Recently, the mega-company DuPont agreed to pay fines levied by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) for “allegedly” hiding research regarding the toxicity of Teflon--that ubiquitous nonstick, stain-resistant substance coating your cookware, your carpeting, your upholstery, your car’s upholstery, as well as candy wrappers, microwave popcorn bags and even small appliances--Foreman grills, waffle makers and clothes irons.
Apparently, Teflon’s main ingredient, perfluorooctanoic acid (PFOA), has been found in umbilical cord fluid, the water supply and even the polar bears of the North Pole. The EPA has upgraded it to being a “likely” carcinogen. It takes years to leave the human body and never breaks down--ever.
Now I believe in letting the market control things--get squeamish about government regulation--like to believe people should be responsible for themselves, and that they know best what's best for them. But where does my buyer-beware responsibility end and corporate responsibility start? This is a hot issue--just look at the Great Tobacco and McDonald's Spilt Coffee lawsuits.
It's one thing to unknowingly sell something dangerous--and another to sell something knowing it is dangerous. Innocent wrongdoing demands ceasing and desisting when knowledge exposes the wrongdoing, knowingly selling something dangerous should come with penalties severe and swift enough to cause ceasing and desisting.
A January 18, 2005 Chicago Tribune article asserts DuPont scientists were warning company execs as early as 1961 of problems--and the company hid the facts. They hid the birth defects of plant workers, and argued that while PFOA caused cancer, birth defects and liver damage in rats, there was no evidence it was harmful to people. In short, they lied.
They lie still. DuPont continues to market Teflon--aggressively. It is now a “new” ingredient in toilet bowl cleaner, and has been added to car wax to supposedly repel dirt.
In my opinion, there are (at least) two wrongs here: the deception of DuPont, and the complicity of our own government. DuPont put a product on the market, lied about its safety, breaking the law, and our government, rightly, fined them. An old episode of Andy Griffith shows Andy and Barney checking out a travelling salesman whose tonic consists mostly of liquor. When the truth is confirmed, Andy puts a stop to the man's enterprise. But the fines our govenment imposed on DuPont were a pittance of their profit, certainly not enough to force them to remove Teflon from the market. If the government agencies involved were doing their jobs, Teflon would be recalled and DuPont would be made to clean up its mess, the same way Mayberry's salesman was made to relinquish his permit and refund everyone's money.
If the government is not willing to enforce its own laws, and persists in levelling such impotent fines, they are, in fact, rewarding bad behavior. If they are not part of the solution, they become part of the problem. If my government is part of the problem, then I shouldn't be paying their saleries and rewarding their bad behavior. Now there’s a free market control I'd like to see!
Friday, June 02, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Is Our Democracy Dying?
I’m disappointed with the current state of politics in the United States of America. Not because the candidates I've voted for have won or lost. Not because policies have, or have not, gone the way I think they should. I’m disappointed because, it seems to me, running the country has become a power game, and elections more a sport than a time to come together and decide the business of our government.
The very language used--horse race, winning team, point spread--turns them to game. The candidates come out “boasting” of their feats, and deriding the opponents’, posturing reminiscent of the mudslinging that precedes wrestling matches.
Commanding our government is not a wrestling match. In his letters, Thomas Jefferson states, "The equal rights of man, and the happiness of every individual, are now acknowledged to be the only legitimate objects of government." Since we, as the people, are the government, our job becomes to promote and ensure the liberty and opportunity of everyone--not ourselves, not the few, not even the majority, but all.
According to Jefferson, again, this is done, not through wrangling, but through honest pursuit of truth. He further contends that it is the expression of differing opinions that uncovers truth. "Difference of opinion leads to enquiry, and enquiry truth,” he wrote to P. H. Wendover, in 1815. Uncovering truth means honest debate and honest discussion.
I do not hear that taking place. I hear a lot of positioning, I hear a lot of rhetoric, I hear a lot of buzzwords and sound bites. True discussion would have each person truly hearing and understanding others’ positions. True discussion would clarify the rhetoric and define the buzzwords. True debate would tell not just what, but how something could be accomplished. I believe true debate would bring us, not to a 51-49 split, but to general agreement.
Dr. Phil often asks people on his show: “Are you fighting to be right, or are you trying to resolve the issues?” I think, as a nation, we should ask ourselves the same question.
Our job is not to decide a winner, or even to choose the person who presents the best ideas. Our job is to figure out how best to safeguard the liberty and happiness of our citizenry. When we have done that, we send the person to the capital whom we deem best able to carry out our wishes.
In 1787, a Scottish history professor at The University of Edinburgh, Alexander Tyler made the statement: "A democracy is always temporary in nature . . . . A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship."
Tyler saw that each of the great civilizations of history followed a pattern “from bondage to spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to great courage; from courage to liberty; from liberty to abundance; from abundance to complacency; from complacency to apathy; from apathy to dependence; [and] from dependence back into bondage."
Our founding fathers thought Tyler was wrong. They had great faith in the human desire for justice, and in the human ability to reason. "If ever the earth has beheld a system of administration conducted with a single and steadfast eye to the general interest and happiness of those committed to it, one which, protected by truth, can never know reproach, it is that to which our lives have been devoted," wrote Jefferson to James Madison, in 1826.
It would be a shame to lay their work to waste, and to return to the bondage against which they revolted.
--an earlier version of this essay was published in the South County Gazette, Three Oaks, Michigan.
The very language used--horse race, winning team, point spread--turns them to game. The candidates come out “boasting” of their feats, and deriding the opponents’, posturing reminiscent of the mudslinging that precedes wrestling matches.
Commanding our government is not a wrestling match. In his letters, Thomas Jefferson states, "The equal rights of man, and the happiness of every individual, are now acknowledged to be the only legitimate objects of government." Since we, as the people, are the government, our job becomes to promote and ensure the liberty and opportunity of everyone--not ourselves, not the few, not even the majority, but all.
According to Jefferson, again, this is done, not through wrangling, but through honest pursuit of truth. He further contends that it is the expression of differing opinions that uncovers truth. "Difference of opinion leads to enquiry, and enquiry truth,” he wrote to P. H. Wendover, in 1815. Uncovering truth means honest debate and honest discussion.
I do not hear that taking place. I hear a lot of positioning, I hear a lot of rhetoric, I hear a lot of buzzwords and sound bites. True discussion would have each person truly hearing and understanding others’ positions. True discussion would clarify the rhetoric and define the buzzwords. True debate would tell not just what, but how something could be accomplished. I believe true debate would bring us, not to a 51-49 split, but to general agreement.
Dr. Phil often asks people on his show: “Are you fighting to be right, or are you trying to resolve the issues?” I think, as a nation, we should ask ourselves the same question.
Our job is not to decide a winner, or even to choose the person who presents the best ideas. Our job is to figure out how best to safeguard the liberty and happiness of our citizenry. When we have done that, we send the person to the capital whom we deem best able to carry out our wishes.
In 1787, a Scottish history professor at The University of Edinburgh, Alexander Tyler made the statement: "A democracy is always temporary in nature . . . . A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship."
Tyler saw that each of the great civilizations of history followed a pattern “from bondage to spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to great courage; from courage to liberty; from liberty to abundance; from abundance to complacency; from complacency to apathy; from apathy to dependence; [and] from dependence back into bondage."
Our founding fathers thought Tyler was wrong. They had great faith in the human desire for justice, and in the human ability to reason. "If ever the earth has beheld a system of administration conducted with a single and steadfast eye to the general interest and happiness of those committed to it, one which, protected by truth, can never know reproach, it is that to which our lives have been devoted," wrote Jefferson to James Madison, in 1826.
It would be a shame to lay their work to waste, and to return to the bondage against which they revolted.
--an earlier version of this essay was published in the South County Gazette, Three Oaks, Michigan.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Wetland Habitats Best Preserved.
Since the 1600s, human endeavor has drained or filled fully one half of the wetlands those early settlers encountered across the expanse that is now the United States (including Alaska). This is according to the Environmental Protection Agency’s website.
What this means is that in roughly 400 years, man has engineered himself out of acres of habitat that filters drinking water, controls flooding, balances nutrients and sodium values--and, new evidence suggests, perhaps even climate itself. He has undone in a short period of time what nature has taken tens of thousands of years to put in place, and he has spent billions of dollars creating waste water treatment centers to do what the wetland did with greater efficiency.
And this is just the wetlands, the swamps and meadows that line the coasts of our oceans, the shores of our lakes and the banks and flood plains of our rivers.
Rivers themselves have been dammed and redirected. All of this has been done in the name of progress, for purposes ranging from power production, to recreation, to sheer convenience. And now decades down the line, the folly of these endeavors is becoming evident. Our groundwater is polluted, shorelines and river banks are eroding, flooding has increased.
Many of the neighborhoods that flooded in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit used to be wetlands--wetlands that would have absorbed much of Katrina’s wrath, or at least water, wetlands that would have buffered the impact of the waves against higher ground, a sort of shock absorber, as it were. In short, flooding would not have been as wide spread. And the manmade levees put into place in their stead did not do the job. I am sorry for the people who lost their home, that is tragic--but the homes should not have been built there in the first place.
Because of all the dams and diversions along the Colorado River north of the Grand Canyon, the once-raging whitewater that carved the gorge is now murky and still. Plant and animal species are dying off at tremendous speed as the river drowns in its own silt. A river that once ended with a great delta before emptying into the sea is now but a stream.
As man hurries to undo what he has done, he finds he can’t--he can make it better but he cannot replace what has been lost.
The lesson here, as with the lessons of all history, is that we must think before we act, not after. We have, it seems to me, put our desires before our needs. We have put golf courses before drinking water. We have been blinded by easy living, existing on a “credit card” whose interest has been accruing, and whose bill is about to come due. We can’t afford environmental bankruptcy. That is the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the soil that grows our food.
Before we undo nature, maybe we should try to see why nature has put what she did where she did. There is a scene in the movie Out of Africa where the character played by Meryl Streep brings European technology to the “outback,” and has her servants dam the river running through her property. Her servant is taken aback. “This river lives in Mombassa,” he tells her. And when it rains, the river floods, the dam breaks. After several attempts to rebuild it, and several rains that destroy it, she finally concedes: the river lives in Mombassa.
My point is: wetlands are where they are for a reason, and will not be easily changed. I can give a local example. Just south of Higman Park, in Benton Harbor, the Paw Paw River was diverted so a road could be built (at least this is what I’ve been told). One can tell by the vegetation, and remaining ponds, that the land is low. And every time it rains, Jean Klock Road floods. It is best suited to being the wetland it was, and I suspect, given time, it will reclaim its territory.
As a child, in church school, I was taught a little ditty about the “wise man,” who built his house upon the rock, and the “foolish man,” who built his house upon the sand. I realize the song was about building on a spiritual foundation, but the analogy wouldn’t work it there weren’t physical truth in it.
In the song, the “rains came down and the floods came up,” and while the house upon the rock “stood firm,” the house on the sand went “splat.”
Wetlands not only provide valuable habitat, and ecological functions, they aren’t good places to build. It is the wise man who understands nature’s law, and obeys it.
--a version of this essay was published April 1. 2006 by The South County Gazette.
What this means is that in roughly 400 years, man has engineered himself out of acres of habitat that filters drinking water, controls flooding, balances nutrients and sodium values--and, new evidence suggests, perhaps even climate itself. He has undone in a short period of time what nature has taken tens of thousands of years to put in place, and he has spent billions of dollars creating waste water treatment centers to do what the wetland did with greater efficiency.
And this is just the wetlands, the swamps and meadows that line the coasts of our oceans, the shores of our lakes and the banks and flood plains of our rivers.
Rivers themselves have been dammed and redirected. All of this has been done in the name of progress, for purposes ranging from power production, to recreation, to sheer convenience. And now decades down the line, the folly of these endeavors is becoming evident. Our groundwater is polluted, shorelines and river banks are eroding, flooding has increased.
Many of the neighborhoods that flooded in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit used to be wetlands--wetlands that would have absorbed much of Katrina’s wrath, or at least water, wetlands that would have buffered the impact of the waves against higher ground, a sort of shock absorber, as it were. In short, flooding would not have been as wide spread. And the manmade levees put into place in their stead did not do the job. I am sorry for the people who lost their home, that is tragic--but the homes should not have been built there in the first place.
Because of all the dams and diversions along the Colorado River north of the Grand Canyon, the once-raging whitewater that carved the gorge is now murky and still. Plant and animal species are dying off at tremendous speed as the river drowns in its own silt. A river that once ended with a great delta before emptying into the sea is now but a stream.
As man hurries to undo what he has done, he finds he can’t--he can make it better but he cannot replace what has been lost.
The lesson here, as with the lessons of all history, is that we must think before we act, not after. We have, it seems to me, put our desires before our needs. We have put golf courses before drinking water. We have been blinded by easy living, existing on a “credit card” whose interest has been accruing, and whose bill is about to come due. We can’t afford environmental bankruptcy. That is the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the soil that grows our food.
Before we undo nature, maybe we should try to see why nature has put what she did where she did. There is a scene in the movie Out of Africa where the character played by Meryl Streep brings European technology to the “outback,” and has her servants dam the river running through her property. Her servant is taken aback. “This river lives in Mombassa,” he tells her. And when it rains, the river floods, the dam breaks. After several attempts to rebuild it, and several rains that destroy it, she finally concedes: the river lives in Mombassa.
My point is: wetlands are where they are for a reason, and will not be easily changed. I can give a local example. Just south of Higman Park, in Benton Harbor, the Paw Paw River was diverted so a road could be built (at least this is what I’ve been told). One can tell by the vegetation, and remaining ponds, that the land is low. And every time it rains, Jean Klock Road floods. It is best suited to being the wetland it was, and I suspect, given time, it will reclaim its territory.
As a child, in church school, I was taught a little ditty about the “wise man,” who built his house upon the rock, and the “foolish man,” who built his house upon the sand. I realize the song was about building on a spiritual foundation, but the analogy wouldn’t work it there weren’t physical truth in it.
In the song, the “rains came down and the floods came up,” and while the house upon the rock “stood firm,” the house on the sand went “splat.”
Wetlands not only provide valuable habitat, and ecological functions, they aren’t good places to build. It is the wise man who understands nature’s law, and obeys it.
--a version of this essay was published April 1. 2006 by The South County Gazette.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Take a Deep Breath
Several years ago, I heard a sermon. The speaker made many good points, but the one that has stuck with me is the distinction he made between those things which are important, and those things which are urgent. The important things, he said, are always being derailed by the urgent.
Mulling this over, I of course realized he was right. In our “hierarchy of needs,” health comes first, social support--friends, pets and family--usually comes next. These are things that cannot be replaced. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Wal-Mart doesn’t carry them.
But more often than not, we are “too busy” to really give these things the attention they deserve.
I can think of lots of examples: we don’t have time to exercise, or to sit down to home cooked meals, or to take walks on the beach, or read to our kids, or sit down for a cup of joe with Aunt Greta and Uncle Ben (Good gawd! That would take all day by the time they got out the good china, bickering with each other all the while, and then he’d start telling his stories and before you knew it, you’d have to stay for supper, and watch the evening news--and the car wouldn’t get washed, or the football game watched, or the leaves raked.). These are things that become more important when you can’t do them anymore--when the kids are grown, when the aunts and uncles are dead (and you can’t remember exactly how that story went even though you heard it a million times), when you can’t stand up straight, or drive anymore.
Much of the urgent we pay obeisance to is done to keep up with the Joneses, to look “normal.” We let daycare and television raise our kids so we can work to have the two-car garage, the picket fence and caller-ID. We struggle to feed our families, but we have cable TV.
We drag ourselves to work when we’re “fighting a flu,” or are “under the weather.” “But this project has to get finished,” we argue. Never mind that we, by expending our energies on work, are robbing our own body of the energy it needs to rid itself of whatever “bug” ails us. Never mind that we are probably prolonging our illness. Never mind that we are exposing our (important!) friends and family to our germs. And never mind that we probably are not functioning well enough to do our “project” the justice it requires.
But if we call in sick, we say, we will let down our boss, we will disappoint our clients, we will overburden our coworkers. These sentiments are admirable, but they are putting people over health--and if the people become sick as a result, well we have, in my opinion, negated the good we set out to do.
Just out of college, I was contract teaching at a local college and just wasn’t making ends meet. People were telling me I needed to get a “real” job (and what is teaching?!), and I was increasingly frustrated. Over the Christmas break (out of contract, with NO money coming in), I was contemplating throwing in the towel, and looking for work I knew would be less intrinsically satisfying, but more financially rewarding, when my landlady died. She had had gallbladder surgery five weeks earlier, and they had opened her up to find her riddled with cancer. The whole thing kind of knocked the wind out of my sails. The conclusion I came to was: If that had been me, I’d have been glad I stayed in the classroom.
I refer to this scenario often when I am harried and confused and frustrated. I take a deep breath and say: If I were to die next week, next year, tomorrow, what would be most important today. I won't be a slave to the urgent.
Mulling this over, I of course realized he was right. In our “hierarchy of needs,” health comes first, social support--friends, pets and family--usually comes next. These are things that cannot be replaced. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Wal-Mart doesn’t carry them.
But more often than not, we are “too busy” to really give these things the attention they deserve.
I can think of lots of examples: we don’t have time to exercise, or to sit down to home cooked meals, or to take walks on the beach, or read to our kids, or sit down for a cup of joe with Aunt Greta and Uncle Ben (Good gawd! That would take all day by the time they got out the good china, bickering with each other all the while, and then he’d start telling his stories and before you knew it, you’d have to stay for supper, and watch the evening news--and the car wouldn’t get washed, or the football game watched, or the leaves raked.). These are things that become more important when you can’t do them anymore--when the kids are grown, when the aunts and uncles are dead (and you can’t remember exactly how that story went even though you heard it a million times), when you can’t stand up straight, or drive anymore.
Much of the urgent we pay obeisance to is done to keep up with the Joneses, to look “normal.” We let daycare and television raise our kids so we can work to have the two-car garage, the picket fence and caller-ID. We struggle to feed our families, but we have cable TV.
We drag ourselves to work when we’re “fighting a flu,” or are “under the weather.” “But this project has to get finished,” we argue. Never mind that we, by expending our energies on work, are robbing our own body of the energy it needs to rid itself of whatever “bug” ails us. Never mind that we are probably prolonging our illness. Never mind that we are exposing our (important!) friends and family to our germs. And never mind that we probably are not functioning well enough to do our “project” the justice it requires.
But if we call in sick, we say, we will let down our boss, we will disappoint our clients, we will overburden our coworkers. These sentiments are admirable, but they are putting people over health--and if the people become sick as a result, well we have, in my opinion, negated the good we set out to do.
Just out of college, I was contract teaching at a local college and just wasn’t making ends meet. People were telling me I needed to get a “real” job (and what is teaching?!), and I was increasingly frustrated. Over the Christmas break (out of contract, with NO money coming in), I was contemplating throwing in the towel, and looking for work I knew would be less intrinsically satisfying, but more financially rewarding, when my landlady died. She had had gallbladder surgery five weeks earlier, and they had opened her up to find her riddled with cancer. The whole thing kind of knocked the wind out of my sails. The conclusion I came to was: If that had been me, I’d have been glad I stayed in the classroom.
I refer to this scenario often when I am harried and confused and frustrated. I take a deep breath and say: If I were to die next week, next year, tomorrow, what would be most important today. I won't be a slave to the urgent.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
The Homeland
As a graduate student, I spent a month taking classes in England. It was a wonderful place, just like in the pictures one sees--a green carpet framed by low stone walls and decorated with quaint cottages, flower gardens and castles. From the rhododendrons lining the driveways, to Buckingham Palace, England mirrors its press.
During the course of the month, there were trips to London, to Stratford, to Oxford and to Canterbury. One excursion was to Tintagel in the southwestern tip, over Dartmoor, and through the legendary land of King Arthur. We saw Stonehenge, the British Museum, Shakespeare at the Barbican. We visited Jane Austin’s grave and saw the spot in Canterbury Cathedral where Thomas รก Beckett was slain. We took a boat along the Thames to Kew Gardens, and visited the ancient Roman baths in Bath that still gurgle and steam after all these centuries.
My favorite trip was one where a friend and I rented a car and "motored" north for a free weekend. It was on this trip, while "oohing" and "aahing" my way through the North York Moors, and along the coast of the North Sea, that it struck me. The thought crossed through me, "This is so beautiful--but, I’ve seen landscapes just as beautiful in America."
It was on that winding roadway I realized: aside from the exhilaration of driving on the "wrong" side of the road, traveling the coast of England was a lot like traveling the coast of New England. And though they sported purple heather and wild horses, the moors were formed by glaciers just like the moraines of Michigan and Ohio and much of the northern United States.
Of course, there is more to traveling than scenery and geography. There is no substitute for experiencing another culture, observing how they solve the problems all humans encounter, coming to an understanding of their viewpoints on issues, and partaking of the unique contributions they make to taste and style.
I grew fond of malt vinegar on my "chips," and I haven’t tasted a scone that held a candle to those of England. I enjoyed walking to the "news agent" everyday, and eating Ploughman lunches at local pubs, but I did resolve, right there on the coast highway, to appreciate my own country just a little bit more when I returned.
I guess its a human tendency to get bored by what is too accessible, or familiar, human tendency to look for the thrill. It’s a shame really. We miss a lot, I fear, and waste the precious time life bestows on us, in our frantic pursuits.
A few summers back, I took a trip with my mother to Mackinac Island, coming back through Traverse City and the Leelanau Peninsula. We climbed Lookout Point and toured the Grand Hotel. We rented a horse-drawn buggy to drive around the Island. We drove the 5-mile bridge that spans the Straits of Mackinac, uniting the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. We bought souvenirs and postcards and nutty fudge.
We ate the nectar-like cherries of Kewadin, and toured the wineries of Leelanau County. We watched the sun set over Traverse Bay from a top-floor, glass-walled restaurant.
I’ve never had such good perch as I ate on the Island, and Sleeping Bear Dunes could surely challenge the White Cliffs of Dover. I read about the glaciers that helped form the land and the legend of the mother bear and her cubs who swam Lake Michigan to escape a fire. The “mother” still waits upon the shore looking across the water for her cubs who tired and drowned just short of safety. Small islands commemorate the spots where they were lost.
I stand looking over the lake and could as easily be looking out from the ruined walls of King Arthur’s mythical Tintagel castle. In England or in my own backyard, the lesson is the same. It is the lesson learned from watching the endurance of nature and of human story--it is patience and awe.
I am reminded of Claude Monet, who in his later years retired to Giverny, his home and gardens, on the premise that it would take a lifetime to see everything they contained. He found peace and contentment among the flowers and ponds, and painted some of his most famous paintings there.
I want to return to England someday--to go to places I didn’t before, and to revisit some I did. But until that day comes, I’m going to breathe deeply the Michigan air. I’m going to climb the dunes and delight in the sound of the waves lapping against the sand. I’m going to drink in the purples and the oranges of the sunsets and eat the fruits of local farms. I am going to watch the birds and creatures around me and appreciate the beauty and the people of the land I call home.
During the course of the month, there were trips to London, to Stratford, to Oxford and to Canterbury. One excursion was to Tintagel in the southwestern tip, over Dartmoor, and through the legendary land of King Arthur. We saw Stonehenge, the British Museum, Shakespeare at the Barbican. We visited Jane Austin’s grave and saw the spot in Canterbury Cathedral where Thomas รก Beckett was slain. We took a boat along the Thames to Kew Gardens, and visited the ancient Roman baths in Bath that still gurgle and steam after all these centuries.
My favorite trip was one where a friend and I rented a car and "motored" north for a free weekend. It was on this trip, while "oohing" and "aahing" my way through the North York Moors, and along the coast of the North Sea, that it struck me. The thought crossed through me, "This is so beautiful--but, I’ve seen landscapes just as beautiful in America."
It was on that winding roadway I realized: aside from the exhilaration of driving on the "wrong" side of the road, traveling the coast of England was a lot like traveling the coast of New England. And though they sported purple heather and wild horses, the moors were formed by glaciers just like the moraines of Michigan and Ohio and much of the northern United States.
Of course, there is more to traveling than scenery and geography. There is no substitute for experiencing another culture, observing how they solve the problems all humans encounter, coming to an understanding of their viewpoints on issues, and partaking of the unique contributions they make to taste and style.
I grew fond of malt vinegar on my "chips," and I haven’t tasted a scone that held a candle to those of England. I enjoyed walking to the "news agent" everyday, and eating Ploughman lunches at local pubs, but I did resolve, right there on the coast highway, to appreciate my own country just a little bit more when I returned.
I guess its a human tendency to get bored by what is too accessible, or familiar, human tendency to look for the thrill. It’s a shame really. We miss a lot, I fear, and waste the precious time life bestows on us, in our frantic pursuits.
A few summers back, I took a trip with my mother to Mackinac Island, coming back through Traverse City and the Leelanau Peninsula. We climbed Lookout Point and toured the Grand Hotel. We rented a horse-drawn buggy to drive around the Island. We drove the 5-mile bridge that spans the Straits of Mackinac, uniting the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. We bought souvenirs and postcards and nutty fudge.
We ate the nectar-like cherries of Kewadin, and toured the wineries of Leelanau County. We watched the sun set over Traverse Bay from a top-floor, glass-walled restaurant.
I’ve never had such good perch as I ate on the Island, and Sleeping Bear Dunes could surely challenge the White Cliffs of Dover. I read about the glaciers that helped form the land and the legend of the mother bear and her cubs who swam Lake Michigan to escape a fire. The “mother” still waits upon the shore looking across the water for her cubs who tired and drowned just short of safety. Small islands commemorate the spots where they were lost.
I stand looking over the lake and could as easily be looking out from the ruined walls of King Arthur’s mythical Tintagel castle. In England or in my own backyard, the lesson is the same. It is the lesson learned from watching the endurance of nature and of human story--it is patience and awe.
I am reminded of Claude Monet, who in his later years retired to Giverny, his home and gardens, on the premise that it would take a lifetime to see everything they contained. He found peace and contentment among the flowers and ponds, and painted some of his most famous paintings there.
I want to return to England someday--to go to places I didn’t before, and to revisit some I did. But until that day comes, I’m going to breathe deeply the Michigan air. I’m going to climb the dunes and delight in the sound of the waves lapping against the sand. I’m going to drink in the purples and the oranges of the sunsets and eat the fruits of local farms. I am going to watch the birds and creatures around me and appreciate the beauty and the people of the land I call home.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Driving Lessons
With all the beauty of spring, the season is, unfortunately, marred by the foolish drivers of winter who now have actual traction. It’s easy, after creeping along all winter, to want to kick up one’s heels, and squeal some tires. But there’s a fine line between spontaneous fun and disaster. And fun becomes very un-fun when disaster strikes. What I’m seeing on the streets isn’t fun, it’s scary.
Maybe drivers should have to take continuing education to renew their licenses, refresher courses to remind us all how to be on our best automobile operating behavior.
These courses could put us nostalgically back into the driver’s ed car with an instructor counting off a three-point complete stop. People seem to have forgotten that one. The stop sign has become a yield sign, requiring a stop only if traffic demands it. I hate to think what the yield sign has become--since the concept of yield itself seems to have become fuzzy.
I was travelling westward along a thoroughfare last week. A group of cyclists filled the other lane, moving east, toward me. A car approached, also travelling east, behind the group of cyclists. Instead of slowing until able to pass the bicycles, the car moved into my lane, forcing me to brake to avoid collision. The driver didn’t seem to give it a second thought--or a first.
Periodic driving tests might help people remember the basic rules of the road: right of way, respect for the center line (and the shoulder line, while we’re at it), and turn signal usage.
The thing is: most of the basic laws are a matter of safety. Yielding the right of way--letting the driver take his or her rightful turn--is designed to prevent accidents and to let traffic move in as smooth a manner as possible.
Yielding the right of way comes into play a lot at four-way stops. People act as if the objective is to come to the quickest possible stop, and then go. They miss that the stop is required to ensure everyone gets a a fair opportunity to advance--that the reason I stop is to let you go, and vice versa.
Another example of not yielding the right of way is often found inregards to turning right on a red light, where people stopped for a red light can turn right if there is no oncoming traffic. The operative phrase in that sentence is “if there is no oncoming traffic.” More and more, people do not yield to the oncoming traffic, but pull right on out into it, reminiscent of their behavior at the four-way stop.
Another rule people ignore is the one that requires drivers entering traffic to match the flow of traffic, the reason for freeway on-ramps, so the car has room enough to accelerate to "freeway" speed before entering the freeway. This means, when you run that stop sign to “make the break,” and avoid having to stop and wait for the oncoming cars, you’d better quit fiddling with your drink, step on it, and get up to speed.
Again, a safety issue: When you run the stop sign and proceed down the road at 25 miles per hour, in a 40-mile-per-hour zone, fumbling for your breath mints, the cars behind you all have to break their pace. If cars are travelling in a tight enough line, they may actually have to brake, which leads to many a rear-end accident.
And traffic laws, much like manners, are quite simply common courtesy (not to mention common sense).
Take that turn signal usage. Now, I certainly understand how it would be difficult to signal when your hands are full, like when you’re talking on the phone, lighting a cigarette, or drinking your coffee. And I’d hate to see you take your hand off the steering wheel, but--wait a minute . . . .
When you are behind the wheel of your car, your primary focus should be on commandeering your vehicle safely and efficiently down the road! The automobile is not an extension of your living room, it is a tool we all use to get places--places we all need to go, places equally important to each of us.
It seems so minor, that turn signal, but it is such a simple, effective agent of safety. It tells other drivers what you are doing, and more importantly, it tells other drivers that you know what you are doing--that you are focused on your driving, that you are in control and driving with a plan.
We all make honest mistakes, missing a turn, getting into the wrong lane, forgetting to look before backing up. But failure to use a turn signal is blatant disregard for law and decorum. It is inconsiderate, and downright rude.
Now, I know there are many very good drivers out there--and lest they take offense, I’d like to say: if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t wear it.
But if the shoe does fit: Please! Get your head out of the clouds, put your mind on what you’re doing--and pay attention to the other idiots around you--you just can’t predict what they might do next--especially now that they have traction.
Maybe drivers should have to take continuing education to renew their licenses, refresher courses to remind us all how to be on our best automobile operating behavior.
These courses could put us nostalgically back into the driver’s ed car with an instructor counting off a three-point complete stop. People seem to have forgotten that one. The stop sign has become a yield sign, requiring a stop only if traffic demands it. I hate to think what the yield sign has become--since the concept of yield itself seems to have become fuzzy.
I was travelling westward along a thoroughfare last week. A group of cyclists filled the other lane, moving east, toward me. A car approached, also travelling east, behind the group of cyclists. Instead of slowing until able to pass the bicycles, the car moved into my lane, forcing me to brake to avoid collision. The driver didn’t seem to give it a second thought--or a first.
Periodic driving tests might help people remember the basic rules of the road: right of way, respect for the center line (and the shoulder line, while we’re at it), and turn signal usage.
The thing is: most of the basic laws are a matter of safety. Yielding the right of way--letting the driver take his or her rightful turn--is designed to prevent accidents and to let traffic move in as smooth a manner as possible.
Yielding the right of way comes into play a lot at four-way stops. People act as if the objective is to come to the quickest possible stop, and then go. They miss that the stop is required to ensure everyone gets a a fair opportunity to advance--that the reason I stop is to let you go, and vice versa.
Another example of not yielding the right of way is often found inregards to turning right on a red light, where people stopped for a red light can turn right if there is no oncoming traffic. The operative phrase in that sentence is “if there is no oncoming traffic.” More and more, people do not yield to the oncoming traffic, but pull right on out into it, reminiscent of their behavior at the four-way stop.
Another rule people ignore is the one that requires drivers entering traffic to match the flow of traffic, the reason for freeway on-ramps, so the car has room enough to accelerate to "freeway" speed before entering the freeway. This means, when you run that stop sign to “make the break,” and avoid having to stop and wait for the oncoming cars, you’d better quit fiddling with your drink, step on it, and get up to speed.
Again, a safety issue: When you run the stop sign and proceed down the road at 25 miles per hour, in a 40-mile-per-hour zone, fumbling for your breath mints, the cars behind you all have to break their pace. If cars are travelling in a tight enough line, they may actually have to brake, which leads to many a rear-end accident.
And traffic laws, much like manners, are quite simply common courtesy (not to mention common sense).
Take that turn signal usage. Now, I certainly understand how it would be difficult to signal when your hands are full, like when you’re talking on the phone, lighting a cigarette, or drinking your coffee. And I’d hate to see you take your hand off the steering wheel, but--wait a minute . . . .
When you are behind the wheel of your car, your primary focus should be on commandeering your vehicle safely and efficiently down the road! The automobile is not an extension of your living room, it is a tool we all use to get places--places we all need to go, places equally important to each of us.
It seems so minor, that turn signal, but it is such a simple, effective agent of safety. It tells other drivers what you are doing, and more importantly, it tells other drivers that you know what you are doing--that you are focused on your driving, that you are in control and driving with a plan.
We all make honest mistakes, missing a turn, getting into the wrong lane, forgetting to look before backing up. But failure to use a turn signal is blatant disregard for law and decorum. It is inconsiderate, and downright rude.
Now, I know there are many very good drivers out there--and lest they take offense, I’d like to say: if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t wear it.
But if the shoe does fit: Please! Get your head out of the clouds, put your mind on what you’re doing--and pay attention to the other idiots around you--you just can’t predict what they might do next--especially now that they have traction.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Life Cycles
Note: This is an oldie--I wrote it in college. But it's still one of my favorites!
There it is again. That spot in the road. I've passed it every day this week and last. It is almost unrecognizable now--almost a pile of dust. But I remember the first time I saw it. Fresh. Twisted--almost alive--still warm?--brilliant, red, vibrant, but dead. An unsuccessful dash across the road--with an especially desirable acorn to store for winter?--in that extra special cache on the other side?
Cringing, I swerved--offering more space than necessary--to avoid any contact. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing the last evidence of life oozing from the tiny mouth of the squirrel that lay across the white line of the road.
Passing the same spot the next day, I swerved a little less--I offered less distance. I averted my eyes more slowly. The bright red liquid coming from the mouth was now frozen--crusty and black. The body still lay twisted across the center line, but something--not swerving away as I had done--possibly swerving to?--had flattened the once bushy tail.
Each day I drove past that spot in the road, I swerved less. I winced less. The legs became flattened against the pavement. The red fur became colorless, blending into the road beneath it.
Gradually, the legs, tail, head became separate entities of their own--disconnected from the whole--no longer a part of the giant red squirrel of that first day.
And now it is a pile of dust. I think nothing now of driving over it--through it! I no longer hesitate to mangle and destroy what little is left of life there in the middle of the road, in that pile of dust.
At some point someone will walk barefoot over this pile of dust, scattering it, redepositing it into the berm where dandelions will use it to germinate their seed. Children will mix it with water and form it into mud pies and "gingerbread" men. Trees will be planted; skyscrapers built. At some point, the pile of dust in the middle of the road, the dead red squirrel, will once again become life.
There it is again. That spot in the road. I've passed it every day this week and last. It is almost unrecognizable now--almost a pile of dust. But I remember the first time I saw it. Fresh. Twisted--almost alive--still warm?--brilliant, red, vibrant, but dead. An unsuccessful dash across the road--with an especially desirable acorn to store for winter?--in that extra special cache on the other side?
Cringing, I swerved--offering more space than necessary--to avoid any contact. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing the last evidence of life oozing from the tiny mouth of the squirrel that lay across the white line of the road.
Passing the same spot the next day, I swerved a little less--I offered less distance. I averted my eyes more slowly. The bright red liquid coming from the mouth was now frozen--crusty and black. The body still lay twisted across the center line, but something--not swerving away as I had done--possibly swerving to?--had flattened the once bushy tail.
Each day I drove past that spot in the road, I swerved less. I winced less. The legs became flattened against the pavement. The red fur became colorless, blending into the road beneath it.
Gradually, the legs, tail, head became separate entities of their own--disconnected from the whole--no longer a part of the giant red squirrel of that first day.
And now it is a pile of dust. I think nothing now of driving over it--through it! I no longer hesitate to mangle and destroy what little is left of life there in the middle of the road, in that pile of dust.
At some point someone will walk barefoot over this pile of dust, scattering it, redepositing it into the berm where dandelions will use it to germinate their seed. Children will mix it with water and form it into mud pies and "gingerbread" men. Trees will be planted; skyscrapers built. At some point, the pile of dust in the middle of the road, the dead red squirrel, will once again become life.
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