There's a bittersweet quality to this post. For ten years I've been warmly supported by my reader-followers at Scosche of Class, but I now find it necessary to retire this blog. The better news is that I have begun a new chapter with my Wordpress blog, JT McKenna Writes. (It promises greater "functionality" - let's hope that's true!) Please trek on over and sign up to receive automatic email notifications whenever a new post is published. Let the conversation continue, friends!

JT McKenna Writes

The Idea of Fairness in the Context of Dog Ownership

 I’m curious to know if other dog owners do this: if I give one dog a treat, I have to give the other one a treat, and it must be of equal value. It isn’t as if I don’t know that within three seconds the slighted one will have forgotten the whole affair and already be scampering into the family room to play with a toy that he or she has spotted in the center of the rug, the same one that he or she abandoned six seconds earlier to score that treat I was offering. Or, if I spend 10 minutes playing fetch with one, I will be reassuring the other for the entire 10 minutes that they’ll get their turn and can reasonably expect 10 minutes of fetch play. 

 

Why do we persist with this idea of fairness when they don’t care (at least as soon as the “injustice” has terminated)? I invite you to reflect on our practice of fairness with our canine companions; can you think of your own examples?

Mastering Those Boxes and Boxes of Photos

Let me begin by declaring that I’m as sentimental as they come. Be that as it may, I recently realized that the number of photos that I’ve taken or acquired has reached unmanageable proportions, and leaves me with no choice but to thin the population. Just the number of boxes has me in an anxious state of mind. A plan - what to save and how to save it - is what I need.

 

We save photographs because they provide us with fond memories of events and people; they’re the perfect - and instant - trigger. There are, of course, secondary reasons for collecting or saving photos, but my hope here is to curate a kick-ass family photo collection. I no longer want to approach any given box of photos with dread or even resignation. It should be a pleasurable experience to pull out a box or album and meander down memory lane. It would be especially helpful if all those photos were organized. 

 

Today’s the day that I implement my new approach and share my “wisdom” with all of you!

Observations:

 

1.  So many otherwise beautiful photographs are ruined by the presence of utility lines or cars or both.

2.  Ten million photos of one trip may be meaningful or precious, but only to the person who took that trip. Is more necessarily better?

3.  Ten million baby pictures of your first-born may be meaningful or precious, but only to you. . . and probably your first-born. Regardless of your first-born’s opinion on the matter, this is a case where “less is more”. Just like they do with Christmas presents, children - especially those further down the ladder - keep careful track of the numbers.

4.  Ten million pictures of your only child could be reduced by 95% and no one would notice a substantial difference.

5.  I sometimes will save a photo that has several family members just because it has several family members in it, not because it’s a good picture. (I wonder if I’m trying to prove that we “get together” on a regular basis. It may also be that I unconsciously place higher value on photos of large groups than those with only one or two people.)

6.  There are just some people in your family that will always ruin the group picture, either naturally or by design.

7.  There are also some family members that, try as they might, they can’t seem to look normal in any picture.

Recommendations:

 

1.  With all photos that you intend to keep or scan, identify - if known - who, where, and when on the back. Do it now! (You’ll never get to it later because it becomes a real hassle when you have dozens and dozens, maybe even hundreds or thousands, that need it.)

2.  Give or throw away duplicates.

3.  Throw away photos that have uncomfortable memories. (If the uncomfortable memory is one you shouldn’t or don’t want to revisit, that’s just masochism, and some memories are so uncomfortable that you won’t need the physical reminder - you’ll remember the moment anyway.)

4.  Like with #3, throw away photos of people whose presence in your life have made it less joyous.

5.  Scan photos that will have enduring meaning. (Hopefully, you’ll understand which ones fall into that category.)

6.  If you inherit someone else’s trip photos, decide on only one or two to save (if any). Remember, the trip was their memory, not yours.

7.  If you acquire photos of ancestors, scan them, even if you don’t know the subjects at that moment. If you know which family they belonged to, send them on their way in that direction. Historical societies are great repositories for old photos with known connections.

8.  Save individual photos that stand apart for their artistic quality; frame them and create or add to a gallery. Don’t leave that for some vague future point in time.

9.  Make a separate pile for the photos that you think would be more appreciated by others. (At the end of your re-organization, you can mail those with personalized notes or cards.)

10.  Save one embarrassing photo of each member of your family and let them know of its existence. (You may need it down the road; get what I’m saying?)

When you find it hard to part with a photo, consider:

 

1.  If the feet &/or top of the head are cut off, toss it (even if you find yourself saying, “Aw, but that’s Tom dancing with his niece Lindsey; they look so cute!”)

2.  Is the photo flattering to the featured subjects? (Closed eyes are not flattering to anyone, by the way.)

3.  Is it blurry? (You should know what to do with it.)

4.  Is it featuring the back of someone’s head? (Even if you know that that’s the only photo you have of your great-uncle Stuart, it’s not really of any value.)

5.  Is there no hope of identifying the subject(s)? (Why are you saving it?) 

6.  Would this picture be more meaningful to someone else? (If so, give it to him/her.)

7.  If the picture is essentially only a record of what everyone brought to a gathering, it is of low value. (I’m amazed at how many photos I had of buffet settings.) Often, the array of food distracts enough to ruin an otherwise decent picture.

8.  Was the picture taken in the late 60's? (Yuh, you'll generally just want to remove any physical reminders of that brief era.)

 

Even if only a few of these ideas speak to you, you should be in a better place with your family photo collection. Hopefully, you’ve been inspired by my data-driven and very sciency observations and proven strategies tested across a broad swath of industry participants.

 

Good luck with your own photo collection project!

Standing at the Edge

Recently, while I was reviewing and sorting a boxful of old photos, I came across an envelope containing a series of aerial photos of a property that my mom and two of her siblings owned on the southern coast of Massachusetts. Manomet Bluffs, the neighborhood in which their house stood, continues to stand sentinel at the very margins of our east coast, stoically resisting the relentless pounding of the Atlantic Ocean, but steadily surrendering, a clod or two at a time, its tenuous grasp. The photos I held in my hand made shockingly apparent that the little house on the bluff (affectionately - and always with droll effect - called “Blind Man’s Bluff” because my uncle was blind) was at great risk of tumbling into the sea.

They kept up the gambit for ten years, filling their tiny home with treasures found on their beach-combing adventures directly below the house in the lee of the bluff. As much as they loved that perch with its constant ocean breezes, stunning views across Cape Cod Bay, and their “4:00 somewhere” outlook on life, they knew it was a matter of time before their back yard collapsed into the Atlantic. In the back of their minds, they must have known that their small-scale measures were inadequate; the salubrious, composted slurry that they mixed up daily in their kitchen and cast over the edge of the bluff was no doubt seasoned with a fervent sense of wishful thinking, maybe even swathed in a prayer to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It’s not hard to imagine them examining closely, but with diminishing hope, for signs that their vegetable concoction had taken literal hold of the unstable bluff. After exhausting the typical homeowners’ efforts to arrest the advance of the ocean (in your desperation irrationality can be forgiven), with hearts heavy but minds clear, they sold their little piece of heaven. 

            I live ninety miles north of Manomet Bluffs, also on the coast, but, because I’m an especially cautious person - and a worrier - not right on the water. When I take my dogs for their daily walk, I often alternate between the rail trail right behind my house and the Salisbury Beach State Reservation, 2 miles away. When the cold weather creeps into our region, usually by the end of October, I have a selfish expectation that “The Rez” will - as ever - revert to the quiet sanctuary that encourages private thought and a solitary appreciation of its natural gifts. One lap around the empty campground with a slight deviation out to the boat launch where Black Rock Creek meets the Merrimack River gives me just enough time to re-arrange my scattered thoughts, and, of course, re-invigorate me. My two dogs, likewise, lean into the activity, responding to the restorative qualities of The Rez. They’re eager (more so than I) to sprint along the seawall and cavort at river’s edge, maybe even lap at the briny water (which, of course, they’ll promptly throw up). The further away from the parking lot we move, the more immersed we become in our own pursuits. 

            So, on this particular morning, I almost don’t notice the low grumbling sound from across the river. Looking over to Plum Island on the opposite bank, I can just make out the bobbing motion of a large piece of machinery as it excavates sand. Large excavators on a barrier beach attract attention that extends beyond the surrounding communities, but people with homes directly on the ocean (Plum Island sits at the confluence of the Atlantic Ocean and the Merrimack River) are the ones who live in a constant state of anxiety; weather forecasts, for them, hold as great an interest as professional sports, and this storm season has been an especially active one. In fact, as I’m squinting to see what’s happening on Plum Island, I remember that the meteorologists warned of a one-two punch with astronomically high tides and a storm well out to sea but still near enough to menace the coast. Curious, I steer the dogs onto the beach on the ocean side and stand mutely as I take in the scene - lobster traps and buoys, giant mounds of rocked, and random lumps of wood litter the sand. Looking north along the length of the beach, I’m alarmed by the magnitude of the damage, and this one wasn’t even a direct hit. Deep gouges have been carved by the punishing waves. In both the near distance and far, I see dangling stairways - the fragile connecting tissue between homes and their coveted spots on the beach - hovering well above the sand. 

            None of this suggests a new pattern, it should be noted. Forty years ago, and ninety miles south of here, my mom and her two siblings were watching with similar apprehension as each storm pummeled their segment of the coast. And just like then, it serves to underscore that Mother Nature enjoys a lopsided advantage in her enduring battle with mankind. 

When you fall in love with the place you adopt as your home, whether that be on the ocean or a river or a prairie, you pay attention to physical changes. . . and you worry, or at least you should worry. Inasmuch as we’d like to rely on our planet’s adaptability, by continuing to invoke divine intervention (and if not that, then the ministrations of local, state, and even federal government), we fail to perceive the “use by” date; in other words, we risk everything by failing to heed environmental warnings. 

 

The Merrimack River, which I can see from my attic window, is always spoken of in terms of its ability to bounce back from adversity, the “Resilient Merrimack”, it’s often called. Surging, cascading, and gliding along its 117-mile course, it supplies over half a million people with drinking water, all the way up into central New Hampshire.  Many of the cities throughout the Merrimack Valley, in fact, owe their very existence to this river. Follow the river inland and you pass through Haverhill, Lawrence, Lowell, on into New Hampshire and cities such as Nashua, Manchester, Hooksett, Concord, Franklin. None of these cities would have endured without the empowering waters of the Merrimack.

As someone who is passionate about family history, I remain fascinated by one ancestral family’s migrations after arriving in the United States in the worst year of the Famine, 1848. My great-great-grandparents, Patrick and Mary Catherine McKenna, both textile mill operatives, moved with their five children from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to Lawrence, Massachusetts, then to Manchester, New Hampshire, and finally to Lowell, Massachusetts, all mill towns. Theirs was the quintessential immigrant experience, planting them - at least historically - in the center of one of our region’s most evocative narratives. The same river that carried contaminants to the sea also served as a conduit for thousands of factory operatives who each week, in an effort to escape the toxic air that they breathed 
into their lungs all week long, journeyed by steamboat to the pier at Black Rocks. Whenever I pass by the spot along the river where steamboats used to disgorge their passels of day-trippers, I form a mental image of the smiling, joking 19^th century travelers, giddily inhaling the sweet aroma of the Atlantic and sinking their weary feet into the therapeutic sands the moment they arrived. A single jagged line of barnacle- and kelp-encrusted wood pilings embroidered across the smooth sand is all that remains. There is enduring comfort in imagining, though, that my forbears, the McKennas, were part of the crowd that jostled with their full picnic baskets, eager to be among the first off the boat.

We can be grateful that the factories’ practice of dumping their toxins directly into this vital resource for close to 150 years was halted by the Clean Water Act of 1972. Our robust but sorely distressed Merrimack has had time to recover, but - at the same time - as the beneficiaries who enjoy a much cleaner river, it is our tacit responsibility to (at minimum) remain alert to both the obvious and concealed threats to its health.

Plum Island homeowners, I learn, in yet another effort to disrupt the sustained assault by the ocean, recently obtained a consequential legal dispensation that is permitting them to erect a barrier using giant rocks, and to install coil bags (along with wood pilings to immobilize the bags). Earlier efforts, involving the positioning of “Super Sacks”, were an unmitigated disaster; not only did they tend to rip apart, making the beach look like a dumping ground, but the general substance - plastic, tons upon tons of it, well, let’s just agree that coir, a natural alternative, is healthier for the environment. It’s not for me to pass judgment on beach homeowners’ determination to save their property. I would want to do the same. 

The little house high on Manomet Bluff, meanwhile, still stands. The vegetation clinging to its escarpment, too, has resisted - so far - the steady onslaught of severe storms. With no promising sign that the trend will reverse itself (in fact, the data make abundantly clear that ocean storms are becoming more intense and more frequent, and that sea levels are steadily rising); I nevertheless see it as a reminder of nature’s fighting spirit, and it gives me hope. 

           I hold great reverence and gratitude for the gifts of nature that I enjoy - the image of a Northern Harrier as it glides silently above the expansive flat salt marshes, the sound of seagulls quarreling over a clam, the glistening and dancing surface of the river, the sweet smell of the ocean that never gets stale. I meanwhile stand humbled in the knowledge that as bountiful and generous and feisty as nature is, as resilient as it appears in some ways, it is also very fragile. Conservationists have it right, in my mind. They evaluate the needs and wants of us humans in the broader context of what is best for the environment, and you better believe that they are paying close attention to what the earth is trying to tell us. 

It’s quite possible that I inherited my love of long views - the literal kind - from my mother. The house I grew up in was on a hill, and had 360° views; we could have our breath taken away by both sunrises and sunsets. It was possible that twice in a single day I’d be able to go to one of the windows in my bedroom, rest my chin on cupped hands, and let the colors at the horizon arrange and rearrange in front of my eyes like a kaleidoscope. Being able to put your mind on the far limits allows you to extrude the unpleasantness that life sometimes crowds in upon you. Your world transforms more easily into one of possibility. . . and hope. Similarly, for stakeholders who hope to achieve symbiosis with nature, it seems essential that we “see the forest”. As hard as it may be, in this instance we need to check our emotions and let reason prevail; put another way, we must strike the balance between measures that, say, provide relief for built landscapes and those that aim to protect the natural landscape. There’s no easy answer, and sometimes when you’re the one standing at the edge of a cliff, the long view is perhaps the only one that serves your interests. (Unless, of course, you have greater faith in divine intervention, in which case you might want to queue up a few healing prayers for Mother Mary, and pray for a miracle. Or hedge your bets, and do both.)

 

 

 

Is Owning a Camper in my Future? (August 19, 2021)

 

When my sister and brother-in-law drove up with their new RV last year, my heart inexplicably did a little pitter-patter.  I’m in that class of adults whose last camping experience was when my children were little.  It was fun, but then it stopped being fun when they grumbled about having to be separated from their friends (if said friends were not invited along, and since I preferred keeping things simple, their friends were typically not invited.) And the last time before that when I thought camping was fun was when I was little.  It, too, ceased to be fun when I began to prefer the company of my friends who, of course, were not allowed to join us.

Now, in the early morning as I sip my coffee, my relaxing ritual of conjuring both ventures and adventures yet explored includes the camping life.  It seems necessary to point out here that I am a regular visitor at the Salisbury Beach State Reservation, an enormously popular camping destination, and I love it. . . in the winter. . . when few people are present and the space between is far enough so conversation would be inconvenient.*  (To learn a little bit about the history of Salisbury Beach, read my post “Salisbury Beach’s Original South End” - http://scoscheofclass.blogspot.com/2021/02/salisbury-beachs-original-south-end.html.)  

 

I think what I like best about the idea of camping - even more than the opportunity to enjoy nature - is the ease of being alone among people.  (I bet I was really good at parallel play when I was a toddler.)  In my morning musings I make all kinds of mental lists - places I’d like to visit, RV options, outdoor activities that complement my personality, necessary gear, recipe ideas, and cute names for my camper, to name a few.  It seems that each day, my thinking about camping expands, which tells me that it’s time to make my lists more durable and seriously weigh all the pros and cons.  In other words, I think I’m getting serious about joining the itinerant community.  It might just be my wildest dream to date, but I see myself crossing the United States in a camper with my little doggies, finally seeing our country’s interior and furthest reaches for the first time.  I’d love to be able to take in the majesty of natural wonders such as the Grand Canyon, the Badlands, and the Redwood Forest.  In the meantime, as I’ve been counseled by a well-meaning sister, I should “try before I buy”.  This weekend will be my first return to camping in over 25 years.  It’s debatable whether it truly classifies as camping; I’m doing the “glamping” thing.  As you can see, I’m easing myself in nice and slow!  And, as part of my efforts at self-improvement, whereby I endeavor to counteract my solitary tendencies, I will set an arbitrary goal of meeting and talking to at least four strangers. . . the safe-looking ones, not the creepy-looking ones.  It’s a process.  (Tom and Marg will be nearby, so I needn’t feel threatened. . . and if you know Tom, the chances are high that we’ll be meeting all kinds of new people.)

 

Here’s one list (in no particular order; it includes only places I’ve never been):

 

“Places I’d Like to Visit”. (or “Things I’d Like to See”)

• Niagara Falls, NY
• Hudson Valley, NY
• Redwood Forest, CA
• The Grand Tetons, WY
• Lincoln’s Tomb, IL
• Shenandoah Valley, VA
• Lewis & Clark National Historical Park, OR
• Grand Canyon, AZ
• Gettysburg, PA
• Key West, FL

 

Feel free to offer one of your own suggestions for places to visit. 

(I’ll keep y’all posted on how the weekend goes; the good, the bad, and the ugly.)   

*To be fair (to myself, at least), I do enjoy the company of others, but in small doses.  These days, people exhaust me, and so, whenever I have plans to be with friends or family, I have to have an exit strategy already formulated.  Many are the times that I abruptly and clumsily take my leave, causing others to wonder if they might have said or done something that caused me offence.  Nope, it’s (almost) never the case that they have behaved badly; it’s just that my threshold has been reached.  I’m working out the reasons why this is the case and why it seems more exaggerated at this stage of my life, but I’ll leave that deconstruction for later.

An Imperfect Understanding of How Viruses Work

I just knew my younger daughter would be the best source of basic information for my science question.  She has a knack for explaining complicated concepts as if I were eight years old, and I never take offence.  It’s actually quite liberating, as I get to ask my questions in non-sciency ways.  Inevitably, she’ll have to rein me in whenever my imaginings stray too far into the realm of fantasy or I anthropomorphize just a wee bit too much, which is typical behavior on my part because it’s so fun to imagine life’s scientific mysteries that way.  

 

My burning question, this time, is, Why do viruses want to kill people; don’t they depend on them being alive to sustain the species?  Words like “host” and “natural selection” and “replication” don’t come to me easily.  Instead, my end of the conversation features imagery such as “stealthy shape-shifters”, “bullies”, “jackbooted soldiers sporting little mustaches that invite comment”.  

 

With my own middle child attitude of “can’t we all just get along?”, it really gets my goat that there are viruses (just like people) who eschew the mutually beneficial relationship and gains that symbiosis offers us.  The recent Delta variant of the Coronavirus bears special scrutiny here because it appears, in my mind, to be too greedy.  Its spear-brandishing conquest has proven to be scarily effective, but even worse, it is downright lethal.  My daughter happily assures me that it is not the design of the virus to kill off its host.  Well, “assures” is perhaps not the best way to capture the reality of what’s going on, nor to characterize how I respond. To prove her point, my daughter invokes the common cold as an exemplar of a virus that has perfected its game.  It can assure its longevity because it doesn’t kill its host, yet it can - with a desultory wave of the hand (or tendril) - easily replicate. Moreover, with its over-arching and innate desire(?) to guarantee survival of the species, the virus, at least collectively, must undergo the process of natural selection. . .  just as all species must.  After all, every species wants to be represented by the best and the brightest.  (Think Olympic athletes such as Simone Biles or Usain Bolt.)  It is likely that we have all, at one time or another or on many occasions, used the expression “survival of the fittest”, but we rarely take pause to consider any meaning beyond a metaphoric or pedestrian application.  

 

Every living organism is equipped with the ability to adapt or mutate.  We can be forgiven if we view mutation as something negative or undesirable.  After all, if we have spent an entire childhood calling younger brothers “mutants”, the reflexive association that we make tends toward the unpleasant or undesirable.  But mutation, just a more sciency way of connoting the more esoteric process of adaptation, is necessary for species survival.   We are, in fact, engineered for continuous adaptation.  

 

Consider the highly adaptive mosquito.  Entomologists who study mosquitos have long given up on the ideal of a mosquito-free world.  (And, really, it’s a dangerous ideal to exterminate an entire species.)  Once again, natural selection has assured that “the best and the brightest” will survive.  Decades of aggressive efforts to eradicate the most dangerous animal in the world through pesticides (such as DDT) failed to achieve this goal, but that doesn’t mean that mosquitos are completely dominating the game.  We should enjoy a measure of relief that scientists have broadened their thinking, and are coming up with very creative ways to reduce mosquito populations.  Listening to an NPR show about a month ago, I was amazed to learn that only about three species (out of some 3,000 different species of mosquitos) wreak all the disease havoc (Zika, West Nile, Yellow Fever, Dengue Fever, Malaria).  Because the field of genetics has exploded in recent years, we’re witnessing an exciting, creative surge.  The best ideas target specific species, the inherent value being that there is less chance of disrupting the balance of nature through unintended consequences.  One lab is engaged in a program whereby they breed male mosquitos that  transfer some type of toxic gene to their offspring, and the babies all die.  (A little bit sad, in a way; you gotta feel for those poor parents!). Another program targets sterility (and don’t ask me how, because all I can imagine is a row of white-coated lab technicians bent over their benches with scalpels as they perform vasectomies on male mosquitos who cry out in uncharacteristically high voices, “Please, you don’t have to do this!”) 

 

My daughter once again reins me in, and turns the conversation to viruses that, perhaps, haven’t been as successful in their adaptive behaviors.  If you remember, several years ago everyone was panicking about the SARS virus.  And then. . .  it just went away.  What did it fail to do, or how didn’t it adapt?  One of the most significant ways in which that virus differed from COVID-19, even though the two are closely related in other significant ways, was that transmission was more apt to happen if the infected person was symptomatic.  This makes a huge difference because contagious people could be isolated, and thus the disease could be contained and ultimately extinguished.  It wasn’t that SARS became dormant; it wasn’t that stupid or without options - it jumped to bats. . . and bided its time.  And, one thing I’ve learned - just recently - is that give a virus space and time and it will evolve, it will hone its skills.  So, in 2019, re-packaged as SARS-CoV-2, the virus jumped from bats back into humans.  Top management had ironed out the earlier deficiencies surrounding transmission, but the newer strain was not as deadly.  But, darn it, along comes the Delta variant, and it is proving to be even more highly transmissible. . . and even more deadly. . . AND it has apparently adopted a scornful, dismissive attitude toward the vaccinated, resulting in breakthrough cases.  (This new variant is expressing open dismay that it’s not enjoying attendant success if measured by how sick it can make vaccinated people.  You can bet the power brokers of the viral world are working on that shortfall, however.)

 

That, my friends, is how adaptation works, that is adaptation at the highest levels!  It would be wise not to underestimate those nefarious little evildoers.  In fact, we humans could do more in terms of our own (purposeful) adaptation.  So, stock up on bulk-size volumes of hand soap  and, of course, hand sanitizer (both very effective in destroying virus cells).  (I won’t even state the obvious about masks and social distancing, other than to. . . well, you can guess.)

 

Interesting facts and other asides about viruses. . . and breakdancing:

 

They cannot be grown artificially; I think this means that, in a way, they are parasitic - they need a live host cell to do their evil machinations.  

Adaptation:  humans take about 20 years (i.e., one generation), viruses take minutes.

Being a seamstress (or sewist, if you will), I can appreciate - when it comes to the sizing of individual viruses - the staggering aggregate suggested when it is stated that billions of insouciant individual viruses can launch into unrestrained break-dancing on the head of a pin without so much as tripping over the next individual virus, whose oxygen-enriched face is slightly scrunched up as it transitions from a head spin to a back flip, not for an instant risking a great tumble from the head of that pin.

Breakdancing will make its Olympic debut in 2024. 

A highly satisfying solution to mosquito attacks is “The Executioner”.  You can bat away at them and revel in the glorious sound of “zap” every time you connect.  (I have a dark side, people.)