fifty years ago today

Often mentioned but until now incompletely documented, here is an early moment in the lifetime of one of America's most intriguing personalities. The occasion? The 50th anniversary of John Glenn's trip around the globe. The image? A diary excerpt from February 14–20, 1962 as originally authored by Jacquelyn Settlage (nee Wells). The lefthand two-thirds is an hourly plot of the infant's activity. Decoding this archival material is made easier by accessing the legend, also in the mother's careful handwriting.

Solid blocks = asleep, Horizontal line = feeding (presumably mother's milk)

S = cereal, F = Fruit, ∆ = Vegetables & Meat, Rx = medicine for skin rash.

Several continuing patterns are apparent including long nights of sleep (often 8 pm to 7 am) as well as a very irregular schedule of bathing (roughly once a week). The boy was also eager to be in close proximity to breasts. And large noontime meals were appreciated. Perhaps in a future post, the plots of Junior's height and weight relative to standardized data would be worth examining. For today, and because of today, the annotations to the right are our focus. We don't have access to John Glenn's movements and moods during the third week of February 1962 so this other John's life will have to do.

On Thursday the 15th, it was noted that he was smiling most of the time, although he was quick to cry when his guardians moved out of sight. The next day, his diarrhea was much improved and he could move from prone to sitting — perhaps the two were related? Skipping ahead to Monday the 19th, he discovered his navel and even bent over to suck his toes. And on 2/20/1962, he "Plays in clover. Normal BM. Glenn into space." Much stays the same. John Glenn spoke to astronauts in space, my digestive system is pooping right along, and life is good -- everything goes well short of having actual clover in which to play. Spring is 10 days away and clover does better in our backyard than does grass. Thanks for being interested!

suggestions for the new and aspiring dean

I got wind of a senior level faculty member who has been outed for his deanship desires. Despite claims he’d rather swab bathroom floors and sort used Kleenexes from bins designated for recycling, it occurs to me that deans come from somewhere and usually from among the faculty ranks. Whether deans start out as dicks or just become that way is not for me to say. However, I can envision how a mild-mannered, cat-fearing, non-grizzled professor might subconsciously lay the path for his own ascendancy. Because that trail is well-marked, I offer ideas about steps to follow once the name plate has been changed on the doorway to the nicest office in the building.

teaching assignment lottery
Next semester, one course from each faculty member’s load will be changed. You will not have a role in choosing which of your favored courses is reassigned. Instead, I will select the class, write the name on a slip of paper, put it inside a plastic easter egg, and place it among all the other eggs in a bingo cage. At the designated hour, I will call your name and you will draw an egg that identifies your new course assignment. You are NOT to replicate the way the course has always been taught. You must do it differently and you must do it better. If you aren’t smart enough to figure out how to lead students to learn the material, then you’re too stupid to remain in our department, college or school. Should you decline, your office will be changed to a regional campus housed within a 24-hour convenience store.

keep your old shit at home
You will no longer be permitted to store stuff at school that won’t fit in your home. This includes unread books, recycled heating devices (e.g., microwaves and coffee pot), demonstration materials (esp. old bicycle wheels and decrepit wind-up toys), and/or various kitchen, rumpus room or garage cast-offs. This is a professional building, not a storage shed to hide stuff from your spouse, partner or parents. We will be entering offices to clear them of these contents according to this schedule:

• Monday: videotapes and cassette tapes
• Tuesday: poster boards, butcher paper, etc. that depict “notes” from a class.
• Wednesday: boots, sweaters, socks, running attire.
• Thursday: tea bags, granola bars, Laffy Taffy and other disgusting sugary treats.
• Friday: dissertations, theses, handbooks, encyclopedias.
  

distribution of desktop speakers
Every faculty member will receive a pair of high quality desktop speakers through which background music should be played. The volume should be adjusted to drown distracting noises (e.g., the sounds of old man Coolidge’s shit going into the dumpster or inane undergraduate phone calls to their mothers) and so when you have a visitor, they can detect the genre if not the artist. You can listen to anything you want to with the following provisions:

1. Odd numbered days: each song must include a harmonica, accordion, Tuva throat singing, pedal guitar or glockenspiel.
   
2. Even numbered days: playlists consisting of Jethro Tull, Frank Turner, The Corin Tucker Band, Little Feat, Black Dub, Steve Earle, Gillian Welch, Charles Mingus, and Lyle Lovett. No, you may not play Journey -- ever!

future changes
More adjustments are forthcoming. If you say or do something idiotic, I'm gonna make a rule about that. Be on your guard and make sure you haven't abandoned something in the office refrigerator with your name on it.

journey preparations

The backpacking trips I've taken in the past few years have involved renting or borrowing or using cast-offs of other people's equipment. Zero gave me his old backpack, his pre-teen daughter has somehow been tricked into letting a geezer use her sleeping bag, and lodging has often come from a poor old guy who is too busy enjoying his new wife to give his tent proper use. My headlamp and flask were gifts. And I've even had to borrow other's bear canisters to keep the wildlife out of my food. Because camping has become a renewed annual tradition, I feel justified in acquiring my own equipment. Earlier this week, I inadvertently ended up in an REI store where I bought a new membership and my first sleeping pad, yet another vital piece of equipment I'd had to charm away from somebody else. The directions indicate the pad should not be stored all rolled up so it rests under our bed, partially inflated, and its presence has infused my dreams.

My mind is already thinking about gear for next summer's trip. Having always borrowed stuff, there has not been much advanced preparation beyond stashing spare undies and socks into ziplock bags. As I consider what type of sleeping bag and tent I need, I find myself weighing options that previously had not been part of my preparations. Before, I knew I'd get by with whatever color, weight, or sizes were presented. Now, I wonder whether a creamsicle orange sleeping bag is a good idea or not. The price is good, the filling is down, and the weight is low. Can I sleep with something so incandescent? Then there are the tents where "comfort" will be determined by some odd equation that juxtaposes weight against roominess.

None of these internal debates are troubling. I do wonder whether my desire to be toasty warm justifies the extra weight and expense of a bag that is rated for 15°F or colder. Similarly, once I know I can sit upright in a tent so I can put on socks, does it really matter how much space there is on either side of my sleeping pad? It's not like I require floorspace for a library or rock collection or multiple outfits. However, what strikes me is that having the choice of equipment prompts me to consider what is necessary and what is just convenient. Frankly, it's a great mental distraction. I envision a discretely colored tent concealed among the brush. I hold onto the dream of having no equipment lashed to the outside of my pack. I squirm at the notion of my pillow (last year's only equipment buy) nestled inside a large and lofty sleeping bag.

What does prevent me from falling asleep is wondering how to compel a novice researcher to nominate a theory – any theory – as a useful cognitive tool as she descends into a the swamps of interview transcripts. Because she has never had to find her way out on her own, she does not appreciate just how important it is to have packed the right equipment. She's got a canvas bag thrown over her shoulder that holds a digital recorder, a new notebook, and a rainbow assortment of sticky notes. Those will work fine only if nothing unexpected arises. And if nothing unexpected arises, then the journey was not worth her trouble. Had she taken advantage of previous research opportunities, then she might lay awake wondering whether there are sufficient tools for sorting through the mess of data. Or she might even have a couple of tools to consider and will make a final decision as conditions warrant. Unfortunately, the choice she appears to be making is the glorious presumption that the interviews and concept maps will all coalesce around intriguing and meaningful concepts. To distract myself from that impending disaster, I wonder whether I can find something like an Adirondack tin cup that would bring an East Coast flair to the Sierra and Cascade cups that jostle for hot water each morning.

knuckle sandwich

temptations

The holidays are a tough time to maintain a boyish figure. In contrast, during a backpacking trek, calorie consumption is not a concern. Even a twinge or hint of hunger is justification to haul out a robust energy bar. But when time is spent sitting at a computer and the only calories burned come from avoiding the need to grade projects, then all variety of treats are a terrible temptation.

On one of countless treks to the kitchen this weekend, I demonstrated admirable resolve. No, I didn't avoid all treats. Indeed, an average-tasting sample of chocolate crinkle cookies, a handful of fig newtons, and some so-called fruits in the form of dried dates were each crammed down my gullet. What I was able to avoid was eating the barbecue chips on top of the fridge. How was I able to avoid this deliciously deadly temptation? Mainly by avoiding eye contact. Yet there the bags reside, on top of the refrigerator – lurking and tempting me like two satanic consciences (one per shoulder), tag teaming me with the imagined delights of crispiness in the mouth and salty, spicy sugar being licked from my fingers.

Despite numerous plaintive requests to not have certain treats in the house, they still find their way from the stores and into my grubby hands. Candy corn and jelly belly beans are small and tasty. Once a bag has been opened, it is just a matter of minutes before it is an empty shell. Why do the continue to appear? Part of it is seasonality: candy corns arrive in October and jelly bellies are usually gifts for birthdays (mine in July and the return of the sun in December). But the BBQ chips: why did they make an appearance, and why now?! The answer is pure economics.

Our local supermarket has gas pumps at one end of its parking lot. For every $100 spent indoors, we receive 10¢ off each gallon when we fill one of our cars. Sometimes there are promotions. This past week, by spending $50 on groceries in one trip, an amazing 30¢ discount accrued for gasoline. My spouse is usually quite good about estimating the cost of items in her cart. This day, something she meant to get wasn't available and when her favorite clerk (yes: we've been here long enough to form opinions and make acquaintances) tallied only $40 in purchases, an expected savings was about to be lost. Needing to grab $10 of groceries in a hurry, she ran to the nearby large bags of potato chips. Four bags would equal ten dollars and then we'd save thirty cents times a tankful of gas -- about $3.60 when the Element's fuel light goes on. I suppose there is some reverse Polish notation that would show me how this constitutes a savings. For me, there's the ever losing battle to expend more energy (or even an equal amount) to what I cram into my digestive system. Perhaps the calculus will all become clear and this won't be a loss of 40¢ but instead a tip of the balances toward snacking bliss and poor judgment.

arrival of a piano

I was asked to be a little flexible about the start time for a meeting this morning. The occasion: the expected delivery of a $200 piano. Initially, I couldn't quite understand the excitement: "our very first piano!!!!" But then I realized how important piano ownership had been in my family. It occurred to me that my colleague and my parents shared the distinction of not only being first generation college graduates but advanced degree winners at that. I was puzzled about the appeal of listening to others struggle to master a tune — unlike the glorious and rare opportunities I've had to hear a skilled keyboardist). In my typically sluggish thinking, it gradually dawned on me that owning a piano is a social distinction. Perhaps the delivery of a piano is not only an acquisition but a signal that one has arrived at an important social status.

Such puzzlings were rewarded by a brief internet search. I uncovered a thesis entitled Entertaining a New Republic: Music and the Women of Washington, 1800-1825 submitted for a Masters of Arts degree in American Material Culture (remember when people only majored in science or art?). Somebody else also finished a study in 2011 in the form of a dissertation:  Reading the inventory: Household goods, domestic cultures and difference in England and Wales, 1841–81. That study examined "household inventories" to, among other things, discern which room pianos were located. I don't know whether we should be surprised but 38.5% of drawing-rooms contained pianos compared to just 10.2% of parlours. This is all to say that I am pleased that others have taken my momentary curiosity to the extent of complete studies.

Regardless, the delivery of a used piano on this rainy day in New England is a significant moment – perhaps in ways that strike a chord and resonate across the years. Another family has to now decide which room is the best spot for their new piano.

presenting research via dance

An insightful and wise colleague recommended this video to Zero and me. At its core is the notion that important ideas might not always be best presented via Powerpoint. The presenter goes so far as to tabulate the financial losses accrued by wasting people's time with the estimate that one-fourth of all Powerpoints are worthless and bad. In clever ways, his dancers are used to explain lasers and photons. Most profoundly, his talk concludes with the wistful hope that people might simply enjoy watching performance art for its own sake, or as the frame around the MGM lion recommends: Ars gratia artis. That this video offers multiple types of inspiration confirms this last point.

A more devious person who send this my way with the expectation that I'd become obsessed by the idea. Such an individual would chuckle knowing that I would begin to scheme how try it out in a public setting — a situation in which humiliation and/or infamy might occur. Unlike arranging for dancing Chinese lions or sporting a lobster costume in a banquet hall, thinking about dance is far beyond my imagination. And yet I couldn't help but wonder.

One reasonable question is whether there are particular gains to making a professional presentation via dance. The struggles of the urban student, the challenges of maintaining trust within a school, the resistance to stereotypes of failure versus excellence — each of these crossed my mind as valuable stories to share. In contrast, the TED talker does some odd things with easy chairs and footstools that are amusing but did little to extend his message. I've learned that doing silly things for their own sake is only partially fulfilling. In contrast, cleverness combined with deeper meanings resonates louder and longer. For example, the Nightmares event when Zero pretended to field a phone call from home was silly on one level; it also reminded us that we are more than the actors we portray during professional meetings.

For now, I don't see how dance will find its way into a presentation  at a conference. But if I were to proceed with this idea, the downloaded  moves (left) might guide my solo interpretive performance. Maybe it's not that hard to envision …