Lisiecki recital

Together with attendees composing virtually a full house at Benaroya Hall's 2,500-seat auditorium, I was dazzled last night by the piano virtuosity and sensitivity of Jan Lisiecki,

It wasn't my first acquaintance with Mr. Lisiecki.  About a decade ago, I attended a recital by the pianist, then 16 years old, in Meany Hall on the UW campus (as had, I learned last night, the couple sitting next to me).  The Meany Hall recital was a more informal appearance, in which he had introduced each piece with a little discussion of what he was about to play, and of his approach to the music.  I remember little of what he told us, but I remember vividly how impressed I was that a boy in his mid-teens could speak to a large audience with such relaxed confidence, humor, and erudition.

Lisiecki last night was more formal -- in both dress and bearing -- and less boyishly enthusiastic.  More mature now, his playing of an all-Chopin program was magnificent.

For his program, he had selected eleven of Chopin's 21 nocturnes, and alternated them with twelve of Chopin's 27 études.  The nocturnes were, of course, quite familiar -- slow, quiet, dreamlike, but in Lisiecki's interpretation surprisingly dramatic at times in their dynamics.  On the other hand, I was unfamiliar with any of the ètudes, a form of music that has been traditionally written as a means for the musician to practice his technique, short pieces replete with technically difficult tempos and fingering.  I understand, however, that Chopin's ètudes are frequently considered concert material.  They are extremely fast and extremely loud.  For me, it was difficult to see how Lisiecki's fingers could move as fast as they did up and down the keyboard -- and then, with hardly a break, slide into the next tenderly played nocturne.

Lisiecki received standing ovations at both the intermission and the end of the recital.  He played as an encore a short piece by the Polish composer, patriot, and former prime minister Jan Paderewski.  It was an appropriate selection after a Chopin recital by a pianist himself of Polish ancestry.

I was impressed by the size of the Benaroya Hall audience -- all of whom were required to show proof of Covid vaccination and to be wearing masks.  Unlike the Symphony's regular season performances, a surprising number of the audience members were young, under the age of 30.

Like the rest of the audience, I was deeply moved by Chopin's music, and Lisiecki's playing.  I also found it encouraging to spend a couple of hours surrounded by a couple thousand deeply attentive and enthusiastic fellow audience members.

Expired license tabs

I see more and more cars on Seattle streets with expired license tabs.  This has been especially true since the beginning of the pandemic -- as though motorists have concluded that if they don't use their car as often, they shouldn't have to pay to keep the license current.  But it was an increasing problem even before 2020.

Yes, I know.  I sound petty.  And if I weren't a curious observer of car licenses -- both in-state and out-of-state -- I probably wouldn't even be writing this diatribe.  But it bugs me, just as does watching my fellow citizens abuse the "honor system" for payment of light rail transit fares.

My ire was provoked this morning by a Seattle Times article announcing that police officers would no longer stop a car merely because its license bore expired tabs.  The police chief is concerned that such stops offer opportunities for "negative interactions" between the police and the stopped driver, and that the penalties for such violations fall disproportionately on those least able to pay.  

“These violations do not have a direct connection to the safety of other individuals on the roads, paths, or sidewalks,” the police chief observed.  The offender can still be ticketed for an expired license if stopped for another ticketable offense.

Now, look.  I'm all in favor of more equitable laws.  I would gladly support elimination of fares for everybody on light rail.  Rail rapid transit is a service that helps everyone, including those who drive cars on the less crowded highways which result.  It could be, and probably should be, paid for by the city and county entirely out of general funds and property taxes, rather than subsidized partly from user's fares.

Similarly, if annual auto licensing fees and taxes are unduly burdensome for those least able to pay, then they could be abolished as a source of government income.  Income must come from somewhere, of course.  In the absence of a state income tax, it would have to come from increases in the sales tax and the real property taxes (which, for rental properties, are in part passed on to renters in higher rents).

But I find it unfair and hardly conducive to respect for law that we, in effect, allow some citizens to opt out light-heartedly from paying annual auto taxes and light rail fares, while depending on the good citizenship of everyone else to pay for streets, highways, and rail service.  In effect, in the absence of any compulsion to pay taxes and fares, we who nevertheless pay these charges are in fact making a voluntary charitable contribution to the city and county.

If they were so designated, I would  -- as a good citizen with the means to pay -- still pay the taxes and fares.  But I would at least be able to write them off as charitable contributions on my federal income taxes. 

Timeless watch

"At the tone, it’s eight o’clock, Bulova Watch Time."

Those words represent the first ever radio advertisement, the first commercial, from the year 1926.  Decades later, many radio stations still used similar language, with a tip of the hat to Bulova, to announce the time at the top of the hour.  The days were past when you had to read the time from a large clock with a swinging pendulum.   Now you could wear your own "clock" on your own wrist.

I've never owned a Bulova.  My first watch was a Mickey Mouse watch, with a red plastic wrist band.   A lot of those watches flooded the market, mainly for kids.  Even now you can get a used, running, 1950s MM watch for only $75 on e-Bay.

I had other subsequent watches, but the next one I remember well was given to me by my father when I was in high school.   It had a gold case and a gold wristband.   It had belonged to my grandfather, and then to my dad; each of their names had been engraved on the back with the dates each had received it as a gift.  I wore that watch through college.   I wish I still had it, or even could remember what happened to it.  It was a true heirloom.

All these watches had to be wound once a day.  I did so every night while getting ready for bed.   It was a habit as automatic as brushing my teeth and setting the alarm.  American ingenuity later developed "self-winding" watches; I never had one myself.  But at some point, I acquired my first digital watch.   A watch that needed no nightly attention, a watch that needed only to have its battery replaced every 18 months or two years.

Again, I don't know when I acquired my first digital watch, but I recall my most memorable one.   It was a Kenneth Cole, with a relatively small face and a narrow wristband -- perfect for my thin wrists.   It was given to me by my young nephew Denny as a birthday present in about 2000.  It was a beautiful, understated watch, and reminded me daily of Denny's generosity and good taste.   I wore it for over twenty years, until it finally gave up the ghost.

I replaced it about a year ago with a Fossil watch with a black face that I purchased on Amazon. That watch stopped running about six months after I bought it, after a period of erratic functioning. The battery may simply have given out, but I didn't try replacing it -- it was too large for my wrist, and a bit too glitzy for my taste.

I returned to Amazon last week, and ordered a very basic, very inexpensive Timex. Despite its low price (about $35), it had a slew of excellent reviews, and I recalled having a Timex at some point in my childhood.   It arrived by mail yesterday.  Its face size was much more proportional to my wrist, and the face was less attention-drawing.  Not quite as perfect as the Kenneth Cole from Denny, but I was quite pleased.

And thus surprised when it stopped running about 18 hours after it had arrived and had been strapped on my wrist.  Unlike the Fossil, I'm giving this Timex another chance.  I took it to a jewelry store today, and was promised a new battery by Saturday.  (Their watch expert was out of town.)  For a mere $25.   Yes, for about 71 percent of the purchase price of the watch, a watch that I assumed came with a fully charged battery.

I'll be happy to wear it when I receive it back, charged up and running, on Saturday.   I'm not happy with Amazon, or with the company it represented in the sale.   I left a scathing criticism and "one star" rating on their product page, and a tearful complaint on my Facebook page.

That'll show 'em!  You don't mess around with this dude, boy.  I'd demand $25 for a new battery, plus general damages for my pain and suffering, and emotional scarring.   But I just don't have the time. (Hahaha, get it?)

If it still doesn't work after a new battery is installed, I may buy that Mickey Mouse watch.  As a statement, as well as a watch.

Lonesome goose

My heart knows what the wild goose knows
And I must go where the wild goose goes.

--Wade Hemsworth

Canada geese are everywhere.  Especially in Seattle, and especially around the University of Washington.  The large lawns of the campus invite continual grazing, and the geese have learned to ignore the careless moving legs of students hurrying by.

Geese mate for life, and they graze in large flocks.  I've never seen a solitary Canada goose.  Until today.

I walked toward the campus, just across Walla Walla Road from the university's football stadium.  And there, in front of me, was a Canada goose.  A single goose.  He was pacing back and forth, as though he had lost something.  To my anthropomorphic eyes, he himself looked lost.  

He stood on the edge of the sidewalk as I approached.  He ignored me.  He was clearly habituated to human company.  But he seemed worried.  He looked like a goose who had lost his family.  His flock.  Or like a child wandering about a parking lot, on the verge of tears, seeking his parents.  As I say, I tend to anthropomorphize.

As I walked over the Montlake Boulevard footbridge, onto the campus proper, I saw the flock right in front of me.  Less than a city block from my solitary and worried friend.  They were doing what Canada geese do at this time of year.  Grazing, like a herd of cattle.  I looked back.  The lost goose was still where I left him.  He appeared about to cross Walla Walla, heading toward the stadium.  If he were to fly twenty feet or so into the air, he could look down and easily see his friends and relatives chowing down.  

He didn't fly.  But I continued my walk.  I proceeded to University Village, had coffee and a snack, and eventually -- some two hours later -- returned the way I'd come.  

The goose was exactly where I had left him.  But no longer pacing.  He had lowered himself to the ground, and was hiding his head under his wing.  His eyes peeped out at me.  He looked tired.  He looked lonely.  He looked miserable.  I approached him.  His response was that of a homeless beggar who has given up hope that anyone will help him -- he didn't move, he merely stared.

I took his photo.  Taking a photo felt like something a dense American tourist might do in Calcutta, catching sight of a starving but photogenic child. 

Unlike a beggar, the goose couldn't use money.  Nor could I show him the location of his family.  I had the urge to pick him up and carry him across the footbridge, but I wasn't totally insane.  The temperature was in the mid-40s.  He wasn't going to freeze.  But what was he going to do?  I looked back, just before walking out of sight.  He hadn't moved.

What does a Canada goose -- a gregarious animal -- do when separated from his flock?  The flock eats together, they fly together, they migrate together.  One goose must be the Chief Goose, and the rest followers.  What does a follower do when he has no leader?

I wondered if I dared return to the scene tomorrow.  Would I see the pitiful corpse of a dead goose lying in the grass?  I forwarded my photo to my Facebook page (of course I did!), with a despairing comment about the "routine cruelty of Mother Nature."

When I got home, a quick Google search relieved my anxiety to some extent.  One writer, who clearly knew her geese, wrote:

Geese are monogamous, which means they have only one mate and stay loyal to that mate. If the mate dies, the other is left alone and will eventually find a new mate, but it often takes a while. Also, perhaps like some humans, some geese may tend to be more introverted. I’ve seen perfectly healthy geese that choose to be alone. It doesn’t always mean something is wrong with them. Usually geese are found in groups, but it’s not super uncommon to see a lone goose.

Thank God, I thought.  This goose may simply be a loner, not unlike myself.  Rather than eat with the crowd, he was merely getting his bearings before spending a quiet evening at the library.

I'm not convinced.  I can't rule out that all was well, and that he was simply relaxing before going about his business.  But his aimless pacing, his dull-eyed glaze, seemed to reveal a goose who was not just wandering, upstairs, downstairs and in his lady's chamber, but in circles of growing despair.

The whole incident raised the question of "theodicy" in my mind, the issue that brought Charles Darwin to a religious crisis: How can a loving God -- even if "natural selection" is a necessary tool to enable evolution -- permit natural selection to operate in a way that creates so much seemingly unnecessary suffering?

This poor Canada goose -- who by now may well be sitting back, having a smoke with his buddies, and laughing at how he managed to get himself lost for a couple of hours -- is not the most compelling example of the cruelty of Mother Nature that so bothered Darwin.  

But he did bring the disturbing issue to mind.

Airport purgatory

Crowds flying home after Christmas, airline workforce decimated by a spike in Covid-19, and an airport unaccustomed to heavy snowfall and sub-freezing temperatures.  Stir these ingredients together, and you have an explanation for why I arrived back in Seattle over 51 hours later than originally scheduled.

My train ride from Seattle to Oxnard went off without a hitch.  I had an enjoyable couple of days with my brother and his wife at their coastal home in Oxnard.  We drove to his daughter's home in Glendale, about an hour to the south, where we celebrated a beautiful and merry Christmas.  

And then Sunday, December 26, arrived.  The date on which began the Great Snowfall of 2021 in the Pacific Northwest.  The date when more and more airline employees began phoning in ill from Covid-19.  The date and day of the week on which large numbers of holiday travelers were scheduled to travel from Los Angeles area airports -- including Burbank -- to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

My brother drove me -- innocent as a lamb -- to Burbank Airport at 10 a.m.  I always insist on arriving early for my flights, in this case for a flight scheduled to depart at 11:59 a.m.  Through the undeserved grace of Alaska Airlines, I had earlier been bumped up to First Class, and I was looking forward to a luxurious flight.  Almost immediately, however, we were advised of a half hour delay.  I thought nothing of it.  In holiday periods there is often a short delay because of the crowds.  

But one delay followed another.  

With all due respect, I should make you aware that Burbank airport has few forms of amusement for passengers awaiting flights.  Its Terminal B has one small, crowded café and a few stands selling snack food.  But finally, at about 3:30 p.m., we boarded our flight.  I settled into my First Class seat, and watched the pathetic coach class mobs file past me.  The doors were closed; we pushed back from the gate; the engines warmed up.

And continued warming up.  The crowds began squirming nervously.  Finally, after about a half hour on the tarmac, the pilot announced that Air Traffic Control in Seattle was refusing to authorize our departure from Burbank because Sea-Tac airport was closing for the day.  Disbelieving, we returned to the gate and deplaned.  A lengthy line formed at the gate desk.  Luckily, I was third in line.  They had an available seat on Tuesday -- was I interested?  I didn't try to negotiate for something better -- I grabbed it.  

I walked past the long line of my fellow passengers.  I recalled how long it had taken for the first three passengers to be processed.  But am I my brother's keeper?  I turned my thoughts to reserving two more nights at my Glendale motel.

After dropping me off, my brother had returned to Oxnard.  His daughter -- our hostess in Glendale -- was flying off with her daughter to Minneapolis.  It was just me and an inexpensive motel, situated in a mixed residential-commercial neighborhood.  The hours that followed while awaiting Tuesday's flight gave me a premonition of Purgatory -- not fun, not hellish, just long and gray and seemingly endless.  Starbucks got a lot of my food-consumption business, as did -- for one interesting dinner -- Carl's Jr. 

I returned to Burbank Airport on Tuesday at 11 a.m. -- my welcome at my motel having expired --  awaiting a flight at 1:40 p.m.  Same experience.  An additional series of delays, which -- as I posted with horror on Facebook -- seemed to be "déjà vu all over again."

We boarded, just as we had two days earlier.  We backed away from the gate.  We paused.  I held my breath.  Had I become a character out of "Groundhog Day"?  Another lengthy delay ensued, because Burbank's traffic control staff had gone home for the day, and we were being controlled from elsewhere.  But, in due time, we took off.

I was once more seated in First Class.  I drank wine and ate a small dish of salted nuts.  A complimentary cheese and fruit plate followed, with crackers and dark chocolates.  The flight was great, the service was impeccable, and the time passed swiftly.  I have no criticism of Alaska Airlines, which did everything possible for us passengers with the hand they'd been dealt.

We arrived in Seattle at about 8 p.m.  I had only to pick up my baggage and summon an Uber car. 

My baggage!  Well, some other time, folks.  This story has drifted on too long already.

Christmas carols

After a year's absence, thanks to Covid-19, it was a delight to be in the audience last night for "A Festival of Lessons & Carols," presented by the Northwest Boychoir, together with their teenage cousins, Vocalpoint! Seattle.

The performance was presented in St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral, to an audience carefully checked for proof of vaccination and the wearing of masks.  

This Christmas festival is performed (in normal times) annually, and is based on a similar service offered by King's College, Cambridge.¹  The boys file in from the rear of the cathedral in total silence.  They halt in the aisle, half way to the front.  Suddenly the cathedral is filled with the sound of a solo boy soprano, singing the haunting first verse to "Once in Royal David's City."  With the beginning of the second verse, the entire ensemble joins in, as they continue filing forward and take their places facing the audience.

Covid-19 still lurks, and there were some changes.  The boys (and girls in Vocalpoint) were all masked.  Their voices still soared, but the masks seemed to blur slightly the enunciation of the lyrics.  (Or maybe my hearing is just going bad!).  Also, the audience/congregation was not invited to join in the singing of well-known carols, as in past years, in order to limit viral spreading.  

As the program notes reminded us, the choir members were unable to practice singing together until last summer -- a year and a half during which each singer practiced alone, sitting in his bedroom, singing to his computer.  The quality has held up remarkably well.

As in past years, after singing four carols, nine young lectors from the two choirs read nine "lessons" -- scripture readings from the King James Version of the Old and New Testaments.  After each reading, the choirs sang one carol, and then a second popular seasonal carol (where the audience would ordinarily have joined in the singing).

The performance ended with an ethereal singing of "O Holy Night," and then "Joy to the World" as a recessional.

Despite the masks, the singing was beautiful and moving.  My only complaint -- and it's very subjective -- is that I could have done without the piano accompaniment during many of the carols.  It was unusually loud, and I would have preferred to hear the carols sung a capella.  An insignificant complaint.  Welcome back to live performances, boys (and girls).

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¹A YouTube recording of their inspiration: Service at the chapel of King's College Cambridge

South for Christmas

One week from this moment (5:48 p.m. PST), I will find myself about half an hour east of Eugene, Oregon.  I'll be climbing eastward across the Cascade mountains, aiming for Chemult, Oregon, where I expect to arrive at 8:13 p.m.

Aw, shucks! You guessed it!  I'll be once more traveling south by rail, en route to Oxnard, California, on Amtrak's Coast Starlight.  This will be my third trip on the Coast Starlight during 2021 -- some sort of new single-year record for me.  

I've discussed this route before.  Most extensively, and longingly, perhaps, in November 2017 when I was headed to Oxnard for Thanksgiving.  I'll just repeat that it's a train ride that lasts 34 hours, with two lunches, one breakfast, and two dinners on board.  Because I'll be traveling in a roomette, all the meals come free, including one alcoholic drink (wine, beer, cocktail) (second and third alcoholic drinks cost $7.50 each, which isn't bad for a restaurant).  

The dinner menu has been upgraded since the last time I traveled Amtrak, and now consists of a choice of appetizers (e.g., lobster crab cake), main course (e.g., grilled Atlantic salmon), and dessert (e.g., flourless chocolate torte).  I emphasize meals, because they are the main events of the day aboard a train.  Against a background activity of watching scenery, reading, snoozing, or chatting with other travelers in the lounge car.

But enough (can there ever be enough?) about the train.  I will spend a couple of days with my brother and his wife in Oxnard, walking the beach (in December!), and then drive with them to their daughter's home in Glendale for Christmas.  I'll fly home from Burbank on December 26.

Last year, as you may remember, I "celebrated" Christmas alone, in Covid-induced isolation (other than my two recently-acquired cats, of course), "feasting" on a turkey TV dinner.  Like Scrooge eating alone in his office, right?  This Christmas, I join the entire Bob Cratchit family for convivial family festivities.  (Probably no dancing, however.)  I'm eagerly looking forward to it.

But first -- I have some gift wrapping to take care of.    

Christmas cards

It's become an almost annual tradition on this blog.  My supposed farewell to the sending of Christmas cards.  

It began in 2008, when I observed how few people sent cards anymore, and how I hated to be the last person to abandon the custom.  Jumping ahead to 2016, my annual farewell was entitled "Happy whatever."  In 2018, "Dying custom."  In 2018, "Moribund."  And last year, the deceptively upbeat, "Just like the ones I used to know."

Who needs this annual downer?

This year?  Yes, I cheerfully admit I'm sending Christmas cards.  To the same folks I sent cards to last year.  About twenty, all in all.  Far fewer than my card lists of a decade or so ago, but at least the list -- this year -- isn't shrinking in size.  I bought twenty cards a few days ago.  I've now written my Christmas greetings on all but two of them.  My handwriting's getting bad, so -- if my message on the card is longer than a couple of paragraphs, I type it as a letter and enclose it in the card.

I bought Christmas stamps -- no more sticking plain old American flags on my Christmas card envelopes.  Two kinds of stamps, because the post office seemed to be running out of them-- one type secular, and the other an image of a religious painting.  I worry briefly about which person should get which, a concern my mother never had.  I use some nice looking return address stickers sent to me by a worthy charity -- even though I ignored the request for a donation.  

Starting this year, whether I receive a card from someone will no longer be a factor in deciding whether that person is worthy to be on my list.  In fact, although I'm using last year's list this year, starting next year I may actually add persons from earlier lists -- folks dropped for the silly reason that they didn't send me a card.

Yes, this is the new me, the new "true Christmas spirit" me.  No more eye for an eye.  No more measuring out my meager favors with an eye-dropper, applying exacting standards of worthiness on friends and acquaintances based on their reciprocation.

I don't mean that everyone I know gets a card.  Not even everyone I'm fond of.  I'm not a masochist, eager to spend my pre-Christmas days bent over a desk, quill and ink at hand.  Nor, on the other hand, do I propose to use a program that automatically churns out electronic cards to every address in my address book.  Amazon Customer Service won't be startled to receive an electronic card from yours truly.

But my decision of who gets a card that year, and who doesn't, will be wholly subjective.  There will be no algorithm that I can provide you.  I want to return to a perhaps-imaginary day when people sent cards to people because those were people they just felt like wishing a ... well ... an especially Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to all (card recipient or not) and a Happy New Year!  

On-campus living

Saturday, after dinner, I found myself walking in the dark across the University of Washington campus.  (During our current period of heavy rains, I've had to pick and choose the time of minimum rainfall each day to walk!)  My route took me past McMahon Hall -- the dormitory I lived in during my years of post-graduate work.  Although you might expect the dorm to be half-empty on a weekend evening, the window of virtually every room was lit up.  

It was a warm and cheerful sight, as I pushed my way along the dark and wet sidewalk, braving a slight drizzle.

And, as I've rhapsodized in earlier posts, I once more felt a strong nostalgia for my dormitory days.  And a bit sorry that -- although virtually everyone in my family has attended college -- I'm the only one, for various reasons, to have actually lived on campus.

Why?  One reason is that it's usually cheaper to find an off-campus apartment, or, if possible, to commute from home.  Another is that, at least until recently, few colleges have provided housing for married couples.  Also, many students, in my experience, come to college rather suspicious of association with the academic world -- at least full time association.  They are familiar with the high school routine of  putting in their hours at school each day, and then having the rest of the day free from school, free to enjoy on their own.  Even if many of those hours away from school have to be spent in studies and doing homework.

Perhaps the most persuasive argument in the minds of many students is a craving for independence: They're finally escaping the firm grip of their parents, and have no interest in accepting whatever other rules they feel may be imposed by university housing authorities.  

I found none of these arguments persuasive in my own case, but I understand how others feel.  And, in any event, my own university required all freshmen to live on campus.  Where, like the overwhelming majority of students at my school, I was happy to remain in the years that followed. 

Although I vaguely understand the desire to live off-campus, I think it's a mistake to decline that opportunity if you can afford to live in a dormitory.   You have an entire life after college to live privately in a house or apartment of your own, and on your own.  But you will find it difficult to ever find a group living experience again, once you leave the university.  And it's a valuable experience.

Although I hardly realized it at the time, I learned as much from the fellow students with whom I shared our common room and dining hall as I did from the lectures I attended and the books I read.  Of course, we shared our experiences with the courses and professors we had in common.  But even more important, I found myself sensing the enthusiasm that students with totally different interests from mine brought to their majors.  Many interests I have today came not from my own course work, but from rubbing shoulders with dorm mates.  (Specifically, just offhand, I think of a liking for certain forms of classical music, and an appreciation for the goals of formal landscape architecture.)

Learning comes not just from osmosis -- although formal course work sometimes consists primarily of that process.  Argument among students over issues as disparate as politics and religion, theories of history, the existence of space aliens, and the ideas advanced by various authors engaged in various forms of literature can force the student to reconsider his own opinions and assumptions -- reconsidering them in light of the success or failure of his own arguments.  The argumentative process can lead to ways of thinking that are far more permanent and sophisticated than does the mere studying for finals.

Dorms -- and by "dorms" I'm including throughout this essay fraternities and sororities and -- in my own undergraduate university -- a hybrid called "eating clubs" -- also provide purely social activities that strengthen the ties of friendship, friendships that encourage these more intellectual exchanges.  (I became a pretty fair bridge player and (I declare proudly) member of my house's bowling team!)

So, if any high school seniors bound for college next fall blunder upon this essay, let me repeat for emphasis:  If your individual situation, financial and otherwise, makes it at all possible for you to choose on-campus living -- DO IT!.  In whichever form most appeals to you.  Be one of those bright lights shining out into the darkness from McMahon Hall.

Years later, you'll be glad you did.

Leonardo da Vinci: Inventor

It had long since come to my attention that people of accomplishment rarely sat back and let things happen to them.  They went out and happened to things.  
--Leonardo da Vinci

Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) painted, of course, the Mona Lisa. He was one of the great painters of the late Italian Renaissance.  But he was also an inventor of incredible originality, often drawing up plans for devices that no one got around to implementing and trying out until centuries later.

And it is primarily his record as an inventor that is on display in a visiting exhibit now on display in Seattle's Museum of History and Industry (MOHAI), which I visited today.

Leonardo kept a record of his inventions primarily in long-hand written notes, notes illustrated by his own drawings, and notes kept on whatever scraps of paper happened to be at hand at the time.  After his death, these pages were later combined into bound volumes, called codices, which are now scattered among a number of major museums.  It was pages from these codices that are on exhibit at MOHAI.  His writings were impossible for me to read.  He not only wrote in a tiny script, in 16th century Italian, but, being left handed, he wrote backward from right to left.  

As far as I could tell from observation alone, he might as well have been writing in Saxon runes.

More impressive to the non-expert visitor than his codex pages are the physical exhibits.  Modern Italian craftsmen have built the devices that da Vinci envisioned in his notes.  Many of these are interactive exhibits, where we as museum attendees are invited to turn cranks, pull levers, and in these and other ways thus put into operation the devices ourselves.

Some of his inventions seem quite basic -- screw drives, various gear combinations. But many seem unbelievably prescient -- plans for helicopters, self-driven vehicles, air-supplied diving suits, and a large number of military weapons, weapons obviously designed to interest his patrons -- a steam-driven cannon, multiple-barrel rifle combinations, devices for scaling and breaching fortress walls, even a submarine.

One exhibit is a scale model of an ideal city, one that would avoid traffic congestion, disease, and pollution.  (I wasn't particularly impressed by the result, although I was impressed by Leonardo's desire to address these issues six hundred years ago.)

Leonardo da Vinci was obviously a genius, a more multi-faceted genius than we see often in history.  His energy and initiative were legendary.  It's sad that, at the end of his life, he considered himself a failure for not having achieved more with his many talents. 

Few of us would have felt so humble.

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Photo -- Three wheel vehicle powered by turning of hand crank.

Freedom to be stupid

In law school, we used to joke that being a trial lawyer was a tougher job than being a brain surgeon.  Why?  Because while a surgeon struggled to save a patient's life, he didn't face another doctor on the other side of the table trying to kill the patient.

Somehow, that joke has come to mind as I watch what's happening in America and -- to some extent -- in other parts of the world.

We have governments making every attempt to defeat the pandemic and, at the individual level, to save their citizens from illness and, often, death.  And in America, we seem to have approximately 40 percent of the population supporting 50 percent of the politicians in their effort to frustrate every such action taken by those governments.

Requiring immunization, with a vaccine whose development was supported by Trump himself?  Those who are now considered the moderate opposition say that vaccination should be a personal choice, disregarding the effect of each person's illness on the entire population.  The more radical right-wingers claim that the pandemic is a hoax, and that vaccination is a covert governmental method of inserting all kinds of nefarious substances into our bodies -- DNA modifiers, electronic chips to control our thoughts, you name it.

Well, we might suppose, if folks won't get vaccinated, for the sake of themselves and of their neighbors, at least they can wear masks.  "Whoa!  Over my dead body!  No one tells me I have to walk around with a mask on my face!  No one puts a mask on my kid, and denies him the wholesome oxygen his young body requires.  Don't tell me that I can't sit in a cramped airplane, shoulder to shoulder with my neighbor, without a mask!  Who do you think you are?  

Our grandparents fought wars to protect our liberty to be spoiled, selfish, self-centered, ignorant fools -- and we will fight now for that same liberty!  My neighbor?  Hell, every man for himself, I say!" 

Not only do many in the minority oppose having to wear masks themselves, they are infuriated when they see other persons wearing masks.  Thus the incidents -- admittedly only occasional -- of some lout trying to rip a mask off a stranger he encounters in a bar or even on the street.

Some Democrats mutter darkly that the Republicans want to keep the pandemic alive and kicking until the next election, in order to discredit the Biden administration.  I'm not given to such conspiracy theories.  I instead see some serious deficiencies in both the intelligence and the character of a large percentage of our population.  No intentional political chicanery is needed to bring these deficiencies to the surface -- they bubble to the surface by their very nature.

Our democracy was founded by leaders who prized rationality and good citizenship, and who grew up among fellow colonists who -- while perhaps largely uneducated -- possessed these qualities in large measure.  And when our founders entertained any doubts about the existence of those qualities, they put some limits on pure democratic government.  Hence, the original concept of the electoral college, intended -- probably too optimistically -- to serve as an elitist group of semi-aristocrats who would act in the best interest of the entire population.

However implemented, do we still have confidence in the concept of democratic government?  The irrational reaction of large portions of the American public to the pandemic, and to every effort to combat the pandemic,  leave me wondering.  

Dear Old Man ...

Where did I get the idea?  I have no idea.  Maybe it's an idea that occurs naturally to a lot of teenagers with an introspective bent.

Anyway, I was 17 years old.  And one day, I sat down and wrote a letter to myself.  To myself as a "middle-aged" 30-year-old man.  A letter not to be read until I reached that age.

As I recall, it was a reasonably long letter, but not book-length!  Maybe several handwritten pages, pages in which I poured out my heart.  I sealed it in an envelope, with something original written on the envelope -- something like "Do Not Open Until 30 Years Old."  I tossed it into the bottom drawer of my dresser, a drawer crammed with the paper effluvia of my life -- including, memorably, a little notebook from second grade filled with weekly spelling tests.

And that was the last I ever saw of my letter.  Years later, after my family had moved to a different house, while I was still in college and long before I turned thirty, I checked to see if the envelope was still waiting for me.  It was gone.  Everything else that I remembered having packed into that drawer was still there, but not my letter.

What happened to it?  I'll never know.  Maybe the same Kindly Elves who often erase adult memories of childhood embarrassments and humiliations also act on occasion to remove hard copy documentations of such silliness?

I can't remember one single thing that I said about my life, my hopes, my dreams.  Nothing.  All I remember was the preamble.  At the beginning of the letter, I more or less congratulated myself for having lived to the ripe old age of thirty.  I told my future self that I reckoned he probably was well settled into whatever career he ended up pursuing, and that I supposed he must be accustomed to showing up for work on a daily basis.  

This person I was addressing was of such an Old Age, and existed so far in the Future, that it was difficult to believe I would ever be he.

In my preamble, I added that, as I wrote my letter at 17, I dreaded ever finding myself at the age of thirty.  Nor was I all that eager for regular work hours and daily routines.

I needn't have worried.  When I actually became thirty -- yes, it happened despite my fervent wishes -- I was taking the LSAT and applying to law schools.  After considerable delay, I was somewhat belatedly preparing to enter a profession.  And by the time I reached that goal, I had found that going to work daily was -- for the most part -- a pleasure.  And the long hours I worked were nothing I begrudged.

Many 17-year-olds -- at least those who end up entering major professions -- are already licking their chops as they contemplate their future professional status.  I was not one of them.  And looking back, and comparing myself with those who were already so single-minded at 17, I have absolutely no regrets.

But I do regret the loss of my letter.  I'd give a lot to read it now. 

November rain

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All summer we prayed for rain. The moderate Northwest Corner, where even in summer the rains visit occasionally, was scalding hot and parched, week after week. In usually cool and rainy June, we had a long string of ultra-high temperatures, reaching as high as 108 degrees (42.2º C).

Then came November, and our prayers were belatedly answered.  The "Pineapple Express" -- an "atmospheric river" from the area of Hawaii.  Two of them already.  The rains were continual, day after day.  Not were continual, but have been and are continual.  My gutters are clogged.  The water overflows them, and falls in sheets upon the ground.  It overflows the gutters where two gables meet, dumping water down an unused outdoor stairway, water that then flows under an unused doorway into my basement-level garage.

My garage has water several inches deep in places, but the water luckily does not submerge the entire garage.  Why not?  Because the garage floor is slightly uneven, and at a certain depth, water seeps under the door into the basement.  From there, it crosses from one side of the basement to the other in a winding stream, ultimately disappearing into the floor drain that an architect, now long dead, cleverly thought to install near the laundry area.  

The water therefore never fills the entire garage.  Sooner or later, someone will come to unclog my gutters.  Until then, my basement drain is sufficient to maintain the status quo in the garage.

But enough of my hydrological calculations.

The days have been getting darker.  Of course they've been -- this is November.  But the dark cloud overcast has exaggerated the usual November darkness.  Not just for a day or two, but for close to two weeks.  And the rain has continued unabated -- at times, heavier than others, but virtually never ending.  The Seattle Times saw fit to devote a feature article to the inability of Seattle residents to take their daily walks.  Walks important to us not only for fitness, not only for relief of tension, but also as daily markers around which we arrange our other activities.  For some, mainly the elderly, the daily walk is their only activity, as necessary to them as a daily visit to a grocery or coffee shop might be to others.

Less daunted than many others by water, I've been walking each day even while it's raining.  I keep my eye on my phone's weather app and choose a time when the rainfall is predicted to be less formidable than others.  I've learned how misleading predictions of rainfall can be in the Northwest Corner -- even predictions over just the next two hours -- but in general the app has been helpful, even if hardly infallible.  And as I've pointed out on other occasions, I can tolerate being drenched.  I'm insoluble in water.

But life has been nevertheless gloomy.  My cats agree -- sometimes braving the elements and returning with sodden fur, other times lying listlessly about the house when they're not snapping at each other.

But today -- after heavy rains in the morning -- the gloom lifted.  The sun emerged from the clouds.  The sun! The Golden Orb of legend!  Within minutes, some of the water was already draining from the sidewalks.  The temperature rose to 61 degrees (16º C).  My cats perked up and hastened to the window to check out developments..

I slipped on a jacket -- I didn't trust the rain not to slyly return -- and went for a walk in the Arboretum.  My God!  It was beautiful!  Everything stood out, so crisp and fresh!  The trees -- many of which still retain much of their autumnal color-- stood out against a partially blue sky.  Birds were flitting around.  

And for at least the first half hour, the normally well-trod paths of the Arboretum were empty, except for me.  I had beat everyone to the outdoors, and enjoyed a short time of solitary communion with nature.

Since then, we may have had a shower or two, but it's predicted to be generally clear skies until Thursday, and then more clear skies from Friday through Sunday.

Yeah, I know.  My weather app lies.  But I'll believe it for as long as I can.  Dryness!  I hope for dryness!  And sunshine!

Here comes the sun do, do, do
Here comes the sun
And I say it's all right.

--The Beatles

من در اردیبهشت ماه به ایران می

Eight months ago, I announced in this blog that I had signed up for a trip to Iran in October 2021.  My post received a surprisingly large number of hits.  Possibly -- no, probably -- because I titled it in Persian (Farsi).

In July, with tail between my legs, I announced that I had postponed the trip a year, until October 2022.  I was concerned partly by the Covid-19 situation in Iran, but primarily because I wanted to join relatives in Italy at about the same time.

I am now happy to announce that I've moved the Iran trip up to May 2022 -- just six months from now.  The trip is being organized by a major adventure company.  I inquired how many travelers had signed up for the trip for the two dates.  I was told that only I was signed up for October, but that they had one person already signed up for May.

Now, with my decision, the May date has two eager tourists signed up.  The trip can handle six to sixteen members, and will not run with fewer than six.  So I have to hope that in coming months four more persons are interested enough in Iran -- an extremely interesting country, both for its history and its present position in international affairs -- to sign up.

As I mentioned in my earlier post, this will be the second time I've traveled in Iran.  I know from first hand experience what a beautiful and fascinating  country  it is.  I look forward eagerly and hopefully to a May visit.
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Photo -- School kids clowning around in Tehran. (2011)

Light rail delirium

So.   I hopped on the light rail at the U-District station earlier this afternoon, and rode downtown.

Frequent readers of my blog can sense it coming -- another meditation on rapid transit.  They have seen all too often my obsession with all forms of rail travel, from transcontinental railroad travel to short urban streetcar rides.

And they would be correct.  Until a month ago, I would have been unable to write that initial sentence, because until October 2, there was no functioning U-District station.  Sound Transit's one light rail line in King County -- recently renamed somewhat grandiosely the "One Line" -- I say "grandiosely" because so far the One Line is the only line -- extended only as far north as Husky Stadium on the southeast corner of the University of Washington campus.

But, after years of preparation, tunneling, and construction, the One Line has finally pushed 4.3 miles farther north to Northgate -- the site of the allegedly first indoor shopping center in the nation, and of North Seattle Community College.  Besides Northgate, the One Line has new stations in the U-District on Brooklyn Avenue just off N.E. 45th (a station that will be more convenient for most students at the UW than the one beside the stadium), and the Roosevelt station at 12th Avenue N.E. just off N.E. 65th.

The rail line goes underground at the Chinatown/International District station, just south of downtown, not to emerge until just before reaching Northgate.  Construction above ground -- both surface and elevated -- is far faster than tunneling underground, and the One Line will be extended another 8.5 miles above ground north to Lynnwood by 2024.  The extension will include two stations in Shoreline, and a station in Mountlake Terrace.

Needless to say, I wriggle with delight at these developments.  And I'm not even discussing the Two Line, whose initial route will also open in 2024, serving the eastern side of Lake Washington, with nine stations strung across east Seattle, Mercer Island, Bellevue, and southerm Redmond. 

The day the Northgate extension opened, I was on an early train from the station nearest my house (University of Washington station) to Northgate.  I milled about the new station with other enthusiasts, and followed the walkway and the new footbridge from the station across I-5 to the community college.  I then rode back as far as the new U-District station, from which it was an easy walk home.  (I knocked off the remaining Roosevelt station within a day or two later.)

Last month's extension, together with the 2024 Lynwood extension, is expected to serve a large number of commuters from north Seattle and its northern suburbs -- workers traveling to jobs in downtown Seattle, and students traveling to the UW. With the concurrent addition in 2024 of the line serving the east side of the Lake, the light rail system will reduce the burden on the existing highway system and allow travelers to skim right past (or under) traffic jams that have in recent years become almost constant.

Our light rail system still won't allow residents to get around to all parts of town as easily as New Yorkers do on their subway system, or even as folks in Boston can on their much smaller system.  As a consolation, I suppose, our cars are much cleaner, quieter, and more comfortable than those of either New York or Boston.

None of these extensions will be particularly useful to me as a practical matter.  The route as it existed before last month already permitted me to ride to my two primary destinations -- downtown and the airport.  But you can bet that I'll be riding the rails to each new station as it opens -- but strictly as the railroad tourist that I so obviously am.

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Photo:  Northgate Station on the first day it was open.