feet. (Except for curling, of course.)

For others, it’s probably helped them calm down in an odd sort of way. After all, they’re still able to compete and still have their support system with them, whether in Vancouver or back at home. That’s better than any medal. And the reminder that life is short so enjoy the days you’re given may help them relax, savor the whole Olympic experience and perhaps achieve a personal best.

The second theme I see threading through the athletes’ stories is how many of them gave up their sport—disappointment and disillusionment seem to be common reasons—and then decided to give the world stage one last try. They went back to their grueling training regimens and competition schedules knowing what they were in for, but also relishing the chance to prove (mostly to themselves) that they still had it. For the most part, these athletes appear to be enjoying their Olympics, whether it includes medals or not.

These stories help remind me that these are not superheroes, but very mortal beings who experience the same ups, downs and emotions as any other person. They may commit their lives and bodies to their sports, but that doesn’t mean their journey is either smooth or easy. Only that they’ve devoted themselves to a goal they believe in.

That makes me feel better about moving forward with my dreams. To be successful, I don’t have to be a superhuman imbued with great power or strength. I only have to have the nerve to try. To seize each day’s opportunity to move forward and push through any obstacle that threatens to keep me from my goal.

And so for a few more days, I’ll watch the Olympians participate in “the human drama of athletic competition” as Jim McKay so aptly described it. I’ll look for those who have overcome their personal demons, doubts and fears to risk it all representing their nation in front of the whole world.

Those who remind and inspire me to carpe diem.

Gusto and Gracie

Gusto is from the Latin word “gustus,” meaning a tasting and has come to mean hearty enjoyment. In some Spanish-speaking countries, mucho gusto (much pleasure) is used as a greeting as in “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Last week, we had to say goodbye to our beloved terrier mix, Gracie. Though ten-and-a-half years old, she seemed much younger because of her indomitable spirit and pure enthusiasm for everything life offered.

Unlike our other dogs who at the end had faded into shells of their former selves from old age or illness, Gracie left this world still Gracie. She continued to run around like a puppy, play “Gladiators” and tug-of-war several times a day with our two-year-old pup, Tilly, and race to the yard to chase away any hapless wildlife that wandered onto our property. Even on our way out the door for that final sad trip to the vet, she was pulling on the leash, eager to get to the next adventure.

After finding out just before Christmas that she had an inoperable tumor on her heart, we had to confine her to leash walks. It was abundantly clear that Gracie felt this an unnecessary precaution. She would run to the end of the leash for every tennis ball that came near us and tried her best to join in the wrestling matches Tilly engaged in with other dogs. It was hard to comprehend that she was dying when we saw how much energy she still possessed. But as willing as her spirit was, her flesh was too weak to continue. Still, we got two more months with her instead of the two weeks the doctors thought she had.

Thankfully, she left us with a lifetime of memories. After all, Gracie was not a dog that passed through people’s lives unnoticed.

First, there was her unique look. After much observation of other breeds, our best guess is that she was a boxer, pit bull, wired-haired Jack Russell mix. Her brindle fur was a crazy, course blend that went off in wild directions everywhere except at the top of her head and ears, which were soft and smooth. Jamie’s brother dubbed her the “boot scrape.” And that was just one of the innumerable comments she elicited over the years. Wherever she traveled, people were compelled to remark on her looks—some laughing, while others declared her to be “rad.” My all-time favorite observation was “That dog looks like a Dr. Seuss character!”

As wild as her looks were, her personality was even more exceptional. Being a double terrier, her early years were colored by her inability to control her dog desires. As much as she wanted to be a good dog and do what you asked, it was impossible to ignore the devil on her other shoulder. More times than not, she ran with the devil.

There was the time in Cambria when we were at a working farm that sold its own preserves and other goodies. Gracie decided to slip her collar and chase after the resident pets—which happened to be peacocks. I’ve never heard so much squawking and feather flurrying. Peacocks aren’t exactly graceful when they have to lift those big bodies into the air quickly. So it was quite a spectacle watching the females jump-flap their way onto the porch’s tin roof while the males displayed their tails and charged at the frenzied dog. Gracie was not intimidated. Luckily, I grabbed her before any blood was shed. There was, however, a tremendous layer of fertilizer left by the panicked birds, which both Gracie and I were unable to avoid.

I believe that was the same trip where, while we were dining with friends, she eschewed the marrow bones we had provided and instead chewed on every knob in my car. (Years later when we traded that car in, the salesperson politely described its condition as “rough.”)

There are countless other Gracie stories—like her darting past a “We shoot intruders” sign to harass some backyard chickens—but then you’d think she was just a bad dog. And there was so much more to her.

Gracie was a great comedian. She would do anything for a laugh. If shaking her toy a certain way got a laugh out of the crowd, then she’d parade around the room repeating her act. Through the years, she modeled many Halloween costumes or parts of costumes, much to the delight of the partygoers. Perhaps it was her way of expressing thanks for the cheese and meatballs and other morsels from their plates that they had been feeding her all night (sometimes inadvertently).

There was also Dr. Gracie, which had several incarnations. One was the compassionate, doe-eyed girl who tried to console both human and canine sufferers, whether from a mental or physical hurt. There was the Dr. Gracie who took everyone’s temperature by way of a greeting (not her best habit). And of course, the Dr. Gracie who could remove the squeaker from a toy with laser-like precision.

As sad as I am at her passing, I can’t help by smile when I think of Gracie. Her approach to life—relishing every inch and minute of it—is a wonderful lesson in happiness.

While all of my dogs are special in their own way, I don’t believe another one will come along in my lifetime with such a big, unforgettable personality. Gracie will always stand out in my memory. Just like she did in life.

And if we get to meet again on the other side, I will greet her with mucho gusto.

Dominoes and Beginnings

Early domino pieces were carved from ivory or animal bone with the pips (dots) made of inset ebony. The name comes from their resemblance to domini, the Venetian carnival masks that were white with black spots. The oldest domino sets discovered are from around 1120 A.D. As part of Domino Day 2002, a record string of 3,847,295 dominos were set up and toppled.

This afternoon, I'm knocking down the first domino. Stay tuned to see what falls into place now.

Hunter-Gatherers and Moving

Early humans were hunter gatherers, moving from one place to another in search of food. Their shelter had to be found (a cave, for example), built from the materials at hand (such as an igloo) or carried from place to place (like a yurt). When agriculture began around 10,000 years ago, the need to be so mobile diminished and people starting living in more permanent structures.

Tomorrow I’ll be helping a friend pack up her apartment and move into her own condo. This is her first venture into home ownership and she’s understandably nervous. I’m going as much for moral support as to lend a hand putting her belongings into boxes.

I’m also volunteering my services because I just plain like helping people move. I know it’s odd, but I actually enjoy the whole process—whether it’s my move or someone else’s.

Each stage is like a little game to me. Packing boxes is a three-dimensional puzzle. How do I get all of these elements into this cube? And how do I do it in a way that achieves what I call EAI packing (every available inch)?

Loading the car or truck is another 3D puzzle, though on a grander scale. Here too, I try to adhere to my EAI standards. Over the years, I’ve helped pack many a U-Haul floor-to-roof full. I’ve especially enjoyed the times where at the onset, most everyone believed that it wouldn’t all fit.

When it’s time to bring the belongings into the new place, my brain gets a break and my body a great workout. I experience an endorphin rush after hours of lifting heavy or awkward objects while walking up stairs. (And this being San Francisco, there are always stairs.) By the time everything’s in the new place, my mind and body are happy.

And then I get to have beer.

Some of my packing skills have surely come from the countless hours that I spent as a child watching the professionals move our family’s possessions from one city to another. We went from Baltimore where we were all born, to Richmond, Atlanta, Memphis, and Columbus, Ohio.*

Each move, of course, came with its own stories. I remember being en route to Atlanta when my dad spotted our moving van on the side of the road where it had run out of gas. Needless to say, we ferried back a fuel can to get the moving van moving again. I also remember the packer who asked me to write “Kim’s Bedroom” on all of the boxes in my room. I thought he was being nice and letting me help. Later, I figured out that he was illiterate and, like so many adults who don’t read or write well, had formulated ingenious ways to cover up his limitations.

There’s another memory of my 14-year-old self sitting at the top of the steps in our just-emptied house in Atlanta. I was crying out of sadness at leaving the known and fear of moving to the unknown. My father sat down and put his arm around me and tried to assure me that everything was going to be fine. He draped that same arm around me 12 years later when my nerves got the best of me the night before I moved to San Francisco.

But my absolute favorite moving story has to be about Slim. Slim was one of the workers on the crew packing up our house in Atlanta. He was indeed bone thin. But it definitely wasn’t from working too hard. Rather than be angry about his work ethic, the rest of the crew just joked about his laziness. At one point, he walked around from the back yard and up into the bowels of the massive moving van carrying a single garden rake. One of his co-workers hooted at him, “Slim, you carry that rake all by yourself?” From that day forward, whenever my family sees someone shirking their responsibilities, we’ll say to each other, “Slim, you carry that rake all by yourself?” and then break into peals of laughter.

Moving throughout my childhood wasn’t my choice, but I also didn’t question it that much. Which is good because persistent questioning wouldn’t have changed a thing. I know because my sister tried. My mother’s response to “why do we have to move?” was always the same. “We’re moving,” she’d say, “because that’s where your father’s job is.”

In other words, we moved so we could have food on the table. I guess we’re not so different from our hunter-gatherer ancestors after all.

* Of course, my relocating every few years didn’t stop there. On my own, I moved from college in Oxford, Ohio to Atlanta back to Columbus and then to SF, where I migrated through six apartments before Jamie and I bought our house—the home where I’ve been happily settled since 1993.

Earthquakes and Responsiveness

In 1960, a magnitude 9.5 earthquake, the most powerful ever recorded, struck Chile. Seismographs recorded seismic waves that traveled all around the Earth and shook it for many days. The quake also caused a tsunami that affected Alaska, Japan, Australia, New Zealand and the Philippines; plus landslides, a flood and the eruption of a nearby volcano.

The recent earthquake in Haiti has me thinking about a number of different things. For starters, I—like most residents of quake-prone areas—have a particular empathy for the victims. Their plight is a reminder that I live on “There But For The Grace Of God, Go I” time, making it particularly important to enjoy the here and now. (It’s also a reminder to update my earthquake kit.)

Then there’s the stark realization that for all of our sophisticated knowledge and technology, we’re no less vulnerable to disasters than our ancestors. We may not consider ourselves playthings of the gods like the ancient Greeks did, but we have to admit that we’re at the mercy of some power (whatever name you apply to it) that can dramatically alter—or end—our lives in mere seconds.

But more than any of this, I keep thinking about why we have the same problem disaster after disaster. Why can’t we get help to the victims faster and more efficiently?

I understand that in the immediate aftermath, the only assistance is from survivors and any local first-responder agencies that can reach the area. But real help always seems to take days to arrive—days during which air pockets are depleted, collapsed lungs give out, and entombed initial survivors succumb to dehydration or their injuries. By the time the saws, jackhammers and jaws of life finally arrive, they’re used for recovery more than rescue.

I’m sure this delay is due to the overwhelming logistics that are needed to mobilize massive amounts of supplies and personnel. Still, I think we can—and need to—do better. To perhaps change our thinking and develop innovative ways to move resources from Point A to Point B.

One idea is to have UN strike teams stationed all over the world. They would have equipment and training customized to what was needed for the disasters most likely to befall that part of the world.

And much like firefighters, the strike teams would be ready to go at a moment’s notice. When a disaster occurred in their region, they would load into transport helicopters and drop into a safe zone identified by Google Earth or some other satellite photos. They could begin rescue work just hours after the catastrophe and serve as a bridge to larger relief efforts that would arrive in the coming days.

Of course creating strike teams and outposts would take money. I’m guessing that there aren’t too many countries willing to cut their defense budgets to fund a humanitarian one. We’d also need to have political will—a position difficult to find these days when political won’t is the norm.

So I doubt I’ll ever see such a seismic change in disaster responsiveness in my lifetime. But let’s hope it doesn’t take another Great Chilean Earthquake to shake up the world and remind us that we all in this together.

Sailboats and Panicking

One ship sails East, another West

By the self-same wind that blows.

‘Tis the set of the sails and not the gales

That tells the way we go.

— Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Years ago, my mother made a cross-stitch sampler of this poem that still hangs in a bedroom in my parents’ house. It reminds me of one of the great life lessons I learned when my father purchased a sailboat.

We were living in Atlanta at the time, so I was probably around 10 or 11. My dad and a co-worker bought the boat together. Neither of them had ever really sailed before, but they were determined to learn. They read books, took sailing lessons and practiced their skills at a nearby lake. When they felt confident enough in their ability, they invited me, my brother and the other man’s daughter (a year or so younger than me) to join them.

It was a cold, autumn day when the five of us set sail in Lake Lanier. Like most kids, I had complete faith in the adults’ ability. To me, this was just a great adventure where the only possible danger was not getting out of the way of the boom when it swung my way.

At one point, the wind changed direction and the “sailors” needed to adjust to it. My father’s friend was at the rudder and when he went to move it, the handle got caught in a seat cushion. Before we had time to think, the boat lurched dangerously to one side (it was a keel-less model).

Seconds later, all five people and everything in the hull that wasn’t attached ended up in the water. The shock—from the unexpected occurrence, as well as the chill in the water—was immediate.

I’m not a particularly strong swimmer, but I was able to easily get myself over to where the boat rested on its side. The dads quickly made sure that all of us were accounted for and okay.

Not wanting us to be in the water any longer than necessary, they decided to try to right the boat in the middle of the lake. All five of us got on the high side of the hull and pulled it toward us. Instead of the desired outcome, the boat completely flipped over and the water-logged sail pressed us underwater.

That’s when I panicked.

With my air supply gone and nothing but murky water surrounding me, I froze. Seconds later, I felt myself being pulled by the seat of my pants underneath the boat and to the other side away from the sail. I’m sure my eyes were wide with fear as my head popped out of the water and I once again clung to what was now the high side of the boat. My dad calmly explained that if that ever happened again, I should simply push up on the sail to create an air pocket, fill my lungs and then swim out from under the canvas.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to test out his advice again that day. A nearby houseboat witnessed the whole scene and raced over to our rescue. With the three kids safely on the houseboat, my dad and his friend tried again to right the boat, which simply flipped back over to the other side. I watched as they created air pockets under the sail before swimming to safety. (They later found out that the boat couldn’t be righted in the water, but had to be towed to shore to get it upright again.)

Safely back at home and around the dinner table that night, my father suddenly excused himself and went upstairs. I later found out from my mother that he had broken down in tears thinking about how easily our outing’s outcome could have been tragic.

It probably took me years to process all of this, but I learned a very valuable lesson that day. When in the midst of a dangerous situation, don’t waste your limited time being afraid. Instead, spend your energy thinking about how to get yourself out of harm’s way. There’s time enough later once you’re safe to let the panic set in and ruminate on what could have gone wrong.

After all, the same imagination that causes us to freeze with fear of the unknown also gives us the means to figure out a solution. It all depends on which way we set our sails.

Zen and Point of View

This parable illustrates the Zen teaching to accept life as it is without judging whether things are good or bad: A farmer’s horse runs away and his neighbors say, “Such bad luck,” to which the farmer replies, “Maybe.” The next day the horse returns with two wild horses. The neighbors say, “Such good luck,” to which the farmer replies, “Maybe.” The farmer’s son tries to ride one of the horses, but falls and breaks a leg. “Such bad luck,” the neighbors respond, which again meets with a reply of “Maybe.” The next day, soldiers come through the village and draft all of the healthy young men, except the farmer’s son with his broken leg.*

I can’t say that I was sorry to send 2009 packing and usher in 2010. Last year will not rank as one of my best. Yet when I reflect on the past 12 months, I find that what stands out for me is something rather nice. During 2009, I reconnected with quite a few friends and family members, some of whom I had not been in contact with for decades.

In many cases, we were brought back together by Facebook. The simple act of “friending” through social media has put me on their radar once again, allowed me to catch glimpses of their daily life and provided a fast and easy way to communicate with each other.

One of the main reasons I’m even on Facebook is because of something it’s hard not to view as negative. My work is drying up as traditional advertising vehicles are being abandoned for new media outlets. I need to become intimately familiar with social media to convince potential employers that I’m not a dinosaur in my field. So I’ve been dragged (just short of kicking and screaming) into the world of Facebook and Twitter, and yes, this blog.

Now that I’m here, I’m seeing not only how I can use social media to advertise my clients’ products and services, but also how I can use it to promote my own book. For example, I’m looking at using Craig’s List to advertise a promotional video on Facebook and You Tube that gets parents to see the value of my online novel so they’ll introduce it to their kids. And that’s just the beginning.

As much as I don’t like being drastically underemployed, it is forcing me to explore new avenues that will potentially benefit me down the road. So my situation is both a curse and a blessing, depending on how I choose to look at it.

This idea that everything in life has both its good side and bad side is central to my children’s novel, The Magic Hair. In the book, the heroine Nici has a mishap that causes her hair to grow to an unwieldy 20-foot length. Whenever she cuts off her tresses, they grow right back. Her unnaturally long locks provoke ridicule and fear, as well as making moving around terribly inconvenient.

When her hair becomes tangled in a horse’s hooves, Nici is sent flying into a river where she’s washed downstream and into a series of adventures. As she tries to find her way back home, she discovers the extraordinary power of her long locks and their ability to regenerate. At the end, Nici and her hair thwart a plot to overthrow the kingdom. So she becomes celebrated for the very thing that has caused her so much pain and turmoil along the way.

My hope is that children—or even adults—reading my story will learn to look at the negative things happening in their life (their parents’ divorce for example) and see that it also yields positive things (such as more attention from both parents).

It’s a view I’m trying to adopt myself. Because a healthier, more balanced take on life could help me enjoy the journey more.

Maybe.

*The story is sometimes called “The Farmer’s Luck” in the Western world. There’s a great children’s book titled Zen Shorts by John J. Muth that includes this and two other thought-provoking tales.

Mottos and the New Year

Motto comes from the Latin word “muttire,” which means to mutter, mumble, murmur.

A few weeks ago, I was talking with my sister-in-law who passed along a great idea that she got from her son (my nephew) who got it from one of his professors—who probably got it from someone else, ad infinitum. So here’s my chance to pass it along to you.

The idea is to define your upcoming year with one word. Make that word your motto for the entire year.

My sister-in-law did this at the beginning of 2009. By the time December rolled around, she had an impressive list of accomplishments that were the result of living by her year’s motto.

Now I’ve never really been one to make New Year’s resolutions. But I think that a personal slogan is a brilliant way to start a new year.

So ever since I heard about it, I’ve been trying to define my word. As a writer, I feel a lot of pressure to make it the perfect word. Which is probably why I haven’t settled on anything yet. But there are a few choices in the running.

- Accomplish. I need to move my ideas out of my head and into the real world, so this seems like a good word to remind me to actually get something concrete done this year.

- Empower. This one’s probably out of the running because I don’t like the word. It’s been too politicized for my taste by every group that feels put upon by others. I want something that reminds me of my inner strength and ability to change things for the better, but this word doesn’t do it for me.

- Allow. Often when I’m reluctant to do something or just plain dragging my feet, I ask myself, “What am I waiting for? Permission?” Maybe this motto will be my permission to succeed with my online book and anything else I want to do in 2010.

- Flow. As in “go with the flow” or “let good things flow forth.”

- Participate. “Just do it” is already taken, so this seems like a good alternative. A reminder to keep taking active steps to make my life better.

- Not Helpful. I know what you’re thinking: that’s two words. “Not helpful”—which isn’t about not lending a hand—is another idea I got from someone else. If you’ve seen or read The Last Lecture, you know that it was given by Randy Pausch, a forty-something university professor who knew he was dying. The lecture is extremely inspiring and entertaining, but what really stuck with me was an interview with his wife. She said that when sadness or anger surfaced about her husband’s imminent death, she banished it with the words, “not helpful.” Her feeling was that these negative feelings reduced the time and energy she had for enjoying Randy’s presence while he was still with her.

I’ve been employing this “not helpful” attitude while we say goodbye to our beloved terrier mix—who will rate her own post at a later date—and it’s been helpful in remembering to enjoy her while she’s here.

If I spend a year banishing thoughts and actions that are not helpful to my mental or physical well-being, I may be able to actually accomplish my goals.

- Happy. I’ve spent way too much of 2009 worried, annoyed or frustrated about my lack of advertising work and inability to move forward with my book project. Perhaps a steady reminder to do what makes me happy can propel me forward.

- Balance. My balance is fine in yoga class, but outside of there I’ve been off kilter. Too much living in my head and not enough action or physical activity. A return to more even weighting in all aspects of my life may be just what I need.

- Risk. Success doesn’t come to those who play it safe. Maybe what I need to push me to new heights is a motto that reminds and encourages me to take chances.

It remains to be seen what my motto will be for 2010. If you keep reading my blog posts, perhaps you’ll see changes in my life that provide a clue as to what it is. Next December, I look forward to seeing the results of living by the word I’ve muttered, mumbled and murmured to myself all year.

Here’s to new beginnings, including a new decade. And to you and yours, I wish you a happy, healthy, [fill-in-your-own-motto] New Year.

Gift-givers and Tidbits

Saint Nicholas was a 4^th century bishop known for giving gifts to children, but only after asking if they had been good throughout the previous year. His name in Dutch is Sinterklaas, which was corrupted into Santa Claus. In the 16^th century, the Protestants said the one bringing the gifts was the Christ Child—or Christkindl—which got corrupted into Kris Kringle.

As I mentioned in an earlier post (Attics and Creative Sparks), the tidbits that define my posts will be a part of the interactive website of my children’s adventure novel. There are about 150 tidbits throughout the 30-odd chapters. And it was incredibly fun researching every one of them.

Each new fact, fable or bit of trivia was like unwrapping a little gift. I often had to wade through pages and pages of information about a given subject to finally find the one little nugget that became the tidbit. Whenever I reached an “I didn’t know that” or “That’s interesting” moment, I knew I had something. (Then I had to verify that it was actually true.)

Here are some favorites that I uncovered…

Light travels faster than sound, which is why you generally see lightning before you hear thunder. The lightning super heats the air, causing pressure that results in a sonic boom. This boom is the thunder. The rolling or rumbling of thunder is caused when the shock wave moves along the lightning’s path.

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In medieval times, the poor slept on mattresses stuffed with straw. The rich, however, enjoyed luxuriously soft featherbeds, sometime set on top of a straw or woolen-stuffed mattress. Curtains or embroidered hangings surrounded the bed to keep out the cold. The bed and bedding were considered so valuable that they were often passed down in the owner’s will.

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The term for sun reflecting off a still body of water is “sun glint.” When waves break up the reflected light, it’s called “sun glitter.”

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Black, oolong, green, yellow and white tea all come from the same plant—the camellia sinensis or common tea plant. The difference in the types of tea stems from the manufacturing process, not the plants themselves.

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If it wasn’t for the bubonic plague, beer steins might never have been invented. In the early 1500s, people still had no idea what caused the “Black Death.” Fearing that the hoards of flies in their midst might cause another outbreak of the deadly plague, the government of what is now Germany passed a covered-container law.

To comply with this law, common beer mugs had to have a lid. Someone cleverly made the lid hinged with a thumb piece so people could drink their beer with one hand—and the beer stein was born.

Around this same time, new techniques for firing earthenware were developed. Higher temperatures turned clay into a more solid, stone-like material. Beer steins were made of this new stoneware. The word “stein” is short for “Steinkrug”, which means “stone jug” in German.

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The smoke produced by a fire is a mixture of water vapor, gases and extremely tiny particles—about 40 times smaller than the width of a human hair. The actual make-up of the particles and gases depends on what’s burning, which is why smoke can have different smells and be black or white.

As the fire is extinguished, the smoke particles cool and adhere to everything they touch. This is why the smell of smoke can linger long after a fire.

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The term “scapegoat” comes from the Yom Kippur ceremony of Judaism where a goat is driven into the wilderness (escape goat) to carry away the sins of the people.

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Most rainbows appear to be an arc, but that’s because we’re only seeing part of them. If you could view the whole thing (such as from an airplane), you would see a full circle.

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I hope you enjoyed these little gifts of knowledge. And I hope that Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, Pére Noel, Babbo Natale, Joulupukki or whichever incarnation you prefer fills your holiday with friends, family and fun.

Science and Survival

The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.

— Isaac Asimov, 1988

When I first graduated from college, I was afraid that I would never learn anything again. After all, I was no longer in school. No longer in a formal setting where learning was my only job. No longer being forced to study things I thought I had no interest in. (I didn’t realize then that one of the gifts of my college education was that I had all of the tools I needed to think and explore and gain knowledge on my own.)

But at the time, I was sure that entering the working world would lead to brain atrophy. So I decided to combat this demise by consciously tackling a subject that had never particularly resonated with me—science. Taking a formal class didn’t sound too appealing since I had just finished with that routine. So I subscribed to a science magazine for laypeople called Discover.

I can’t remember any article in particular that made me realize that I did indeed like science, but there must have been something—or an accumulation of somethings—that sparked my interest. I finally grasped that this was an exciting field that was in a constant state of transformation, methodically chipping away at some of the greatest mysteries and questions ever posed by humankind.

I no longer subscribe to the magazine, but I’ve not ended my love affair with science. Today, my teacher of choice is TV and the countless programs about geology, archeology, biology, technology and all of the other –ologies that captivate me.

Perhaps there are so many programs to choose among because discoveries (and cable channels) are coming to light at an unprecedented pace. I think this is due to several factors. First, we have thousands of years of observations, theories and research to build upon. Second, computers have accelerated calculations and experimentation so that hypotheses can be proven, or negated, with astonishing speed.

And third is the one I find most intriguing—the near-instant globalization of new knowledge. Discoveries are shared with the world almost as soon as they’re made. Everyone has access to that knowledge, which they can use to inform or influence their own work.

It’s never been easier for scientists to take a more holistic approach to their areas of study. And not just scientists. Historians, political scientists and researchers from all disciplines are using the collective knowledge pool to explain any number of past, present and even future events.

For example, questions abounded about why an ancient Asian warrior tribe abandoned their lands to a weaker people. We know from paleoclimatologists that central Asia around this time was experiencing periods of drought followed by periods of extreme cold. And we know from historians and archeologists that the warrior tribe was dependent on horses, while the other tribe raised cows.

A look at the animals’ physiology points to why the “weaker” people were more successful in handling the weather swings. Cows have three stomachs to process their food, allowing them to exist on a poor-quality diet. The horses, however, couldn’t get enough nutrients to survive. So the warrior tribe had to move to greener pastures (literally) or abandon their precious horses. Obviously, they chose to migrate.

Another example is the massive eruption in 1783 of the Laki volcano in Iceland. The ash cloud it generated covered most of Europe and caused harsh weather that destroyed both crops and livestock. After years of extreme climate changes, the common folk in France got tired of suffering severe food shortages while the aristocracy flaunted their extravagant indulgences. Their frustration eventually triggered the French Revolution.

So everything in, and out of, this world really is interconnected. And capable of altering not just the physical landscape, but the political one as well.

When you look at how formidable our opponents from the natural world are, it seems foolish for humankind to keep putting our knowledge into how to destroy each other. We need instead to pool our intelligence to figure out how to survive the next catastrophic event coming our way. We need to gain our wisdom at the same rate as our knowledge.

Treasure and Triumph

Treasure comes from the Greek word thesauros—which is also the root word for thesaurus.

Christmas is still weeks away (thankfully), but a dear friend has already given me a precious gift.

She’s about to move into a new house and is sorting through her belongings to separate trash from treasure. When we met for brunch this Sunday, she brought me one of those treasures.

What I received was a 9x12 envelope addressed to my friend in my handwriting. She pointed out the date stamp of June 3, 1985. Amazing to realize, that was half my life ago. Inside the nearly quarter-of-a-century envelope were four of my short stories and the opening chapter of a novel that I can’t even remember now if I ever finished.

I quickly flipped through the yellowing manuscripts, skimming the title pages, two of which I didn’t even remember. Brown rust stains surrounded the old paper clips. Corrections and additions were added by hand. There were also several different typefaces, indicating the various typewriters I had used to write the stories. (You know, back in the old days when we didn’t have computers on wireless, pocket-sized phones.)

The package also contained a hand-written letter on yellow legal paper—my favorite stationery at that time. Now anyone who’s ever tried to read a hand-written note from me knows how long it takes to decipher. So I put the package aside to examine later and went out to have a fabulous day of communing with many of my favorite people.

It wasn’t until later that night that I realized how special this time capsule really was.

The letter I wrote to accompany the birthday package of manuscripts was penned just hours before probably the most dramatic, life-changing day of my existence. My words chronicled what I was feeling right before this seismic shift.

The events leading up to the letter began in mid-March of that year. I went to San Francisco to visit my friends and scheduled a few interviews with ad agency creative directors while I was there. The first three interviewers saw my potential, but suggested I get more experience. The fourth one offered me freelance work, but I didn’t have the nerve to move across country without the promise of a steady job.

So I went back to Ohio and found another job that would broaden my work horizons. The day I sent in my acceptance letter (how quaint that sounds now), I got a call from the fourth creative director. He was checking to see if I was still interested in a job in SF and if so, could I possibly fly out to interview with the big boss. Ummm, yes and yes. One tiny sticking point, however, and I went on to explain about my other offer and how I didn’t want to string along this perfectly nice company. We finished our conversation that Friday with his promise to see what could be done to accelerate my hiring.

Early that Sunday evening—apparently just moments before I started writing the letter—my potential boss from the Columbus job called to ask if I would mind if my first week of work consisted of flying to New York City to observe a TV commercial being shot for the company. Ummm, no, I had no problem with that.

So that’s where things stood when I wrote to my friend. I’m guessing that I mailed the package during lunch the next day, which forever preserved the date for me. By that evening, the news the letter contained was already out of date.

When I returned home from the job I was about to leave no matter which suitor I chose, I got a call from San Francisco. My thundering heartbeat made it hard to hear the voice saying that there was no need to fly me out for another interview. Could I just start in two weeks?

There are not enough words in the thesaurus to describe the thrill—and the power—that I felt in that moment. It was an exhilarating rush of “I did it!” joy.

Touching this golden relic of my personal history transports me back to that period of triumph. More importantly, it reminds me of how much I want to create my next “I did it!” moment.

So my deepest thanks to my friend for this incomparable gift. Or should that be unrivaled gift? Unparalleled? Unique? Without equal?

Well, whatever the thesaurus says, it’s treasure to me.

Cranberries and Sharing

Native Americans prized cranberries—or Sassamanash as they called them—for their natural preservative power. By mixing crushed cranberries with dried meat, they could extend the meat’s shelf life, which is why pemmican was one of their diet staples. The local Wampanoag Indians generously introduced the Pilgrims to these precious berries and many other native foods to keep them from starving.

Turkey gets all the press around Thanksgiving (even if it’s just an article about having a turkey-less feast). But as much as I like the big bird and all the trimmings that go with it, the real focal point of the day for me is the people I spend it with. It’s about taking the time, making the effort to gather—and by doing so to say, “I’m happy that you’re in my life.”

I know that there are those who find Thanksgiving to be more curse than blessing. Many people don’t enjoy their family, or don’t have deep friendships, which I’m sure can make the day seem hollow. And not everyone even wants to celebrate the traditional way.

But for me, I love the whole custom—which may stem from the Normal Rockwell-ish celebrations of my childhood. When I was a kid, most of my relatives lived in Baltimore. My family moved from there in 1960, but wherever we were, we made the drive to Maryland for Thanksgiving.

Rerunning those days through the projector of my memory, I smile at how well they mirror the era. The women stayed in the kitchen and dining room, preparing the food and tables while catching up with each other and sharing family gossip. Remembering my grandmother’s extremely cramped kitchen, it’s a mystery how they managed. The men sat in the living room, watching football and drinking beer. They too, were catching up with each other and sharing family gossip, though in their “how’s business?” manly way.

Meanwhile, the kids went down to the finished basement to create the entertainment for after dinner. We were an imaginative bunch, using the dress-up clothes my grandmother saved for us and adding any other props we could find. The basement’s configuration offered the perfect setting for our homemade theater. There was a big, open space bounded by a wall of built-in storage benches at the back. Above the benches were curtained windows. Behind this wall was a narrow area where the washer, dryer and pantry all were. When it was time for the play to begin, we put chairs in the open space for our audience, used the benches as our stage and the laundry area as our dressing room.

All these years later, I have no idea of what our plays were about. What I do have, though, is warm, wonderful memories of being with my cousins and creating something together. And of course, basking in the applause of our parents and grandparents. What kid doesn’t remember the praise?

Not all my Thanksgivings have been great, of course. There was the teenage one spent in the hospital—though I did get to eat my first solid meal that day and I don’t think turkey has ever tasted better. And there have been years where the shadow of loss has darkened the celebration of abundance. But all in all, I have been blessed with happy days spent among family and friends.

I wonder if we would even bother to commemorate this day nearly 400 years later if the Pilgrims and Native Americans hadn’t held a joint, end-of-harvest celebration. After all, it was that spirit of sharing, of cooperation and gratitude that prompted the first Thanksgiving. (Too bad future dealings with this continent’s indigenous people didn’t demonstrate the same respect.)

It’s that same spirit we try to recapture when we come together to share our food and our time on Thanksgiving Day. A tradition I hope is preserved for another 400 years.

Pass the Sassamanash, please.

Veterans Day and Influence

Veterans Day, formerly known as Armistice Day, is celebrated on November 11 because that’s when the Treaty of Versailles was signed to end the First World War. Unlike Memorial Day, which honors those who have died in service to this country, Veterans Day honors all military personnel, living and dead.

Since today is Veterans’ Day, it seems appropriate to write about my father, a Korean War vet. Thankfully during his military service, he was a supply sergeant—a job that kept him far enough away from the front that he could return without the physical or emotional trauma faced by so many others.

After the war, he married my mother, started the family I was to become a part of and went into sales to support the five of us.

Traveling was a part of his job for as long as I can remember. His territory changed and expanded as he moved up the corporate ladder and we moved from city to city. But the job still called for many nights away from his family and on the road.

When my father returned from his sales trips, he often had stories about people he met while on the road. Eating alone in a restaurant night after night was not his idea of fun, so he sometimes found other traveling salesmen (and they were all men at that time) to converse with over dinner. By sharing their stories with us, we learned about interesting products, new industries, different parts of the country and so much more.

Looking back at that simple act of sharing knowledge, I realize what an impact it’s had on my life. I seem to have an insatiable curiosity about most everything. Even things that aren’t inherently interesting—Velcro for example—can be fascinating when you start to learn more. (Case in point: After a hunting trip in 1948, George de Mestral removed the burrs that stuck to his pants and looked at them under a microscope. He observed little hooks on the burrs that grabbed onto the loops of the fabric. Shortly thereafter, Velcro was born.)

You may notice from my tidbits each week and even the content of some of my posts that I have fairly wide-ranging interests. I thank my father in part for this.

I feel my father’s influence as well when I talk to people I don’t know at parties, weddings, bars, on airplanes (sometimes) and at other places where we share time together. I believe most everyone has an interesting story to tell if you ask the right questions and take the time to listen. Engaging strangers in conversation often rewards me with good stories—or at least pleasant interactions with my fellow humans.

I’m sure as my father was relaying the lives of the people he met all those years ago, he had no idea of the effect he was having on his family. He was just being himself, talking about what he found to be interesting.

When you think about it, that’s often how we pass on habits, traditions, traits, and everything else we do that inspires or motivates someone else. It’s the small things—the unheralded moments—where we show the true nature of ourselves that often have the greatest impact.

For that, and thousands of other reasons, I will be eternally grateful that I get to celebrate my father on Veterans Day instead of Memorial Day. I only wish so many others could have been that fortunate.

Halloween Traditions and Playfulness

Hundreds of years ago, Europeans believed that ghosts returned to the earthly world on Halloween night. Anyone who had to leave their house after dark donned a mask, hoping the spirits would mistake them for one of their own. To prevent the ghouls from entering their homes, people set bowls of food outside their doors.

I’ve almost finished putting away the Halloween stuff, which is no small feat considering that we have eight bins of decorations and lights, not to mention all of the oversized skeletons, tombstones, witches, etc. It’s a lot of work to decorate and undecorate every year, but I have so much fun, it’s worth it.

Our front yard provides the perfect spooky setting. We have a 10’ concrete retaining wall in front with a few ominous cracks caused by the shifting ground beneath us. Wrought iron fencing tops the wall along the street and up the first stairwell. Mature palm trees grow throughout the yard, with the fronds of the elephant palm hanging above the lower stairs. At the top is a landing, then another set of stairs leading up to our front porch.

From the street, you can see fake spider webs on the concrete wall, plus orange and purple lights that outline the wrought iron, porch railing and front of the house. As the trick-or-treaters open the iron gate—which creaks, naturally—and walk up the steps, they’re greeted with a graveyard on one side and a lit pumpkin patch on the other. On the porch is another scene involving a skeleton, rats, a giant bat and a disembodied head that talks to anyone who gets close enough to it. The kids are so engrossed in the decorations that they forget they’ve just walked up two flights of steps.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed hearing the little gremlins’ comments as they enter our haunted homestead. One of my favorites was a boy about five or six who told me that he didn’t think the yard was as spooky as it had been the last year. I feigned surprise that he wasn’t scared, then caught his father’s eye and shared a smile. Neither of us pointed out that he was a year older and prepared for what had obviously given him a fright the year before.

My all-time favorite comment, though, came from a little girl about three years old. After receiving her candy, her mother prompted with, “What do you say?” to which the little one replied, “I wanna eat ‘dis!” Now that’s genuine gratitude, child-style.

As much as I enjoy the trick-or-treaters, I have even more fun at the adult party, which we usually throw the weekend before. There are a core of about 30 of us who attend every year, though some years bring in even bigger crowds.

While we make it clear that costumes are optional, I love that the vast majority of my friends get into the spirit of the day and dress up. Costumes range from traditional to clever to topical—both balloon boy and Octomom were here this year.

Often the costumes lead to impromptu live theater. When three escaped convicts appeared at this year’s party, things began to disappear, including several of Octomom’s babies. (Don’t worry, the one in the freezer was rescued before any permanent damage was done.) Shakespeare might have had my friends in mind when he penned the line, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

Providing the setting for friends to allow their playful spirits to emerge is what makes the party preparations worthwhile. We may not don our masks and capes and wigs for the weeks leading up to Halloween like the young ones do, but we have fun memories and laughs to enjoy for weeks, months, sometimes years later.

That seems much better than a bowl of food for keeping unpleasant and fearful forces from entering our lives.

Birthday Cake and Aspirations

In medieval England, small objects—gold coins, rings, thimbles, etc.—were added to birthday cake batter before baking. Finding one of these in your piece of cake meant you would experience wealth, a wedding, spinsterhood or whatever the object symbolized.

Three of my friends are celebrating their birthdays today. The youngest one is turning 50 (which just shows how old my friends are) and enjoying a week-long party with her family and loved ones.

It’s been interesting to watch my friends reach this milestone birthday. The celebrations have ranged from big parties to more intimate gatherings of close friends to please let this day pass with as little fanfare as possible.

While the party/no party choice is sometimes a matter of personality (some people just hate being the center of attention), I think it also has to do with how we view ourselves and what we’ve accomplished—or haven’t—at this age.

Turning 50 last year certainly made me take stock of where I was in life. It made me look (and laugh) at some of my youthful aspirations.

When I graduated from college and was ready to start making it on my own, I had three main goals for my life. The first was that I wanted to have a lot of fun. That was paramount to me after spending so much of my time during high school in the hospital. I’m happy to report that having fun has been and continues to be a driving force in my life. Of course, my definition of fun has changed over the years. But it’s still one of my primary pursuits.

My second goal, somewhat related to the first, was to be happy. For some periods of my life I’ve succeeded beautifully at this. Then there are other times where contentment was not on my radar. In retrospect, this ebb and flow of happiness seems simply to be a reality of life. Things beyond our control can happen and suck the joy right out of our lives. The trick is to find a way back to what makes you smile. Thankfully, I’ve been able to negotiate all of the detours I’ve encountered to date.

My last goal was to make my living from writing. This, too, I have done (at least so far), though not exactly as I planned. Optimistic child that I was, I gave myself a target age of 25 to become a published author, which was then to lead a few years later to regularly making the best-seller list. (Technically, I did reach the “published author” goal. At 23, I wrote two columns—one with a byline—in an internal life-insurance publication produced by my employer.) Luckily, writing isn’t a career that’s defined by youth, so I still have time to get published—though in my own way as I’ve noted in previous posts.

Because I haven’t abandoned my youthful dreams, I was able to approach 50 with a smile and a look to the future. My dear friends joined me for a long weekend of celebration at a nearby resort, where they delighted me by acting out an adaptation (created by my two BFFs from college) of my children’s novel. It was a grand way of bringing together fun, happiness and my writing.

It’s friends and moments like this that make my life so rich. No gold coins needed in my birthday cake.

Spiders and Tenacity

Spiders that create webs (not all do) have glands at the tip of their abdomens that secrete spider silk. Different glands produce different types of silk (sticky for catching prey, fine for wrapping it, etc.). Though webs appear fragile, spider silk is actually five times stronger than a steel strand of the same weight.

For our annual Halloween party, I usually end up removing real cobwebs to replace them with fake ones. The imitations make for more dramatic decorations (and don’t reflect poorly on my housekeeping skills), but their engineering pales in comparison to the genuine article.

If you’ve ever paid attention to a spider’s web-spinning activity, you know what a marvel it is. To begin the classic design, known as an orb web, this eight-legged wonder attaches a fine thread to an anchor spot, lets out more silk and swings on the end of it to a second anchor spot. Then it walks back and forth on the attached filament, adding more silk with each trip to strengthen the line.

The next step is to create a loose loop and pull down on the middle with another strand to make a Y shape. Walking back and forth, the spider continues to create an outside frame for the web, plus spokes (like those on a bicycle wheel) that are all connected in the middle. The last step is to move from spoke to spoke, letting out sticky silk in a spiral design.

(This animation from BadSpiderBites.com does a better job of showing the construction than my words can convey.)

Sometime in August of this year, a cross spider* appeared in our back yard. I found it one day after accidentally walking through its elaborate web while cleaning up after the dogs. As I waved the sticky threads away from my face, I noticed the spider—which had a body about the size of my thumbnail—race to the curled edge of a nearby leaf for cover.

A few minutes later, I returned to find it hard at work repairing the web I had just destroyed. The restoration began with the spider eating the broken threads. Spiders are great recyclers and devour old or damaged silk to help them produce more.

Over the next few weeks, I made a daily check on my backyard friend’s welfare. One particularly windy day, I found it clinging to the thin threads, holding on for dear life with all eight legs. The next day, the spider was in a new location with a brand new web, probably because the powerful gusts destroyed the first one.

I couldn’t help but admire the tenacity of this little creature. When forces beyond its control took away everything it worked so hard to build, it simply moved on, got to work and started anew. I doubt there were any hand-wringing, bemoaning, “why me?” moments. Simply an acceptance that this is where I am now and if I want to eat, I better get busy.

It seems that I have a lot to learn from spiders. When I get pushed off course—as I’m experiencing now with my career—I need to ditch the self-pity. Learn to accept and adapt. Get out on the end of a thread, find new anchor points and start spinning a life around my changed circumstances.

Remind myself that I too, have something within me that’s stronger than steel.

* Thanks to Patricia Michaels of GreenNature.com for identifying the species.

Attics and Creative Sparks

Ancient Greeks who lived in Attica, the peninsula that includes Athens, used to build a low, decorative wall above the main building to hide the roof. In time, these became enclosed and the space between known as an “Attic story,” later shortened to “attic.”

Five years ago, what is now my office was just unimproved attic space. To access it back then, you had to put a ladder into the front bedroom closet, push a 2’ by 2’ piece of plywood out of the way and shimmy around the clothes rod and through the cutout. Once there, you had to walk on the joists because there was no flooring. Loose insulation filled the spaces between, 100 years of dust clung to the rafters and you couldn’t stand upright except for where the roof peaked.

It was perfect.

Luckily, a friend—who has the design and construction skills I lack—shared my view. In a few short months, and lots of physical labor later, we went from wishful thinking to reality.

Now I not only have an office that I love, but also wonderful memories of building it. I particularly enjoyed watching my friend design on the fly every time some new challenge presented itself—and there were many in this quake-altered frame. My vision of “we could do something with this space” became a fun, creative challenge for her.

This is more or less what I’m trying to do with my book and website. Present a starting point for other people’s creativity. Offer the spark that ignites an imaginative fire.

I could say that this whole idea started because I want to help young people unleash their creative power so they can visualize and build a better world. But the truth is less altruistic. I simply want a way to publish my completed (finally) book.

After doing some research, it didn’t seem like going the agent/editor, print-on-demand or e-book route was quite right for me. So I came up with my own idea.

What I’m envisioning is a website—actually, more like a community—built around the novel that encourages anyone and everyone to upload their own work based on the story. This could be illustrations, videos, songs, animation, side stories, costumes, games, puzzles—whatever.

But it’s more than that. Readers also earn “extras” as they go deeper into the novel. Some of these include an animated map that tells where the chapter takes place. An electronic bookmark that at sign-in goes directly to the last page read. A highlighter, notepad, sketchpad, chapter summary, and other tools to help kids record key things about the plot and characters so they can create their own contributions.

Then there’s my favorite extra, the 3-6 pop-up tidbits in each chapter. These pertain to something going on in the story and provide interesting trivia (the Chinese had armor made of paper), as well as activities (how to create a quill pen) and behind-the-writing stories (one of the female characters was male in an earlier draft). These are much like the tidbits that frame each post on my blog.

I could go on and on about the other things such as the contests, polls, section for parents and teachers, etc. But the final site might look very different from my vision given my limited budget.

Or maybe if I get the right team working with me, it will be even better than I envisioned. Just like the attic where I’ve come up with these ideas.

Who knew that an ancient architectural adornment would have such a profound impact on my future?

Cork and Thinking Differently

Cork comes from the thick, spongy bark of the cork oak tree. Slabs of bark are hand harvested from the trees 12 times in their 250-year lifetime. In addition to wine stoppers, bulletin boards and fishing rod handles, this renewable resource can be used for flooring and ground into concrete mixtures.

During dinner the other night, some friends and I debated about what to do with the wine cork. The bottle obviously belonged in the recycling bin. But the cork? Compost or trash?

Now this certainly isn’t the first bottle of wine that’s passed through my house. But recently, I’ve become even more vigilant about practicing “reduce, reuse, recycle,” which prompted the cork question.

This heightened awareness probably stems from San Francisco’s new law that requires everyone in the City to recycle and compost. Yes, you read that right. A law.

Now exactly who is going to make sure everyone’s banana peels go into the green (compost) bin instead of the black (trash) bin is another question. Perhaps we can draw from the staff that enforces the law stating that all pets kept outdoors must have access to clean drinking water at all times.

San Francisco has a number of unenforceable mandates that invite ridicule. Yet sometimes there’s a smart idea wrapped inside that legislative language, which leaves me conflicted. I admire the way our city often sticks its neck out and tries a new approach to the same issues bedeviling everyone else. Because it’s easy to jump on the bandwagon once someone else builds it. Or laugh at their construction if it fails. What’s hard is to be the one with the blueprint—and the guts to implement it.

So looking at this latest law, you can see the benefit in its intention to shift 75% of the City’s waste into composting and recycling programs by next year, leading up to the ultimate goal of zero waste by 2020. It’s a cheap and effective way to be eco-friendly. And recycling and composting programs can be set up quickly, making them a solution we can implement now.

Like I said, great idea. But a law?

Could we maybe have considered using education instead of legislation? Tried creating something that makes composting and recycling cool? Like hilarious videos on YouTube that get passed from friend to friend. An online invitation to upload funny or clever things—animation, songs, photos, poetry, artwork, whatever—that teach people how to create zero waste. Visits from celebrities to schools that achieve the best record of recycling and composting throughout the school year. That type of thing.

If we’ll take our willingness to think differently a step further, we might figure out how to use peer pressure instead of police pressure to achieve the same goals. Get people involved and excited in something that benefits us all. Compel them to comply with a motivating message instead of a toothless law.

Maybe that’s a way we can get this City to work better. Just a thought.

Oh, and that wine cork? It goes in the trash. At least for now. We have until 2020 for someone to think differently about how it can be collected and distributed to the flooring and cement manufacturers that can reuse it.