The Wanderer and the Tourist

Marge, look at that busy little brown bird.  Just pecking away and running the whole time.  Fast.  Wonder what it is?  It must be some kind of Hawaiian bird.  Like a little roadrunner.  Never saw it back home.

Well, for your information I come to the Hawaiian Islands every year to spend the winter and then return home in the late spring when things get warmer up north.  Actually, come to think of it, I’m not sure where I should call my home since I actually spend more time in Hawaii than I do up north.  But north is where I have my family, so I guess that’s what a home is, family.  

What’s the big deal?  Tourists coming and going year-round is what holds up the Hawaiian economy.  Sounds like you’re just one of the millions who fly here each year to vacation.  Like I’m from Wisconsin.

That’s true, I arrived by flying the almost three thousand miles from Alaska.  

Oh yeah, so you’re a “snow bird.”  A lot of you come from Canada and some from Alaska.  Probably get more if your population was larger.  

Wrong bird!!  

Hey, ‘snow bird’s’ just a figure of speech.  Don’t get your feathers ruffled.

You should be more careful in your speech, we’re pretty picky about what we’re called.  We are Pacific Golden Plovers, or as the Hawaiians named us, Kolea!  And I am proud of the fact that I flew here non-stop, 2800 miles, by flapping my wings 250,000 times.  Let me say that again, a quarter of a million times.  And that’s in three days without a rest.  It was faster this trip because we—we fly in a flock—caught a good following wind.  If we’re fighting the weather it can take four days.  Not good since then we arrive with fewer than when we started out since some of us wear out and crash into the sea.  Yes, that’s about one in five of us on a bad trip.

Sorry—but glad you made it this time.  So wait, if I got this figured right, you’re flying about nine hundred miles in a day?  

You got that right.   

Day and night?  

Like I told you, non-stop.  We’re not ducks.  We can’t land on the water.  

Now you got me interested.  And just how high do you fly?  Wave tops or higher?  

Again it depends on the wind and weather.  Usually between three thousand and fifteen thousand feet, wherever the most favorable winds are at that moment.

That’s like higher than Mauna Kea!  And how do you know how to get here?  Hawaii’s just a small group of islands and the sea is so large.  

We’re born with this “map” in our brains and eyes.  We can “see” the earth’s magnetic fields day and night and we know where the sun rises and sets.  Four weeks after our chicks hatch they can fly.  That’s up in Alaska.  We parents leave them to find their own bugs and anything else that’s small and moves to fatten up for their first flight to Hawaii.  We older birds take off a month, even two, before the hatchlings make their first trip by October and November and they are strictly on their own with no one to follow.  

That’s child abandonment!.  

That’s the way it’s always been with us.  We’re like any other returning visitor.  You have your favorite hotel or B and B that you’ll’ll stay at each time you visit?  Well we have our regular wintering grounds that we’ll return to each year.  Parks, backyards, cemeteries, green and grassy, near the shore.  Some people get very attached to us when we come back to their yards year after year.  They’ll even feed us bird seed, which is great although mealy worms would be even better.

You lead a really weird life.  You’re up breeding in the wilds of the Alaskan tundra in the summer and then you come back to this crowded city and resort environment for seven or eight months of the year.  How does your mind adjust to the change? 

I guess we just do or did.  Back before people came, these islands were as wild as the tundra,  except there were nothing here that wanted to eat us.  Then people came and over time there were more and more of them and they started to change the wild nature of the islands.  And I guess our ancestors just gradually got used to living among them when they were here and the wild tundra when they went back north.  Now we’re both city birds and country birds depending on the season.

You said something about things that wanted to eat you in the tundra?  Like what?  

Oh like Arctic foxes and hawks and falcons and snowy owls.

How about dangers here?

Cats mostly and cars.

Well it was great meeting you but we’ve got a luau to go to tonight.  Oh, and what did you say your Hawaiian name was?

It’s Kolea and it mean ‘comes, takes and goes away.’

Very appropriate..  You want our left over Fritos?

No, but those fat dumb pigeons would I’m sure.

Got nothing to say. I’m pleading the 25th. Except Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year.

ANTS

I have an ant problem that started in the bathroom.  Small black ants that suddenly seemed to be everywhere—scurrying over the floor, swarming the counter by the sink, and beginning to extend their explorations into my adjacent bedroom.  Entering from their nest in the wall where the pipe comes out for the toilet.  

So I set out bait—sugar water with boric acid bought from Longs—one on the ledge of the shower stall that was close to their portal of entry and one on the sink counter where they were even getting into my water pic reservoir.  Scouting ants found both baits within an hour, and soon there was one stream of ants going from pipe entry directly to the shower stall bait and another separate long line going along the edge of shower ledge, climbing up the edge of the sink counter, and across to that bait; guided by the chemical (pheromones) trails that the scout ants had laid down from bait back to nest.  The lines kept seperate; there were no ants that changed from one line to the other and they moved with assuredness, pausing just to touch antennae wtih ants traveling in the other direction, reinforcing that this was the right path.  This went on for days as I refilled the bait stations again and again.  

As I had hoped, the boric acid began to take its toll, and the number of ants on both trails decreased,  but the remaining ants continued to keep to their separate ways.  I noticed that now some of the ants did not return directly from bait to nest, but seemed to wander aimlessly and even stop for some time before moving again, acting as if they had lost the trail.  Perhaps their antennae, that are the sensory organs for following the chemical signs, were not functioning well because of the poison.  Finally they stopped showing up for either bait.  At last I thought.

I left the baits in place just in case.  Good thing.  After a pause of three or four days, the ants showed up again, and again went to both baits.  But this time while some ants traveled from nest to shower bait and returned to nest, others continued on to the sink counter bait, returning along the same trail to the shower bait before going back to the nest.  Now one trail served both baits.  It appeared that the pheromone for the earlier separate sink counter trail had been lost.  Still, a few ants seemd to retain a “memory” or “programming” for the old trail since they would circle about after leaving the shower bait as if searching for the lost trail, before giving up and returning to the present trail.  After some days, the number of ants going on to the sink counter decreased and now just a very few follow what must have become a very weak scent.  Most ants are busy with just the one shower bait.  (And hopefully will be poisoned and disappear.) 

Nature is wonderful.  That ants with such tiny brains can find food, lay down trails so that other colony members can follow it exactly without deviating, and seemingly search for a lost trail from the past as if they retained some memory of it.  And all with a brain one millionth the size of a human’s.  Of course they must do it by instinct, right?  Can’t be really “thinking” or “remembering” like we do? Humans with our big brains can do so much more than ants.  We can imagine, create, reason, remember.  We have emotions.  We can use logic to guide our life choices.  Not just blindly following a trail of pheromones.

And yet.  I had a friend from Texas who said that his father once told him to always vote Democratic even if they ran a mule for president. (Way back before Texas became a red state.)  I began smoking cigarettes in college because it was the cool thing to do since everyone else was doing it even though the first times I really didn’t enjoy it, until I became addicted and then had to continue till I finally was able to stop.  (That’s another story.)  We have emotions that can both reinforce and distort our “logical” decisions, unlike Mr. Spock.  Just listen to some Country-Western music.  And there are too many examples from politics, society, and religion—I’m sure you can think of some, present and past—that show that humans will easily follow a trail of mind pheromones, suspending reason for belief and, once on the path, not deviate no matter what countering facts or arguments are offered.  I would not want a life devoid of emotions where the highs can be so wonderful even if the lows can be so very dark.  Not everyone might agree.  Emotions are a gift of our big brains.  So are reasoning and logic.  Yet we are so susceptible to mind pheromones that, when encountered and if accepted, we will follow without questioning just as the ants do their chemical trails.  Come on people—our brains are one million times larger than those of ants.  Will we ever begin to use ours more?

A Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night.   Rain pelting the cabin roof and walls in volleys, thunder rattling the windows bare seconds after lightning glared white-hot into the house through the rain-streaked panes, gusts of wind moaned as they circled tha cabin. making its timbers creak.  A late October storm.

The old man, who lived there alone except for his parrot, had prepared for the anticipated electrical outage by placing lighted candles about the living room and keepng a flashlight at hand.  He’d been a sailor in his youth, had sailed many a sea and visited many an exotic port, but had chosen to live out his years inland, among stony hills, not far from the village of Dunwhich.  When he’d bought the cabin ten years before, he’d heard the tales of past strange goings-on and visitations but those were, if true, more than a hundred years ago and nothing had disturbed the sleepy air of the the area since he’d moved in.

Tonight the television reception was especially bad, so he turned it off and picked up the book he’d borrowed from the library in town—he was partial to mysteries—and had just begun to read when there came a soft tapping at the front door that he could barely hear over the roll of thunder and the creaking of the cabin.  The old man waited to see if it was just the wind.  But no, the soft rapping came again.  And then again.  Who could that be, he thought, too foul a night for the neighbors to be visiting.  Too early for trick or treating and anyway who would send their kids out on a night like this?  He picked up his flashlight to check the door and just as he rose from his chair, the electricity went out.  Of course he thought dourly.  The candle flames flickered as he made his way to the door and opened it carefully to keep the wind and rain out.  No one.  He was about to shut the door.

“Look down here,” said a soft accented voice.   

He turned the flashlight toward the doormat and standing there was a wet and bedraggled monkey who held up the stump of his left arm, “I’ve come for my paw.”  With that, the monkey brushed past the dumbfounded old man and entered the room. 

“I really didn’t invite you in,” said the old man, somewhat recovering his composure, “but on a night like this I guess you’re welcome to come in and dry out.  Now what’s this about a paw?”

“Many, many years ago a Hindu fakir sold you my paw, and I have to get it back so I can go on to my next level.  Do you still have it?”

The old man racked his memory.  “You must have been searching a long time.  It’s been decades since I was in India.”

“My paw,” the monkey said impatiently.  “It took me a long time to trace you here.”

“Wait.  Now I remember,” said the old man.  “Shortly after I bought it I gave it to a soldier who wanted a souvenir.  I think he was going back to England.”

“Did you use any of the wishes that came with it?”

“No.  All that mystical mumbo jumbo spooked me and I just gave it to that soldier and was glad to be rid of it.”

The monkey sighed, “Now I’ll have to go to England.  Do you mind if I wait out the storm here where it’s dry and warm?”

Just then there came a sharp tapping on one of the windows.  The old man went over and shone his light outside.  A large, black, very wet bird tapped again and again.  “Oh why not?” said the old man, and he opened the window and the raven, for that’s what it was, hopped through followed by a blast of wind that extinguished half of the candles.  The raven shook it’s feathers in a mini-shower, squawked and looked at the parrot who stared back and squawked in turn. 

“Aren’t you supposed to say something like ‘Nevermore?’” said the old man as he went around relighting the candles.

“Caw,” said the raven, ruffling its feathers.

“Nevermore,” said the parrot suddenly.  

“Right word, wrong bird,” said the old man to the parrot that shifted on its perch.  

There was a loud knocking on the door.  “Now what? said the old man.  He went to the door, opened it a crack and shined his flashlight through.  No one.

“Invite me in.  It’s wet and cold standing in the rain with nothing on,” said a voice with a British accent.

The old man felt his remaining hair rise, “Who said that?”  Sweeping the flashlight beam around but one one was there.

An amused chuckle.  “Mystifying isn’t it.  It is I the invisible man, and of course you do not see me because I took off my wet clothes.  Now are you going to let me in?”

This night was getting beyond him.  The old man opened the door and saw wet foot prints cross the threshhold and enter his home.

“Thank you.  I usually wear clothes or bandages so that you people can see me, but tonight they became so wet, I just peeled them off.”  The voice came out of the air.

“Here, could you at least put on my cap so that I know where you are?  It’s too strange to be talking to no one,” said the old man holding out a cap.  It was taken out of his hand and placed atop the invisible man’s head where it bobbed about seemingly suspended in air.

“Feel better now?” came from under the cap.

“If you don’t mind, maybe also put on this jacket.”  said the old man holding out his plaid jacket.

The old man watched his jacket move seemingly by itself till it covered the torso of the invisible man, who said, “Thank you, that does help to take away the chill of being nude in the rain.”

The candle flames cast shifting shadows, as he old man saw his cap and coat float across the room and sit on an arm chair by the fireplace.  “But what are you doing here?  What’s the monkey doing here?” he asked.  “What’s going on?”

“You cannot hear the call, but we who follow can.  And these hills are a nexus where once the unknowable became known,” said the invisible man.

“ I told you before, I simply want my paw,” said the monkey.

“Nexus?  Unknowable”” asked the old man.

A measured pounding at the door interrupted. 

“I shall not be the only one heeding the call tonight.  Go old man and let it in,” the invisible man commanded.

The old man was by now numbed by the night’s strange visitations and he crossed the room to the door calling out loudly, “I’m coming, I’m coming.  You can stop pounding.”  He opened the door carefully, mindful of the wind.  And stared, stunned by the sight of a human wrapped in white bandages from head to foot with only the narrowest space for its eyes.  Without a word. the mummy strode past the old man to enter the room, dripping as it moved.

“Ah Pharaoh, what a pleasure to see you again,” said the invisible man.  “Did you finally catch up to that troublesome Egyptologist who violated your tomb?”

“Not as yet, not as yet, but be assured that I will,” the mummy replied in a dry, rasping voice.  “And when I do, I shall also raise my queen whom he has imprisoned within a glass case at the British Museum.”

“Well, in the meantime since you’re here and your wrappings are soaked, why don’t you unwrap yourself and let them dry out?”  suggested the invisible man, much to the old man’s horror.

“I cannot do that,” said the mummy, much to the old man’s relief  “The wrappings hold my body securely together.  Having been dessicated for centuries, the water actually feels pleasant.”

“You heeded the call as I did?” said the invisible man .

“What’s this about a call?” asked the old man.

“Of course,” replied the mummy.  “One cannot ignore the call of Great Cthulhu.”

“C-Cthulhu?” asked the old man.  “What’s this Cthulhu?”  He was ignored.

“We will be joined by yet another, for he was behind me on path,” the mummy said.

And as if on cue, there came a thunderous hammering of the door.

“Allow me,” said the invisible man rising from his chair.  

The old man saw his empty jacket and cap rise from the chair and move towards the door; feeling relieved that he would not have to immediately confront whomever or whatever was knocking so heavily on his door.

The door swumg open and a huge form filled the frame.  “Ah the monster,” said the invisible man.  “Welcome to our small company.”

“Yes, you  men call me monster though I was formed from humanity,” the monster replied.  I who by nature would have been good, was forced by humanity’s rejection and cruelty to respond in kind.  I have sunk so low as to slay my creator, the one named Victor Frankenstein, who dared to defy his Creator by bringing life to me.”

“You too answer the call,” rasped the mummy.

“Yes, I have become so accursed that now I too can hear the call.”

The old man did not dare call attention to himself by asking what they were talking about and he quietly retreated to the corner of the room by his parrot.

“Now I must take advantage of the storm to renew my energy, for it was on a night like this that I was born,” said the monster.  

The monster went back into the storm.  The old man heard him climb ponderously onto the roof and hoped that the roof timbers would hold under the monster’s weight.

Inside the cabin they heard the monster’s call to the storm clouds, “Strike me oh heavenly bolts.  You that once brought me life.  Now renew my strength or slay me, I care not which.”

As if in reply, a brilliant flash flooded the room through the windows with a simultaneous trememdous Boom directly over the cabin that rattled the dishes in the kitchen cabinets, and made the old man’s ears ring.  And the monster’s bellow—of pain? truimph? rage?  They heard his body slide, clattering across the roof and fall.  Then silence until the door knob turned and he stepped into the room, his clothes and hair dripping but still smoking a little despite the rain.  “I am revived,” he said.  “And ready to answer Cthulhu’s call.”

“Once the main fury of the storm passes we shall go as a band,” said the invisible man.

The old man summoned enough courage to venture, “Who or what is this Cthulhu you keep talking about?”

“Great Cthulhu dwells on an island that periodically rises from the depths of the sea to rally his followers.  He is one of the Elder Beings whom you men would call evil, but his purposes are beyond the puny human understandings of Evil or Good.  He is Great, and we follow,”said the monster.

“I’ve heard tales in the dives of South Sea ports,” said the old man. “Of a foul island found on no charts that rises from the sea and then sinks.” 

“They are not mere tales,” said the invisible man.  “But come, the storm is moving away.  Let us also be on our way.”  And with that, the three visitors rose.  

“My coat and hat?” asked the old man cautiously.

“Here you are.  I thank you for their use,” said the invisible man as he handed them to the old man before going out the door into the dark night, fully invisible once more.

“And I’ll be on my way too, to England,” said the monkey.  “You don’t happen to remember the name of that soldier you gave my paw to, do you?”

“Let me think,” said the old man.  After a long pause he said, “I think it was Usher or maybe Asher.”

“Thank you.”  And with that the monkey too was gone.

“What a weird, unsettling night,” mused the old man to himself.  “May I never see any of those things again.”

“Nevermore,” said the parrot, settling itself to sleep.

“A night’s worth of nightmares,” the old man said.

“Forevermore,” said the raven.

School Supplies

“Greetings and welcome to shopping at Smart Mart, your everything store.”

“Excuse me, I’m—ah—new at this.  Could you tell me where I can find this item on my first grader’s school supply list?”

“Certainly. Dear Human* Let me have look at your list.  Oh right. That’s at the end of aisle thirty.  Just turn right, go past the line of cashiers, take a left at aisle thirty and you’ll find what you want at the end of the aisle.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello, Dear Human,* can I be of help?”

“Yes, I’m trying to fill out my daughter’s school supply list.  She’s going into first grade, and this item is marked ‘optional,’ and I’m not sure I need to get it.”

“May I see your list?  Yes, you’re come to the right place.  Can I answer any questions to help you make up your mind?”

“Yes, it is an optional item and I’m not sure she’s old enough to need it.  And it does cost more than anything else on the list.”

“Do you have other older children?”

“No, Michelle is my oldest.”

“Then I can understand why you would be hesitant, not having done this before.  I’m sure there are other parents who have the same questions.  As parents we all want to do what’s best for our children and to keep them safe.  This is suggested as an optional purchase because six year olds mature at different rates and not all children at that age would be able to handle the responsibility involved.  Do you feel your daughter is a responsible child?”

“Oh yes.  Michelle has always been very responsible.”

“Excellent.”

“But six seems so young.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the law that allowed teachers to be armed has really not ended the tragedy of school mass shootings.  In fact, the teacher, armed or not, is often the first person targeted by these crazies.  And so the law in this state was broadened to allow students six years and older to be armed. Of course only if their parents desired.”

“But how safe is it for six year olds to be going around at school with guns?  Have there been any accidents?”

“None since the law was passed thirteen months ago.”

“Have any children actually used their guns in a shooter situation?”

“None as yet.  But you must understand that we don’t just sell a gun to parents and send them on their way.  The law mandates that the child complete a thorough gun safety and handling course taught by certified instructors from the American Firearms Association (AFA).  After which, the child is then licensed as a Junior School Guardian (JSG) with the city police department and their school principal is also notified.”

“Carrying around a handgun at school would be so big and bulky.  Michelle would stand out.”

“The weapons have been scaled down to fit smaller hands and there are a variety of choices.  Is Michelle petite or average or large for her age?”

“Her pediatrician says she’s in the ninetieth percentile.”

“Excellent.”

“But how many first graders are actually carrying guns?” 

“Based on figures from the police, in affluent school districts like this one, a little over half of the children.  I’ve already made quite a number of sales this school year.”

“Well——I don’t want her to stand out or to feel left out—-” 

“If it will help you to make up your mind, let me show you what we have available.  Now here’s a popular model—a Konrad School Special.  As you can see the weapon and grip are scaled for smaller hands.”

“It’s black. Does it come in any other colors?”

“It only comes in black to reinforce the idea to the child that this is not a plaything, that this is very serious business.  So no cartoon motifs either.  We want the child to realize that as Junior School Guardians they are responsible for the safety of their friends and classmates.  For an additional charge the handles can be changed to faux pearl to give the child a sense of pride of ownership.”

“But won’t it be hard for my daughter to handle?  I mean aiming it and firing it with the recoil?”

“There was a lot of thought that went into the design.  Because it is a small gun, it carries only four rounds, although it does come with an additional clip.  A special cartridge was developed by the manufacturers, the .22 Stinger.  The recoil is light but the bullet is based on the dum-dum principle that is only approved for this bullet for this use.  So it does have more stopping power that you might expect from a .22.  As for aiming, the gun has a laser sight built in and all she has to do is put the spot on the bad guy and pull the trigger.  It has been tested to be very accurate within forty feet.”

“But still, six year olds with deadly weapons—-“

“The gun safety course taught by AFA instructors emphasises responsibility and safety.  If a child horses around or is felt to be not capable of being a JSG, the parents are told that their child is still too young to continue training.  The dropout rate runs about twelve percent.  Each child is trained in simulated active shooter situations so that they would be calm and use their weapon effectively to protect their friends and class if the need arises.  And of course they get to fire their weapon so that they become used to how it works and feels.”

“You’ve given me a lot to consider.  I’ll have to think about it and talk to Michelle.  Maybe I’ll bring her down here to see for herself.  Thank you for taking the time.”

“Excellent, excellent.  I think Michelle would be interested in learning abot JSG’s.  You know, the AFA has down surveys and found that children who became JSGs had an increased sense of self-confidence and responsibility compared to children who were not.  Here is my card.  Call anytime if you have more questions.  And of course Smart Mart offers easy payment plans.”

———————————————

*In a move to become gender neutral, the usual gender specific titles such as Miss, Mrs., Ms., Mr., Sir, Madam were replaced by Human.  It was felt that Person carried a negative connotation (person of interest), and Being was too broad and had a vaguely science fiction connection.  Dear Human being the most formal form of greeting.  Less formally, Human, Dear H. or most informally DH have come into use. 

Listening to Willy Nelson sing  “Remember Me,” I wondered if the song could be flipped 180 degrees to “I’ll Remember You.”  From a plea to be remembered, to a promise to remember. 

I’ll Remember You In the Cool Of Early Morning

Music: Remember Me When The Candlelights Are Gleaming by Scott Wiseman-1940

Sung by Willy Nelson, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, et al

———————————-

I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

We met when you were young and oh so lovely,

With a spirit that was strong and brave and free,

There were other men who came around to court you,

But in the end, the one you chose was me.

I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

To share a love that would last forever,

Vows we made, on our wedding day,

But it’s not for us to know or own the future,

It is Fate, that has the final say.

Windblown rain, sweeping down the valley,

Orange sun, setting over the sea,

Rainbow following a morning shower,

Things you loved I’ll hold in memory.

I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

I’ll still remember you.

Tourists

The director addressed the tour group.  “We will soon be arriving at our destination.  I want to remind you that any interaction with the natives is prohibited.  They are a young, unstable race whose weaponry. though crude, can still do harm.  Although the atmosphere contains levels of oxygen that would allow us to breath it, theirs has toxic levels of other chemicals as well as microorganisms that may be capable of causing disease.  Therefor you should not remove your protective suits that also render you invisible to the natives.  The time that you will have on the ground at various sites will be strictly enforced.  Your suits will automatically return you to the tour vehicle if it detects that you are not voluntarily returning.  As we arrive at each destination, I will provide context about what you will see and answer questions.”

The vehicle had been in undetectable mode since emerging from intergalactic drive behind the planet’s only moon.  As it began to descend towards the blue planet the passengers followed the approach on holograms, marveling as the planet’s surface details became clearer.   The vehicle paused just outside  the atmosphere giving the guide time to give a last quick orientation.  And also to issue the gravity neutral footwear since most of the tourists were from home bodies with gravities differing from Sol 3’s.

“The first stop will be at our galactic outpost that is beneath their ocean.  One of the monitors stationed there will give you an introduction to the civilization found here.  We will now proceed to enter what the natives call their Pacific Ocean, an ironic name since, as you will hear, the natives are anything but peaceful.”  Undetected, the tour vehicle now descended through the atmosphere, slipped below the water, and proceeded to the deep outpost where it mated seamlessly to the entry port.  The tourists chattered excitedly as they were escorted through a series or corridors to a conference room.

“The outpost is larger than I expected,” said one.

“I scoped for info on outposts before we left.  Since the monitors are stationed here for 3 galactic periods, it was designed to be non-claustrophobic,” answered another.  As they entered the auditorium, the forty tourists generally sat with others from their planet or moon of origin.  

The monitor was already there.  He spoke Galactic Universal with a heavy Zenobian accent.  “Welcome to our outpost on Sol 3.  I think you will find your visit to this planet extremely interesting and informative.  For some of you it will be like seeing a living ancient history of your own civilizations.  Others may be shocked to see things that their own histories never included.  The natives are of all one race differing only by the color of their casing.”  (The Zenobian then projected holograms of the various Sol 3 races.)  “As you can see, great variety.  But they are of one race because they have sexual reproduction and are compatible across their color differences.  However, and this may surprise you, they place great distinction on their casing color and have had wars and enslavement based on just that one characteristic.”

Question: “What is war and enslavement?”

“Good question.  Your Trillian history is one of cooperation since you evolved from hive-forming ancestors and the emphasis was always to work toward the collective good.  Well, that is not the case here where the importance of the individual being or clan took precedence.  And instead of cooperation it has always been a question of dominance, obtained by fighting with and killing of, the different being or clan entity.  And enslavement occurred when the defeated clan or being was forced to completely bow to the demands of the winner and became their property.”   There was a murmur of disbelief and surprise.  “I see some Yetians in the audience.  Your race went through a similar history at one time very long ago.”   The two Yetians nodded agreement, “A very long time ago,” said one with emphasis on the very.

“Something else.  The world is divided into different clans that are called nations.  There is no effective unifying order.  There have been attempts to do so, but the clan or national impulse always takes precedence.  This too has been a source of many wars.”

The Zenobian continued.  “Another thing that may surprise you.  There are still layers of culture here, from their most scientifically advanced societies to others that coexist still in a pre-metallurgic state.  And further, even within the most advanced and rich nations, there are members of that nation who are basically outcasts from the general prosperity and society.”

Question:  Don’t these beings have a code of conduct or morality?

“Sol 3 has a variety of beliefs and philosophies that, if followed as set down by their founders, would result in a truly wonderful society.  The problem is that they are not followed for the most part.  In fact, many of the philosophies and beliefs are warped by their current leaders to suit their own objectives.  It is a sad situation.”

“I see our time is up and it is time for you to begin your planetary tour, under the guidance of your leader who has led four previous groups here and is very knowledgeable about Sol 3.  There are some refreshments at the back of the auditorium.  Please enjoy them and have a most enjoyable visit to this planet.”  There was a smattering of sounds of appreciation and the sound of shuffling limbs as the tourists rose and headed to the back of the auditorium and refreshments.  As they milled around, there were murmurs of “this is going to be so great—I can’t believe that—minds blowing—glad you came now?—can I have the last one.

The group trooped back to their vehicle.  The guide said that their first stops would be in two large centers of population.  The first was London where the guide pointed out the multiracial, multicultural makeup of the population and the general prosperity as the tourists passed undetectably among the throngs.  Yes, their are racial tensions, in fact violence at times, but in general it is an example of a large city where Solians congregate to live and work.  Yes, the transportation is extremely backward with combustion being the primary source of power.  Yes, there are electric vehicles, but they are in the minority.  The congestion?  Wait till our next stop.

The next stop was Kolkata.  The reaction of the tourists to the crowding, sheer destitution and poverty was stunned, silent, disbelief.  The guide let them recover from their initial shock before he spoke.  This, outside of a war zone that we will also visit, is about as bad as it can get.  This is an example of a city failing its inhabitants.  Yes, there is a government, but there is also a belief system that reinforces divisions of their society called castes stymying upward movement from lowest layers of society.  Note the vast distance between the most prosperous and the most impoverished.  And their own city government?  Their government finds other priorities.  Why don’t other nations help?  There are non-national groups that do try to provide aid, but what help other nations provide is just a small patch on the problems.  

A somber group of tourists reboarded their vehicle.  Now you will have a treat.  A pyrotechnic display as one of their space rockets is launched.  

A supply rocket to the orbiting moon station was being launched.  With flames, smoke, thunderous noise and vibrations that they could feel even within their protective suits, they watched in awe.  I have never seen any thing like that, exclaimed one.  That’s how they lift off their planet?  How incredibly wasteful, said another.  Thats what all our far ancestors did when they first entered space, said the guide, except for the Eutopians who discovered early what we now use and bypassed the rocket stage.  The three Eutopians waved their upper extremities.

The  tour went on.  First to a war zone where they did not disembark.  The guide explained the paradox of fighting and killing over natural resources while expending them prodigiously in the conflict.  Will the natives ever progress out of their warlike mindset?  Hopefully before they discover the intergalactic drive.  That is why there is a monitoring station here.

Then to a vast jungle where reforestation efforts to undue the harm of years of deforestation were being implemented at last.  Why didn’t the natives just not denude their jungle in the first place?  Probably short sighted individual greed.  And disbelief in what their scientists were telling them.  

The tour paused over raging forest fires, over a large island that had once been thickly glaciated, and then hovered over the tips of islets that were the remnants of island nations, submerged by the rising seas. They watched a tropical hurricane move over land and leave destruction in its wake.

The tour concluded and the vehicle returned to space, where the guide conducted a debriefing.  You ask if the planet will survive?  The planet will of course still be here physically, circling its sun. .Probably the natives will not be wiped out.  Whether their civilizations will survive is unknown.  Why don’t we help them?  The policy of the alliance is let each planetary race work out its own destiny and to interfere only if they become a threat to another planet.  The natives are a highly inventive race and we can only hope that they will be able to save themselves in time from their own follies.  

This concludes our exo-cultural tour. I hope that you found it mind-widening and provocative and will recommend it to those you know.  We will be sending out info on our next cycle of tours shortly.

Stepping Stones

When we were younger—not young, just younger—and you were two, maybe three weeks old, Abu (grandmother) carried you in the crook of her arm and exclaimed with delight, “She fits just like a loaf of bread!”  It was a cold December, but a warm Christmas, followed by a quiet New Year as the new millenium dawned.  I wasn’t much help during that visit.  I tried, by taking the big, white dog for walks, but if we got too far from home, she would just sit down and not budge until I turned back.

We stayed four weeks, to return in the spring when there were walks in the wooded park.  And the big, white dog would bark and strain at the leash to chase squirrels while you, bundled up, rolled along in the stroller.  We would grow to know that park well, and would return again and again on later visits.  And sometimes Uncle A would also be there.

When you started to walk, you would help push the stroller along the paths until you decided you would rather ride.  In later years you would skip ahead of us on walks, perhaps stopping to play on the equipment in that small playground.

You were shy when you first enrolled at Montessori.  Sometimes Abu and I would go with your mother to pick you up.

Later when you entered middle school, Abu and I would walk over to get you and we would stop at Jamba Juice on the way home.

There was that Christmas at a ski resort with the entire family, when I watched you dad offer support as you cautiously circled the skating rink.

Then suddenly you were graduating from high school.  The ceremony was at night in a continuous, cold rain and your parents, Uncle A, and I sat on hard bleachers, thoroughly soaked, while you and the other four hundred seniors with wet, limp gowns went up one by one to receive you diplomas.

College came that fall.  You made new friends, studied, worked jobs, shared apartments. made road trips, and grew into being yourself.  

And then, college was over. Last week was graduation, this time on a bright sunny afternoon.  Your mom, two uncles and I, with two of your friends cheered loudly when your name was called and you walked across that stage.

This fall you will be back in school all the way east in New York.  You decided to follow your heart and enroll in culinary school where you will learn the techniques and arts of the kitchen.  To slice, season, saute, stew, roast, and perhaps bake the perfect loaf of bread.

A Human Author

Welcome to Current Topics, where you will always hear electrifying talks on subjects of immediate interest.  These talks are being recorded for later access on our site.  Our speaker today is Robyn Byrd who will describe how she became a most unique best selling author.  Without further ado, Ms. Byrd.

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  Well, best selling if you can say that of an author whose output is counted in double digits.  To explain that, I’ll start at the beginning.  I was a script writer for studio productions, both television and movies.  The Writers Guild strike of 2023 was prolonged and ultimately resolved but to neither side’s satisfaction. slide—here I am on the picket line.  Studios already made extensive use of CGI or computer generated imagery in films and had even tried to do a full-length film—that was Polar Express, a Christmas movie—completely computer generated, but it met with a mixed response because the process was not mature at the time.  So given the writer’s strike, it was understandable that the studios would think about producing scripts using AI.

From the writers’ standpoint, when word of these early trials got out, it was betrayal.  A breaking of a long-held unspoken understanding with the studios.  From the studios’ standpoint it was economics.  And guess who eventually prevailed?  Right!  

But it wasn’t just the studios.  Change was occurring across society.  From bank tellers to legal assistants to the factory floor.  Automation and AI were replacing humans.  And yes, authors.  When a publishing house—I know, not many left—could order a novel with a specified number of pages in the style of, say Faulkner, with a specified era and location about a specified subject and receive a manuscript that only the dedicated Faulkner scholar could tell was a forgery, well, the barn door was wide open.  Want pseudo-Agatha Christie?  No problem.  A lost Steinbeck manuscript?  Can do that.  Of course there was still room for the truly original and gifted voice in writing.  But for the formulaic adventure story, love story, mystery, western?  AI took care of those.

Well, I knew I didn’t have one of those gifted, original voices.  And I was out of the job that I knew and loved.  I looked around and realized that almost everything was mass produced.  But there seemed to be a high end market for things that were scarce and original.  Art of all kinds was still being bought.  Hand crafted furniture—the one of a kind piece that demonstrated the owner’s status and taste.  The hand knitted sweater.  Things that bore the touch of a human mind and hand.  And who were the people who could afford these objects?  The technocrats, the money people, the creative people, the CEOs and the entrepreneurs—people who worked mostly with their minds and not their hands.

My friend, Henry Clay, is a potter—well, he calls himself a ceramicist when he talks to clients.   He’s been doing very well making one of a kind dinner services, selling at selected outlets catering to the one percenters. slide—here’s Henry at his wheel and—slide—here he is with one of his dinner services—  A light bulb went off.  Henry works with mud.  I work with words.  What if I wrote and then hand produced a limited number of works of fiction?  Like original art prints.  Would there be people who would buy them to display on their one of a kind coffee tables? 

Writing stories was no problem given my background, though they tend to be heavy on dialogue.  I already had the basic necessities.  Laptop, laser printer.  I just needed to acquire the skills and tools of book binding, the more hand crafted the better.  Found a mentor and learned the trade.  slide—John Inkstone has been binding and rebinding books for forty plus years—And acquired the tools.  You can find almost anything online, which seems ironic given what I was trying to do.  A friend who’s a printmaker agreed to make a print relating to the story for the front piece, for a small percentage of the sales.  slide—this is Jonny Tu with the print she did for my first book—Found a source of natural fabrics for the covers.  Depending on the story, I will make different covers.  For example, denim if it’s a blue collar story; tartan if it’s set in Scotland; black silk for a bodice ripper.

The initial trial run was of twelve, that I took around to galleries and interior decorators and explained what I was trying to do.  slide——And this is the first copy of that run—I was thrilled when I was able to place ten on consignment.  Then I waited.  If this didn’t work, it was back to the unemployment line.  

When word came of the first sale, I was ecstatic.  The other nine sold within a month.  I felt that I was on to something.  The next run and all subsequent ones was of forty.  I had no trouble placing them. And they sell.  And that’s my story.  In a world flooded with machine-made objects, there is a desire, a need, to possess something made by another human being.

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We do have some time for questions.  

Yes.  The woman in back in a purple blouse.  Why a run of forty?  I didn’t want the series to be too large, like say a hundred.  That would detract from the idea that this is a limited edition.  Oh, and I number the books on the title page like prints.  I also include a pair of white cotton gloves with each copy to reinforce the idea that what the reader holds is of value and should be handled with care and respect.

The man with a beard in front.  Did I consider setting type rather than using a laser printer?  No.  I don’t have the skills and that would frankly be just too much work.  But an acquaintance is handwriting his books on handmade paper.  Needless to say, his calligraphy is beautiful and his truly one of a kind books are priced at ten times or more than mine.  Yes, much like what the monk scribes did.

The woman on the aisle in yellow.  How do I determine my price?  I talked to gallery owners to see what limited edition prints were selling for.  And then set a median figure.

Why not in bookstores?  Because I’m selling these as original handcraft or artwork and they would be out of place among the best sellers and popular books.

The man in front in the Hawaiian shirt.  Do I still use and compensate my artist friend?  Yes.  Jonny silkscreens forty prints that relate to the story, numbers and signs them, and I pay her five percent of the net sales.

Sorry, but I’m being signaled that that’s all the time we have.  Thank you for your interest and your questions.   I’ll be happy to stay around afterwards and talk. 

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On Memorial Day, this is for the classes of 1950 and 1954 and 1958. My classes sequentially in Honolulu and Cambridge and Boston.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

(adapted from Pete Seeger)

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?

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Where have all the young maids gone?

Long time passing.

Strong and graceful, without fear,

Long time ago.

Where have all the young maids gone?

Grown grey and tired, long in years.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

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Where have all the young men gone?

Long time passing.

Swift and certain of their dreams.

Long time ago.

Some are gone and some remain,

Moving slow with aches and canes.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

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And where have all the children gone?

Long time passing.

Full of wonder, spirits free.

Long time ago.

Where have all the children gone?

They’ve grown to be like you and me.

When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?

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Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright—in the morning sun,

So long ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

What did we ever learn, what did we ever know?

What did we ever know?