Sufferin' Sandals

I can be a little hard headed sometimes. 

This is especially true when it comes to letting go of things. I am a fanatic about leftover food, for instance. I hardly let anything that's in the refrigerator make it to the garbage can. I eat it all.

This philosophy has led to some questionable decisions. One time, I left an iced coffee with cream on the back door stoop while I was doing yard work on a blazing summer day. Hours later, my throat parched, I came back to it and gulped it down without a second thought. A neighbor practically went into convulsions as she watched me, no doubt thinking how nearly curdled milk would react with my gut.

No problemo.

Then there was another time when I left the remains of a chicken curry dinner in the back foyer overnight. I didn't notice it until the next day as I was rooting around the house around lunchtime. I opened the container, sniffed it, pronounced it non-toxic, and began to dig in. That's when my wife walked in.

"Did you leave that out all night last night?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said as I was about to shovel in the first bite.

"It's got chicken in there, right?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You can get salmonella from chicken gone bad."

I took a last, forlorn look at the curry dish, and with all the moral strength I could muster, tossed it into the garbage. I think I actually winced as I did this. People have shown less emotion at funerals than I did to that trashed meal.

Those tales are a long way of me getting to the main story here, which has to do with parting with my first pair of sandals – a real tearjerker of a goodbye. I used to abhor sandals; vowed I'd never wear them. I was a tennis shoes kind of guy,  a dude who dressed athletic and that included the shoes, too, thank you very much. Sandals were for biblical figures and pansies. I'll be dead before I exposed my toes to humanity.

Three summers ago,  the Lutheran church we had begun to attend held its first summer service, which are on Saturday evenings. I dressed as I usually did – long-sleeve, buttoned-down shirt, khakis and loafers. Maybe even wore a tie. Can't remember. In any event, I was relatively sharply dressed. We arrive for service and lo and behold, our pastor comes out in shorts and sandals. I just gawked at him. 

I realized, if my pastor, whom I admire so much, think it's alright, maybe even cool, to wear sandals, perhaps I should reconsider? 

That week, I bought my first pair of sandals. Nothing special, mind you. I aim for utility and comfort when it comes to footwear. So, these were simple, brown sandals, with a velcro flap in the front and a velcro flap in the back. And, boy, were they comfortable! Once summer came, you couldn't get me out of them. I wore them everywhere. I loved how my feet were cool, how they breathed, and how I could swim with them on in the bay, listen to them scrunch as I walked home and within hours they'd be dry again. 

They were super. So super, in fact, that I couldn't bear to get rid of them.

But shoes, unlike diamonds I guess, are not forever. And, despite the fact that I had nearly worn through my sandals and was pretty touching pavement when I walked, I needed a nudge to tell me it was time to let go.

So, my wife got evidence. That's the picture you see at the beginning of this post.

That picture needn't tell a thousand words. It told me: Time to get some new sandals.

So, last week, I did. The new pair doesn't feel as comfortable as the first pair (before they got worn down), and we're still getting used to each other. But we trudged home today in a downpour, and they squished as I walked.

I smiled.  This pair may last after all.

It ain't summer if I'm not battling crabgrass

As the headline says, it ain't summer if I'm not out there battling crabgrass.

Not with herbicides, mind you. No, I'm down on my hands and knees plucking those suckers from the ground, from the garden, from crevices in the driveway, cracks in the walkway and tucked beneath the pea and green bean plants. I growl at them, grimace as I grab the roots and yank them out, enjoy the passing power of ripping it from its home, tempered by the realization that my victory is fleeting at best.

If I were really smart, I'd prepare by following some simple guidelines that knowledgeable gardeners have come up with.

Instead, I stew. But I also have developed a grudging admiration for the little devil.

Consider the general attributes of Digitaria ischaemum: It is a fierce competitor, a plant that can root in poor soil or rich, grows quickly and appears to do best when it's hot and dry – periods when other plants are stressed and weak. It seeds prolifically and colonizes new areas with startling rapidity.

Consider its structure: After a crabgrass seedling thrusts its roots into the soil , its shoots fan out like spokes on a wheel, hugging the ground as they radiate outward. The effect, at least to me, seems clear: The shoots blanket the surrounding plant life, literally asphyxiating it by blocking the sunlight.

Consider its staying power: It grows feverishly in hot, dry weather, as I mentioned above, a double advantage when you consider crabgrass seems to strengthen in just the kind of weather that causes other grasses and plants to wither. Once it roots, it is hell to pull out. Ever tried? Pull at the "spokes," and you'll get a fistful of grass, while leaving the center "spoke" intact. And that center will grow back, just as hardily as before. The key, I've found, is to grip the center bulb, dig your fingers into the soil around it to gain leverage, and to tug slowly, taking care to extract the entire bulb and the roots dangling from the bottom. If you miss the roots, you won't remove the crabgrass.

So, here we have a summertime scourge that carpets and kills that fine grass you've been growing, overruns your vegetable and flower gardens, likes it hot and dry, and is a royal pain in the rump to pull out.

Yet I can't help but admire it for being such a fine competitor, engineered to do best when other species are at their worst and designed to literally snuff out its opponents. It's fascinating, really.

Still, I'd be happier if I could pull all those plugs and be done with them.

Won't happen. If it's summer, then I've got crabgrass.

Iceland Bound

I had a wacky proposal not too long ago.

I was shooting the breeze with a planetary geologist at Brown. We were at a reception in April marking the opening of an exhibit on the Moon, the wine was flowing, and hey, all of us were a little chatty.

The geologist, one of the newer folks on the faculty, told me that he and some others in the department were going to Iceland this summer to study land features that offer the best comparison to some surfaces on Mars.

"Ooh, I'd love to go!" I gushed.

"Well," he said, "I think you may be able to. We've got an extra seat in the vehicle, we'll be camping and the food will be paid for already. All you need is a plane ticket over."

That got me to thinking. I had been at my job at Brown for about two months. I had a long way to go before my trial period ended. Should I ask to go?

Hell yes.

I mean, after all, how often does one get invited to Iceland?

So, the next day I emailed the geologist – a subtle nudge in case he had forgotten our conversation. The offer still stood.

Over the next few weeks, we talked more about it, sketching out where the research team was going, how long they would be in the field, what they would be doing, and what I would be doing.

After a couple more weeks, I ginned up a proposal. I met with my supervisor and gave my best shot.

It would be great learning experience, a chance to observe scientists in the field and participate in the experiments, I said.

I would learn more about Mars and the importance of terrestrial analogs to better understand the Red Planet, I argued.

I can file regular dispatches, take pictures and compile photo slideshows for the school's Web site, I added.

It would help broaden Brown's image by showing what faculty are doing around the world, I concluded.

My supervisor hardly blinked an eye. He was on board. It was like love at the first salvo of my presentation.

I bought the plane ticket last week. I mailed the form to renew my passport today. I'm looking for a place to stay in Reykjavik.

I am going to Iceland. Hot damn.

I am a lucky man.

The Will to Change

My dad is a deep thinker who has a lot of time to think. He gets vexed over issues – some big, many small. He invariably turns to my sister and me to get his feelings off his chest and to hear what we have to say.

I must say I don't have the greatest track record at responding to my Pops's musings. Let's just say I try to weed out the wheat from the chaff, and thus respond to the ones I think a) he thinks is important; b) I think is important or c) that piss me off.

The latest one from Pops falls into a, b and c.

He writes: "On another subject, Are you writing/calling/emailing your and every other Senator and member of the House and every member of this Administration and both of the Presidential candidates and asking them: What, specifically, are you going to do about the energy crisis? No platitudes, no cop outs. What are you going to do? How can we not drill in ANWR and more importantly, off the Atlantic, Pacific and Gulf coasts, given that offshore catastrophes have been nil? How can we not legislate smaller, more efficient vehicles? How can we not promote nuclear electric generating projects, given that the French and others have gone for decades without catastrophe?"

Excellent point, these. Except for one: Drilling in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge and the outer continental shelf.

So, I responded. Here it is below.

"I agree that our politicians fail to see life beyond the immediacy of their political survival, which is the next term. Not all of them, perhaps, but most of them.

I also agree that we need to overhaul our energy policy and the way we Americans view energy and consume energy. For too long we have seen energy as some kind of divine right, and that we should pay far less than any other country's citizens to drive our cars, heat our homes and run our refrigerators and our TVs. The price rises have been painful but put in scale with what many other countries – and especially Europeans – are paying, they still remain low, relatively speaking. We need to see energy as a commodity, one that is subject to pricing, demand and supply. And the demand is coming on strong from developing countries like China and India, whose people aspire deservedly to the same quality of life that we've enjoyed for more than a century.

So, in the face of rising prices, we Americans should either grin and pay the higher prices or be proactive – find ways to conserve and seek alternative energy supplies that distance ourselves from the relentless pursuit of extracting every drop that the Earth has created over hundreds of millions of years.

Drilling offshore and in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge is not the answer. It's akin to prescribing a cough drop to a patient with a terminal respiratory ailment. The studies I have read and the people with whom I have spoken say that drilling in the outer continental shelf and in ANWR will drop the price per barrel of oil negligibly. It is a short-sighted maneuver and does nothing to address the long-term problem, which is that the Earth is running short of fossil fuels. Plus, and this should be weighed on the same level as the economic argument, drilling in these areas fouls nature. Must we inject more blights on our environment, more warts on our planet, to power our iPods and other electronic gadgets? OK, that may be a low blow, but my point remains the same. Nature versus human wants. And nature always loses. In this case, however, there is a better path, one that makes more sense economically, for the future security of this country and morally.

And that choice is to invest heavily in alternative energy. We have the minds. We have the money. We have the technology. We need the will.

Can we summon it?"

So, can we?

Alien Baby

Our baby looks like an alien.

We visited the doctor today for an ultrasound – our first look at the infant in Michelle's womb.

What we saw was awe inspiring.

After the technician smeared some translucent blue goo on Michelle's belly and started rolling the transducer, black and white pictures started to flicker on the computer monitor. The images shimmered as the technician moved the device back and forth, blobs of gray bobbing and surging forth against a black background. I found it hard to decipher anything. Shapes shimmered and warped, as if Michelle's insides were a mirror at a carnival.

Then the technician zoomed in one area, and I recognized what I was looking at: Our baby's heart, beating away, the ventricles keeping time with each beat, the valves opening and closing like perfectly synchronized sets of doors. It was beautiful.

The technician zoomed out. There was the spine, a string of beads in unearthly white running the length of the screen. Look, there's a hand, with five fingers. Another hand. The two legs, moving around. The rib cage. The kidneys. The stomach. It was dizzying, seeing our baby's organs and other features so close up and personal.

After the technician took us on this tour de baby, it was time to take a picture. She moved the transducer from one end of Michelle's belly to the other, seeking that picture-perfect angle. But our baby was being rather uncooperative. She or he was lying face down, and raising her arms up and over her head, as if rubbing her eyes. Perhaps she's shy. Maybe he thought we were some kind of papparazzi.

"It looks like it's playing peek-a-boo," the technician said.

Playful little devil.

In the picture we have, our baby is turned on his side and is looking right at us. His eye sockets are hollow, and there's a big spot in the middle of his face reserved for his nose. It appears as if she has slung an arm across the middle of her face, and you can see the faint outline of her hand. That's pretty much it. Big head, with hollowed out eyes and nose, a shadow of an arm and a faint outline of a hand. An alien species.

About an hour and a half after we returned home, Michelle and I were sitting on the sofa when she looked at me and said, "the baby is kicking. Hard. You may feel it."

I placed my hand on her stomach, and she placed hers over mine and pushed it gently against her belly. Nothing for a few minutes. And then, a strong shove against my fingers. And another push. Pow, pow. Two more kicks, each more evident than the last. Our baby was moving alot, and we can already feel those movements from the outside. Can you imagine what it will be like four weeks from now, or eight?

Our alien is alive. And most definitely kicking.

Rising Waters

I imagine you have heard about the heavy rains that have spawned flooding throughout the Midwest. It cut closer to home today.

I was reading an update this afternoon in New York Times' online edition, and there was a report that residents in some neighborhoods in Cedar Rapids, Iowa were being evacuated because of dangerously high water levels in the Cedar River. I later saw a report on ABC World News, broadcast from Cedar Rapids, that said the downtown area had been evacuated, and the rising waters were threatening the Czech & Slovak National Museum. On a side note, I remember running a story in our newspaper, The Slovak Spectator, about the Czech and Slovak presidents opening the museum in spring 1995. I had no idea where in the heck Cedar Rapids was, and I never thought I'd actually visit the place.

But I have. Many times.

And the reason is because Michelle is from Cedar Rapids. Her mother and sister still live there. The house is about a mile away from the Cedar River, as the crow flies. I've run right along its banks several times. It's wide and flows placidly, probably because the terrain around it is flat. I was running there last winter when I saw a hawk take off from a tree along the banks, swoop upward, bank right and sail majestically to the other bank. Another time, I saw a bald eagle sitting in the branches along the riverside. Beautiful sights, all, from a languid-looking river.

Now, it's a raging, angry beast that's causing a lot of damage. You can see it from these pictures.

Michelle tried to reach her mother and sister this evening, but no one was answering. We're pretty sure they're dry and fine, but it would be nice to confirm that.

Until then, we'll keep reading the latest. It's supposed to rain there again tomorrow and perhaps the next day as well. The river will grow higher.

Let's hope that will be all that happens.

Baby Moves

Our baby has made its first move.

We don't know what he or she was doing. Maybe it was stretching its legs. Maybe it was exploring. Maybe it was doing a somersault. Maybe it was petitioning for food or drink. Maybe it was uncomfortable and was switching positions.

Who knows?

At this point, it doesn't matter much. What does matter is our baby has moved for the first time.

What a wonderful moment.

Michelle told me yesterday after I had arrived home from work. She was lying in the hammock, bundled up in a Red Sox blanket as the sunlight began its daily descent through the trees behind our property. She said she felt a little pressure in the lower part of her abdomen. Kind of like a poking, but very mild, gentle even.

Then she felt a twinge of levity, as if she were riding in a car that had crested a hill and its wheels had briefly, very briefly, left the pavement. You could call it a flutter. Maybe a pressurized flutter.

She said she had felt the sensation several times already, and always when she was lying down. Today, she's felt more of them. Still, only when she's lying down. My completely unscholarly

Maybe the baby is pushing back.

Irritated little sucker.

I'd like to think he/she is playing around. I especially like the idea that the baby is checking out its environs, taking stock of things, like any good reporter.

Michelle goes to her obstetrician tomorrow, so I think we'll learn a little more. I believe an ultrasound will be scheduled then – probably for next week.

It's getting really exciting.


impression is that the baby is feeling more of the weight of Michelle's rounded tummy when she's lying on her back.