Sour Grass

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You’ve probably heard that California is in the middle of a gorgeous super bloom. News stories have been reporting both on the flowers and the flower-lovers who’ve flocked to them–causing traffic jams and, in some cases, stomping on the very blooms they came to see. (Some people even landed a helicopter in an Antelope Valley poppy field.)

I don’t have to go anywhere, though. We’re having a sour grass super bloom in my own backyard. Unfortunately, we have not had visitors here to trample the insidious yellow flowers. I pulled some today and all the little flowers that remained were laughing at the futility of this project. So I thought I’d try to restore my live-and-let-live attitude toward sour grass with a post that first appeared in 2014.

Oh, but I was proud of myself yesterday. The rain was coming, at last, at last, and I had an hour and a willing assistant and with these two things I removed nearly all of the oxalis flowers from my front yard. Without flowers, the seeds would not fall, the rain would not sow them, and our yard, for seasons to come, would have far fewer of these yellow flowers that seem to pop up like those whack-a-moles at pizza arcades.

Only: no.

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Controlling Cancer with Evolution

The original version of this post ran June 2016. I’ve added an update to the end.

In 2001, Dean Spath was diagnosed with advanced prostate cancer. He had surgery to remove his prostate, and for nearly a decade, Spath appeared to be cancer free. Each year he would visit the doctor to have a blood test and a scan, and each year the tests came back clean. “They thought they got it all,” Spath says. “I was hoping I was cured.” In January 2011, however, a blood test revealed that Spath’s PSA level, a marker of disease progression, was on the rise. By June a malignant spot had appeared on his rib. The cancer was back.

First, Spath underwent eight weeks of radiation. And then he began receiving an injection to suppress testosterone, a hormone that fuels prostate cancer. Next he tried a new kind of immune therapy. But no matter what Spath’s physicians gave him, they couldn’t eradicate the cancer.

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The Calendar Made of Earth

La Sal Spring Sunset from Burn Canyon
Last night’s sunset in the La Sal mountains in Utah

This post originally published May 12, 2015

With a calendar and Google Earth on my computer, you’d think I wouldn’t need the horizon any more, but I find I need it more than ever.

After 15 years living in the same house tucked into the West Elk Mountains of western Colorado, I moved this winter a few hours southwest into mesas and canyons looking from the edge of Colorado into Utah. The first thing I did in February, as if out of habit, was start noting the sunset position on the horizon. It was south over the rims of the Dolores River, and week by week I watched it roll north, approaching the La Sal Mountains, a set of snow-topped Batman Wings on the farthest horizon. Last night I stood outside at about 8:15 pm, daylight hours having drawn notably longer, and I saw that the sunset was now firmly in the house of the La Sals. I was beginning the first steps of feeling at home, knowing where I was in the spin and swing of the heavens.

Living in a place of big horizons and sharply rendered landmarks is like having your own Stonehenge. The landscape naturally sets up alignments with the sky that people have recognized throughout time. The Southwest is decorated with pre-Columbian rock art placed where lunar and solar cycles manifest onto painted or pecked images, casting light and shadow through gaps in the rock. The whole landscape was a calendar and people recognized it with their art. Continue reading

Moby Peep

This post originally appeared on April 7, 2017. It’s always a good time to talk about whales and Peeps dioramas.

A diorama of Moby Dick, but with marshmallows instead of people and whale.
Thar she peeps!

I have a bit of a thing about whales. The shelf above my desk at home is full of whale art, and a National Geographic whale poster hangs in a frame above that. Along with that, I have a thing about Moby Dick, which is a book about whales.

So when it was time for my friends Joanna Church, Kate Ramsayer, and I to follow up the success of Hamilpeep and Knit One, Peep Two, I remembered my beloved whales and suggested: Moby Peep. Neither Joanna nor Kate has ever read Moby Dick – and, honestly, I haven’t read it in like a decade – but I think it was the Peep with a peg leg that sold them on it.

In the whaling boat

In Moby Dick, Captain Ahab (Peephab) is dead set on getting revenge against the whale. (Many people think this is what the book is about, but you and I know it is actually about whales.) So here he is, out in the boat with some of his top crew members to kill that darn whale once and for all. Because we are into historical accuracy, we included several lances for killing the whale, but because we have limits, we did not make any harpoons.

Let’s get a better look at those crew members.

From left: Our narrator, who asks you to call him Ishmael; Queequeg, the harpooneer; and Starbuck, the first mate (I am extremely proud of the logo on his apron – the mermaid is a peep).

The white whale

Kate spent many, many hours gluing mini marshmallows onto cardboard. Many hours.

The whaling ship

And way in the back there, rolling on the waves – you may know it as the Pequod, but the Peep figurehead and the tiny peep looking over the side should clue you in that this is in fact the Peepquod. Spoiler alert: The Peepquod doesn’t last much longer.

cutting a peep with a knife (to make Captain Ahab)
Experimental Peep amputation

We’d been so rushed on our previous diorama masterpieces, this time we decided to meet early and start working before the Washington Post’s annual contest was announced. In some Murphy’s law of contests, the Washington Post then announced that it is no longer in the business of fun. The Washington City Paper saved the day, announcing they would continue the contest! But, on the neverending emotional rollercoaster that is the Peeps diorama experience, Moby Peep didn’t make it to the finals. Alas. Almost as tragic as the ending of Moby Dick.

Photos: Helen Fields, except last photo, which is by Kate Ramsayer

Redux: Jewish TMI

[It seems a good time to re-run this piece because, once again, my gut is being a real bitch. Damn you, Jewish Gut!]

In my family, we talk an awful lot about bowel movements. If. When. Consistency. Pain level.

I call my Aunt Judy. “How are you?” I ask. “Terrible,” she says. “All I do is schlep back and forth to the bathroom. Sometimes I sit on the toilet and cry.”

I call my Dad and his lady friend, Ann. “How are things?” I ask. “Terrible,”Dad says. “Ann has a miserable stomach, terrible constipation. She’s been moaning and groaning all day.”

My mom used to tell me why she rarely called her sister. “All she wants to talk about is her diarrhea,” she said.

I’m not kidding. This is how it goes. Poop (or lack of) dominates every conversation. Continue reading

Less Harm

I grew up with guns. Who didn’t? We had Han Solo blasters and rifles that shot little copper pellets ducks would eat and die from.

My dad kept an assortment of firearms, defense weapons, hunting rifles, a couple shotguns for when we went out for rabbit or quail. He never made a big deal out of them, taught me to keep the barrel pointed at the ground until it was time to shoot. Not once did I hear him mention the Second Amendment nor did he put a rack in the back window of his truck and drive around the city, but on more than one drunken New Year’s Eve he fired off a round or two from his backyard straight into the sky at the edge of Phoenix. I loved those nights, my dad in a Hawaiian shirt or whatever the hell he’d be wearing, taking a drag on his Benson & Hedges as he lowered his .357 and dogs barked in backyards answering his shot.

There’s a gritty sort of pride you can take from knowing guns. But I can’t love them.

When I heard yesterday of the second suicide of a teen who survived last year’s Parkland shooting, I couldn’t help wondering if banning overkill weapons would have infused them with hope when they’d already seen the worst from guns. If it might have prevented their deaths. First it was a 19-year-old last week, then, the day after she was buried, a Parkland sophomore boy took his life, followed like a domino by a father who killed himself, his body found Monday, 7 years after his 6-year-old daughter died at Sandy Hook.

I can’t love guns, not anymore. I’ve had one around, a .22 for putting down a skunk or scaring a bear off the front porch, but it’s like having a wrench, a hammer, a tool.

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Redux: Blown-Down Trees on the Dark Side

Are we making tactical nuclear weapons again? Tactical meaning “not strategic,” that is, not ones that take out cities and countries, just little ones that take out city blocks? So that we can get the jump on the the Russians before they can get the jump on us? Thereby invoking what the late, great Sid Drell called “the fallacy of the last move,” referring to one of the dumbest thoughts ever to occur to a dumb humankind? This post first ran May 30, 2013.

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About ten years ago, doing research for a book, I asked Freeman Dyson about a study he’d helped do about whether we would have lost the war in Vietnam a little less if we’d used tactical nuclear weapons.

Dyson and two colleagues, all members of a scientific advisory group called Jason, were doing this study back in the mid-1960’s, more or less on their own hook; no one had asked either them or Jason to do it. They did it anyway because they’d overheard a Pentagon power honcho remark off-hand that it might be a good idea to throw in a nuke once in a while just to keep the North Vietnamese guessing. The remark reflected loose talk at the time that the few nukes dropped on mountain passes might block the passes and stop the enemy army from coming south. “You can do that wonderfully well with a few bombs,” Dyson said. “You blow down all the trees.” And I thought, “How does he know that?”

It turns out that while tactical (i.e., little) nuclear bombs do blow down trees wonderfully well, the large enemy army only has to clear a path through the blown-down trees and keep moving south.  “It’s only bought you a couple of months,” Dyson said.  “And you can’t blow down the same trees twice.  After you’ve blown them down, that’s it.”  He was snickering.  I didn’t bother asking him how he knew this and didn’t think about it again until a couple of weeks ago.

I was interviewing another scientist who started digressing into the old nuclear bomb tests out in Nevada. “Tree blowdown was experimental,” he said, meaning they knew how nuclear bombs blew down trees because they’d done it. 

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Once the U.S. had built the first atomic bomb, 1945; then improved it by building the first hydrogen bomb, 1952; then began working on building more portable bombs. And since the U.S.S.R had been doing the same, the U.S. also wondered about the bombs’ effects.  So in the early 1950’s, the government set up models of all the things that bombs could blow up – houses, bridges, cars, pigs, sheep – and exploded bombs near them.  The government did this for at least a decade and didn’t stop it until it and the rest of the world banned above-ground testing.  The tests, many of them at the Nevada Test site, were called “shots,” and they had names.

The shot called Encore was on May 8, 1953 and among the many effects it tested was what a nuclear bomb would do to a forest.  The Nevada Test Site wasn’t replete with forests so the U.S. Forest Service brought 145 ponderosa pines from a nearby canyon, and cemented them into holes lined up in tidy rows in an area called Frenchman Flat, 6,500 feet from ground zero.  Then the Department of Defense air-dropped a 27 kiloton bomb that exploded 2,423 feet above the model forest.  The heat set fire to the forest, then the blast wave blew down the trees and put out some fires and started others.  Here’s the video.

I’m not sure what I make of this.  Certainly in the 1950’s, nobody was controlling nuclear weapons; they were alive, reproducing, and roaming the world. So knowing precisely what damage they cause might help mitigate that damage.  And certainly I’m not going to think about the more distant and longer-term effects of those shots, over 200 of them above ground, except to say that as a 10-year old girl in Illinois, I wasn’t safe.

I do know I’m impressed by the amount of directed effort, the thoroughness of thought that went into cutting down 145 ponderosa pines, trucking them out of the canyon, digging holes, filling the holes with concrete, sticking the trees into them, dropping the bomb, making the measurements, recording the whole thing.  And though the United Nations belatedly began negotiating a ban on above-ground tests in 1955, the Limited Test Ban Treaty didn’t get signed until 1963.  That was the limited treaty; the comprehensive one banning all tests everywhere took another 40+ years, and even now the United States hasn’t ratified* it.  I’m most impressed by the contrast between the pointed determination of the test shots, and the infinite dithering about the (yes, infinitely more complicated) test bans.  I might suspect that  human nature and its governments have a dark side.

Add in this little public service booklet, illustrated with the drawing above and written by the Atomic Energy Commission to the people of Nevada:  “You are in a very real sense active participants in the Nation’s atomic test program. . . . Some of you have been inconvenienced by our test operations. At times some of you have been exposed to potential risk from flash, blast, or fall-out. You have accepted the inconvenience or the risk without fuss, without alarm, and without panic. Your cooperation has helped achieve an unusual record of safety.”

As though they were asked.

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*UPDATE:  In the original post, this word was “signed.”  As noted in the comments by someone who ought to know, the U.S. did in fact sign the CTBT, but we still haven’t ratified it.

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Photo credits:  Encore shot and drawing both from Atomic Test Effects in the Nevada Test Site Region which also includes the sentence, “Nevada tests have helped us come a long way in a few, short years and have been a vital factor in maintaining the peace of the world.”