Possibly the most intriguing bit of news I’ve heard in the past few weeks is the new level of certainty reached by scientists that our Milky Way Galaxy and the Andromeda Galaxy will merge in about 4 billion years.
There had been some doubt. Sky watchers have noticed the movements and have wondered if the two galaxies might be drawn together by their gravity – this at a time when the universe itself is expanding faster and faster, leaving even more emptiness between the objects. But these two galaxies are close enough that the expansion will not draw them apart.
Galaxies, as big as they are, have their own destiny and ours apparently is to join with Andromeda.
We’re talking about billions of stars, some (maybe all) dragging a retinue of planets, asteroids, comets and debris, coming together in one grand conglomeration. And yet none of the stars will hit each other! This was said with certainty in one article I read – yet how can they know?
And if the merger of two galaxies is anything like the acquisition/merger of two corporations here on Earth, there are bound to be casualties. Several hundred duplicate retail outlets and half the staff of the PR department, for example.
Two things drove the magnitude of this event home for me –
One is a video simulation of the galaxies as they are expected to interact – an initial co-mingling 4 billion years from now with momentum that carries them apart again, and a final, second alignment 2 billion years later. Looks like fun if you’re not in the middle of it!
The other is a simulation of the night sky as seen from Earth with Andromeda approaching – about 3.75 billion years from now. Imagine if you went outside and saw this.
Beautiful, romantic, and a bit like looking down the train tracks at the onrushing southbound commuter as your wheels spin in the mud. Gulp.
Who knows if we, as humans, will still be around to witness the merger? Probably not. But I did see a cockroach the other day and I tried to tell him (her?) to keep an eye on the sky for big changes. I got the usual disappearing act for an answer.
In such an unpredictable world, I’m amazed whenever we KNOW something is going to happen for certain and for sure. Galaxies will collide. Neither Congress nor the Koch brothers will be able to stall it or stop it or spin it.
As in corporate mergers, making everyone feel comfortable with joining the new entity will be a challenge. Maybe a clever name and some good signage will help.
First things first – thanks to the guest bloggers who made my week-long holiday possible. Jacque, Steve, Beth-Ann, tim, Chris, and Anna kept Baboon land lively through the week and set comment records. Thanks for the wonderful writing and fun discussions! Clearly the baboon tribe can thrive without a leader.
Speaking of that, today is Autonomy Day, an official holiday in the Åland Islands. I love the name – “Autonomy Day”. Not quite “Independence,” but close – the sort of thing that might be made available to an 18 year old if they have a history of making good decisions about piercings and tatoos.
The Åland Islands are a collection of rocky outcroppings with enough strategic importance to put them in a perpetual tug-of-war between Sweden and Finland.
I’d never heard of the place before today, so I’m no expert and of course I’ve never been there, but I love Wikipedia’s serpentine description of Åland Islands status:
They are situated at the entrance to the Gulf of Bothnia and form an autonomous, demilitarised, monolingually Swedish-speaking region of Finland.
What? Swedish speaking but a region of Finland? Not only that, but Swedish speaking by law. But how can a place be autonomous and also a region of some other place? Both Sweden and Finland strike me as particularly fine places to visit, so the Åland Islands could be like their love child, combining the best qualities of both, right? Or they could be the children of a messy, bitter divorce, torn between resentful parents.
The Contested Area
Apparently there were hard feelings during the Åland Crisis in 1917 and 18 when the custody battle was especially intense. Swedes argued that the Åland Islands were culturally Swedish. Finland contended they were geographically Finnish. Oh, and the Russian Revolution had an influence on the discussion, which became heated. The tussle was even expressed on maps of the day, which makes the terrain sound like a political issue alternately described by Fox News and MSNBC. Again, from Wikipedia:
On the Swedish map, the most densely populated main island dominated, and many skerries (small rocky islands) were left out. On the Finnish map, a lot of smaller islands or skerries were, for technical reasons, given a slightly exaggerated size. The Swedish map made the islands appear to be closer to the mainland of Sweden than to Finland; the Finnish map stressed the continuity of the archipelago between the main island and mainland Finland, while a greater gap appeared between the islands and the archipelago on the Swedish side.
But as a result of all this back and forth, we have a rocky sea-land situated between two great nations, politically autonomous and perpetually demilitarized, culturally Swedish and technically Finnish. And somewhat ambiguously mapped.
Switzerland with surf? Sounds like a fun place to visit, but what an odd history.
Describe a time when you had to unravel a case of divided loyalties.
I am not a wilderness camper, nor am I a fisherwoman. While I am a fan of the great outdoors, I prefer running water, a flush toilet, a bit of electricity and a lack of fish guts while I am on vacation. Call me a wimp, but there it is. I have been to the BWCA, I have piloted a canoe, I have even shot a rifle (once) – but it just doesn’t suit me. I can take the bugs, it’s the lumpy ground for a mattress I can live without.
Last year, on a bit of a whim, Daughter, Mom and I made use of a Memorial Day weekend deal at one of the Big Resorts in the Brainerd Lakes area. An opportunity to be in the great outdoors, but I could sleep on a real mattress and we could visit with my mom’s sister who lives nearby. We returned this year with the added knowledge that the free breakfast was plentiful, there would likely be baby ducks to feed (25 cents for a bag of corn in the marina), an indoor pool if it rained, and all the wax worms a kid could drown in an effort to land a sunfish from one of the docks (Aunt would take care of removing anything Daughter might catch and throw it back – so no fish guts for me – yay!).
When you choose a resort over camping, you are choosing the amenities: swimming pool, golf course, access to a lake for water-related activities. Our resort also sets up events throughout the weekend including a parade (complete with marching band), carnival games, pontoon and wagon rides, bonfires, even a movie on the beach (weather permitting). Our resort also has a staffer we’ll call Jake (not his real name).
Jake ‘s domain at the Big Resort is the dining room. Every morning over the summer Jake is up at a crazy hour, giving up late nights with his pals, so he can bring coffee to people like me while we over-indulge at the breakfast buffet (I am a “both-and” kinda gal, especially if waffles are involved). He also is the bringer of Frooty Loops (as he calls them), delivering joy to 8-year-old girls in the form of colorful cereal. Last year by morning #2 he had ascertained that Daughter preferred Fruit Loops to anything else on the breakfast buffet. When they were not on the buffet on the third day, he went off in search of the brightly colored Os for my daughter as soon as he saw her dismay at their absence; before we could even ask, he was off to the kitchen.
This year when we saw him at the Friday night welcome dinner (what was he doing working at night?), he stopped to chat, asked how the year had been, and ensured Daughter they still had Frooty Loops on the menu. Jake had a bowl ready for her by the time we were shown to our breakfast table the next morning, even though we were seated in someone else’s section. He brought her Frooty Loops every morning we were there.
We will likely go back again next year. Daughter might catch a sunny or two. We will likely go on a pontoon ride and a wagon ride and rent a pedal boat again. Jake may or may not be there. He graduated from the local community college this spring and there is a chance he will decide to move before next Memorial Day weekend. Daughter is crushed. Who will bring her Frooty Loops?
By the time this is posted, my one and only child will be on a school trip to China (along with my one and only husband). But as I write this, we are just about a week away from her departure, and we’re going through a flurry of last-minute shopping, packing and planning.
It’s going to be a grand adventure for both of them, and they are both getting excited about everything they’ll be seeing and doing there. We’ve done a great deal of preparation by researching some Chinese history and culture, looking at the route they’ll be taking on the flight over, and discussing the many things that will be different there than they are here. While my daughter has been outside of the U.S. a few times before, she’s never been to a place where things are as radically different from what she’s used to as they will be on this trip.
Out of everything we’ve discussed during our preparations, one topic has been the focus of more questions and concern than any other: using China’s notorious public restrooms.
Those of you who have visited China before already know what I’m talking about. Chinese restrooms are entirely different from what we Americans are used to. Think of the worst public restroom you’ve ever seen here in the States. Think of the overflowing wastebaskets, the empty toilet paper dispenser, the lack of soap or towels at the sink, the broken locks on the stall doors, the puddles, the stink, the general “Ewwww!” factor.
Now multiply all of those things by 10, add the fact that there are no actual toilets to sit on, and you’ve got yourself a typical Chinese restroom.
You Know What To Do
For the most part, the only Western-style toilets in China are found in hotels, and in some of the bigger restaurant chains like McDonald’s. Anywhere else you go, you will be hard-pressed to find public facilities, and those you do find will be squat-style, which is really no more than a porcelain-covered hole in the floor. Chances are you will not have a private stall to yourself, since many restrooms are simply a line of holes in the floor located within a few feet of one another. The soap for washing up afterward is generally non-existent. Come to mention it, so is the sink. Toilet paper is never available – not because they’re always running out, but because it is not provided in the first place. If you want to do that fancy “wiping” stuff, you need to BYOTP. And you must remember not to flush it once you’ve used it, since Chinese plumbing can’t handle paper – which leads us to the overflowing wastebaskets, stink, and “Ewwww!” factor that I mentioned earlier.
As it happens, I ran across an article just last week regarding the state of public restrooms in Beijing. It seems officials there are trying to crack down on the general uncleanliness by instituting what is being called the “two fly” rule. As stated by city officials, there will be “no more than two flies allowed” in a restroom at any given time. This rule has already become the target of much ridicule among residents of Beijing, with commentary online and in local news publications pointing out the absurdity of such a provision, and the futility of any attempts to follow or enforce it. As ludicrous as the new restriction may be, it does illustrate the widespread nature of the sanitation issues plaguing public facilities in China’s capital city.
This problematic bathroom scenario is the one thing that has been causing my daughter anxiety as she prepares for her journey. My husband and I thought we’d finished potty training her years ago, but now we find ourselves lecturing her on how to pee all over again. She has been told to carry toilet paper, wipes and hand sanitizer with her at all times, to wear clothing that won’t touch the ground, and to make sure she wears shoes that completely cover her feet and won’t slip on wet surfaces. We’ve even practiced the basic squat maneuver, trying to see how to best balance over an imagined hole in the ground while simultaneously preventing your pants from hitting the floor and/or getting caught in the flow of things. After all of this, I have started feeling slightly less upset about the fact that it is my husband taking her on this trip, and not me. I may be missing out on seeing the Dragon Throne in the Forbidden City, but at least I’ll be able to visit the Porcelain Throne in comfort whenever I want.
What is the most difficult adjustment you’ve ever had to make while visiting a foreign country.
1987 a little guy popped into the world and forever changed my life. his routine became my routine, his reactions to stuff i did positive and negative became the criteria i used for going forward on this planet. he wanted to do it his way. we did it his way. he wanted a vote. we gave him a vote. he reacted to the song on the radio or my guitar or in the car we filed it away for future reference. he was full of weird stuff , phobias and needy stuff little kids bring along and I didn’t know how to recognize or deal with it very well. his mom had it timed so she could have the kid, take a 6 week summer break and then head back to life as a school counselor . i inherited the details. morning bath time with little potato, dancing with bears and other memorable morning tunes affected his life to the point that when he went to the daycare he would choose the raffi or peter paul and mommy music selection to guide the group. we went out to visit my sister in california when he was 2 and i remember him being in love with the joni mitchell blue album and the rolling stones with ruby tuesday on it.
i can still hear his: good bye ruby tuesday, who could hang a name on you , when you change with every new day still im going to miss you…. in the most perfect 2 year old presentation ever witnessed.
well tara came along about that time, mom had broken her leg month 8 of the pregnancy and the planned march birth that would give her the 6 weeks, stick your head back in to school and then take the summer off plan was a challenge with a needy one and a couple of kids too.i officed out of my house and the daily stuff was a challenge.
wife one had my job description altered and i was out the door. half time with the kids everything was fine til i got involved in another relationship. the x didn’t like my taking my affections elsewhere after dumping me. the new babe and I had an interesting first 2 ½ kids and ten years later we were married.
first kid with her is my son spencer is now 19 at st thomas and nice young man, olivia is 13 going into 8th grade, emma is 11 and going into 6th grade and i am all done having children with this wife. we checked into adopting haitian orphans a while back and were told we are too old. they may be right. the old bones are cricking and cracking these days and the stair steps are like an obstacle course some days.
devin is heading off to california later this month to follow his dream. he has a room with a buddy in the a capella biz and will take a run at rock star ism. wish him luck, he could do it. here is a clip of his college stuff.
i get miffed that there are no traces of the other things he has done and i can blame myself for not being as camera ready as i should have could have been . i have a great memory and at times I think it is even a more convenient method of getting it to come out right than having to rely on accurate portrayals.
one more with his a capella gang:
daughter is off to the wedding planner to finish up the wedding in july august to the foreigner from kosovo. moving into her first suburban apartment with the hubby to be. she is a multi tasking maniac who has a huge heart and a nice perspective on the world. she did a good job of picking out the good and learning from the other how to put your life priorities in a row.
middle kid, first in second marriage, actually first 10 years before second marriage is enjoying summer with his buddies home from school. washing windows and with a house to party on the weekends at down in the college area of st paul he is enjoying the first bennies of adulthood. wish him luck
the 8th grader is writer, actor, neat kid who sings piano and oboes her way along and is as nice a person as is possible in a volatile house like she comes from. she will find a way to make it work i am confident.
6 grader is a pistol. keeps me hopping and the idea that in another 5 or 6 years i will be sending her out the door is enough to make me realize the circle of life is a reality. my dad always said i hope you get one like you just to pay you back. oh he laughed and said you have a whole house of little yous, I didn’t know that was possible.
my kids all understand and partially inherit through osmosis my love of art and music and plants and cooking, chatting with strangers in the checkout line and on elevators, screwing around in general and a love of drink and cigars, a well spun phrase and a good hat, cards with friends and an opinion on the topic at hand.
life can be simple. put it all in perspective and realize its not a test run this is the real deal and kids are like pancakes. the first two are just for practice.
“I scream . You scream. We all scream for ice cream.”
Proust may have had his madelines, but my sweetest taste memories melt together with ice cream in the bottom of a dish. How many spoonfuls before it’s all gone?
1) My Manhattan grandmother lived across from a playground where a formally dressed Good Humor man stood with his push cart. I still remember the combined taste of wooden spoon and chocolate ice cream from a cup.
2) My other grandmother would take us to Coney Island for dizzying rides and real frozen custard. I chose based on color-often picking pistachio because of its electric green hue.
3) Back in the city we’d go to Broadway matinees and afterwards a stop at Schrafft’s for Black and White parfaits with rich whipped cream complementing the hot fudge and the always vanilla ice cream.
4) Did anybody else go to Farrell’s? My clearest member of the overly enthusiastic, piano player, straw boater, parlor was the trough of ice cream you could get to share with your friends.
5) I babysat for a little boy who spent most of his childhood in a hospital. Every time I took him to Baskin Robbins he chose orange sherbet from all 31 flavors.
6) There was a place in the suburbs of DC where the whipped cream was pink, yellow, and green and all the sundaes were named after memorials. We never ordered the Washington Monument. The sundae was too tall for us.
7) College in Boston brought ice cream options previously unexplored. Saturday lunch in Harvard Square was often a hot fudge sundae at Bailey’s. The ice cream was on a pedestal with low sides and the hot fudge dripped onto the plate with the melting ice cream.
8) Even more amazing was Steve’s, the first shop to churn its own ice cream and allow you to mix in fruit, candy, etc to customize your flavor. The process was slow and even in the winter the lines stretched outside. Still, we came and gloried in making our own sensational flavors.
9) Minnesota introduced me to buckets of ice cream, the Schwann’s man, and malts at the State Fair.
10) I was runner-up in a Kemps contest to design a Minnesota ice cream flavor. They never made Gopher Tornado, but the ribbons of raspberry and pineapple together with the rich ice cream would have delighted me.
11) Kemp’s has a new contest. This time my entry is for Mini donut ice cream. If that isn’t memorable enough for you, make up your own flavor before June 12th.
How many spoonfuls of ice cream are in your memory?
My artistic friend Sue has no difficulty describing the earliest memory of her life. Sue remembers looking through the bars of her crib at flowers on the bedroom wall. The wallpaper flowers were “funny,” she recalls–lumpy things with ugly colors. Such deformed flowers could only be somebody’s idea of a joke, and Sue laughed out loud. She had seen real flowers, so elegantly formed and suffused with vivid color, while these ugly blobs were nothing like that. By working with old photos and family lore, Sue has dated that memory to a time she was two or three years old.
Some folks simply cannot retrieve early memories. A friend once told me he has no memory—no memory whatsoever—of anything before his last years of high school. I find that spooky. Most people remember events from when they were four or five. One of my friends insists she has a clear memory from when she was two. I’m skeptical, and yet I don’t rule it out. Scientists tell us that children have memories from their earliest years, but as they age children lose those first memories, replacing them with later ones.
When my daughter Molly was a toddler, her daycare mom, Julie, talked with her about a woman who lived nearby. Julie once took her daycare class to visit that neighbor, and she mentioned this when Molly was about three. “I know,” said tiny Molly. “Her dog is Samson.” Julie was gobsmacked. When Julie took Molly to the neighbor’s, Molly was an infant, so young she hadn’t begun talking, and yet she remembered Samson. Molly no longer has that memory.
My earliest memory was set in the upper half of an old duplex in Manchester, Iowa,where my mother, my sister and I lived during WW II. The duplex where Steve’s family lived during the war – the scene of the very first memoryI was two or three years old at the time, most likely three. My mother was using a metal key to wind the strange little cuckoo clock in our living room. The clock had a pendulum and a fat painted bluebird that wagged left and right.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s at The War, Stevie. Daddy is a soldier and he is at The War.”
“Why doesn’t he come home?”
“He has to be a soldier now.”
“I miss my Daddy.”
“He’ll be home after The War.” ”But when?”
This is the exact spot along the Maquoqueta River where Steve caught his first fish.
That memory surely predates my recollection of catching my first fish. My father is part of this memory, so he must have been on leave or (more likely) this happened in 1945, shortly after he came home from Japan. Our family was enjoying a summer day in Tirrill Park in Manchester. The park is bordered on the west side by the Maquoqueta River. My father set me up with a fishing rod, baiting my hook with a worm. Against his repeated instructions, I walked up and down the bank rather than sticking to one spot. Then I caught a fish, a white crappie. Several years ago I returned to Tirrill Park while researching the book I was writing about my parents. With no effort I walked to the spot where I caught the crappie.
It is harder to describe the time my grandfather bought me a “drumstick” (one of those ice cream novelties). I was four at the time. I had eaten a drumstick before, but only one. Drumsticks, like most nice things in life, seemed to my child’s mind like magical and random events. When my grandfather bought that drumstick I suddenly realized that drumsticks were a normal part of the world; you could have one at almost any time if you had money. Life was more orderly and predictable than I had understood. Joy was repeatable, at least potentially.
My only clear memory of kindergarten took place on the first day of school. I was five. Toward the middle of the day Miss Carlson ordered the kids to take a nap. I rolled out my rug next to the rug on which Susie Stoever was trying to sleep. Perhaps I should mention that Susie was a blond cutie with a pug nose. I stretched out on my rug, my head near Susie’s face. Disgusted, Susie swapped ends so her feet were at my head. I switched so we were again head-to-head. We repeated that sequence several times before Miss Carlson dragged me off to the cloak room, that gloomy overgrown closet where we stored our coats and galoshes. And there I napped alone. On my first day of school I was busted for sexual harassment!
Some of my early memories have ideas or discoveries attached to them. When I was in first grade, a kid in my class named Andy Williams (same name, but not the singer) stood before the class to deliver a report. Up on the wall above Andy was a picture of our president: Harry S. Truman. Sitting in my seat (on the far right hand side of the class, three rows from the front) I suddenly realized that that was Andy up there talking, not me. “Hey, that’s Andy! That is not me! He is Andy and I am Steve. HE has to give a report and I do not!” It was my discovery of how each human being has a separate consciousness and a separate experience of life. I leaned back with a smile as Andy quavered his way through his report.
This last memory is my favorite, and it too is hitched to an epiphany. On a rainy spring night, I was in my crib in the little bedroom that my sister and I shared in the years right after the war. I was four or five. As cars moved north along Carroll Street, their headlights shone through our cottage’s picture window and made a spot on my bedroom walls. While the cars were distant that spot would move slowly, but as the cars passed us the light would suddenly whip around the bedroom walls with startling speed. Similarly, the tires of the passing cars hissed as they rolled along the rainy street. That hissing became louder as the cars got near us and then reached a crescendo of Doppler Effect just as the autos went by us and the light spot was zipping around. I clutched the bars of my crib and gloried in this show of light and sibilant sound. “This is beautiful!” I thought. And then I thought, “There is such a thing as beauty.”
Do you have any favorite memories from early in your life?
Most of the regulars here on the the Trail know that I have been a Social Worker for most of my career. I’ve worked in a number of settings, including one of Minnesota’s Chemical Dependency Treatment Centers. This center treated adolescents and young adults ages 14-25 years. In this population substances, both legal and illegal, were never the only dependency. There were young gamblers, porn addicts, Mountain Dew Junkies, cigarette smokers, and the most common dependency of all–male or female romances, gay or straight, depending on orientation. We would often talk to the kids about being “Male Dependent” or “Female Dependent.” These youngsters did not want to be alone and would embark on constant romances, dependencies, that rarely ended well.
The term Male Dependent took a funny twist in my own life after Dale departed from Radio Heartland two years ago. After this occurred I realized I had been “Dale Dependent” for 35 years. What a shock to have that empty space in the morning air waves where funny parodies, eclectic Americana music, and Dale (and previously Jim Ed) once presided over dedications, entertained and comforted me through the years. They developed the show that challenged my intellect and my emotions for so many years that I never developed any other taste for the morning routine. In my family alone Lou and I celebrated birthdays for each other, my son’s birthdays, and our wedding (May 29, 1993) with dedications that Dale and Jim Ed faithfully executed.
From May 18, 1990 to November of the same year I was treated for breast cancer with surgery and chemotherapy. The end of the treatment became terribly difficult as my body responded to the treatment as if it were systematic poisoning, which indeed it was. The veins in my hands where they inserted the IV’s collapsed. Lou asked for encouraging dedications of music that motivated me to endure the last few treatments that caused my body, especially my feet to swell and my hair to become straw-like and sparse. TLGMS became part of my treatment team, whether DC and JEP knew it or not.
It appears that the management of MPR never realized the depths to which a show like TLGMS bonded its listeners to both the on-air personalities and the format. A venue such as The Morning Show builds loyalty because it softens and deepens life’s struggles with humor and the balm of music. For those who listened and participated it was an experience of community. That MPR allowed this to develop over the years was a gift to Minnesota. But when Dale’s tenure there ended I was lost for a source of music and parody.
The Trail Baboon became my Late Great Morning Show Anonymous group to treat my Dale Dependency. Instead of “Rise and Shine Baboons!” maybe I should sign on as, “Hi. I’m Jacque and I’m Dale Dependent.” Then you can all respond with a hearty, “Hi, Jacque!” The development of the blog, though, has been a delight that has also come to challenge me intellectually and emotionally. Now I might even send MPR a thank you note for taking the action that caused this to develop. I’ve learned a lot about any number of trivial subjects (i.e. Haiku), as well as having written some posts. I’ve also made friends with TLGMS and reading in common. Baboon Book Club and the friendships growing there is a garden planted by TLGMS. I always knew those other listeners must love to read like I love to read.
Because of the beloved Trail Baboon, we all get to continue to enjoy Dale’s flights of fancy. However, I am still struggling to find a source of music that fits as well as TLGMS and the Keepers collections. I entertain an on-going fantasy that Dale will produce a weekly podcast with some music and parody, for which I would gladly pay. So this leads to the question for the day. Dale I hope you will answer it, too. I always wondered where you found the delightful music.
What is your source of finding new music to enjoy?
I love science and am constantly amazed at the things researchers are able to discover through careful, methodical experimentation. These human “lab rats” are the smartest people around, and they provide the best hope for our future together!
But I’m worried that we may be missing something fundamental in the latest results that suggest actual rats whose spinal cords have been severed (by scientists) can learn to walk again through the combined application of chemicals, electricity, physical therapy, technology and chocolate.
After the rodent’s spinal cords were cut (by scientists), the animals lost the use of their back legs. Different approaches were tried to get them moving again. The one that worked best used all of the above elements and resulted in a number of the rats experiencing a “nearly complete regrowth of severed spinal fibers.” Amazing. Some of the creatures were described as “sprinting up” a ramp to retrieve their reward.
There’s a video on the National Geographic website that shows all this happening.
The poor things are working so hard! But what inspired their comeback?
I didn’t see Burgess Meredith cheering them on from ringside, but I definitely heard a different kind of music to accompany the video of these striving rats. I know we’re not supposed to anthropomorphize them, but what if rat recovery from surgical paralysis is really aided, not by electricity, drugs and chocolate, but by white hot feelings of ratty vengeance that inspire them to perform unlikely feats, such as running up a very long flight of stairs?
Kinda like this?
What would you be doing in your inspirational “Rocky” training montage?
Congratulations to all the graduates at every level, college, high school, middle school and kindergarden. This is a necessary ceremonial marker to remember significant transitions and major accomplishments.
OK, maybe not for the kindergarden graduates. That one might be more for the parents.
But for those who put on robes and hats at this time of year, it is important that we all acknowledge the achievement of completing a course of study. It was my great pleasure to attend a graduation last Sunday and to honor my son, Gus, and his friends as they moved into a new phase of their remarkable lives. Here they are, giddy with relief and tossing out a leg to take the next big step.
While I am filled with a father’s pride in my graduate and overwhelmed with admiration for excellence of his friends and the education they were offered, I did find parts of the final rituals a little comical.
Saturday night featured a ceremony where the graduates gathered in the chapel, heard speeches from classmates, sang a few songs, and then went out onto the campus grounds to find a lantern with their name affixed. Over 700 lights were aglow in the falling dusk. To hasten the search, the lanterns were arranged alphabetically. It was a beautiful scene with lovely symbolism, and weirdly appropriate that the final test after 16 years of schooling required a public demonstration that one had mastered those confounding ABC’s.
The next day was even better – I loved the sight of all the scholars marching in orderly lines to their rows of assigned seats – something I had just seen on an old videotape of a preschool holiday pageant. Major difference – as pre-schoolers, they were allowed to bang drums on the way.
And then came the ordeal – sitting under a merciless sun in 90 + degree heat for two hours wearing black robes and caps – something no truly educated person would choose to do. I wondered if the administration would unveil a late stunner of a surprise and award diplomas only to those who had the sense to skip the ceremony.
But no, this was a final, necessary hurdle, and will be remembered forever by the graduates for their sense of educational accomplishment and the light headed feeling of stubborn pounds most certainly lost through perspiration. On a molecular level, this graduation was a race between the need for the learned speakers to say every word they had carefully written, and the assured disintegration of the student’s bio-degradable robes. Moisture always wins in the end!
Congratulations Graduates! Now you know how to be patient and obedient, and if you hadn’t learned it before, now you know how important it is to hydrate!
What is your favorite memory from a graduation ceremony?
Trail Baboon 