California Ballot propositions

A few years ago, I got involved with a group of aging dinosaurs in the local area that are very interested in local politics.  (I kid - several of the group members are under 75, and very few require supplemental oxygen!)  The group, known as ACT, has been actively involved in Pasadena area politics for over thirty-five years, and is a non-partisan (but most members are democrats) liberal-leaning group.  We have detractors on the other side of the aisle (and some on this side of the aisle) but I think the group is engaged and informed on the issues.  Additionally, ACT members are very involved in local and regional boards, commissions, foundations and issues.  I have been very fortunate to be a member of this vibrant group, and I have personally learned a great deal about local and statewide politics.  This is what civics class should really be - learning about the issues that effect your community, and actively participating in that community. 

I'm currently co-chair of the ACT Research committee.  We have two main roles on the committee: research and make recommendations on ballot propositions, and interview and make recommendations on candidates for local office.  In September, we met to discuss the upcoming California Ballot propositions.  Members of the committee research the propositions.  Then our committee meets and debates and votes on these propositions.  Then the larger ACT Steering committee considers our recommendations.  

If you want to read the details of the research committee report, you can download (free!) at the ACT website, link below.   For your convenience, here is our summary of ACT's Proposition endorsements for the November election: 

• Prop 19:  YES  (11 - 0 - 7)  LEGALIZES MARIJUANA UNDER CALIFORNIA BUT NOT FEDERAL LAW
• Prop 20:  YES  (18 - 0 - 0)  REDISTRICTING OF CONGRESSIONAL DISTRICTS
• Prop 21:  YES  (16 - 2 - 0)  ESTABLISHES $18 ANNUAL VEHICLE LICENSE SURCHARGE TO HELP FUND STATE PARKS
• Prop 22:  NO  (13 - 1 - 3)   PROHIBITS THE STATE FROM BORROWING OR TAKING FUNDS FROM LOCAL GOV'T
• Prop 23:  NO  (17 - 0 - 0)   SUSPENDS IMPLEMENTATION OF AIR POLLUTION CONTROL LAW 
• Prop 24:  YES  (17 - 0 - 0)  REPEALS RECENT LEGISLATION THAT WOULD ALLOW BUSINESSES TO LOWER THEIR TAX LIABILITY
• Prop 25:  YES  (17 - 0 - 0)  CHANGES LEGISLATIVE VOTE REQUIREMENT TO PASS BUDGET TO A SIMPLE MAJORITY
• Prop 26:  NO  (17 - 0 - 0)   REQUIRES THAT CERTAIN STATE AND LOCAL FEES BE APPROVED BY TWO-THIRDS VOTE
• Prop 27:  NO  (16 - 1 - 0)   ELIMINATES STATE COMMISSION ON REDISTRICTING

http://actpasadena.org/

Playing catch

Over the past weekend, we brought our sons to a sporting goods shop and picked out their first baseball gloves. I remember playing little-league baseball as a boy, and playing catch with my dad was something special.  When my sons were born, one of my very first dad feelings was knowing that someday, I would play catch with my boys.  I can only describe it as something in my DNA, like how those little baby turtles know to scurry into the ocean as soon as they hatch.  When I became a dad, that future moment was hard-wired into me.

Seven years later, that moment was here.

Sure, we had played catch before, with whiffle balls, footballs, and frisbees.  But this was the whole package:  my sons and I in the back yard, playing catch with a baseball, wearing our baseball gloves.

Kazuo, being two years older, was a bit better than Eiji, but they both enjoyed it.  I tried my best to give them good throws, and showed them how to squeeze the glove closed.  It was nice.  Kazuo was smiling so much.  It felt nostalgic, as if watching though sepia colored lenses.  It brought back some nice memories too.

One memory was my very first time signing up for Little League.  I was so eager to play!  But my birthday was 10 days past the September 1st cut-off date.  My dad knew that, but it didn't stop him from bringing me to the American Legion Hall on registration day and trying his best to get me on a team.  He wasn't able to convince them to break the rules for me, and I was very sad.  But to this day I remember fondly that he tried.

I recalled another memory as I tucked my sons into bed that night.  I know that I was a fairly average baseball player - I played a lot of second-base and right-field, if you catch my drift.  But I enjoyed the game, and played until I was in the 8th grade.  That year, my team was actually quite decent, and we made it to the championship game.   I told my sons about that game.  Going into our last at-bat, we were trailing 4-1.  We didn't give up - and in fact, we managed to load the bases.   And in one of those moments that seemed to ooze destiny, it was my turn to bat, with two outs in the last inning, the bases loaded, trailing by 3 runs.  I did the math.  A homerun would win the game.  I remember I was holding a red aluminum bat.  It was the smallest and lightest bat available.   I remember having butterflies in my stomach, and sort of wishing one of the better players was up at bat instead of me.  I remember our coach, Mr. Goudreau, having all the confidence in the world as he sent me to the plate.  "Just try your best", he said.

And I remember hitting the ball farther than I had ever hit the ball in my life.

It soared to the right centerfield fence.

The right fielder ran back, all the way to the fence.  He reached up with his glove.  And he caught the ball.

I explained to my sons that daddy's team lost the game.  But the important thing, I tried to make clear, so many years later, is how I played the game.

A few weeks after that game, at the Little League awards night, Mr. Goudreau gave a nice speech about that game, and my hit, and how time stood still as we all watched that ball fly toward the fence.  And then he gave me that red aluminum bat.  And everybody clapped.  Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if that ball did go over that fence.  It seems weird, but looking back as a dad, I'm sort of glad it didn't.

Paul Winslow Sawyer 1934-2010

Over this past weekend I attended a moving memorial tribute to my friend and neighbor, Reverend Paul Sawyer.  I had only known him for a half-dozen years, but his life was literally larger-than-life.  At his memorial service, someone referred to him as "our brother from another planet", an attempt to describe his super-powers of compassion and tireless devotion to the causes he championed. I have never met anyone with such a singular focus on helping other people - especially people without a voice, people without hope. 

I wasn't a member of his congregation, but I was lucky enough to have many conversations with him. He'd rap on my door, sometimes at surprising hours, to let me know about an event or a protest of some sort.  Our conversations touched upon community organizing, community-based police with a real citizens oversight board, ending war, the media, freedom, justice, ending the death penalty, education and history.  It seemed as if whenever and wherever I attended a meeting, or a rally, or a fundraiser relating to peace and social justice, Reverend Sawyer was there.  Sometimes he'd come up to me and say "Great to see you - any chance you can give me a ride home?"   It was as if earthly matters, like getting from place to place, was not a worry of his.  He was absorbed in life. 

I remember the first time I tried to enlist him in a cause of mine. His wife Susan escorted me to their back yard, where Paul was engaged in Tai-Chi. I noticed he was wearing an arrest bracelet.  Getting arrested for standing up for justice was a badge of honor for Paul.  I heard that he was arrested over 60 times during his lifetime.  And if there are "Pearly Gates" in Heaven, I wouldn't be surprised if he has chained himself to them. 

His memorial was held at his church, affectionately called "The Onion". The Los Angeles Times, in their story about Reverend Sawyer wrote: 

In his 1968 book, "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," Tom Wolfe described Sawyer's church as a "marvelous modern building shaped like a huge Bermuda onion" and forming a towering dome with "fantastic acoustics."  

http://articles.latimes.com/2010/jul/12/local/la-me-paul-sawyer-20100711

After I parked my car on this hot day, I took a deep breath before I walked inside.  My father passed away in May, just a few weeks before Reverend Sawyer's passing in June, and now every memorial gives me time to also reflect on my dad, who I miss dearly, and remember him in so many ways. 

Inside the Onion for the first time, I was delighted and surprised to see the jazz musician Billy Mitchell and his trio in the program - and I later learned that Billy Mitchell was friends with Reverend Sawyer.  My dad also loved jazz and the Billy Mitchell Trio was among his favorites. And then I broke down in tears when they played Horace Silver's "Song for My Father" to begin the service.  It was good for me to be here, remembering my friend, who was also a father. 

Ministers from many faiths were present and spoke so eloquently, for Paul Sawyer inspired so deeply.  Paul's children added poetry and song and an unbelievably touching video montage, which gave me insight into the earlier years of this wonderful life. And the Billy Mitchell Trio brought us all to our feet as we joined in singing "Compared To What", a protest song written by Eugene McDaniels and made famous by Les McCann and Eddie Harris, and another favorite song of mine. 

The entire memorial was moving, and warm and reflected Reverend Sawyer's booming personality, now beautifully carried on by his children, who each played a part in the remembrance of their father.  Paul's wife Susan and I agreed it was a wonderful tribute.   I feel very fortunate to have known Paul Sawyer.  I have never known someone to be so passionate about helping other people, and with so much energy.  I think his daughter summed it up best, when she said what I think is one of the great memorial quotes of all time:  "My dad really wished he could have been here today."

The Dream is Alive!

As a stay-at-home parent, few things match the unbridled joy of the beginning of the new school year.  I am now in a particularly sweet spot because my little one just started kindergarten, and so I have two children at the same school.  There is nothing like dumping the kids off at school and letting yourself simmer in the juices of freedom.  Let me tell you, suffering stay-at-home mommies and daddies, this promiseland is real.  Right now, I have the luxury of sitting down and enjoying a full mug of coffee – no questions to answer, no fights to interrupt, no snotty noses to wipe!  School is awesome!

But it’s not only about me and my freedom.  While I stitch together the scraps of my skills-based resume, my kids are (presumably) learning and their futures are being fed. They can still be whatever they want to be when they grow up.  The Dream is Alive!  (for them!)

As for me? I’m not so sure.  Lately I’ve been dwelling upon my own dreams  And as a practicing Virgo, I recognize this soul-searching as my old friend, my Annual Mid-Life Crisis ^TM, now in its eleventh consecutive year. This is not depression but simply planned annual self-improvement.  I am a very positive person.  (My blood type is my motto: B Positive.)  

But seriously folks, who shut down my dream machine?

I was a pretty darn good runner in high school. Westfield State even considered me for a Track scholarship.  I dreamed of competing in the Olympics, and I even ran imaginary races against the best runners in the world.  I never did get to the Olympics.  Not even close.  At this point, my only real hope is Olympic Curling.  And that is just sad.

I didn’t think I could feel bad about failing to reach goals that I didn’t even have.  But I learned that you can.  A good friend of mine recently won an Emmy. He deserves every bit of his success.  I jumped up and down and cried with happiness when he won.  The next day, my mother mentioned that she too would cry if I won an Emmy (like my friend’s mom actually did).  I took it personally. I had to tell her that it is highly unlikely that I will win an Emmy.  She understood, but now I have dashed my mom’s dream of being a parent of an Emmy winner. 

My dream of being a doctor went splat in the 10^th grade.  We were testing our blood types in Miss Brown’s biology class.  I fainted at the sight of my own blood and woke up in the nurses office.  (The takeaway? Miss Brown later told me “B positive.”)

For a brief time as a child, I wanted to be an architect, mostly because I like using rulers and protractors, and wearing plaid.  I even had a plaid lunch box.  That was as close as I got to being an architect.

I also wanted to be President of the United States.  The Presidency has always fascinated me.  As a kid, I would spend hours reading their biographies and memorizing facts.  I do want to make this world a better place, and I’m a huge fan of both fireside chats and cardigan sweaters.  But who am I kidding? This is an absolutely unreachable goal.  And I know I couldn’t survive the criticism.  My wife made an off-hand remark about my watermelon cutting technique and it put me in a funk for the rest of the evening. 

I haven’t been entirely a failure (I think I’ve been a good dad), and thank goodness for the wonderful and rewarding years I had at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab.  Strangely, as much as I like space, and math and science,  I never actually dreamed of working in space exploration, it just happened as I followed my interests.  Similarly, I never thought about being an astronaut, because I know too well the dangers of rocket propulsion and the inherent risks of space flight.  Sure, there was always the fantasy of zero-gravity sex, but the lure was not enough to overcome my fear of being strapped to a launch vehicle.  Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I still prefer to control when and how I explode.

I guess that’s the beauty of childhood: it is a time for dreaming.  Growing up sucks. Letting go of dreams, as crazy as they may be, sucks.  The good news is, now with the  kids back in school, I have time to dream again.  And I even have room for some crazy dreams.  After all, I think I should be positive – it’s in my blood. 

Jounce.

Now that everyone is back to school (or almost back to school),  I wanted to share an old monologue of mine which was inspired by a favorite teacher.   This was level 3 of the Groundlings, focusing on character development and writing, performed October '95.  

Oh, certainly not as perfect as I wanted it to be... but I always liked this monologue. 

The Bird

The act of extending the Bird (aka “the finger”) is a rude and disrespectful act, which is often done in response to a rude or disrespectful act.  It is a mythical bird – at least one, but perhaps an entire flock – that flies around visiting people. And sometimes, people have a very good reason for extending the Bird, even at the happiest place on Earth.


The Bird recently surprised me with a memorable visit on the Foothill Freeway in Los Angeles, as our family headed out of town for a 4th of July weekend getaway to Disneyland.

I was dwelling, no doubt, on the fact that we had driven this very patch of road just three days prior.  On that wonderful occasion we were heading to our health-plan’s nearest approved emergency room.  Normally I do most of the family driving, but that day I was crumpled in the passenger seat, writhing in excruciating pain as a kidney stone meandered through the various pinch-points in my urinary tract.  They say the only thing more painful than a kidney stone is giving birth.  At least when you give birth, you get something for your troubles (Tadaaa! A baby!)  Me?  I’m looking at two or three days of straining my pee with a makeshift coffee filter in the hopes of catching a rock shooting out of my penis.  No baby, just intense pain, yielding a worthless, non-cuddly lump of calcium oxalate.

So I try to endure the pain, while my wife heroically navigates the bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic to get me to the ER.  She suggests I try some Lamaze breathing (hee-hee-hoo, hee-hee-hoo), which I embrace because it’s the only thing I’ve got until I can get some real intravenous pain relief.  And that is when our minivan is rammed by a truck.   This is when I started to cry.  Although this turned out to be a relatively minor three-vehicle freeway collision, it was nevertheless unpleasant.  Thankfully, no one was hurt.  Eventually we get to the ER, and the staff administers a heavenly cocktail of IV medicine, followed by a CT Scan (which confirms the stone), and sends me home with the heretofore-mentioned pee strainers.   After three days of pee prospecting, my little rock arrives. Eureka! She was 3.7 millimeters long and weighed a fraction of a gram.  So cute.  I thanked my doula (which was my left hand).

Gregory Harrison – you just passed a kidney stone!  What are you going to do now? I’M GOING TO DISNEYLAND! Which brings me back to the Foothill freeway and the Bird.

As I mentioned, we were on our way to Disneyland. Suddenly a little teen punk cuts directly in front of our minivan, and then cuts off someone else in the adjoining lane.  Apparently he needed to exit.  Whew. Our recent accident left me uninterested in repeating the tête-à-tête.  Shortly after that,  I found myself driving next to the little teen punk, and I did what any responsible adult would do in my position:  I gave him my oh really? look.  I have perfected this look.  It involves a sidewise glance, coupled with furrowing of eyebrows in concert with a half Elvis lip-snarl.  Apparently,  I must have knocked my oh really? look out of the park.  Upon receiving my said look, the little teen punk was so enraged that he missed his exit, cut back into my lane right behind me and flipped me the Bird.  With verve.  I savored the moment via my rear-view mirror, proud that I was able to cause so much rage with my glance.

Cut to Disneyland.  

I am sitting in a passenger seat, next to my seven year old son, who is driving. We are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in Tomorrowland on the ride known as “Autopia” (an ironic combination of the words “automobile” and “utopia”).  Ten cars are stacked in front of us on the track, motionless, with more piling up behind us.  The reason for the pile-up is that an asshole (from the future, I’m guessing) has decided to take the perfect photograph of his child sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Autopia.  I try to relax.  I have no problem with people holding up everybody else’s fun to take a photo.  But when twenty cars are stacked up, that’s just rude.  And suddenly I reacted to that rudeness.  And that perfect photograph now includes a man, ten cars back, extending his middle finger.  And now you know why I flipped someone the Bird at Disneyland, the happiest place on Earth… oh really?

「パパ」との思い出

「パパ」との思い出

グレッグ・ハリソン

春という季節は常に変化を伴うが、私のこの春はとりわけ目まぐるしかった。

五月初め、父がこの世を去った。自宅で安らかに眠りについた父は、カズオやエイジからは「パパ」と呼ばれていた。最愛の父を失い悲しむ私に、多くの友人が暖かい言葉で慰めてくれたが、中でも一番心に残ったのが、「お父さんとの楽しかった思い出すべてをどうか大切に。。。」というものだった。

一方、子供の家では、この春園庭が大きく様変わりした。皆さん新しくなった櫓の下のマットや、外観全体を気に入っているようで、私も同感である。ただ、保護者の多くが砂場がなくなってしまったことを残念に思っていることも確かだ。私も子供の家父兄として通ってきた六年間を振り返ると、恐らく他のどんな遊具よりも、土を掘って遊べる砂場が大好きだったように思う。

土の重要性を過小評価してはならない。土で遊ぶこと、つまり、遊びに決まり事がなく、土の中に手を突っ込んで何かを形作ったり、水を加えたり、トンネルを作ったり、泥団子を作ったりという砂場での遊びは、全ての学びの原点である。繰り返して言うが、砂場での遊びは全ての教育の原点だと私は信じている。子供たちが砂場で遊ぶことによって作り上げた世界の数々は、言葉を学んだり、友達との遊び方を学んだり、お話を作ったりするのに最適なのだ。こういった世界は、どんな本よりも価値や意味があるし、子供たちの人生に後々まで大きな影響を与える。子供たちと砂遊びの関係を超えるのは、母親と赤ん坊の身体的な結びつき以外にはないのではないだろうか。何と言っても砂遊びは、我々と母なる大地とを結びつける絆なのだから。

子供たちが砂遊びに熱中するのは、ほとんど本能的でさえある。私も子供時代はそうだった。私の父も砂場で遊ぶことを喜んで見てくれたし、そういった父の方針に感謝している。音楽と科学を愛した父は地に足の着いた、謙虚な人だった。幼い頃は、兄弟と一緒に何時間も砂遊びをして過ごした。想像の中で様々な場所へ旅をし、登場人物や状況を設定した。トンネルを作ったり、火山を作ったり、他にも今となっては記憶のどこかに埋もれてしまっている色々なものを造った。成長するにつれ、砂遊びはガーデニングへと進化していった。我が家にはかなり大きな庭があり、たくさんの果物や野菜を育てた。たくさんの楽しい思い出もそこで生まれた。ガーデニングを通して、我が家と土との関係は深まり、土への愛情も育っていった。季節の移り変わりをみんなで楽しんだ。土の手入れをすることは、我が家では自然な事となり、ミミズを見つけては喜んだ。土の感触や、色、においに安堵した。種を植え、水をやり、土から生命の吹き出る喜びを知った。最後には食べ物となって、私たちに栄養を与えてくれた。父はいつも側にいて、土に関する全てを教えてくれた。そして、同時に命についても教えてくれたのである。

そして今、父からの教えに想いを馳せると、またもや土、生き物、生命のサイクルへと引き込まれていく。そして、今一度、土に癒しを見い出している自分がいる。

Digging in the dirt, lessons from my dad.

Spring has always been a time for change, although for me, this particular spring has been tumultuous.   My heart mourns the passing of my dear father, or as Kazuo and Eiji refer to him, “Papa”, who passed away in early May, at his home, peacefully.  I do miss him dearly. As many have comforted me with their kind thoughts and sympathy, one piece of advice that seems to stand out is this:  “Remember all the wonderful memories with your father.”

Meanwhile, here at Kodomo No Ie preschool, this spring has brought a magnificent change in the appearance of the playground.  Everyone seems to love the new play surfaces and overall appearance, myself included.  However,  many of us deeply miss the dirt.  As I think back over the six years of being a parent at Kodomo No Ie, perhaps more than any other physical feature, this was a wonderful place to dig in the dirt.   I do miss the dirt too.

Do not underestimate the importance of dirt.  Digging in the dirt – unstructured play, reaching hands into the earth and shaping it, adding water, building tunnels or making mudpies, this is the foundation of all learning.  That’s right: I believe that digging in the dirt is the foundation of all learning.  The worlds that have been created by children digging and playing in the dirt are the starships of language, social interaction and story-telling. These worlds have more meaning and have more lasting impact, than any book lesson.  In fact, these connections are second only to the physical bond between mother and child, and I think that makes sense, for these are the bonds to our Mother Earth.

Children instinctively are drawn to playing in the dirt, and I was no different as a child.  My dad certainly encouraged it, and for that I am thankful. He was a modest man who was grounded in the earth, and loved music and science.  And growing up, I spent hours playing in the dirt with my siblings. We travelled to imaginary places and invented characters and situations, while making tunnels, volcanoes, and other creations that now inhabit the forgotten recesses of my mind.  As I got older, playing in the dirt evolved into gardening.  Our family had an enormous garden and we raised a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables, as well as many fond memories. Through gardening, our relationship with the dirt deepened, and our love for the earth grew. We became connected with the seasons.  It became our nature to care for the soil, delight in the earthworms, feel the texture, absorb the colors, and embrace the smells.  Plant seeds, and add water, and experience the joy of life sprouting from the earth, culminating eventually in food that we used to nourish ourselves. My dad was there, every step of the way, teaching us about the earth, but also teaching us about life itself.

And now as I dwell on the lessons of my father, I am drawn back to the earth, and living things and the cycles of life. And I am finding solace once again, in dirt.  

(Originally contributed to June 2010 Mamas and Papas for Kodomo No Ie Preschool)

An Azalea in the Garden

My neighborhood gave me a beautiful azalea plant in sympathy after my dad passed away.  I planted it in a nice shady spot in the garden, and then nestled myself in for a photo.   It's not obvious in this picture, but this azalea has very unusual flowers that are half white and half purple/lavender.  (It's not the azalea directly in front of me, but rather the one to my left, more in the front center of the image).

  

It's no surprise that I've been thinking about my dad a great deal. I've been reticent about writing about him, since his passing.  I admit, I feel as though I need to write something perfect, because my love for him demands I use my skills as best as I can (and as if I have this one and only one opportunity to remember him.)   Of course, nothing makes writing more difficult than layering expectations before you even get started.

But I would like to share one small piece I wrote.  For several years now, I have been a regular contributor to my children's preschool newsletter, "The Mamas and Papas", at Kodomo No Ie Preschool (Japanese for  "House of Children").   Obviously I write my articles in English and they are translated to Japanese.  I should clarify that this school is like a slice of Japan here in nearby San Gabriel California (different from, say, an American school that teaches the Japanese language).  The school is run as though it would be run in Japan, and everything about it is entirely Japanese.  It's been a great experience for my sons, and a wonderful cultural exchange for me.  I am fortunate that a few of the parents translate school notices and whatnot for us.

Apologies for the long introduction, but I suppose it gives you some idea about my audience for the original piece.  It's about dirt.  And it's about my dad.

An Honest Fool

Last year, during a five month kitchen remodel, we faced the frightening reality of being without our washer and dryer.  Oh we still had the actual appliances, but the part of our house formerly known as indoors was presently an empty cavern.  Once you have graduated into the world of having your own washer and dryer, it is a humbling experience to return to ... THE LAUNDROMAT.

The word does not stir pleasant thoughts. It evokes long-buried memories of my first apartment, lugging piles of sweaty dirty clothes to a unloved, dingy room with flickering fluorescent lights.  A room so bleak that its highlight is the machine that changes dollar bills into quarters.  Bling bling bling.  Nobody wants to go to the laundromat, which is why nobody talks to anyone there.  You want to remain anonymous. You certainly don’t make friends at a laundromat.

Of course, we really couldn’t complain because we knew this was only temporary.  So each week, we took a deep breathe, and we loaded up the minivan with our mountain of laundry, our kids, and some toys and crafts to keep them occupied, and headed to a local laundromat. 

The closest one was the one we used the most often.  It was no gem, but it did share a building with a donut shop, and we’d visit the donut shop each week after cramming our clothes into five, or six, or even seven washing machines.  I suppose it says something about a place when it is a step up to go to a donut shop. 

In all our trips to the laundromat, one visit stands out as especially laundromatty.  We had just arrived, and I was about to get some quarters, when I spied someone’s wallet resting on the change machine.  I should admit right now that I happen to have a bit of an honesty problem, and by that I mean that I am insanely honest.  I am sometimes paralyzed by honesty, if that makes any sense. My wife and I even had an epic fight, which spanned two days, because in her opinion, I was being overly honest about a minor detail in a form to get a temporary handicapped parking placard for my dad, who has only one leg.  It’s not always a picnic being me.  Naturally, the stray wallet activates my merit-badge-seeking boy scout mode and I announce “Did someone lose their wallet?”   There was just a small cast of freaks here at the moment, but luckily, a lady standing nearby said (rather quickly) the wallet belonged to her friend, and he was coming right back – he was just getting something to eat.  She said she’d hold onto the wallet for him, and so I handed it to her. 

We went about our business loading our clothes into the washing machines and I remember that lady was loading her clothes into some dryers... and then about ten minutes later a man bursts into the laundromat and blurts “Hey – did anybody find a wallet in here? I left my wallet here just a few minutes ago.” I could tell he was panicking (and who wouldn’t be), but I told him the good news – that his friend was holding onto his wallet for him.  And then he said:

What friend? I don’t have any friends here. That lady is not my friend.  Who is she? Where did she go?

I hadn’t notice the lady slip away and leave the laundromat.   But she definitely wasn’t here any longer.  I realized this was a troubling development.   Shit.  Why didn’t I hold onto that wallet?

Argh! Hindsight!  But I explained to the guy how she spoke up right away and said she was his friend.  I had no reason to think she was lying.  And after I handed her the wallet, she simply continued loading her clothes into these dryers.   She seemed honest.   In fact, even at this point, I figured she probably just went to get a donut or something and she’d be right back any minute.  Our attention turned to her clothes, still spinning in the dryer.  Our heads bobbed in spirals as we assessed the quality of her clothes – in order to predict if her return was likely.  To my relief, our missing lady actually had some decent clothing.  The room clearly harbored doubts about my judgement, but these clothes gave me some hope.  Meanwhile one of the other laundromat guests, a strange cat man that brought his cat with him to do laundry, decides now would be a good time to share his opinion that our missing lady seemed like a  "skank ho” to him.   He even struck an accusatory tone, “why did you give her the wallet?”

I think that is when the guy decided to call the cops about his missing/stolen wallet.  Meanwhile, our laundry was dry. While we folded, I watched for the missing lady and monitored her (now dry) clothes. The strange cat man finished up and left.  The situation seemed bleak.  My wife and I continued to chat with missing wallet guy and his girlfriend, examining the situation and thinking about clues.  We waited for the cops.  Eventually our laundry was folded, and we loaded it into our minivan.  We decided that my wife would drive the boys home and I would stay at the laundromat in case the lady returned.  We were the only ones still there that knew what the lady looked like.  But since I was the person that handed the wallet to her, I wanted to do as much as I could to help.  Besides, I also remembered that my wife once had trouble differentiating between the two similar-looking actors that played the police chief in “The Heat of the Night” – Rod Steiger in the film version and Carroll O’Connor in the television version.  When it came to police line-up situations like this one, I felt I had the edge.

The cops finally arrived and interviewed us.  I gave a description of the missing lady.  She didn’t seem like a “skank ho” to me.  I just did the best I could.  I remember we were all standing near the entrance of the laundromat when suddenly I see the missing lady through the large laundromat windows.  “That’s her – there she is!” I tell the cops.  She came back! The police officer immediately asks her where the wallet is and she says that she dropped it in a mailbox.  The officer then asks her if he can search her bag, and she relents, and admits she took the wallet and hands it to the officer.  I am super relieved, but then the wallet guy turns to me with and asks with disbelief “You thought she looked honest?  She looks like a skank ho to me.”  And I guess now she did to me too.

We eventually learn that this lady went on a big shopping spree with the cash in the wallet.  She still had the merchandise in her car!  The police were going to escort her to the stores and make her return all her ill-gotten booty so the man could get his money back.  

So I definitely blew it when I believed the skank ho.  She fooled me.  But I was right about one thing: she came back to get her clothes!   Next time, I’ll definitely hold onto the wallet.

Reflections on a past launch

As we approach the STS-131 Space Shuttle launch, I was moved to share something I wrote in October 2007 when we visited the Kennedy Space Center to view the STS-120 launch. 

The Final Frontier

Just across the water, I could see the Space Shuttle Discovery sitting on the launch pad.  Years ago, I watched a landing at Edwards Air Force base, but this was my first Space Shuttle launch.  We were guests of Astronaut Stephanie Wilson, a friend and former colleague of mine from our days on the Galileo mission to Jupiter.   Now she was flying on her second Space Shuttle mission.

I was here at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center (“KSC”) with my wife Nikki and our sons, Kazuo and Eiji.  We were thrilled to be able to share this experience with them.  Kazuo, in particular, has already shown some interest in space. Eiji, for his part, is especially adept at spotting the moon, which he calls “La Luna”. 

We patiently waited as the launch countdown continued. There were hundreds of us out here, sitting on blankets on this narrow grass swath along the Indian river. We had a very clear view of the shuttle and the solid rocket boosters and liquid fuel tank as it sat motionless on the pad, poised to erupt.  It was hot. No shade. The kids were getting restless.

As we watched the crowd gather and mill around, we thought back to the reception we attended in Stephanie’s honor.  It was nice to meet many of her family members, but also friends from many parts of her life: a former teacher, friends from her hometown, colleagues from past projects, former classmates, etc.  We also met two other astronauts.  Kazuo must have noticed that every astronaut he has met is a woman, because he proclaimed: “Mommy, boys can be astronauts too!”

Because of the timing required to dock with the International Space Station, the launch window was only ten minutes long. We kept our fingers crossed as the countdown continued. Everything was a “GO” for the launch, as we approached lift-off.  The crowd was excited, and readied their cameras. I hit “record” on my video camera.  We’re getting close.  Nikki picked up Eiji and I grabbed Kazuo.  9 – 8 – 7 – 6 – 5 – 4 – 3 – 2  - 1 … And I gasped as a saw a big cloud of smoke.  “That’s it! It’s going!” The crowd cheered, as we all watched this huge spaceship defy gravity, slowing escaping the Earth.  I was mesmerized by the incredibly bright exhaust which seemed to sear into my retinas as the shuttle screamed into the sky.  And then we started to hear the deep and powerful rumbling of this giant, controlled explosion.  I momentarily reflected upon the beauty of physics, and this wonderful reminder of the relatively slow speed of sound as compared to the speed of light.  And then I thought about our friend Stephanie, hurdling into the heavens, soaring above us all.  Godspeed. 

We could just make out the moment when the solid rocket boosters separated from the shuttle and the crowd cheered more. We wept too, as we marveled at the human race, our amazing species, and what we can accomplish.

As for our own children, we can only wonder the amazing ways in which they too will soar. 



Originally published in the December 2007 Papas & Mamas Newsletter for Kodomo No Ie

A note about Granny D

I wanted to say a few words about Doris "Granny D" Haddock, who passed away on March 9th at the age of 100 years old.   I consider her an American hero. 

I first heard about "Granny D" when she began her walk across the United States, at the age of 88, to raise awareness about campaign finance reform.  She started here in Pasadena on January 1, 1999 and walked some 3200 miles to Washington, D.C,  arriving on February 29, 2000.  She was 90 years old when she finished.  

Now I enjoy walking.  I really do.  And I feel pretty good about myself when I walk a mile to the grocery store rather than driving.  Granny D walked across the entire country. She covered about ten miles a day for 14 months.  She celebrated two birthdays along the way.   She did it because she wanted to draw attention to the issue of money in politics.  She was wildly successful in garnering media attention to the issue, and yet, money still overwhelms the voices of average citizens.  And the recent Citizen United Supreme Court ruling, which struck down the McCain-Feingold campaign finance law, has opened the floodgates by allowing corporations to directly fund political candidates. 

Nation Magazine contributor John Nichols quoted Granny D responding to the Citizen United ruling in his article "Mourn Granny D.; Then Organize for Clean Politics":

When I was a young woman, my husband and I were having dinner at the Dundee home of a friend, Max Foster, when a young couple rushed through the door breathless to say that they had accidentally burned down Max's guest cabin, down by the river.

Max stood up from his meal. He set his napkin down. He smiled at the young couple and he said,

"Thank goodness. You have done me a great favor, and you don't even know it. We have been wanting to completely redo that old place, and now it will be a clean start. It will be better than ever the next time you come to stay."

Well, I guess the Supreme Court has burned down our little house, but, truth be told, it was pretty drafty anyway. We had not really solved the problem of too much money in politics. Not hardly. And now we have an opportunity to start clean and build a system of reforms that really will do the trick.

I think one of the wings of our new house will be the public financing of election campaigns. I think another wing will be a dramatic expansion of our conflict of interest and bribery laws. I think all of us, left, right and middle, will enjoy living there without the special interests stealing us blind any more. I intend to be around long enough to see this new place built.

Her response, which was given at a party honoring her 100th birthday, recognizes the long meandering path that progress often takes, even as we hope for change quickly.   But her remarks also serve, at least to me, as a reminder that in this democracy, each of us is called to participate.   That doesn't mean we must all run for United States Senate, as Granny D did in New Hampshire, when she was 94.  But I believe it does mean we are called to use our voice and stand up for what we believe, as Granny D did, not only about Finance reform, but also on a wide range of issues facing our citizens.   

Pie Day

In a few weeks, my son Eiji is going to celebrate his fifth birthday.   Five seems like a milestone birthday to me, and as his brother notes “five is a big birthday because it is half of ten”.  So it is.  Not to be outdone numerology-wise by my 7 year old, I realized that when Eiji turns 5, the cumulative age of our family will be 100 years old!   Yeah! 100! And we vote, suckas!

And it gets better!

Eiji’s birthday is on March 14.  This is especially cool, because it is “pi” day. (Get it? 3/14 = 3.14).  Nice. As an MIT grad (and let’s not forget high-school varsity “math-lete”), I was pretty jazzed to have a kid born on pi day.  It’s an irrational dream come true. Sure, it would have been better if my wife could have somehow held him in for more digits of pi accuracy (ideally until 1:59pm and 26.5 seconds).   But that is just ridiculous!  I would never jeopardize my wife’s health or that of the baby!  Unless she wanted it too.  But trust me, it’s a tough topic to broach – especially while she’s making so much noise grunting.  It’s my own fault for not including a NASA countdown “hold” in the birth sequence.  He launched of her like a little rocket about one hour shy of pi.

Still, pi day is pi day.  I’m very happy.  And it gets even better because we always celebrate pi day with pie.  Delicious pie.  But even pie can have complications.

A few days before Eiji’s first birthday party, in 2006,  I realized I needed to order a pie.  I immediately thought of Pasadena’s “Pie ‘n Burger” diner and their excellent pies (http://www.pienburger.com/ ). But a key detail popped into my head: Pie ‘n Burger is located very close to the Caltech campus.  As I dialed the phone,  I started to freak!  Pi day + Caltech nerds equals massive run on pies!  Argh! I waited too long and now I’m going to have to scramble to find a pie for pi day!  Someone answers the phone and I breathlessly ask about pie.  I’m surprised by the lack of panic on the other end.  She says they have pies, but I can’t believe it.  At the risk of starting an Abbott-and Costello routine, I press my case: 

Me:  I’m very surprised you have pies, considering it is “pi day”. 

Pie ‘n Burger waitress:  What day? Pie day?  What do you mean “pie day”?

Me:  You know, in math, the number pi? 3.14159256...?  The Greek letter “pi”?

Pie’n Burger waitress:  Honey, I don’t know what you are talking about.  We have pies if you want to order one.

It turns out, to my surprise, “Pi day” is not celebrated as widely as I would have expected.   Or maybe, just maybe, it’s just another way that MIT rocks over Caltech.  

Happy Birthday Eiji!

The One

My wife and I recently attended a wedding and it sure was an eye-opener.  It’s not that I didn’t enjoy myself.  I did.  It was a nice wedding.  Beautiful garden ceremony at a very nice hotel on the marina.  Perhaps 11 am is a tad on the early side, but pleasant.   It’s just that everything is different when you attend a wedding after you’ve been married awhile. And have kids.  Everything.  I should say that my wife and I have been married for thirteen years, and we are very happily married.  And we have kids.

And I’m telling you -- it’s just different. 

For example, one thing that made me super happy at this wedding is that they served coffee upon our arrival.  There was a big urn filled with delicious hot coffee and satisfyingly solid coffee mugs! Mugs I tell you! The faces of every married couple perked up when they found out about the coffee.  Sample conversation between us and some close married friends:

Us: Oh hi – how are you?  We’re so happy to see you!

Other Couple:  It’s great to see you guys! It’s been a long time... Hey is that coffee?

Us:  Yeah.  Coffee.  It’s really good too.  Go get some.

See, people with kids need coffee.  This coffee was a very positive sign for Paul and Jasmine’s wedding: they demonstrated that they care about us - the guests.  That’s exactly the type of reassurance we “couples with children” need.  I bet lunch is going to be wonderful.

I should mention a key point here:  This was an “adults only” wedding.  So as we delighted in our caffeine bliss, we inquired about the baby-sitter arrangements. Each couple explained who was watching their kids.  Being “sans enfants” with other “sans enfants” couples at a social gathering is an extremely rare situation. With a younger crowd, this type of freedom could easily set off an orgy.  Not a concern here, as we are all far too tired for that.  Yet, for couples in the midst of a temporary kid-free dreamworld, it is like being whisked away on a hot air balloon without pants.  And the younger your kids, the higher your balloon floats. You feel very free.  It’s lovely and it’s intoxicating.  We had it all.  Coffee, and no kids.

But trouble loomed, at least for the men. You see, the men were all wearing dark suits, and it was partly sunny.  Sweat began to bead on our faces!  Suddenly I was melting inside my suit! When we were younger, and single this never happened!  When is this wedding going to start!?  My god, Global Warming!  I briefly contemplate if I could pull off wearing an all-white suit like Travolta in Staying Alive.  Sadly the answer is no.  But the point is moot.  I’m melting in my dark suit. Meanwhile, my wife, who is sitting right next to me, is wearing a dress and a wool coat. Yes. Wool. Coat.  And get this: she was drawing residual heat from her coffee mug, pressing it against her cheeks.  The lesson for you newlyweds: couples with children require individualized thermal settings.

I tried to concentrate on something else besides the heat.  Back when I was single, it was easy: I’d check out the bridesmaids and other single ladies at the wedding.  I’d laugh at heat!  I’d generate my own heat! That instinct never really goes away.  But today I found myself pondering details like “why is one groomsman wearing sunglasses, but none of the others? Who is going to clean up all these rose petals?  I hope they compost them.  I really can’t even hear that violin.  Is she really playing?  Is that what “sotto” means?”

The minister launches into his schpiel while I wonder what will be served at the reception.  I’m hungry, but I snap out of my reverie when he starts to talk about THE ONE.  Paul and Jasmine, like most newlyweds, were meant for each other.  A miracle has occurred and brought them together. Somehow, against all odds, they found each other.  It seems to be standard wedding fare.  But then I start doing some calculations in my head, thinking about all the people on the planet Earth. Maybe this minister is mocking me.   I twist his loving speech in my mind:

“You married folks have so much baggage that there is only one true love that will put up with your shit.”   Is that true? Is my wife the only one on the planet with whom I’m compatible? She’s the only one that would love me? No, that can’t be true.  I’m weird maybe, but I’m not that bad.  I’m still loveable.  Right?

This mockery leads me to indignation.  HEY! I was a newlywed once.  A fine newlywed. In fact, my wife and I had a very long and romantic “schmoopie” phase which sickened PLENTY of people, I will have you know.  In retrospect, it’s humiliating, but man, she was THE ONE.  And I’m pretty sure I was THE ONE too.

Suddenly we are at the reception and concerns about my worldwide compatibility give way to enjoyment of a very nice heirloom tomato salad.  For all of us married couples at the table, the food is made ever so delicious by the absence of our children.  The subtle nuances delight my tastebuds (this salt is so salty!) as I say yes to a refill of wine.  And then every single couple spends the next hour talking about our children.  As much as we enjoy being without them, we can’t stop thinking about them.  To outsiders, I’m sure it must be as annoying as our schmoopie phase.  And then it hits me, and I understand why I’m stuck with my one true love, and she is stuck with me. Yup. She’s THE ONE.

Happy Valentines Day. 

Cross-posted on Sahmmy.com

Getting started

When I swim, it often takes me forever to jump into the pool.  I need to acclimate to the water - it feels cold.  Today, with this blog, I am doing the opposite: I'm jumping right in.   Wow.  The water feels pretty nice.