Mr. Rogers and A Little Motivation

3 miles a day - sometimes outside but mostly on the treadmill. Today I got through mile 2 at the gym and pictures of those kids appeared on the TV screens. My knees went soft and I did not feel like finishing.
Then I remembered the picture and the quote. Remember the helpers. I thought about the firemen, the first responders. Running across a parking lot with children. Then running back for more.
Did 3 and a little extra and I don't think that girl next to me could even tell that it was not all sweat running down my face.

Click here for the story: Look for the helpers...

Newtown, USA

At the heart of the causes for this tragedy are the thoughts and actions of a killer. "Mentally ill" does not even begin to describe how sick and demented a person must be to slaughter 6 and 7 year olds and their teachers in a school.

The fact that he had access to efficient instruments of murder is significant and we all wish that he did not. But he did. Where do we go from here?

Outlawing guns by simply passing a law is not the answer. There are nearly as many guns in this country as citizens. Do you want your home searched for guns with the intent of confiscation? Some would not mind. Most would. It will not happen and even if it did, there will still be guns out there. Ultimately, like it or not, the US Constitution says we have the right of ownership. This will not change, at least not for a very long time.

Are more restrictive gun laws the answer? Maybe. But keep in mind that Connecticut has some of the most restrictive gun laws in this nation.

What could have saved those children and teachers last Friday morning?

1. Someone recognizing Adam Lanza's behavior and potential for mass murder before he acted.
2. An armed guard or policeman at the entrance to the school.
3. An armed kindergarten teacher.

We live in a society where each of those three options are difficult, impractical or distasteful. I know that #3 will send a few MSNBC talkers through the roof. I am not advocating that one.

Time to stop just saying "enough is enough." So many images and pleas are just provocative. But provoking is simply wailing in the dark. Light a candle for those kids. Talk about real solutions.

Let's start with mental illness.

Blood and The West and E-Readers

I've had the IPad for well over a year now and have to admit to being completely infatuated with it. So much easier to travel with than a laptop - it does not need to be removed from a bag during security screening - I find myself constantly using it. Emails, looking up the news, managing a very small side-business. It is simply a great gadget, and though it has not happened yet, if I left home on a trip and forgot the thing, I'd be pretty disappointed for three days.

One IPad application I wasn't expecting to use as much as I do is the e-reader. I've downloaded several publications and use the iBooks app constantly. Like other e-readers it has an on-screen dictionary that allows nearly effortless reference to definitions and origins of words. Two of my favorite authors created several of the stories that populate my Ipad library. They are Jack London and Cormac McCarthy. The extraordinary talent these two writers exhibit gains even more shine and clarity as I enjoy their work on the e-reader.

Cormac McCarthy wrote a book published in 1985 titled "Blood Meridian." It is a story of the American West in the 1850's that will one day, I think, be considered an American classic. Loosely based on the true story of the Glanton Gang which roamed and bloodied the borderlands of Mexico, it explores the nature of violence in some of the most extraordinary  prose you may ever read.

The stories of murder and mayhem are difficult and graphic. The hardships endured by anyone traveling through what was essentially the last huge lawless expanse of American territory will leave a reader never thinking the same way again about a John Wayne movie.

Descriptors in McCarthy's writing are brilliant, overwhelming but often simply impossible to understand. Archaic expressions leave you with no conclusion other than the writer immersed  himself in books, letters and meticulous research of the settings in that era. Or he time traveled to 1851. He did, in fact, learn Spanish when he started the novel 13 years before publication, and claims to have visited every location mentioned in the book.

A fair criticism of the novel is that these old and obscure  phrasings weigh down the storyline. The dictionary on an e-reader lightens that load. Also, characters in this book can tend to sound the same. They share the same speaking manner - clipped, deadpan phrasings frosted with irony (Texicon, if you will) that read quickly because the author does not use quotation marks or attributors such as 'he said'. If you saw the movie "No Country for Old Men," you know what I mean. McCarthy wrote the original book.  An example: This sure is a mess, ain't it sheriff?... No, but it'll do until the mess gets here.

With sometimes paralyzing detail, the author brings an amazing micro perspective on the weaponry, wagons, and everything else that settlers brought to the lands, as well as what the locals created from it. Individual and fascinating stories are told and embroidered with descriptions of flora, fauna, geology, weather and  wildlife. My favorite short section near the end describes the slaughter of bison. It is heartbreaking, beautiful and one of the best things I've ever read.

Here is a passage from the novel that takes place after the gang commits one of its final ghastly organized acts of violence towards the local population. They are now on the run, escaping to the west:

"...they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun."

At first, I didn't get the author's use of  "fond" in that sentence. The on-screen dictionary provided an alternate definition, and I was immediately intrigued: to be foolish or naive. Origin is late Middle English from the word 'fon' - a fool.

If you are someone who loves literature and can be fascinated with word origins, then I can't recommend an e-reader more highly. And if you want to download something great, try Blood Meridian.

The Atomic Power of Expression

Last night I read through my 14 year old daughter's Facebook account.

I admit, in this short sentence, to two things which you might have a opinion about.

First -  that I spy on my kids. It is true. Especially when it comes to the Internet. Do I trust them? The answer is a qualified yes, I do. But the Internet is a very powerful tool. Much like a table saw or a rifle, I would generally trust them to use it wisely and safely. But at least while they are young teens, I'll be looking over their shoulder. Or in the case of Facebook, I simply have access to their account.

Second - that I'm OK with them having a Facebook account at all. The reality is that we are not an Amish family. We have tv's, computers, cell-phones. The parents out there who live in this digital world without allowing their kids access to Facebook or Internet are, in my mind, extraordinary. Facebook is so easy to sign up for and maintain that if a parent tells me his teenager is not allowed to social network, I can't help but think, is he not allowed to swear either? Better to allow it, discuss it and monitor it than pretend it does not exist.

So what did I find on Facebook last night? Something interesting enough to discuss over the Internet, of course.

On one of her friends pages, there were comments from a high school student (a sophomore) on the presidential debate that he apparently wrote as it was ongoing. Here is a sample of that young person's  comments:

It seems that Romney's strategy is to pull random hypothetical tax plans out of his a** and eventually stick with the one that gets the most generally positive response

Mitt Romney just accused Obama of investing in Chinese labor and having accounts in the Cayman Islands... My brain hurts

The postings struck me in a number of ways. First that the 15 year old would be so engaged in the electoral process. I've always liked politics. Majored in in in college. But I don't remember at all having that strong an opinion of Ford vs. Carter when I was in high school.  (Friends from that era - please correct me if I am wrong). And if I did, I certainly don't recall shouting those views from the rooftops, which is effectively what an Internet rant is, without having to climb the stairs.

Is this just a new and very passionate generation 'roided up with keyboards and broadband? The young people who were raised with access to social media from grade school are now moving quickly toward adulthood. They've spent a few years now expressing thoughts and ideas that are not too much different than any other generation. But the voices are louder than they ever were in the past. So loud, in fact that they are talking over and past each other in a blizzard of texts, IM's, postings, shout-outs, blogs, comments, rants, raves, likes, dislikes and updates. Hardly any edits. Very few pauses before hitting ENTER to hundreds of people, and no instant consequences for saying anything in the world from brainless to genius.

That is, until some interested party, days, months or years later sees what was launched on an unguided rocket into cyberspace. It could be simply a friend who does not get the intended sarcasm or irony in a comment. Or an opinion / thought that seems perfectly rational and appropriate in the moment, but later causes the sender nothing but regret. Either because it wasn't true or should not have been expressed.

Relationships are now ruined in a new way. Add the misunderstood or ill-timed Facebook post to the long list of ways we can fracture socially. Take the bad with the good, I guess, because there is no doubt that social media can strengthen the bonds between individuals and groups. I'm on my way to a college reunion right now, made much easier by the communicative power of Facebook.

But back to the 15 year old. Not long ago, someone that age was much more interested in Superman vs. Lex Luthor, or even Ali vs. Frazier. Now he's channeling Bill Maher, or James Carville  in the epic battle vs. Sean Hannity to save the planet. The young man is a great shortstop, and high school musician with good grades. Now he seems to be auditioning for an afternoon slot on MSNBC.

So what does a parent do when the Internet and cable tv ranting makes one a little queasy? Of course, I write about in on the web log. Then  I talk to my own teenagers.

First about how that stuff in cyberspace is there forever. FOREVER. Second, if you write it, step away for a while before you launch it.  You'll be surprised how much ends up in the trash after just a few hours. Last, if you want to discuss politics or religion, your first impulse should be not to. Especially if you don't know them very well. Then if you must, assume the other person completely disagrees with you on every point and you have no absolute right to change his or her mind.

I'm actually somewhat optimistic on the subject of both social media and the angry birds of cable TV as a threat to civil debate. Harnessing the power of radioactivity gave us the atomic bomb and won us World War 2 in the Pacific. Then came some pretty stupid uses for it like x-raying feet to measure a shoe-size.

We will eventually get it under control and I'm hopeful that the cyber-yelling will go out of fashion. We will always have to live with the dark side of  any technology. It might just take a generation or two to learn how to best handle the power of expression across the Internet.

The National September 11 Memorial

The National September 11 Memorial could only have been located here in New York City, within the footprint of the towers that fell over a decade ago. I can imagine it somewhere else. In a very quiet and somber location, one that promotes reflection and is more easily accessible. But that would be far from Manhattan. And ultimately it would seem to be in the wrong place.

It absolutely must be here. For reasons that go beyond what happened and what we have been through in the first decade of the 21st century. It was such an enormously horrible day and most of that horror happened here in lower Manhattan. Visitors will come to this place for centuries. To learn. To mourn. And to remember the thousands that were lost on that autumn day which dawned cool and beautiful but ended in a cataclysm of smoke, fire, destruction and incomprehensible grief.

I visited the new National Memorial earlier this month. It is located on Albany and Greenwich streets in Manhattan. Amid the noise of the city. The constant sounds of everyday urban life compressed and reflecting off concrete, steel and glass.  Add to that, the noise of construction cranes, jack hammers and every other offense to the ears that goes along with building two new mega-skyscrapers on the next block over.

I'm sure in the early design process, the issue of all this noise was considered and what they came up with to address it was simple: falling water and trees. Two square pools - the focus of the memorial -  are large square pits, each an acre in size, with water cascading 30 feet from each side into a pool and then a smaller pit below. They are now the largest man-made falls in North America, and their steady roar does blunt the ambient city noise. Above the pools, inscribed on bronze parapets, are the names of each victim. Computer screens nearby help visitors to find those names and where they are located within the park.

The museum space is unfinished but expected to open this fall. It will include walls of victims photographs, a crushed fire engine, steel beams deformed by the impact of the planes and a first for National Memorials: a walled space intended to inter the remains of unknown victims that is accessible only  to medical examiners so that more of the dead might one day be identified.

All this is within a 16 acre park landscaped with planted trees that are native to Manhattan, Washington D.C. and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Most are swamp white oaks that will grow to 70 feet. One is a callery pear known as the Survivor Tree, because it withstood the initial attacks, and though recently damaged by wind, continues to thrive today.

The memorial absolutely must be here because this is where we began to heal. Only steps away is St. Paul's Chapel, where the rescue workers were offered food, rest and a place to pray. It is also free to visit and should not be missed.

The National September 11 Memorial is a beautiful scar on a heavyweight champion city. When complete, the entire plaza will be surrounded by the new World Trade Center complex. Visitors to the memorial will walk among office workers enjoying time outdoors, maybe having lunch on a park bench, or just getting away from their desks. Everyday life, as it was on 9/10, melding with the grief of names being read and water falling. Falling into voids that will never be never filled.


To Get There: From the Newark Airport hotels: take the city bus or Airtrain to Newark Penn Station. Then take the PATH train to the World Trade Center. Takes about an hour, cost is $3.50 each way (using the Airtrain costs more)

Zero Tolerance

Today I had the yearly skin check at the doctor's office. It seems to be one of the requisites to living in Arizona and since I spend a lot of time outside, I'm pretty conscientious about having this done.

I'd already been to this doctor before, but of course there is always some sort of paperwork to fill out. Just a couple of signatures and is anything new with my health these days. I looked over the form and did find a new data entry.

Under the Date of Birth line was something I'd never seen before: Date of Death. Very nice. Thanks for offering me the opportunity to ponder my own mortality for a few minutes, Dr. Lin.

Fortunately mine read 00/00/0000.

I returned the form to the receptionist and went back to my seat, thinking how nice it is that my heart is beating.

As I waited for them to call my name, I quickly forgot about mortality and flipped through an issue of Sunset magazine. That is, until an old-guy patient sitting across the room with his own paperwork exclaimed to everyone: "Date of Death?? Hey, look at that. All zeroes! Guess I'm still alive!"

I'm certain that was the first time I've ever seen a room full of people waiting on a doctor laugh together at anything.

The exam went fine. Everything normal. Hopefully me and the old guy will be seeing those zeroes for a long time.

Yellowstone's Fireworks

I'm standing on top of North Americas  largest active volcano. It last blew up 640,000 years ago, and some day, will again. But I'm only in this area for three days, so I guess you'd say I like the odds. Besides, it doesn't look anything at all like the textbook pictures of a volcano. Far from it. Beautiful mountains, lakes, rivers and meadows are everywhere. Wild animals do their wild things under the strict protection of federal laws. Boaters, hikers, fishermen and just about anyone who loves being outside come to this place in numbers over 3 million each year. I arrived here in Yellowstone National Park by motorcycle yesterday.

This trip began two days prior out of Portland, Oregon.  I rode interstate  for 3 hours along the Columbia River where wind generators spin high above and remind me of war of the worlds aliens. Their invasion stops near Pendleton and I turn northeast for a few hours into the striped farming hills of Washington state and into the city of Clarkston - my first overnight stop.

The next morning I cross into Idaho and join highway 12 where I trace the banks of the Clearwater river for nearly 300 miles. This is a land of outdoorsmen and the timber industry. Trucks loaded with fallen trees pass me opposite on this cool morning and in their wake, the long sweet final breaths of of douglas  fir, larch, and sugar pines.

I rejoin the interstate near Missoula, Montana by afternoon and finally turn directly toward my destination. My rest stops get shorter and my speed, a little faster through the hills of western Montana. I would like to get to entrance with at least an hour to spare before sunset. I know that it is another 40 miles along the  park road to the area within Yellowstone known as Canyon where I'll spend the first night, and I would very much like to avoid the combination of a motorcycle, nighttime and wildlife along the parkway.

In two days, I've covered nearly 900 miles. When I finally arrive at the Canyon Lodge of Yellowstone, I'm tired and stiff but anxious to start my first hike of the trip: a five hour walk up Mt. Washburn. But that is for daylight and on this evening I am very content with a shower and a comfortable bed.

Lodgepole pines, meadow grass and wildflowers are everywhere below the timberline along the path to the top of Mt. Washburn. The stiffness in my legs from two long days on the motorcycle is gone soon after I start up the trail.

It's busy here on this day. But I remember it's a holiday and Washburn gets great reviews for hiking  in Yellowstone, so I'm not too disappointed. I know this is an enormous park and Ill have time to find solitude later in the trip.

The wind howls at the top, but the lower level of a fire observation post has been adapted for hikers to step inside and admire stunning views of much of the park. It is still and warm in the room at 10, 500 feet, and most of the park is in view. Yellowstone Canyon and the Grand Tetons are visible to the south. Montana to the north and the  forests of Central Idaho that I rode through the day before are to the west.

On the second evening I decide to camp overnight, somewhere. All the established campgrounds are full, so that is not an option. The park service map comes out and I spot an unpaved road in the north part of Yellowstone. It looks promising so I check it out on the motorcycle.

There is some car traffic in the area, but very little. I find a nice pull-out for the bike and start walking up the tallest hill in the area. The climb is very easy compared to the days earlier hike. The hint of a path leads me to the summit.  It looks perfect, and I unroll a pad and sleeping bag for the night.

On this 4th of July holiday as twilight becomes evening, there is no sound or splash of fireworks above. But I've learned a little about Yellowstone since arriving here, and I know that there are fireworks around.  They're not far from this small camp I've made on the Blacktail Deer Plateau of Yellowstone National Park.

The sun has just drifted behind a soft wash of clouds over the hills to my left. It disappears briefly but will soon ignite those vapors in a warm orange glow that announces dusk. The light will not give up quickly at this time of year and the the blueblaze of skylight stubbornly remains on the horizon well past 9 pm.

The fireworks of Yellowstone exist in the form of an angry molten slug of earth just a few miles below the surface. It is this 'hotspot', as it is known by geologists, that influences everything above and makes Yellowstone unique in the world. Surface water succumbs to gravity through cracks in the earth, then to the fires of magma from the old and buried volcano below. What happens next gives Yellowstone it's character - the return of heated water to the surface - at infinitely different rates. From gentle steam to spectacular geyser to hellish boiling streams, water rejoins  the atmosphere, only to  begin its tortuous cycle once  again.

"More visible thermal features than the rest of the world combined," as the brochures say, and they are everywhere. Clouds of warm vapor hover above pristine meadows and rivers throughout the park's caldera - the boundary of collapsed earth that remains from the last volcanic eruption.

They bubble like witches brew. They churn like open washing machines. They frighten like hidden dragons in scalding water-filled caves.  The most famous, Old Faithful erupts almost every two hours to hundreds of cheers and smart phone clicks. Many others are accessed by planked walkways and to view these amazing features is like visiting nature's geo-thermal carnival. Step up, stroll through and be amazed.

Later that night on Blacktail Deer Plateau, a  full moon rises, liquid silver on the horizon.  It is clear and bright and fools the birds into announcing the start of a new day. But there is no warmth from that reflected light and their songs fade quickly.

A hard chill breeze rolls up from the valley and I draw the sleeping bag closer to my neck. The sky is clear now. It's well past midnight and I wake for just a few minutes.  Branches on the lodgepole pines shiver across the small meadow before I drift off again. One last look up into infinite black and ancient fires overhead.