Health, Second Edition

by Marna Owen

If I may paraphrase a more famous review: This is not a book to be taken lightly. It should be thrown down and stamped on.

Youngest Daughter is taking Freshman Health at home this summer. This is the book she was assigned. It is startlingly elementary for a High School Freshman course.

The subject area consultant is Dr. Anita Hocker, who is “Supervisor of Health Education and Health Services for Sarasota County Schools,” “a specialist in curriculum,” “has been a high school science teacher, a developer of community health programs, and a medical researcher.” That last bit of resume padding is telling: a researcher would mention what the topic was. Dollars to doughnuts Anita was a student hourly—an honest job but not a research position. The Curriculum advisor is Stephen Larsen, with degrees in speech pathology and learning disabilities. There’s no info about Marna Owen.

In this book one learns such marvelous things as “Bones are hardened cartilage” (page 48). The chapter quiz often refers to things not discussed in the text. It also includes “Health Issues” such as “Some states have laws that require people to wear seat belts in cars. Do you think that these are good laws? Should the government get involved in your health?”

Maybe it escaped notice somewhere along the line, but questions about government responsibilities have more to do with political theory than medicine. The book reads as though the text and questions were composed separately. And howlers like the bone and cartilage claim shouldn’t have appeared even in a first edition, let alone a second.

The mental health includes the usual nonsense chatter about self-image. Youngest daughter and I had a long talk about “good self image.” This little gem of a phrase carries substantial ambiguity: Does it mean that you think well of yourself or that you think accurately of yourself? There’s a fellow in the mental hospital who thinks he’s Superman—he has a great self-image. And another who thinks he’s already damned and in hell, and needs to be whipped: not such a nice self-image.

We read a bit of Psalm 51: David had a pretty low opinion of himself at the time, but it was accurate. And what was really important was his attitude. He decided to go repent and try to get forgiven, in the hope that even somebody like him could still be good and an example again.

I think it was the Incans who had a proverb loosely rendered as “Party as though you would die tomorrow; farm as though you would live forever.” Both images are wrong: you (usually) won’t die tomorrow and you aren’t going to live forever. But the attitudes matter: celebrate wholeheartedly, enjoying everything as though this were the only time you could; and work responsibly.

Researchers found that bullies often have a “good self-image” (contrary to the party line). Suggestive, isn’t it?

Youngest daughter and I also had a long talk about the necessity for professional help after crises. Once again, recent work looking at the use of counselors after disasters (NY Times archives) found that people who put the past behind them and (using good old denial and other defense mechanisms) tried to go on with life were generally in better emotional shape a few years later than people who tried to talk through their issues with the counselors. Some people benefit from professional help (I’ve seen that, and so has she), but most seem to overcome crises just fine with just friends and time.

Some people need therapy, but we don’t need a “therapeutic culture.”

And we don’t need this book. The school is going to get a very nasty letter about it. Luckily we have a number of good references to fill in gaps, but students in a class have no such luck.

Puns

Son, you are 12 years old and it is time for you to learn about the noblest form of wit: puns. With puns you are playing with sound and meaning, with the very nature of word and language. They enliven conversation, and sometimes even enlighten. You will find them in the books of the prophets, and Jesus himself is reported to have said one. Samuel Johnson can go pound sand.

You know, of course, that a pun uses words that sound similar to restate a phrase in a new way with a new meaning.

The most delightful of these are firecracker puns, which need no buildup but fit naturally into a conversation. In the best of these the new meaning fits into the conversation, and invites reciprocation. Puns where the new meaning is irrelevant tend to derail the conversation, which is not usually ideal—though sometimes a new direction is exactly what is needed. (It is very hard to give short examples, because they fit into the much longer conversation.)

Built-up puns are also fun. The shorter the buildup the better, and the more plausible the buildup the better. It is more fun for the audience when the pun is unexpected, so try not to spoil the surprise by announcing the joke in advance.

Puns must have context. Just noting that knows and nose sound the same does not leave anyone rolling on the floor laughing. It is a rather boring fact. But observing that “though an obstinate 3-year-old is unschooled he really no’s a lot” puts the similarity to use, gives it a context, and wins the undying thanks of an amused parent. Or so one hopes.

It is probably best to practice with built-up puns first, until you become skillful enough to see opportunities in conversation for firecracker puns. To do this you start with a reasonably common or plausible phrase, and see what can be varied.

Try “bar association.” That’s an organization intended to maintain standards for lawyers—if you don’t meet the standards you aren’t allowed to practice law. But bar sounds like “barre,” which is a ballet term. Who could “associate” in ballet? Students or teachers—pick one. The pun is more effective if the buildup has some links to the original, so we’ll pick the teachers as the associates, and try to put them in some sort of formal group.

That suggests an obvious buildup: “The ballet teachers unionized last month, and formed their own barre association.”

That isn’t too bad. It has the virtue of being short, at least. However, the “association” part isn’t very strongly connected with the “unionized,” and so the result is kind of limp. Unless there is more context (such as the word “association” having appeared already in the conversation), this is pretty weak.

It isn’t hard to strengthen it, though—because “bar” has several meanings already. One of them is “tavern” which of course is a place where people congregate/associate. So you can modify the buildup to be: “The ballet teachers union is at Matty’s Tavern for their weekly barre association meeting.” The word “association” is still not very well motivated, but “bar” is now a double pun. The more puns you can work into a phrase, the better (unless it starts sounding labored).

A built-up pun needs more and stronger context than a firecracker pun. If there are several of you in the kitchen and the dog begs for the ham bone, you can toss him the bone and say “Bone appetit!” The context is there already: the bone and the hope that the dog will enjoy his meal; so the pun can stand alone. This may be a bad example, because it is hard to come up with a plausible buildup: the best I’ve got is to talk about Julia Childe devoting a few minutes to explaining what leftovers are suitable for giving to the pets. To make that plausible you need to describe it with a sentence or two—and you start to lose the virtue of brevity. This pun works best as a firecracker.

Let’s look at another phrase, and see what it offers when we vary it:

Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen.

• Nobody. No-body; body. This could come from an undertaker, Dr. Frankenstein, or the famous wrestler’s name. The problem is that revising nobody gives kind of awkward grammar.
• Knows. Nose, no’s. The word “nose” appears naturally in contexts with dogs sniffing things out, elephants, or Cyrano. The phrase “no’s” is a bit awkward, but means denial—maybe someone contradicting one of those fake tell-all stories? But that assumes that your audience knows about them.
• Troubles. Tribbles. This is an old Star Trek reference (and has been done repeatedly) Not recommended: those likely to understand it will probably see it coming.
• I’ve. Eye, ivy. Eye is hard to work in, but ivy might, especially together with scene, below. Some kind of outdoor setting?
• Seen. Scene, screen, been. Scene means setting or view, of course. Screen can be in a garden too. Been would have to be pronounced with a long e, which isn’t standard anymore, but it fits in nicely with a confession (Nobody knows the trouble I’ve been)

We can pick out a modified phrase: “Nobody knows what troubles ivy screens.” Obviously the issue at hand is some kind of plant disease killing off the plants put there to hide the ugly brickwork. I leave working out the exact buildup as an exercise.

Or we can try to talk about watchdogs failing at their job with “Nobody nosed the troubles I’d seen.”

You always have to keep your audience in mind: puns about ballet may misfire if they use jargon your hearers don’t know about. For example, I only learned what the word “barre” meant a few years ago: before then I’d have just looked blank if you tried the earlier pun on me.

If your audience is familiar enough with the subject, you can sometimes use an indirect pun, where you don’t actually say the pun itself but say a phrase that references it. For instance, if someone mentions the ferry, you can say that you’ve heard of a collection of amusing stories about it collected by the Brothers Grimm. The actual pun—ferry tales—doesn’t need to be said. Carom puns like this work best in conversations, but they’re hard to fit in.

---

Ready? Go bless the world with glorious puns.

More bumper stickers

On one car: “You can no more win a war than win an earthquake” and “Let’s get together and feel all right.”

I’m trying to figure out under what set of definitions the first statement could be true. At first glance it seems counterfactual (a polite way of saying “stupid lie”): history is quite full of counterexamples. But let me try to get inside this person’s head and figure out what sort of view of the world they are using.

I have to assume that the person who wrote this, and the person who stuck it on his car, actually mean something logical by the statement. It of course could be illogical nonsense that sounds good, and it is tempting to classify it that way—lots of people hunger for nonsense, after all. Or it could be the product of ignorance; but I doubt it—high school history has been dumbed down, but not dumbed down that far.

I’ll assume we both understand war to mean what happens when at least one group of people band together to fight with another group to achieve some objectives (keeping the other guys from killing them, or capturing slaves or land, etc), and that this fighting is on some largish scale. History is full of cases where one side’s objectives (staying alive, keeping their own property, grabbing the other guys’, or whatever) were met. It also is larded with cases where neither side’s goals were met, and a lot of people died with not much result. Nobody won those wars—no argument there.

Take a common enough setting as the example: country A wants a chunk of country B, and would like some slaves and other loose booty to go with it. A’s armies attack B. Repeatedly. After a few decades A practically (though rarely officially) gives up. Lots of people are now dead and both countries are poorer, but B survived, and so their objectives in going to war were met. (Substitute “tribe” for country if you doubt that this is common.)

My Bumper-Sticker Philosopher looks at this and says that nobody wins. He must mean that everybody has lost, and plainly both sides have lost a good deal in this case. Perhaps he is thinking of lives and treasure. If so, then he is saying that lives and treasure are more important than whatever the object they were risked for was. That sounds good at first, but on closer examination it isn’t quite as obvious as it seems. First, notice that the people fighting disagreed with him—they were willing to risk their lives for some mutual goals. Some were willing to die for those goals.

Look at the goals of the people of country B. They want to keep from being robbed, and keep from being made slaves of. If they valued life and safety more than protecting each other, unfortunately they would quickly have neither. So in a way they have to lose their lives to save them: be willing to die in order to survive. (The goals of the people of country A, though less ethical, are founded on their intent to take risks to provide for their own.)

If you take the claim that a life is worth more than anything else to its logical conclusion, nothing is worth risking your life for either.

So by what means do you avoid predation? Perhaps my BSP expects that each person will, if he feels safe from your attack, feel no need to attack you. That’s a common formulation anyway. A cursory glance at society proves otherwise: at least 1% of the population is perfectly willing to prey violently on the rest. My BSP seems likely to reply that this would not be true in a perfectly just society. This is true by construction (in a perfectly just society there aren’t any predators to begin with), but is not very useful (and I get very tired of hearing it). It is quite easy to increase that percentage, but it has been very hard to reduce it.

So if my Bumper-Sticker Philosopher thinks of loss of lives and treasure as the loss of the war, then he seems to be saying that nothing is worth risking lives for, and that he trusts in an Edenic society to make people good.

Maybe the BSP is more subtle, and he means something else. Perhaps what he means by loss is more of a spiritual thing. When we fight we become killers, in intent if not in execution. So when people go to war, something happens to their characters, making them less than they ought to be.

OK, I can follow that line of reasoning. Of course you run into Hamlet’s problem: “whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” or “to take up arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.” For willingness to protect the innocent is as obviously noble a characteristic as is a peaceful spirit.

I can go farther. Unwillingness to protect those in your care is an ignoble abdication of your responsibility unless there is some better guardian available. Frequently there is no other guardian, and so you must fight unless there is a supernatural guardian and supernatural justice available.

I note that in this case my BSP’s statement does not absolutely demand that there be no wars. It may be that you must choose between ignoble actions. This differs from the purely materialist attitude discussed above.

So perhaps my BSP is a pacifist on religious grounds. I’m inclined to doubt it, though—because of the second bumper sticker.

The second bumper sticker carries, in this culture, an erotic, promiscuous, message. I’m not aware of any major religions that command both pacifism and adultery. The combination is found in do-it-yourself religions, with each man his own prophet. I am reluctant to dignify “it’s true because I say so” with the title of religion, or honor such a jackdaw as a prophetic follower of God. The tests for prophethood are pretty strict.

So I reckon there are three possibilities:

The message is nonsense in pretty language.

The Bumper-Sticker Philosopher thinks that life is too important to risk and probably also that a Just World (&tm;) will have no war or crime.

He objects to war on religious grounds, as defined by himself

I think I have spilled a lot of virtual ink on nonsense.

I should revise the numbers. A survey done in 2005 says youth gang affiliation in Dane County is 6%. So my predator rate (based on prison populations) is a factor of 6 too low.

Aha! Light

The pastor’s sermon explained a lot. When he spoke about following God’s leading he said (among other things) that he had not wanted to come to such a small church. That wasn’t the Aha moment—I had to sleep on it—but the lights made it clear.

A big church has multiple pastors on staff, and can hire managers. So do we now. A big church doesn’t need to rely on volunteer advice; it can hire consultants. So do we now. A big church has the big spotlights shining on the pastor. So do we now, and very clunky they look in our small auditorium.

We aren’t a big church, but we’ve got a pile of money and we’re using it to buy big-church accouterments. That’s an expensive way to humor the pastor.

The official reason for the spending is that we are growing, and need to have people in place as we grow. But the lights, intended eventually for the new building, are pretty useless right now.

Of course a few mysteries remain: Why the allergy to AWANAs? Perhaps it was Not Invented Here, or perhaps there were personality conflicts. And the allergy to adult education is also odd. I warned X that relying on small groups meant there was no systematic training, and he said that was something he was working on. This Sunday for the first time they introduced the small group leaders—not as teachers but as pastors! Maybe this is the kickoff for his more organized curriculum. Still, “pastors?”

What to do?

Is this a time for you to be building yourselves paneled houses when my house is in ruins? Haggai

Is this applicable now? Is God’s house in ruins?

I don’t see this applying to the finances of our local church—they have money, and are running through it like drunken sailors.

And yet it does apply to them, and to many other churches as well, where the congregants do not do anything but sit and watch and leave. I overgeneralize: some members of our church are far stronger Christians than I; some do more good works than I (easily arranged, I fear) and have grown in faith and love. But a lot of those are leaving, and the design of the services and activities seems calculated to drive them away.

I hear rumors of the same sorts of problems elsewhere.

What’s the plan? Attract people with sermons addressing felt needs and popular culture, show them the gospel, baptize the persuaded—and then what? Enlist them to recruit more in a holy Ponzi scheme? Hand off all instruction and guidance to small group studies with random study plans and no culture of spiritual disciplines? What’s the point?

And he pitied them, for they were like sheep without a shepherd.

OK, maybe things are happening that I’m not seeing, that make the whole picture better. I doubt it, though. A large fraction of the youth in church youth groups don’t connect with a new church when they go off to college, and some never return to the faith. And when adult Christians, nominally instructed in the faith, can say things like “I have no problem with the idea of Jesus having been married” (yes, real quote; luckily not from our church), something serious is missing.

My own observations suggest that evangelicals often don’t get any systematic introduction to the faith, any systematic explanation of what is expected of them as Christians, and have no training to resist the solipsistic spirit of the age. I can name names of Christians whose only arguments to convince unbelievers are “The Bible says so” and “Darwin was wrong.” It’d be a pretty silly pagan who found that compelling.

I know the school of thought that holds that our true witness is our lives, and there is some truth to that—our lives should be signs and wonders that ratify what we say. But such content-free argument as I described mixes all too easily with the “Its true for you but not for me” attitude that saturates our society. Without clarity converts can and do mix in what they please, worshipping God and other gods—and we have some idea of what He thinks about that.

What we need to do is teach charity, clarity, and purity. Once saved, you are now a member of a new family and you must learn to grow in

• Charity: love for God, love for your brothers and sisters in Christ, and love for your neighbor; all eventually expressed in actions somehow
• Clarity: know what it is we believe, and why, and know how this differs from the blandishments of the world; and also to know what we don’t know and what we’re willing to disagree about.
• Purity: not just a negative—the absence of sin—but the positive changes in mind and spirit coming from a focus on God and His word, on righteousness, prayer, study and meditation, worship together, and more prayer

So what should I do in our local church? Make noise and complain about what’s missing? That’s been done—most of those complaining gave up and left.

Offer to teach it myself? That’s scary. About all I’m good at is the “clarity” part—I don’t have a stellar track record with “charity” and “purity” and I can read the book of James as well as the next guy.

I offered my ideas and service to the elders for the “clarity” part of the instruction we need in the church. Either they’re distracted, don’t like details in the offering, or don’t think it fits in with the grand scheme—the dime has not been gotten off. Maybe they were freaked out by the copyright notice on the book, but if it goes out under my name I want it to be what I said.

What next? Rattle X’s cage again? Ask Y for his take on the material/plans?

Or just do it? Announce that I’m offering this course at my home at such-and-such a time?

Why not?

• The material isn’t lesson-ready yet: it needs more questions, examples, suggested extra reading, and so on—several weeks at least, and I need some feedback wrt details and plans. I’m not a trained theologian, and there might even be a few mistakes in it.
• Venue: Parking is a problem around here, and the living room is small.
• Am I the right teacher for this? Will I be making myself the center? It is very easy for me to consider myself smarter and wiser than the elder board. They make it easy, but it isn’t a good attitude to have. (At least I don’t feel holier…)
• If the elders disapprove, there’ll be some more explosions, and likely a few more people leaving.
• Eats more of my time and adds some stress to the family—and with two Aspergers children at home we have an adequate amount of work and stress.

Of course all of these have answers: time, so what if we only have 3 people, somebody’s got to, too bad, and maybe it won’t be so bad.

I’ll keep praying.

Rolling Stone

I gather analysis isn't their strong suit. The sex scandal at Duke story has a few oddities that suggest that the reporter hung around with campus elites. Duke has 6500 undergrads, and they can't all hang out at Shooters. The author hung out with frats and sorors and talked about athletes. It makes for a juicy story, but I'd be more convinced if he'd talked to some chemistry majors too.

And they've an innuendo story about stealing elections . I judge that voting without a paper trail is a recipe for trouble. But I'm afraid that wishful thinking and skewed polls are not useful evidence of wrongdoing.

Both stories use biased sampling to try to reach conclusions (or more accurately, to give impressions and let us reach conclusions). I suppose reporters (not generally the best-educated among us) are never taught anything about statistics, and the editors seem to be no better. And I suppose a magazine devoted to the entertainment world isn't so used to looking past impressions to look at the details: impressions are a lot of what entertainment is about.

Rolling Stone is hardly the only offender (they're just handy). Think about the recent stories about the number of lives hospitals saved with more careful procedures in the last year and a half--and ask how many accidental deaths there were before, and start getting suspicious.

Wyalusing

Eldest son kept having butterflies (the tabby kind about 3 cm long) land on him and probe for water/ whatever (puddling, I think it is called). He wore a hummingbird-red shirt and had sprayed insect repellant on himself. Do butterflies like Deet?

The wind was strong enough to make my bottle sing its note if I held it just so. After a while youngest son figured out how to make his sing too.

I'd strained my Achilles tendon at the heel, and had an excellent excuse for not climbing bluffs. Unfortunately even the milder walks seem to have had ill effects.

I wonder where the Mound Builders went? There were some substantial migrations when the Iroquois started moving west--I recall reading that the Sioux were originally from the Iowa/Wisconsin neck of the woods.

For that matter, why do the bears and panthers have such round heads? Is that stylization or erosion? I tried to think up reasons for effigy mounds. Everybody thinks "totem," but it could be something like emblem: a memorial built when a leader from the bear clan or porcupine clan or clamshell clan (my idea--you'd get a conical mound that way :-)) was in charge.

It might make an interesting Boy Scout project for them to learn about and try to build their own mound. If it was 20' by 10' by 3' high and rounded, I'd guesstimate 300 cubic feet of dirt. Carrying the dirt isn't that big a deal, especially if you cheat and use inventions like wheelbarrows or the shoulder pole--digging is the hard part. If every boy moved 2 cubic feet of dirt in a day, that'd be 150 boy-days. If several groups got together (I suppose they'd have to, since you'd only build something like this on Scout property), they could build a fairly respectable mound in a couple of days without too many blisters.

Super Absorbant

The "superabsorbant" waffle-weave towels are supposed to be more absorbant and more durable than the usual tufted fabric ones. (They're also more expensive.) Well, a 18 inch by 36 inch one isn't enough to completely dry off a 6 foot tall man who is sopping wet. Your mileage may vary.

Monrovia Mon Amour

A visit to Liberia by Anthony Daniels

Anthony Daniels may be better known by his pseudonym Theodore Dalyrymple. He is a doctor and psychiatrist and a fine writer.

This book dates from 1992 and describes his observations from what must have been a couple of weeks visit to Monrovia during a time when the Interim Government of National Unity ran Monrovia (with the help of Ecomog aka Every Car Or Moveable Object Gone) and negotiations were in progress. Doe’s men still held the Executive Mansion and the military camp.

On the morning of my arrival in the Ivory Coast I learned that the Steel Trader was due to sail from Abidjan for Monrovia and I went straight down to the ‘Port Autonome.’ A man in khaki uniform, reclining on a bench like Madame Recamier, barred my way. I was not allowed to enter the port.

’Where are you going?’ he asked.

’The Steel Trader,’ I replied.

’Why?’

’I am a doctor,’ I said, leaving open the possibility that a terrible epidemic had broken out on board.

’Do you have medicine with you?’ asked the official.

’Of course,’ I said.

’I am always tired, doctor,’ said the guardian of port security.

’Why?’ I asked.

Laboriously, he levered himself up on to his elbow.

’Too much work,’ he said.

I searched in my box of time-expired medicaments for something suitable, and alighted on erythromycin, vivid pink antibiotic pills that looked as though they would glow in the dark.

’These,’ I said, ‘are very good for tiredness.’

’How many do I take?’ he asked.

’One a day, until you are no longer tired.’

’Merci. Bon voyage, docteur,’ said the official, collapsing back on to his bench.

That was the end of immigration and customs formalities in Abidjan.

The above is the first page of the book, and gives you a flavor of both the man and what he finds. (I’m violently allergic to erythromycin myself, and find his choice of medicines startling.) He toured the Masonic building, the University, the Maternity Hospital, and tried to invoke a feeling for the often banal existence before the violence, and from there arrive at an understanding of the destructiveness of that violence. For example, the Maternity Hospital was thoroughly looted and wrecked; the papers from it used apparently as toilet paper. Apparently only the medical records were so used, and not the more mundane correspondence, and from this he mused about the way the white man’s medicine must have evoked resentment from those whose world-view it was overthrowing. Maybe it did cause resentment, but he forgot that the looters were mostly illiterate; and a more mundane explanation might be that the medical records, on sturdier stock than typing paper, were a more useful substitute for the traditional toilet of large leaves.

He attended the All-Liberia Conference, discovering later that “the middle of the day was a good time to travel if you wanted to avoid road-blocks, because it was then too hot for security, and the soldiers would languidly wave you through from under the shade of a tree.” Of course the “history-making” conference made no history or breakthroughs. “The delegates sat around the tables, deep in political discussion. Lunch was delayed by an hour and a half. When finally the food arrived, there was a scramble for it as desperate as the scramble in which I had participated at Lagos airport one the boarding of the aircraft was announced (The Togolese market women had brushed me contemptuously aside with their baskets, seemingly laden with lead ingots). The leaders of the nation were terrified that there would not be enough lunch for them.” There he also met Tipetoh (leader of MOJA; Movement for Justice in Africa), whom he shreds (“He kindly gave me the Preface, a single sheet of paper, and also a large photograph of himself: in my experience, the few people who genuinely believe in the equality of man do not carry photographs of themselves in their attaché cases for distribution to as many people as possible”)

He later arranged to meet Prince Johnson, and was even more horrified by his vice-Marshall Varney than he is by Johnson. Still later he arranged to see the infamous movie of Doe’s murder by Johnson, and was startled at the glee his hosts display re-watching it.

Along the way he met and was suitably perturbed by various people with ill-concealed pasts—people who had active roles in the massacres on one side or another.

Memory can be a fuzzy thing sometimes, and many of the places he described are either places I didn’t visit more than once, or were built after my time. Providence Baptist Church—he slipped out of the service at the new building, which was still under construction when I left. Some of the ruins are of places not yet built 30 years ago, which makes his references hard to follow.

He toured JFK hospital, and the massacre site of St. Peters, and found some of Doe’s family still living in Doe’s house. He even got permission to tour the Barclay Training Center where Doe’s army remnant still camped, and eventually even the Executive Mansion. Along the way he met still more villains, but I have the feeling that a lot of his reaction was read into the men from what he knew of them; a reaction to his knowledge rather than to them personally. But he is honest with himself here. He attended an interview of General Brown by a Swedish TV team (and FWIW he found them an exception to the usual Swedes in Africa whom he describes, “I feared the compassion of the Scandinavians as I feared the cruelty of other peoples, for their compassion was simultaneously neurotic and abstract, sentimental and ruthless.” Yes, he justifies this with examples.). This Swedish team is interested in digging out stories, and grills the General, who says at the end of the interview “’You have asked a lot of questions,’ he said. ‘Now it is only fair that you should answer ours.’”

There were several questions I could think of which might have caused us some embarrassment: had we come to Liberia to further our own careers, did the destruction we found there confirm us in our feelings of cultural superiority, were we enjoying ourselves amidst the ruins, did the level of suffering in Monrovia match up to what we had expected and hoped for, or were we disappointed in it?

Dr Daniels doesn’t say as much outright, but the answers would probably have been “Yes,” or something closely kin to it. He is very sensitive to matters of architecture and culture, and sees meaning in things (such as the carefully sawn-off legs of the only Steinway piano in Liberia) that don’t always resonate with other people. His insights misfire sometimes, but he hits the nail on the head at others. The fall of every sparrow is attributed to some CIA conspiracy, because people want meaning in their lives and the notion that America just doesn’t care about Liberia is intolerable to them.

The situation in Liberia is now very different, of course. The corruption is still there, but for now there’s no war or threat of war. This dates the book slightly. Someone who had spent years there would no doubt have written a more accurate book. But the glimpses of what life is like with decommissioned murderers in the neighborhood are still useful. This book is good despite its flaws, and I recommend it.

20 months old

Neighbor Toby is twenty months old. He is cheerful and adventurous, and he speaks entirely in consonants, like the groundhog child Grundoon from the old Pogo comic strip. Yesterday he and his mom and brother were here because I had a new washer delivered, and every little boy loves to watch a big truck. Toby and brother Sammy, age 5, love exploring somebody else's house, and were thrilled to pet and play with our rabbits.

Toby's mom showed him our irises, which are huge and purple. The irises stood taller than Toby. We grownups forget what the world looks like from that level. I watched Toby reach up for a blossom, with the leaves framing his face. I remembered other adventures with our own kids, when their angle of view revealed delights I missed: the bumblebees hiding under a goldenrod during a shower; clams in the weeds under the "belly boards" along the marsh boardwalk, and the plain joy of counting frog noses in the pond.

Mrs james

No more drudgery!

I’ve never been a fan of fufu myself, but if hours of drudgery can be done away with, this might be a good idea. Of course, it has to be affordable; but the miller was a fixture in Medieval England—he made wheat convenient enough to warrant the extra cost.

Is That a Hint?

I’ve been reading Spiritual Disciplines for the Christian Life by Donald Whitney. This afternoon I read the chapter on fasting. As soon as I was done we went to a Memorial Day party at the neighbor’s house. (Two brats, red beans and rice, ice cream…) I came back after a while and started reading the chapter on Silence and Solitude. Youngest Son came home a few minutes later and started telling me all about his planned parody of Star Wars, with a “Death Grill.” All the details about it.

Hand-Me-Ups?

At lunch today Youngest Son announced that he was “giving his Lord of the Rings action figures as hand-me-downs” to Youngest Daughter. He is 12. She is 15.

Why no book reviews?

I have been writing, just not here. Our church needs some material for introductory classes, so I wrote it. What with the many other things going on at the same time (writing DAQ software for one experiment, scrounging parts for a spark chamber demo, working on the silicon detector trigger for another experiment, trying to revamp a muon trigger, and puzzling through an astrophysics problem--not to mention family obligations) I've been a wee bit short of time.

I don't really think of them as book reviews so much as holding up my end of a dialog between the author and myself.

But I've read a few books along the way. Developing Talents by Temple Grandin is about how Aspergers folks can find jobs. I'm buying our own copy. Ten Questions to Diagnose your Spritual Health by Donald Whitney is just what it says: a set of questions and examples to set you trying to decide what is keeping you from growing as a Christian and how to get rid of it. Not perfect, but very much worth reading and thinking about. The Day of the False King by Brad Geagley is the second book (oops) in a series of detective stories about an ancient Egyptian detective. My wife says the first (The Year of the Hyena) is better, which doesn't surprise me. The False King tries very hard to give a flavor of the environment, but leaves out lots of details like what people ate--it left an unbalanced feel. The Insect Room was both a foolish plot-hole and not nearly so horrible as the real punishments the Babylonians had in store.

I still plan to write about Dogs of God.

I'm reading slowly through Prayer; re-reading Watership Down (we've got a new rabbit), reading The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Persian Mirrors, Reflections on the Psalms, From Babel to Dragomans, Exploring Java, and re-reading My Favorite Intermissions.

I don't think I'll be finished with any of them this week.

DaVinci Code

I've been hearing two reactions in church to the upcoming movie: opportunity and boycott.

Boycott is the wrong word for my reaction. Boycotting presumes that I would be withholding my regular business. But that's backwards: it is the movie-makers' job to entice me to part with 20 of my dollars and 2 hours of my time. I looked at the movie listings, and none of them succeeded. There's almost nothing I'd bother to go look at even if it were free and next door. Maybe "Over the Hedge."

That doesn't even include the other demands on my time: I haven't even seen the Narnia movie yet, and that was on my list. (The kids have a copy, so I'll get to it sooner or later.)

So no, I won't be boycotting the movie. I won't be bothering.

And no, I don't think it offers an opportunity to discuss the foundations of Christianity with the curious. I judge that the popularity of the book comes because some people want to believe in secret conspiracies, and because there's been a huge PR push. People following the PR push don't care about whether it is true or not, and trying to reason with conspiracy fans is hopeless.

Time and Mother

The past is always with us. I feel this most with my wife: a moment with her recalls other moments. We shaped each other’s lives, and the marks each moment made are more than merely memories. We clean the kitchen, and in that time lives a little of the other times we’ve cleaned or kissed there. Not every echo is welcome—I remember times I’ve screwed up too—but each smile holds others; from shy beginnings to comfortable welcomings.

But my mother and I did not meet as equals. My parents were “in loco deus” for a while to me. True, I turned her life upside down (I was the firstborn), but I was completely unaware of that at the time. All I knew was that, for a time, she and my father were the center of my universe. Of course my universe grew, and eventually, thanks in part to their guidance, I met the God they served; and I have in my turn served (all too feebly) in the same capacity to my own children.

We meet as equals now: she a mother, I a father (and older now than she was when I left home). We’re equals and yet not equals, because the past is with us. The time for obedience is over, but the shape to my life from the times of obedience is still there for me, and the shape is there for her.

I remember, and try to imitate, her self-disciplined love—devoting her efforts to the needs we had, and looking out for ways to bring joy. I’m not nearly so good at figuring those out.

I love my mother.

Policeman to the world

The Darfur situation has been eliciting calls for intervention. Some of the same people are calling for us to intervene in the Sudan who despise our intervention in Iraq, though the latter would be justified by their own arguments. A lot of this looks like "When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout" nonsense. These folks don't bother to think through the implications of action. "We've got to do something" isn't a plan. Stern rebukes didn't work, economic sanctions aren't going anywhere, so what's left? War or supporting a civil war.

I have no trouble with the assertion that Khartoum is the major culprit in this affair, or that Zimbabwe would be a happier land if Mugabe and a few hundred of his cronies lay at room temperature. These are almost certainly true statements. I also suspect that, on balance, Zimbabwe would be better off suffering a quick invasion, with all the destruction and turmoil that produces, if it succeeded in ridding them of the tyrant and gave them some help in reconstruction.

What I am afraid of is the soul-destroying attitude that says I have the right to do this because I know what's best. It is a dangerous temptation because the claim is (at least in these obvious case) so nearly correct.

I find that I cannot abide a holier-than-thou attitude in others. That reaction seems quite common. If I assert my right to judge other nations (either in my own capacity or as a citizen of a relatively benign country), I put myself in this same holier-than-thou position that I can't stand in other people. This naturally evokes an intense dislike from others, and it cultivates in me an attitude of superiority. And then it doesn't take very long to slide from "I am superior because I am doing the right things" to "what I do is right because I am superior." And then, of course, I become Mugabe myself.

Yes, I know that you are ethical, and will monitor yourself and not succomb to such temptations. But will you warrant the same for your children? And I'll guarantee that your grandchildren will not have your scruples. They'll inherit power, and experience it as entitlement.

I do not mean to impugn the motives of people who want us to become a humanitarian policeman to the world. There are a lot of terrible things happening, and we could help. You need to be either careless or hard-hearted to stand by and let them fester.

But I believe that we, and the world, will be far safer if we fight on more self-interested grounds.

We didn't resume the war against Iraq to liberate the people of Iraq from a brutal tyrant, though I hear that cited a lot as justification. That was a useful side effect, but not one of our principle objectives. We invaded for sound strategic reasons: the origins of the attacks against us lie in the vicious theocracies of Saudi Arabia and Iran, and Iraq provides a useful staging area; all the evidence said Saddam's nuclear and anthrax programs were alive and well (and there are still some missing pieces, as the report noted); we suspected (and later found the smoking gun for) Saddam's support for anti-American terrorist groups; we saw the sanctions program failing and judged that an Iraq in charge of most of the world's oil and nuclear armed was an unsupportable threat; and maybe, if we lucked out and the Iraqis locked onto a stable free government, we could start to drain the swamp of the Middle East.

Pretty much self-interest all the way, isn't it? And self-interest isn't pretty.

But I think "ugly self interest" will keep us humbler, and safer to the rest of the world and ourselves, than trying to be the world's liberator.

Sweet sentiments?

If your honey is a naturalist, fascinated by wild creatures great and small, perhaps she would appreciate what you find when you excavate into the small hole in the garden that conceals a nest, from which flies an annoyed bumbling mother bee. Will you offer her a bee mine, valentine?

Images

When I was young I saw shapes not just in clouds but also in maps. Everybody knows the Italian boot, but did you see that New Zealand is one also (albeit slightly broken)? If you look at Indonesia and the Philippines, you can see a skeleton riding a jet-ski.

Left Behind

Years ago Eldest Son was fascinated by constellations: not just any, but those of the Southern Sky. My wife decided he should have a shirt with the Southern Sky on it, and she got a dark shirt and fabric paint, and I painted the stars and lettering from Rey’s book. Eldest Son loved it, but outgrew it. Youngest Son outgrew it recently. The stars are still mostly there.

About the same time I picked up a packet of glow-in-the dark dots for stars, and mapped out where each star in the southern sky should be on the ceiling of my son’s room. With ruler and checklist and dots I spent several hours to do one quadrant of the ceiling. I wasn’t quite satisfied with the way things were turning out: reference marks were tricky and the pattern wasn’t quite right.

Evenings I generally spent with monitoring homework and other chores, and days had work to do. It has been over a dozen years, and the ceiling still only has one quadrant’s worth of stars. Eldest Son doesn’t live at home any more. I wonder if Youngest Son even notices the stars, or wonders why they aren’t all there.

The dresser and desk and original bed were gifts to Eldest Son from a neighbor in Aurora. (I fixed them up a bit) We chose the paint and accent wallpaper strip (of sailing ships) to match the furniture. You could tell it was a boy’s room, even without looking at the bookcase or the floor.

Eldest Son isn’t a boy anymore. A few relics of his are still in the room—a few figurines, a few books, the Space Shuttle poster—but most pertain to Youngest Son these days. Bionicle parts mingle with Legos (some of the Lego pieces I played with 40 years ago) and K-Nex on the floor now, and there’s a large box of pencils, which fascinate Youngest Son. A busted Space Shuttle is on the dresser and a crane (from the Crane Foundation, of course) hangs from the ceiling. The top bunk is abandoned to a K-Nex ferris wheel and roller coaster now.

Another half a dozen years and Youngest Son will be heading off for college too. I wonder what relics he’ll be leaving behind. I wonder if I’ll ever get the rest of those stars up.