Garwin Died

Richard L. Garwin died this week on Tuesday, May 13, 2025. He was born April 19, 1928, you can do the math. He lived a long time but I still don’t see how he did everything he did. I interviewed him a lot over the years, and stayed in touch even after his health made it harder for him to do the things I interviewed him about. I wrote this post April 11, 2014, after a documentary about him had just come out, and I run the post again, updated, because it says what I have to say about him.

Garwin: the Movie opens with an old, steady, precise hand on a computer keyboard, scrolling through now-declassified documents.  Harry Truman and Dwight Eisenhower make announcements, and newspapers flash headlines about our splendid new hydrogen bomb.  Then the blossom of a mushroom cloud unfolds; and John F. Kennedy talks about Russian missiles in Cuba; and the same old hand places a pill case near the keyboard, then dumps out his pills. Lyndon Johnson explains the complex problems of Vietnam and soldiers shoot their way through a jungle, and the old hand is tieing up a necktie.  Walter Cronkite reports Three-Mile Island, and the old hand pulls on a suit jacket and slings a heavy backpack over his shoulder.  The oil wells of Kuwait explode into a fiery smoking darkness, which becomes the smoking darkness of the Twin Towers, which slides into the tsunami slipping in slow motion over the drowning towns of Japan; and the old hand picks up an umbrella, and a heavily-burdened, slightly baggy old guy in a nice suit and tie stumps out onto the sidewalk, gets in a cab, and goes to DC.  The film title slowly spells out the name, Garwin.  The old guy gets out of the cab, slowly, creakily — he’s 86, after all — and walks past a group of anti-nuke demonstrators, stops and looks at them for a second, then walks on.  He’s seen them before.  He walks into the Executive Office Building.  You know, he says, the president and his national security advisor, aside from their positions, “are really just ordinary people.  And they need to make decisions and they don’t have time to learn.  So the only thing that really works is education.”

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Richard L. Garwin, a physicist and inventor, has been educating politicians on the scientific realities, whether they want him to or not, in every administration since Eisenhower’s.  He educates them on the physics of nuclear weapons, missile defense, jungle warfare, burning oil wells, terrorist attacks, and of nuclear plant meltdowns. The people who made the movie about him, Richard Breyer and Anand Kamalakar, originally pitched a film on the history of science in America, using Garwin like Zelig or Forrest Gump, they said, because at important moments in history, he always showed up.  “But when we got to know him and hung out with him,” Kamalakar said, “it evolved into this other film about a person who built this horrible thing and worked his whole life to dance around it.”

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We Need to Remember Problems We Solved

I need your help. I’m trying to find a phrase to describe an important phenomenon and maybe help people recognize it more easily. The phenomenon is this: When we fix a problem, we forget it. I don’t mean you and me in “we” — we, of course, remember. But pop culture forgets, and the mass media forgets, and young people never learn about the problem or how it was solved. 

Maybe this will make more sense with examples. Have you ever seen a bald eagle? They almost went extinct! And now they’re everywhere, stealing fish from ospreys (which also almost went extinct) and getting in fights with peregrine falcons (which also almost went extinct). The pesticide DDT caused birds that eat fish that eat bugs to have thin eggshells, and the birds’ nests failed. It took a lot of science and journalism and public outrage, but we banned DDT and the eagles are back.

Do you remember (or have you heard about) the ozone hole? Chlorofluorocarbons were thinning the part of the atmosphere that keeps us from getting sizzled by ultraviolet light. It took a lot of science and journalism and public outrage and global cooperation, but we banned chlorofluorocarbons and the ozone hole is healing

We fixed acid rain. We took the lead out of gasoline. We prevented catastrophic computer failures from the Y2K bug. These problems dominated news and pop culture for years, but now they’re gone, and we’re left with problems that seem unsolvable. But we can solve problems! We have, and we will. 

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Another New Person of LWON: Laura Helmuth

I am honored to introduce a new Person of LWON, Laura Helmuth, who probably doesn’t need introducing at all, given that she has done everything (editing mostly, but also editing-in-chief and giving encouraging talks and getting a PhD in cognitive neuroscience and winning awards and being on every science writing committee and institution known to humankind) and has been everywhere (Science, Smithsonian, National Geographic, Slate, Washington Post, and Scientific American, that is, a good fraction of the science-related publications known to humankind). She now writes a spritely advice column for Slate for people trying to navigate their workplaces. She remains what she has been ever since I’ve known her: a helper of the young, a quiet community-builder. Her editing inspiration is Charlie Watts, drummer for the Rolling Stones: scroll down to her name in the post on The Open Notebook, not only to see why Charlie is inspiring, but also to see what a splendid writer she is. In fact, she’s just generally splendid all around, everyone who knows her says so. “Oh Laura,” they say, “she’s just splendid.”

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Photo of Charlie Watts, playing not with the Rolling Stones but with The ABC&D of Boogie Woogie, by Poiseon Bild & Text, via Wikimedia Creative Commons

The Personalities of Jumping Spiders

This is Diego. He is a Phidippus johnsoni jumping spider, and he lives on a jade plant in my front yard. There are several spiders of this species that can be found on the jade plant on any given day, but I know when it’s Diego I’ve spotted.

Adult males of this species are around 5 to 7 millimeters long, mostly black with bright red abdomens that often have a black stripe down the center, fuzzy black legs with white stripes, iridescent blue chelicerae (appendage-like mouthparts with fangs at their ends), and adorable little tufts of hair on the tops of their heads. Individual P. johnsoni spiders can vary in appearance quite a bit, but that’s not how I know it’s Diego. 

It’s his personality I recognize. Diego is a charming combination of cocky, concerned, and curious. But what really sets him apart is how he reacts to me slowly approaching, phone-first, to take a photo: He waves. 

The first time he saw me coming, he quickly backed up to the edge of the jade leaf he was on, ready to disappear to the underside if need be. Once I stopped moving, my phone just inches from him, he hesitantly stepped forward, wiggling his pedipalps (fuzzy little arms that have many uses including cleaning eyes and sensing the environment), trying to assess what he was dealing with. It’s a spider’s way of asking, “What is that?”

Then he came closer, took a good look at the phone, raised up on tiptoes and threw his first pair of legs into the air. That was unexpected! He shuffled sideways back and forth while folding those legs up and down. It’s hard to explain how happy this made me. 

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New Person of LWON: Betsy Mason

It’s my pleasure to welcome Betsy Mason as the newest person of LWON. Betsy is an award-winning freelance science journalist based in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was a senior editor at Wired for many years, and she has won a lot of accolades, including the American Geophysical Union’s David Perlman award for breaking news. She’s also been an Alicia Patterson Foundation fellow and a Knight Science Journalism Fellow at MIT. You can read her full bio here

I’m not even sure anymore when or where I first met Betsy, it feels like we’ve been friends forever. She is kind and funny and a supremely gifted editor and writer. Betsy wrote a beautiful book about maps (co-authored with Greg Miller), and in addition to freelance editing, she also writes frequently about animals. You can expect a lot of posts about cute critters. 

She’s written about problem-solving skills in raccoons, a series of puzzles researchers presented to urban coyotes to study animal cognition and the possibility that spiders dream during their REM-like sleep. She has totally convinced me that jumping spiders are as adorable as dogs and has made me obsessed with trying to befriend my local scrub jays. 

Welcome Betsy! We’re so glad you’re here.

Desperately Seeking the Unforseen

When I pull into the boat ramp parking lot, it’s just after midnight. It should be deserted. Nobody goes night boating. But my headlights illuminate a red sedan parked hood to the woods. I can’t tell if it’s occupied. The windows are dark. My brain tries to make it make sense. You can’t pull a boat with a sedan. Teenage lovers? A person taking a night hike? Murderer?

I park a couple of spots away and debate my next step. I have driven three hours north into an area that a light pollution map promised would be dark. I’m here to catch a glimpse of the northern lights. The map did not lie. It is dark. But I am now 89% sure my spontaneous trip north will end in dismemberment. 



1. Do I exit the vehicle?

2. Do I leave and drive home?

Choose your own adventure!

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The Other Side of Silence

One morning a few years ago, I woke to find I had lost most of the hearing in my left ear. In place of my usual acoustic environment was a high electronic ringing—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—as if a giant TV had been left on mute. Me being me, I assumed the issue would work itself out, but when it didn’t after a couple of weeks I turned to the professionals. Several thousand dollars, a couple of minor surgeries, and an MRI later, the professionals could only tell me that I didn’t have cancer. As to why my hearing was gone? Maybe a dormant virus was to blame, they said, or maybe it was stress-related, but, really, they had no idea.

I tried a hearing aid. It didn’t take. My right ear can still hear fine, so the shrill metallic device-amplified sound was more distracting than clarifying. The tinnitus was so awful at first that I wondered how I would ever stand it, but eventually I got used to it, just like the internet assured me I would. In general I have tried to make do as best I can. This mostly entails positioning myself on peoples’ left sides so they’re always talking into my right ear. In conversation I feel like one of those text prediction programs, often with the same comically dreadful results. I say, “I’m sorry?” a lot. The entire episode has left me feeling somewhat separated from the world, since I can understand at best about two-thirds of what is going on around me.

I mention all of this because the Magellanic penguin colony in Argentina where I work can be an exceptionally noisy place. As members of the Spheniscus genus, Magellanic penguins are informally known as jackass penguins due to the donkey-like bray of their territorial call, or ecstatic display. Gather several hundred thousand of these ecstatic brayers into a single area, let them call day and night, and the effect is quite something. All the individual voices blend together, the chorus rolling over you in waves of sound, so loud that even I can hear them at our field house nearly half a mile away. The penguins and their constant noise somehow manage to drown out all the sounds I can’t hear, and I love them for it.

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Sinking Feelings

A wall covered in dire wolf skulls

I have never fallen into quicksand, but like most people, I have been anxious about it at least several times in my life. You have too, right? It’s a real thing — you can be sucked down into the soft liquefied Earth unexpectedly, on hikes or on random walks. One of my friends fell into quicksand in Utah, and she is always prepared, so she knew exactly what to do: move your legs slowly and deliberately, in small, tightly controlled steps. Lay down to spread out your weight. Though it’s counterintuitive, get closer to the ground that is consuming you. Do not waste your energy by struggling mightily to get out, because you will only make it worse. Relax your mind and your body, and you will be released. The point is, the way out is not what your instincts might be screaming at you.

Once upon a time, a lot of animals fell into a similar trap and they did struggle. Millions upon millions of them perished in a field of muck, and now we go visit their skulls and rib cages mounted on plinths in the middle of Los Angeles. 

The La Brea Tar Pits and Museum is not a place of quicksand, but of something scarier: reeking asphalt, burbling up from a fissure in our planet, the same one that gives us earthquakes in Southern California. The asphalt is made of the remains of past algae and animals, and it will never tire of swallowing life.

The most interesting thing I learned from the La Brea Tar Pits museum came from my friend (and friend of LWON) Katharine Gammon. There are hardly any nocturnal animal fossils in the collection. This took my breath away. 

In the absence of the sun, the asphalt leaking up through Earth’s crust would cool slightly and solidify, so nocturnal animals weren’t as often trapped in the sticky tar. When the sun reappeared to warm the world, the asphalt grew gooey again, and crepuscular and diurnal mammals became the main victims. The danger might have been more visible by late afternoon. But during the early morning crepuscular time, leaf litter could have covered softer parts of the tar pits and kept them insulated — and warmer. When lots of large herbivorous mammals were out and about in the dawn hour, they would walk over the soft parts and get trapped. 

You would be amazed by the sheer volume of Pleistocene megafauna that scientists have exhumed from La Brea. Mastodons; camels; saber-tooth cats; scimitar-tooth cats; American lions that look like Mufasa and not the panthers that roam here now; dire wolves, real ones; familiar faces like pronghorn, mule deer, and elk; and I lost track of how many others. I looked for Rodents Of Unusual Size, but just saw a few usual-sized ones.

The museum even has a sadly realistic tableau of a mastodon stuck in the tar, sinking down, and calling out to its family on the edge of a pond. Such large beasts, ready for the taking, would obviously have tempted predators and scavengers, but the cats and wolves hoping to feast on the trapped other creatures were trapped too. The museum has several specimens of Smilodon fatalis, the truly awesome saber-tooth cat. Millions of fossils have been disinterred from La Brea. But they include only a few raccoons and other denizens of the night. 

To survive the toxic morass of La Brea, large daytime animals would have been better off walking around at night. The sunshine is what exposed them, while the cool darkness of night could have helped them not only hide, but to quietly survive the quagmire. They might have been better off adapting a new strategy to survive. The point is, the way to safety might not have been what their instincts were telling them. 

I am not saying we should not struggle at all. We want to fight to survive, and it’s hard to turn off that instinct. I am saying we should think about other ways to struggle, which might be counterintuitive but more effective. Getting safe might look a little different than we expect. The bog will not stop trying to destroy us, so we have to be creative. We have to be lithe and loose, quick-footed, maybe a little sneaky, maybe hew a bit closer to the darkness than we’re used to. There are ways out of every quagmire.

Top image: By the author
Middle image: Wikimedia Commons