“What’s the better human invention: words or music?” Floja Roja’s question in Friday’s “The Daily F Bomb” diary spurred a number of answers. Most people said “words” but didn’t explain why.
Whether written or spoken, why are words so essential to us? Words explain, they shine, they bind us together and tear us apart. They tell the stories of the ages, into the past and into the future.
Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning. ~ Maya Angelou
What an astonishing thing a book is. It’s a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic. ~ Carl Sagan
As noted above by Angelou, meaning may be created by tone of voice. Consider, for example, the ways a person might state “John Boehner is a strong leader.” They may sound earnest; they may sound sarcastic. Their tone of voice lets us know their intent.
The specific platform of delivery can provide information for us, too. If we know a “news” item was published by the Onion, we expect it to be tongue in cheek, even if otherwise it is completely believable.
Since the “Right” wants to revoke most of our personal liberties other than the right to bear arms, there is plenty of material available about invasions into privacy and upending of rights. Sometimes these invasions creep, and sometimes they push forward with full open throttle.
Collection of electronic information has been in the news lately, but there is more, and I want you to join me with this open thread on rights issues or any other news you want to share.
Here’s a full throttle invasion, mentioned the other night on the Rachel Maddow Show. Iowa governorTerry Branstad will now have the option to decide coverage for Medicaid abortions. He. Himself. Will get to decide whether a woman’s abortion is covered. With no medical training and obviously no ethics training, he gets to decide.
U.S. law permits payment for abortions for rape, incest, and if the pregnancy threatens a woman’s life. Iowa law expands that to include terminations of pregnancies if the fetus is severely deformed and unviable.
Historically, the Department of Human Services had been the agency that governed this determination, but in the final negotiations between House Republicans and Senate Democrats, this incredible power over women’s lives was assigned to Governor Branstad.
Also in the news, Wisconsin Republicans’ decision to force medically unnecessary procedures on any woman seeking an abortion. From ThinkProgress:
Wisconsin’s current law already requires women to undergo a counseling session with their doctor 24 hours before having an abortion, under the false pretense that the women who seek to terminate a pregnancy must not be confident about their decision. Doctors already provide those women with information about ultrasound services. But under the new forced ultrasound measure, women would be forced to undergo an ultrasound – and potentially a transvaginal probe, depending on how far along in her pregnancy she is – without her consent.
Lyons is rightfully concerned about women’s health advocates construing the bill as “the equivalent of rape.” At the height of the War on Women last spring, Virginia Republicans incited a firestorm when they pushed a similar transvaginal ultrasound bill, and reproductive rights groups decried the legislation as “state sponsored rape.” But that hasn’t stopped anti-choice lawmakers from continuing to push legislation that would require invasive ultrasound procedures. Just last week, Michigan lawmakers proposed their own version of the legislation, although the state’s top Republicans were forced to clarify that they would “not pass a bill mandating transvaginal ultrasounds” after controversy erupted.
Do you remember the first time you had hummus? Maybe it was at a friend’s house, or at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Its mild nutty flavor, enhanced with lemon and garlic, probably accompanied pita or raw veggies.
If you were hooked, you noticed it in the grocery after that, and you may have picked up an 8-ounce tub for between three to four dollars. It comes in several flavors at the store, with extra garlic, hot stuff, black olives… You may have tried a different kind each time.
But if you’re cheap like me, or if you like making food from scratch so you control what goes in it, like I do, you might hesitate to buy it very often.
You can make hummus from scratch, and pretty easily, too, if you have a food processor. And if you want to step back one more step and use dried garbanzo beans instead of canned, you’ll also need a slow cooker.
It’s no secret there’s been a big influx of new members in the last few months. I’ve read some introductory material, diaries as well as posting guidelines. A few of them are here
“I get to live in an airport,” he said. “How cool is that?” With a few words he brushed off Jim’s sentimentality of a moment before, signaling it was time for us to leave. The message was clear: he’s an adult now. We weren’t leaving him at band camp, or at his first dorm room, for crying out loud!
Crying silently, tears filling her eyes, Melanie hugged him longer than he expected, and Jim did, too. And we left him at Vance Air Force Base in Enid, Oklahoma.
The journey to get there was long, much of it described here. Since his commissioning ceremony on Saturday, May 18, he had a few days to sort his possessions, collect his paperwork, and pack. We left for Enid on Monday, May 27, Memorial Day.
The midwest storms had already begun, and that morning we drove through rain and stiff winds for six hours. We were spared rain for the rest of the trip, but the wind never let off. With two cars and three drivers, each of us drove a large portion of the 600 miles. The directions were simple: take I-80 to I-35, and keep driving through Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma until you’re a few miles east of Enid.
Once we reached base, we went to the visitors’ center for security clearance and passes. Closed for the holiday, the next option was the gatehouse. We handed the guard our driver licenses, car registration, and proof of insurance. He had us park and enter the guardhouse, where two other men worked at computers. “They’ll take care of you in here, Lieutenant,” the young man said, addressing Son by his officer’s rank for the first time.
Monday night we checked into a motel room at the Cherokee Lodge, while Son was assigned a “dorm room.” Like a miniature apartment, it consists of a large bedroom and a very small kitchen, a two-sided closet in the hallway to the bathroom, and a small full bathroom. It’s enough, considering how busy he’ll be.
Below, the yellow arrow points to his room, on the north side of the building.
Here you can see his room circled.
The view out his window.
The next morning Son reported for duty after breakfast. While he began his paperwork and long list of tasks, we had some time to explore. According to the Vance Air Force Base site,
Vance has nearly 1,200 active duty and Reserve military, as well as approximately 1,300 family members here. The base also employs more than 1,300 Federal civilian employees, non-appropriated fund civilian employees, contractors and private business employees.
Base housing includes more than 240 family homes, more than 300 “unaccompanied” housing units, and visitor and temporary lodging. Besides that, there is an elementary school, day care, and a teen center, an arts and craft building, the commissary and exchange, to help make residents more comfortable.
Of course, it isn’t just a small town. The primary purpose is to train pilots.
Vance is the U.S. Air Force’s only Joint Specialized Undergraduate Pilot Training (JSUPT) wing, training over 400 Air Force, Navy, Marine Corps and allied student pilots each year. The wing flies over 55,000 sorties (81,000 flying hours) per year, and owns and operates a fleet of over 200 T-1, T-6, and T-38 aircraft.
With more than 200 airplanes, the facility needs an air tower, hangars, and maintenance buildings. And runways. The main runways are parallel to the rest of the base, running north and south. Every couple of minutes, a plane takes off or lands. Here is a satellite view of the whole base.
On Tuesday, all the planes were taking off into the south wind. We watched from behind a fence for a few minutes, and then left the base. On a red dirt road south of the runways, right under the jet runway path, we watched them zoom over, bank hard to the west, and fly back around.
“I get to live in an airport,” he said. “How cool is that?”
Note: I wrote this a year ago after an evening at the North Liberty Barbecue and Blues Fest. Tonight we went to downtown Iowa City to enjoy another local treat of summer, a Friday night free concert, on the ped mall plaza. It reminded me of some of the things I love about Iowa.
Your vantage point may be different from mine. If you see Iowa from 30,000 feet, or perhaps whizzing through on I-80 at 70 mph, you don’t see what I see.
From my vantage point this evening, I saw feet. Settled into grass rough as a boar’s bristle hair brush, I ate my barbecued brisket sandwich and cole slaw, and I saw feet. Women’s feet, clad in rubber flip flops, towering high heels, strappy sandals, ballet flats. Stretched out in front of me, my own feet, the exception: clad in thick crew socks greyed from a laundry mishap, and a pair of athletic shoes.
Children, little boys with pale skin, pinked from the heat and sun. Many have blond or reddish hair — the northern European genes still run strong in this part of the state. Other little boys with their chocolate brown skin and tightly curled hair. Little girls, towheads with tank tops and tiny skirts, and dark-haired girls, dressed the same, all holding tightly to a parent’s hand.
I remember passages of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s book Little House in the Big Woods, where she so aptly describes the swirling skirts dancing at Grandmother Ingalls’ house, all from the viewpoint of a small child. I think of my view from the ground, how limited my scope is here, how little I see.
Looking up I see more, taller children, young adults, young families pushing their strollers. Varying colors and attire, still they seem much the same. The police officer stands out in his uniform, though. He sports a painted pirate patch over one eye and a curling mustache, lending unexpected panache to his appearance.
The next generation older, those of us in our 40s, 50s, 60s, we are more diverse. Men wear tank tops or polo shirts or Sturgis rally t-shirts. They have long hair and crew cuts, beards and smoothly shaved faces. Dew rags and straw hats and ball caps… If you think all Iowa men wear “farmer” caps, John Deere or Case caps, let me assure you it isn’t so. Half the men I saw tonight in their 60s look like DFHs, and the others looked like anyone’s neighbor.
THIS is Iowa. Iowa is not what you see from 30,000 feet, nor speeding by on our main highway. Iowa is not defined by our agriculture or our industry or even our presidential caucuses.
Iowa is our people and how we come together. We come together at the North Liberty BBQ and Blues Fest this evening, at the Kalona Fall Festival, at Hooverfest and the Iowa City Jazz Festival, and hundreds of festivals across the state, across the year. We come together at the farmers’ markets and the football games and community concerts, at churches and synagogues and the Mother Mosque of America. We grant each other a high degree of tolerance and respect.
We are not well represented by the fringe elements proposing a radical GOP platform. We are not well represented by the vile and reprehensible Steve King. We are purple, not red. We are well-educated and rational. We love jazz and blues. We have a long history of progressive civil rights laws, and we were one of the first states in the nation to welcome marriage equality.
What you see from a distance is not what I see. The view from afar does not show you our people, our faces, our children of many colors. The view from the ground is different, is real, and is the future. THIS is Iowa.
Wildfires, tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods… every part of the country is susceptible to disaster; every one of us is vulnerable to natural (and human-instigated) phenomena. Climate change issues are likely to make these worse in the future.
Keeping ourselves and our loved ones safe is the highest priority for most of us, but these events also can lead to severe financial hardship. What can you do NOW to mitigate your financial harm when disaster strikes? INSURE. Know what your insurance covers. And be prepared to make a valid and complete claim by having an inventory of your stuff.
Anyone who owns a home (with or without mortgage) and anyone who rents (or stays rent-free with someone) should have insurance to reduce financial losses in a disaster.
Speeding along the track, the car dropped with the grade, coming to a full stop at the bottom. The boy timed it, stopwatch in hand, programmable calculator and notebook nearby. For hours the time trials continued, one car at a time. For hours the boy converted inches per second to miles per hour, determining which Hot Wheels car was fastest in real-life proportions.
An engineer by nature, he was especially fascinated with mechanical motion. Trains, planes, automobiles, rockets. His interests with them came and went in a cycle, each mode of transportation in its turn. Rockets were rich for experimentation, with opportunities to change engines, payloads, to note wind shifts and humidity. Awe for the power of lift-off, delight for the trajectory of flight, the interest in rockets continued into college years, when the boy helped design ones of larger scale.
Model trains had their place, the HO track laid out or taken down numerous times over the years. Scale mountains and buildings were built and destroyed. Grandfather’s expensive engines and cars now wait until his interest turns back to them.
Aside from paper airplanes, it’s harder for a child to play with planes than the others. It’s not harder to appreciate them, their speed and grace, their miracle of lift, their sleek lines. Airplanes were best of all. At age nine, he was allowed in the cockpit with pilots of a commercial flight. Prior to take-off the pilots let him turn on cabin lights. As a fifth grader, the boy wrote a letter to the local Air Force recruiter, asking for posters of the jets. With no response to his request, he was disappointed but moved on. Then one day two recruiters showed up at his school, surprising the secretary when they asked for the boy. He went to the office, where they presented him with posters, folders, and pencils, enough for himself and to share with classmates. He still has the posters.
He talked with his parents about entering the military, about trying for an appointment to the Air Force Academy. And then when he was almost 13, the nation suffered an attack.
By chance he was in Washington, DC on the day U.S. forces entered Iraq. By chance he met Senator Tom Harkin that day. His parents, attuned to the inspections, the claims, the lies, understood the folly of the war of “liberation,” the plan to force democracy on a nation that had not attacked us. His parents discussed it in front of him, with him.
And all three stopped talking about military service.
The years jumble in my mind, some years of soul-lifting joy, others of great sorrow, pain, or stress. They look like baseball cards with the year on top instead of the player’s name, a couple of images, a few stats, the cards all tumbled out of their box, out of order. Fifty-one years, 51 cards, all out of order. The stats have smudged and run, lines of text fallen off and out of place. I sort through carefully, delicately moving the text back onto the correct cards, sorting, taking in the images again.
Just like with any box of baseball cards, many of them seem ordinary, others distinguished. Cards from my adulthood, 1980, ’81, ’88, ’92, … Mom appears on some of these cards and then she is gone, 1997 the last.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom, the memories jumbled, the pain and sorrow, some joy. She died in 1997 but she spent many years disappearing, fading from view. I had so little of her, not just now, not just that she died “too soon” at age 65, but even while she was alive. I had so little of her.
