An era's end, in Dallas

It was a chilly, overcast Friday in November.  Already a liberal arts graduate, I had decided to change direction radically, and earn a degree in physics from the University of Washington.  I was living in Lander Hall, a dormitory torn down this past year and rebuilt in a more modern vernacular for the more demanding students of today.

I noted vaguely that a lot of kids seemed to have their radios turned on as I left the dorm and headed out for my 11:30 chemistry class in Bagley Hall.  I became more alert out on the street where I saw other students holding transister radios up to their ears.  Finally, I asked someone what was going on.  The president had been shot, his condition unknown, was the reply.  Stunned, I continued to class, sat down in the large lecture hall, and waited for the professor.  A student walked up to the blackboard and wrote the incredible message that President Kennedy was dead.  Moments later, the professor walked in, saw the message, and asked the class if it was true. 

"I don't feel like talking about chemistry today," he said.  He walked out of the classroom.  Everyone filed silently out of the room.  As I turned north from Bagley, I saw the flagpole across from the Administration Building.  The flag was already at half-mast.

The next couple of days -- the swearing in of LBJ, the flight back to Washington, the unbelievable assassination of Lee Harvey Oswald, the funeral mass -- were spent in front of small black and white television sets, all over campus living groups and apartment houses.

Looking back, Kennedy now seems but one president in a group -- Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, and even Nixon to a degree -- who reflected a general bipartisan consensus regarding foreign policy, and whose differences with respect to domestic policy were ones of degree and emphasis, not of basic principle.  As Milton Friedman said -- and as was later sometimes attributed to President Nixon -- "We are all Keynsians, now."

At the time, however -- for young people at least, with our shorter memories -- Kennedy represented a breath of fresh air after what seemed to us eight stuffy years of life in a musty neo-Victorian town house.  The Eisenhower era -- which in retrospect appears to represent the apogee of American success and affluence -- felt at the time intellectually stultifying, an era of enforced conformity, of McCarthy paranoia, of a fear of the unfettered intellect itself.  The "ticky-tack" houses of Levittown seemed to sum up the American dream.  The black and white morality of the TV Western represented the black and white certainties of the American myth.  To become a member of "middle management" for some corporation was a most praise-worthy ambition for an ambitious young man.

Kennedy and his wife displayed for many of us a formerly unsuspected plane of American life -- aristocratic in taste and behavior, but with a concern, at least professed, for those at the bottom of the heap.  Although Kennedy had accomplished little yet to advance civil rights, we knew ending a century of segregation, formal or otherwise, was his administration's goal.  His plan for a "Peace Corps," proposed during the 1960 campaign, electrified young people -- a government program that advocated public service as a first step for college graduates, rather than jumping into a corporate management training program.

I remember learning that Robert Frost was speaking, and Pablo Casals was playing, at Kennedy's inauguration events.  Today, such participation by cultural icons would be unremarkable.  Then, it represented an unprecedented acceptance of talent previously ignored -- often contemptuously -- into the mainstream of American society and government.

As many writers are commenting, it wasn't so much what Kennedy did as president that made his death so devastating.  It was what we felt he had represented.

Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.

His death signaled, we feared, the nipping in the bud of America's new-found spirit of adventure, courage, curiosity, and intellectual openness.

As one friend told me, a few years later, he felt that the world for which he'd been educated, and the world he understood, seemed to collapse in upon itself on November 22, 1963.  

Our fears weren't entirely unfounded, and my friend's reaction to Kennedy's death has proved prophetic.

Go swing from the trees

Seb Oliver / Getty Images/Cultura RF

USA Today

A childhood buddy and I permitted ourselves to bore our younger Facebook friends this morning, as we reminisced about a playground back in our home town where we'd spent many happy hours as kids. 

The playground had been equipped with unusually high slides, a "jungle gym" that was chronically crowded with young monkeys like myself, doing just about anything but swing from our tails, a "push-it-yourself" turntable or merry-go-round, teeter-totters, rows of trapezes, rings, and chin-up bars, and a number of other devices that encouraged kids to explore the limits of their courage and their muscular abilities.  The playground was enclosed by a perimeter fence, and was entered through a day building that offered vending machines, offices, and a large floor where daily folk dancing lured some kids inside for a short respite from the mayhem occurring outside.

The city provided some supervision -- the law of the jungle prevailed only in part.  My friend remembered adults attempting to keep boys from shooting down the slides on pieces of wax paper for the purpose of increasing the slickness of the surface.  I do vaguely recall such efforts, but if made they were largely ignored.  Parental supervision?  In the years I played there, I don't recall any parents having ever being present.  The "old people" sent their kids to the playground, on foot or by bicycle, and reminded them to be home in time for dinner.

The morning's nostalgic dialogue reminded me of an article I saw yesterday in USA Today, discussing two studies on the present state of child fitness.  An Australian study found that the time in which American children could run a set distance had declined six percent per decade since 1970. The average American child thirty years ago ran a mile about 1.5 minutes faster than his counterpart today. Think of that! Another study, published in the Journal of Adolescent Health, found that only half of American adolescents are physically active at least five days a week.

“What we found, and others too, is the average young person is sedentary, has very little physical activity, and low levels of moderate to vigorous physical activity,” says Bruce Simons-Morton [an investigator participating in the J.A.H. study].

I've been back to my hometown in recent years, and have checked out the old playground.  Virtually all the old equipment has been removed.  It's been replaced by "safe and sane" equipment -- low in height, carefully designed to avoid injury, heavy on soft plastic rather than hard metal.  It also would have been viewed as incredibly boring and "kid's stuff" by me and my friends when we were ages 8 to 12 or 13 or so, the years when our response to a suggestion that we head for the playground was met by hopping on bikes and taking off like a posse on horseback in a Western flick.

Why don't kids get similar exercise today.  Partly, as I've just suggested, because cities and insurers are scared to death of lawsuits against the city by any kid injured in the free-wheeling play that used to be considered a normal part of being a kid.  Partly, it's because of changes in the culture of young people themselves:  Kids today have less-strenuous ways to compete and find excitement, most of it involving a computer monitor.  The Australian study blamed "lack of green space, suburbanization, changes in school-based physical education programs, and too much screen time watching TV or playing video games."  

I should also add a pet concern of mine -- the change in culture of American parents themselves.  Parents were once happy to let their little Indians whoop it up in the hours between meals, once satisfied that any homework was done and their music practice was completed.  I suspect, without having personal knowledge, that my mother sighed a sigh of relief once she saw the dust from our bikes as we headed for the park, or even just took off for parts unknown around town.  Parents today have developed a high level of fear regarding the safety of their children.  Many or most middle class parents rarely let their children out of sight, unless the kids are safely involved in a structured activity.

(And don't get me started on the question of "play dates"!)

As one example, I live in a very peaceful and safe neighborhood.  I also happen to live on a designated bicycle route, with streams of bike riders passing in front of my house.  If I had lived in Seattle when I was young, I would have noted that most of those bikers were gangs of kids.  Today, however, I rarely see children on bikes, unless they're out riding with their parents.  This tight family bonding may or may not be a beneficial cultural change, but I doubt that it contributes to the amount of exercise that children and adolescents get on a daily basis. 

Even if increased parental involvement in children's lives contributes to their development in various other ways, I suspect parents would do their kids a favor, physically, if they frequently said, "Get out of the house and give me some peace and quiet.  Be back in time for dinner."  Sure, there are risks awaiting unsupervised kids in today's world.  But so what?  There certainly were similar risks when I was a child; they just weren't as well publicized.

And the increasingly sedentary life of kids today has its own proven risks.  As one of the Australian researchers commented:

Improving fitness also improves self-esteem, improves mood, reduces depression and even improves academic performance. It’s just a little investment that can lead to fantastic changes now and in adulthood.

So go climb a tree, gang.  Ride a bike.  Play pick-up games in the park, games without referees or uniforms or adult coaches.  Fall down, occasionally, and scrape your knees.  Don't let your childhood pass you by with your only physical trauma being development of arthritis in your thumbs from excessive texting.

The dark rises

"The noise from the rookery was louder, even though the daylight was beginning to die.  They could see the dark birds thronging over the treetops, more agitated than before, flapping and turning to and fro."
--Susan Cooper, The Dark is Rising

Today marks the midpoint of November.  The sky's been dark all day.  Rain fell all morning.  The rains tapered off a bit after noon -- although the skies dimmed even darker -- and so I decided to go for a nice walk. 

The world often looks strange in mid-November -- the beauties of autumn still linger to some extent, but winter hovers over us, warnng us of what lies ahead.  As I look down the street, I see trees still clothed gracefully in yellow leaves.  About my house, however, the limbs are bare, stretched out to the sky like the arms and fingers of skeletal witches, hurling down curses.  The clouds overhead are dark and threatening.  And above it all shriek the cries of the crows, millions of crows, crows flying singly and in formation, crows circling above me, landing on trees, and on telephone wires, and on the very ground ahead of me -- singly and in unison, daring me to draw closer.

"Fool!" they seem to shout. "You'll be well sorry you didn't stay warm and dry in your cozy little house before this stroll is over."  Crows lie and they exaggerate wildly, of course; nothing untoward occurred.  But the crows, and the skeletal trees, and the churning black clouds above certainly darkened my mood.

Mid-November is still autumn, still lovely in places.  Rows of trees along the ship canal, dividing my neighborhood from the university, still bear foliage with blended colors resembling those of a ripe peach, transitioning from yellow to pale red.  The air grows ever colder, but not yet bitterly so.  The southwest wind blew gently, although it strengthened as I walked, promising to blow ever worse weather up from the distant ocean.  Pumpkins still grin from porches, although closer inspection reveals their grins to have been decaying, day by day.

Nature still shows signs of life.  But death, I know, and the crows don't hesitate to remind me, lies just around the bend.  The days will be growing shorter for five more weeks, before the sun finally turns reluctantly about, and begins inching north again.  But our weather will continue growing colder for at least another month past the solstice.

Surely the crows themselves must dread the coming storms, the bitter cold?  Evidently not.  They caw maliciously, spitefully, hurling their jeers at me as I pass.  Earth herself, who last spring seemed so gracious, so loving, so willing to offer beauty and joy -- Earth herself now seems to have turned upon mankind, daring us to survive the worst she has to offer us in the coming months.

I don't believe all this silly anthropomorphism, of course.  I'm just witnessing the onset of another normal Seattle winter.  But my Norse and Anglo-Saxon ancestors tug at me.  They call  within my soul from the haunted forests and marshes of primeval Europe, warning me that nature chooses her favorites, plays with our lives. Earth is not always a benevolent Mother, they warn me; she often appears as a she-wolf, a merciless predator who  leaps for our throats. 

My walk over, I slip back into my house, chased by the mocking laughter of the crows.  Only two and a half months until Groundhog Day!

Lessons learned

Walking across campus an hour or so ago, I stopped to get a cup of coffee and grabbed today's issue of the University of Washington Daily.  In it, I found a column that I liked well enough to read two or three times.  Arriving home, I'm delighted to find the Daily on-line, including said column.
 
As anxious readers will note, I haven't done much posting recently.  This has something to do with not having done much of anything recently, including thinking.  Nothing serious, just the occasional mental desert through which I sometimes find myself wandering.  But to make up to you, in some minimal way, for my lack of product, I've decided to present you with the Daily column.
 
Is it an excellent example of the essay form, or of a newspaper column?  Beats me.  I love to write essays, but I don't pretend to know what constitutes excellence.  But, as in so many areas of life, I know what I like, and I like this.  Although the student writer's life appears infinitely less boring than my own, I still sense a kindred seeking soul within. 
 
So, through the wonders of my computer's "copy and paste" function, without permission from either writer or newspaper, but with -- hey, it's something -- full attribution, I present in full Mr. Taylor's column:

Lessons learned outside of class: You can learn a lot wandering through the halls at night

 

By Holden Taylor

 

I’ve learned how to make small talk, though it’s something with which I still struggle. I’ve learned how to wean the coke out of my whiskey and coke, and I’ve learned which pack of cigarettes to buy, and I’ve learned which pens I like — Pilot G-2 1.0 mm. I’ve learned what kind of mattress I prefer — firm — and how to wash my own sheets. I’ve learned how to clip my toenails and how to order the haircut that I want. I’ve learned how to slice an onion and when to add the greens to a stir-fry. I’ve learned that cooking for others is always better than cooking for yourself, and I’ve learned how to properly roll a joint.

I’ve learned to live without television and that I like to run long distances late at night while listening to podcasts. I’ve learned that though big headphones are nice, the unpredictable soundtrack God plays us tends to be more captivating. I’ve learned that hard work is rarely replaceable, and I’ve learned that I can write other people’s essays for easy money.

 

I’ve learned that cherry blossoms in full bloom are never not beautiful and that fall leaves are better when dry. I’ve learned that pho cures most ailments and that five stars at one Thai place isn’t five stars at another. I’ve learned that I like to wear my favorite shirt many times a week and that socks should only be worn once, maybe twice, before washing. I’ve learned that a good mustache, like raising a child or growing a plant, takes both love and time, and I’ve learned that sometimes the library is the best place to be on game day.

 

I’ve learned that cuddling is good for the soul and that a lonely bed is tough to bear at night but worth it in the morning. I’ve learned how to fall in love and out of love, and I’ve learned how to appreciate
a drunken make-out session in the basement of a fraternity or on the dance floor of a crowded bar.

I’ve learned that every home needs candles and that toilet paper is nothing to skimp on. I’ve learned that a clean home is a sane home and that one dirty dish begets another. I’ve learned that everyone has their own issues and that nobody’s perfect, although we all try to be on Instagram.

I’ve learned that getting older is scary and that hangovers are getting worse and injuries are too. I’ve learned that questions like “So, what do you want to do?” and “What do you want to be?” never get easier to answer. I’ve learned that youthful idealism is something for which we all strive, and I’ve learned that Drake is the best rapper of our generation.

I’ve learned that grocery shopping while you’re hungry is a fool’s folly and that grocery shopping while you’re stoned is a magical adventure wherein the aisles of your local Safeway become the halls of Hogwarts. I’ve learned that raves are scary places and that the Mormons on campus will always be there to talk if you need them. I’ve learned that religious groups give out the best freebies and that ultimate Frisbee is the world’s best sport.

I’ve learned to eat when my stomach grumbles, to sleep when my eyes droop, and to stop writing when an article is over.

And a child shall lead them ...

This is sci-fi with a brain, and a heart.
--Soren Andersen (Seattle Times)

A couple of months ago, I read for the first time Orson Scott Card's 1985 classic, Ender's Game.  I posted a short essay -- not a book review -- remarking on my initial reaction to the story.  Last Saturday I saw the movie, which is now showing in theaters.  I'm ignoring dismissive reviews I've read, offered by perhaps half of the film critics. 

I found it to be a stirring and moving film.  It forced me to read the book again for the second time in three months, an exercise that was well worth the time.  It also forced me to bore Facebook friends with my praises.  

The book was too well known and too frequently reviewed for me to add my own unoriginal thoughts to the clamor in the form of a formal review.  So also with the film.

Let me just suggest that readers see the movie with an open mind, preferably after reading the book.  The film illustrates dramatically on the screen the events and themes presented by the book, but the significance of those events and the importance of those themes really need the fuller exposition that the book provides.  For example, much of the "action" in the book is devoted to the "games" that Ender and his fellow students play as preparation for what is anticipated to be an apocalyptic war with an alien race.  The book shows how the games -- and the manipulations by those staging the games -- lead to Ender's growth.  The movie can only compress the games into one or two episodes -- albeit, episodes that make vivid the mental pictures arising from the book's descriptions.

The movie has to to omit, in a two hour film, one of the book's major subplots -- the machinations of Ender's older brother and sister -- as intelligent as Ender, but for differing reasons unsuitable for Ender's military role -- who use the internet (a use for computers largely unknown by the general public when the book was published) to obtain vast worldwide political influence, anonymously, while still a couple of preadolescents.

An important theme of the book is how the military authorities deliberately deprived Ender of a childhood and with calculation forced him to live in loneliness and in psychological isolation from his classmates in order to focus his attention solely on the war games he was playing.  The book shows the reasoning behind this deliberate cruelty, and the effect it had on Ender's mental state.  The movie doesn't have the time to fully explain these policies, or to show the anguished private discussions among the officers who decide upon them.  The movie, on the other hand, shows vividly their effect on the young genius who was already both sensitive and shy by nature -- but who also is coldly rational to the point of inflicting death on a bullying classmate as a calculated example to other potential bullies in the school.

In the book, Ender is six years old when recruited by the military, and eleven years old when he becomes supreme commander of Earth's interstellar military forces.  It would be difficult to find an actor or actors in those age ranges capable of fulfilling the demands of the role.  In the movie, Ender is recruited at age twelve, and his training is compressed into a much shorter period of time.  Ender is played by a young-appearing fifteen year old actor, Asa Butterfield, who proves fully capable of displaying the enthusiasm, the physical agility, the sense of loneliness, the sensitivity, and the conflicted emotions that the part demands.

As for me, I'm hooked.  I've downloaded the next book in the series, Speaker for the Dead, which I'm advised is a totally different sort of story.  No matter.  I'm willing to bet some more time on this author.