The significance of remembrance

On the left is a poster with photos, names, and stories about those lost in combat. The center and right are posters with handwritten messages to the troops. This is near gate C-1 at DFW airport.

A Texan advised me to arrive at Dallas Fort Worth airport extra early because the Transportation Safety Administration lines are notoriously long there. Turns out this is not the case at Terminal C at 11:15 on a Sunday morning. At least, not this morning. A zero-minute wait at TSA left me with two hours to kill before my flight.

Since I'm coming off a four-day writers' conference at which I totally ignored my calorie count, I figured I could use the time and get some exercise by walking from one end of the terminal to the other.

At the far end of DFW's Terminal C, which is occupied entirely by American Airlines, I found this Memory Wall. Posters contain messages of support for the armed forces, alongside the names, faces, and stories of military personnel killed in combat between Memorial Day 2011 and Memorial Day 2012.

I admit it's possible that American Airlines put up this display as a public relations stunt, so people like me will see it and tell the story. But I think that's unlikely. I think this is a gracious gesture by a company that transports members of the military on a regular basis and chose to honor their service and sacrifice. That this results in a little PR is a side effect.

I only hesitated to write this post for a moment. If a company is going to make an effort to show love for our troops, I can take a few minutes to share the story. If an endorsement of American Airlines is implied, so be it.

Why we would rather drive

High-speed rail is slow in coming
to Central Florida. © Bombardier

Americans have been accused of loving their cars too much. But that affection is just the result of having passenger trains that are almost useless.

Central Florida has two rail projects on the horizon: SunRail, a commuter line I could take to work, and high-speed rail, which would connect Orlando and Tampa with stops at Disney World and Lakeland. This will be very helpful for people going from Lakeland to the Orlando or Tampa metro areas for major sporting events, concerts, airports, etc. It would also keep folks going from Orlando to Tampa off Interstate 4, theoretically. Of course, then you're reliant on rental cars or the quality of mass transit at your destination.

This difficulty in getting from one place to another led Busch Entertainment to run a charter bus from Orlando to Busch Gardens Tampa. Very clever, and quite handy. The only drawback was when I wound up with a tired child at Busch Gardens at four o'clock in the afternoon, and the bus not scheduled to leave until five. Ah well. We sat in a cafe and ate ice cream.

All this came to mind because I had to go to a meeting in Boca Raton this week, and a friend offered to drive. I was tempted to drive myself so I could leave as soon as the business part of the meeting was over, and skip the dinner and socializing. But it would be irresponsible to drive two cars if we could both go in one. Besides, I need to practice being sociable.

Then I thought -- maybe I could take a train. Yeah, right. No, go on, look. Just to see. Sure.

The meeting was to start at 1 p.m. The morning train leaves Orlando at 10:30 a.m. and takes four hours and fifteen minutes to get to Delray Beach (the train doesn't stop in Boca -- it's Delray or Deerfield Beach). That would mean traveling the day before and staying overnight. Told ya. Plus, I'd need a bus or a taxi from Delray to Boca, unless I could find an indulgent South Florida friend.

Interstate 95, on the other hand, got us from Orlando to Boca Raton in three hours. More importantly, an Amtrak ticket -- one way -- costs more than a tank of gas, and my friend made this trip -- round trip -- on one tank.

For completeness' sake, I looked at air travel, though of course a plane ticket would cost about five times as much as a tank of gas. But the airlines can only fly me into Fort Lauderdale. Boca's airport is a small general aviation facility without scheduled flights by major airlines. To fly into Boca, we'd have to charter a flight.

Plunkin' down dollars for pumpkins and more

I had a choice between an elaborate brown hoop-skirted costume and a simpler one. I picked the simpler one not only because it's purple, but because it's cheaper.

Many of us are still economizing, although the National Retail Federation says Halloween spending this year is expected to bounce back to 2008 levels after a big drop last year. This year's total is estimated at $5.8 billion. Yeah. With a B.

I sometimes wonder whether neo-pagans are as annoyed by the commercialization of Halloween as Christians are about Christmas.

The old holiday, Samhain (pronounced SOW-ahn, which means, roughly, "summer's end"), marked the final harvest of the year, after which the earth became "dead," entering a winter dormancy. European Pagans had a variety of ways to celebrate this holiday. Would it surprise you to know none of them involved orange and black taffy? More than you probably care to know is here. The festival began at sundown Oct. 31 and continued through Nov. 1.

As with Easter and Christmas, the early church took an adoptive approach with this holiday. In 835, at about the time there came to be more Saints than there were days in the year to have feasts for them, Pope Gregory III initiated "All Saint's Day," and put it on Nov. 1. So the day before became All Hallow's Eve, presumably because "Salloween" didn't have quite the same ring to it.

Pumpkins, which are indigenous to the Americas, didn't come into the picture until after Irish immigrants got here. In Ireland, jack o'lanterns were made with turnips. But in America, the Irish began using pumpkins instead, not only because they are bigger, but because their abundance made them cheaper. See, I'm not the only one cutting costs around this holiday.

In the mid-19th century, Halloween was basically just an excuse for trickery and vandalism, sometimes involving outhouses. In later Victorian days, celebrations mellowed into tame harvest festivals. It wasn't until around 1920 that people began sending their kids door-to-door like so many beggars.

Now, parents tend to keep their kids off the street, seeking more sanitized venues like shopping malls. Even churches have begun holding Halloween parties, which strikes me as odd. It must strike the pagans as even odder.

A Crown Of Splendor

As we were led to our table at the restaurant, we passed a long table where a family was celebrating a birthday. By the markings on the cake, it was the gentleman's 86th birthday. He was thin, maybe a bit frail, but in good spirits and, as far as I could tell, able to get around without help.

"Uch," my friend said, "I'd hate to live that long."

"If you had your health, why not?" my husband asked.

She shook her head. And her husband agreed with her.
 
I couldn't find words. My grandfather died before I was born. How I wish he had lived to be 86. My cousin died when she was only 36. How might another fifty years added to her life have changed the lives of her daughters?

I don't decide who lives how long. God does, and I don't question His wisdom. But sometimes I wonder...

And I pity my friends. Where they see wrinkles, I see wisdom.

When Grandma was 86, she wrote this essay. I had the privilege of reading it at her memorial service last year. Today would be Grandma's 90th birthday. She died last year, just before Independence Day.

Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life. -- Proverbs 16:31

Old Age
By Phyllis Kirkpatrick

I believe old age is a gift from God. Now that I am 86, I can be the person I have always wanted to be. I don't mean my physical body! I despair the bags under my eyes and the wrinkles on my face -- to say nothing of the sagging underarms! But I no longer agonize over those things.

I would never trade my wonderful life now for my former black hair and thinner figure. I have my wonderful, loving family, and many good and faithful friends.

As I have aged, I have become more kind to myself and less critical of my faults. I no longer blame myself for taking that cookie or buying that silly knickknack. I feel entitled to overeat once in a while, and to be extravagant occasionally.

I've seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with old age. Whose business is it but my own if I read a book I am wrapped up in until 4 a.m. and then sleep until noon? Or if I listen to favorite golden oldies from the 50's instead of the latest so-called music?

I go to the pool in my old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit, stretched over my bulges, and ignore the pitying glances of the bikini set.

I know l am forgetful sometimes, but some things are better forgotten anyway, and I can remember the important things when I need to.

Sure, over the past 50 years my heart has been broken. How can a heart not break when it loses a beloved husband of 34 years at the too-early age of 57? Or even when a loved dog gets killed by a car. Or a beloved granddaughter who dies so suddenly much before her time. Of course hearts will break, but that is what gives us compassion. A sterile heart, never broken, cannot know the joy that having loved and lost can bring.

So I feel blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turn white and to have laugh wrinkles on my face, and I can say yes to getting old and staying positive and optimistic.

You care less what other people think, and you have earned the right to be wrong sometimes. I know I am not going to live a lot longer, but while I am still alive, I will not waste time lamenting what might have been, or worrying about what will be. My motto now is: Life is short, so eat dessert first!

The cost of being unreachable

Some people complain about other people’s apparent addiction to connectivity. Blackberrys, iPhones, and other such gadgets are seen as signs of misplaced priorities or rudeness. Why, they ask, would anyone call or text people who are elsewhere instead of talking to the people who are with them?

© Apple Inc.

Of course, the gadgeteers don’t see it this way. They see their world as a relational network, and sharing what’s happening with those not present is a way of fostering relationships.

Although I understand this view, I believe we all need to unplug once in a while. In his book Good to Great in God’s Eyes, Chip Ingram advises us to “develop great habits.” One of those is, as part of Sabbath-keeping, to “turn it off:”

“Close the calendar, turn off the phones and pagers, shut the computers down, and look back on your week in gratitude.”

Today, after worship and Sunday school, I drove 20 minutes to another church for a class. I found the classroom empty. Shortly, the teacher’s husband arrived to tell me she was sick and class was canceled. She had tried to call me but got no answer.

That’s because my phone was turned off.

He apologized for my driving that distance for nothing, and I apologized for being unreachable. Then I headed home.

As I drove, I thought about the cost of being unreachable. About 45 minutes of driving time and, since I get great mileage, less than a gallon of gas. Not too high a price, I think, for developing this particular habit.

But next week, I’ll probably check for messages.

The accidental rhythm section

I have previously mentioned Perri Klass's "Knitting Fantasies" column, which originally appeared in the Winter 2003 issue of Knitter's Magazine. An excerpt:

Duane Ellison Photography | iStockphoto

I have felt for years that classical music would be enhanced by knitting. I know, I know, the needles might click, even the whisper of yarn against yarn would be enough to upset some music lovers. I have no intention of pulling out my knitting at the symphony. I just know that if only I could, I might have a chance of reliably achieving that state of mixed concentration and relaxation which so often eludes me…"

I was not bold enough to attempt this stunt at the symphony, either. But when our church hosted a free piano concert by Sergei Kossenko, I figured it was worth a try.
It was nearly a successful attempt. No one complained. In fact, one of the ladies, a new knitter, changed seats to sit next to me so she could watch how I do it.
I had already pulled out my knitting when Mr. Kossenko made his introductory remarks, and when I spoke to him for a few minutes after the concert, he said nothing about the knitting.*
But the clicking of the needles did indeed prove too distracting -- for me. I found myself alternately trying to knit in time with the music or to knit quietly. Both were difficult, so I wound up hardly knitting at all. Although this was an interesting exercise, it's one I won't repeat. Except maybe, as Klass suggested, at an outdoor concert, where airplanes and sirens provide a greater source of distraction.

* He generously spent some time explaining to me the meaning of "Navazhdeniye," the title of a piece by Prokofiev. Mr. Kossenko listed it in the program this way, although English sources usually use the French title "Suggestion Diabolique," which is not accurate. He said diabolical is the wrong word, because it implies evil intent. Based on the conversation I had with Mr. Kossenko, I would describe "navazhdeniye" as a surreal delusion with overtones of doom, but free of malicious intent. I think he's right to give the title in Russian. It's good to learn new words.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Photo by Gayle Lindgren | stock.xchng

This Independence Day, I’m thinking about those who preceded us. The founders who forged a nation of laws, not men. The indigenous peoples who chose to fight no more forever. And the immigrants who came -- and still come -- yearning to breathe free.

My great-grandfather Harry came from England in 1922 and settled in Detroit. Being an auto worker in Detroit was better than being unemployed in Cornwall.

As much as I’d like to believe every immigrant longs to come to America because of the democratic foundation of our great republic, the simple truth is, many come because in their homelands, they were unemployed.

Amnesty is the flashpoint at the center of the immigration reform. Are we willing to forgive those who don’t have proper documentation? For years, I’ve resisted this idea. If Grandpa Harry could go through proper channels, so can others.

Arizona has drawn a lot of fire for its immigration law, even though it mirrors federal law. Kirk Adams of the Arizona House of Representatives answered concerns that "law enforcement can simply walk up to a person and say, "'Can I see your papers?'" in this article. An excerpt:

…officers can only attempt to determine a person's immigration status during "lawful contact," which is defined as a lawful stop, detention or arrest. Any "reasonable suspicion" can be derived only through the investigation of another violation or crime.

I cannot blame the huddled masses for pursuing happiness here, though I do wish they’d go about it properly. And if a person is suspected of one crime, surely it makes sense for the police to see whether he committed any prior crime -- including that of entering the country illegally.

But many illegal immigrants have been living and working here for years, with no other criminal charges against them. The Apostle Paul instructs us to forgive as we have been forgiven. Although complete amnesty seems excessive, I’m inclined to allow a path to citizenship for those without proper papers, if they’ll admit their wrongdoing and pay their back taxes.

The more I think about it, the more I become convinced that the problem isn’t the undocumented workers. The problem is the employers. Which is why I was pleased to see the Arizona law also targets those who do the hiring. If no one were giving undocumented workers jobs, they wouldn't be here.

We are a nation of laws, and the laws we have deserve enforcing. But the sentence need not be deportation for those who scrub our floors and pick our vegetables, even if they did jump our sea-washed, sunset gates.

Go, Canada!

During the Opening Ceremonies of the Winter Olympic Games last night, I was impressed by the amount of time and the degree of prominence given to the First Nations: the indigenous people of Canada. The leaders of the four nations whose territories encompass the Olympic venues were seated with the national and international leaders.

Tribal representatives offered greetings in their native languages, as did the Utes at the Salt Lake Games. But then native people from across Canada performed their traditional dances in traditional attire throughout the parade of nations. I was struck by the similarity between the dances and costumes of the Prairie tribes, as they were called, to those of the Great Plains in the U.S.

But I was most sharply struck by the notion that no games in the U.S. has ever given so much time and prominence to native peoples. For all our similarities, there are great differences between Americans and Canadians, and this is one of them. Here, we frequently forget our native peoples. And when we remember, it often seems an afterthought. ("Hey, since we're in Utah, we should invite the Osmonds. Oh yeah, and maybe the Utes, too.")

But another segment of the show was very -- how shall I put it -- North American. When the tartan-and-leather-clad tap dancers and fiddlers took the stage, in what I can only describe as a Punk Rock Riverdance, it demonstrated the individuality and inventiveness that characterizes both of our pioneer nations. The fiddling and clogging, which the producers encountered on Canada's east coast, is similar to that seen in Appalachia. I'd say it was the same, but I've never seen tattooed Appalachian dancers in black studded leather and chains. (Which isn't to say they don't exist. Only that I've never seen them.)

At the Opening Ceremony of the 2008 Summer Olympic Games, a thousand men, all of similar height and build and ethnicity, dressed the same way, doing the same thing, expressed the conformity of the Chinese Communist state. Contrast that with the Canadian people, a variety of colors and sizes and ethnicities, each dressed differently, dancing together but not in unison.

We Americans may admire the Chinese precision and unity, but individuality and innovation -- those are things we can relate to. Our normally unassuming Northern cousins have set themselves the audacious goal to own the podium at their games. I wish them well.

Those who can't, kibitz

I had a great time Saturday working with the guys from the Phenix Design Group, who provided driving and flight simulators for Otronicon.

You may recall that last year I wrote about my pretty dismal flight record. So I found it amusing when Lynn, an Orlando Science Center staff member, asked me to work at the Cessna Skyhawk flight simulator.

She asked whether I minded doing something kind of technical. Then she laughed and said, "Well, it's all technology, so I guess you wouldn't be here if you did mind it." Which is true.

Lynn introduced me to Ron, of the Phenix Design Group, who asked whether I'm familiar with flight simulators.

"Yes," I said, "I've crashed several of them."

He was fine with that, and proceeded to show me how the HotSeat Flight Sim works. A few menus and key commands later, and I was running the show.

The HotSeat is a lightweight bucket seat mounted, as one guest discovered by laying on the floor and looking underneath, on "big gimbals." (Yes, that's the kind of guest we get at the science center, and we like it that way. Actually, I saw two people do this.) As you steer left or right, up or down, the chair tilts accordingly. The simulation is driven by a PC, with the video displayed on a large LCD TV.

Usually I gave the guests a quick overview of the controls--which button or lever does what--but only the ones they needed. So several buttons, levers and pedals went unused. To keep things simple and the line moving, Ron was running a limited simulation of an approach and landing at Orlando International Airport.

So yeah, there's me, telling other people how to land a plane.

After I'd been doing this for an hour and a half or so, I noticed that some guests would only touch the buttons I pointed out to them, while others would, at some point in their roughly two-minute approach, push every button and flip every switch to see what each one would do. I also noticed that there was a greater proportion of young people (which is to say, people younger than me) in the latter group, and a greater proportion of people older than me in the former.

First I must point out that my OSC sample is disproportionately skewed to the youth. Nevertheless, this observation is in line with one I've made at the office, where people younger than me, when trying to accomplish something new with a computer, usually start clicking through menus and dialog boxes until they get what they need. People older than me usually call me for help. It's as if they're afraid they'll break it if they push the wrong button. Although there are times, in a production environment, when a computer error could bungle things up rather badly, generally speaking, clicking the wrong button isn't a disaster.

So I began wondering whether this willingness to experiment with the controls at hand is more prevalent in those who've grown up with high-tech gadgetry. Familiarity breeding confidence. I asked my teenager, and he concurs. Young people use trial-and-error, he says, because it's often the faster way to learn something than reading the manuals.

Perhaps the techno-timid of all ages should spend more time in environments like the science center, where trial-and-error learning can be practiced without danger to life, limb, or data.

And for the record, after my volunteer shift was over and I was able to try the HotSeat for my self, I had a lovely approach but pranged on touchdown.

Throwing learning a curve

Often, when I run into an old friend, they ask how my son is, and when I tell them he’s sixteen and taller than me they gasp and recall some thing he did when he was eleven. “Can you believe it’s been that long?”

Those of us who were around when Otronicon was a new idea are having much the same reaction. The baby is growing up and into a respectable citizen.

I first wrote about Otronicon in the Jan. 27, 2006 issue of Orlando Business Journal. Dr. Brian Tonner, then president of Orlando Science Center, told me, "The purpose of Otronicon is to examine the impact of digital electronics on culture."

But even then, Otronicon was about more than video games. Orlando has long been a center for military simulation, and the Army and Marine Corps have been participants in Otronicon from the start, along with Lockheed Martin’s simulation and training division.

This year, I told OSC President JoAnn Newman, in all sincerity, that the show keeps getting better every year. It’s true.

This year, one of the new additions is medical simulation. Otronicon has touched on this topic in the past, but this year Florida Hospital for Children has put together a roomful of displays, including a trainer for the da Vinci robotic surgery system.

I was able to try out the da Vinci Surgical System this evening at the Otronicon preview event. The robot is a massive thing with multiple arms -- a mechanical Shiva. The control mechanism is a massive thing with rounded edges, gaping eye sockets and a cavern containing the joystick-like controls.

The controls are a little touchy at first, but once you get the hang of it, it’s very nimble. A tray of tiny modeling-clay cones and plastic rings sat on a table under the robotic arms. After only a minute or two -- once the company sales rep who was manning the display showed me the correct way to get my fingers into the grips -- I was able to move rings from one cone to another.

The company representative and a couple of doctors from the hospital explained that this kind of equipment allows for minimally invasive surgery, cutting recovery times by weeks and reducing or eliminating post-surgery problems.

A lady who came along after I finished wasn’t sure guests were allowed to use the machine. But I showed her how, and she gave it a go. But she accidentally pinched off the top of one of the clay cones. Her friend teased her -- “that would hurt” -- but I said, “That was an appendectomy. She meant to do that.”

Preview night is always fun. This year, more than ever. Because now, in addition to enjoying all the new things Otronicon has to offer, I can reminisce with others who’ve been around since back in the day about how far we’ve come.

Otronicon isn’t just about examining culture anymore. As Newman told the attendees tonight, at this event kids don’t just play games, they learn how games are made. “It’s not just about how we play,” she said, “it’s about how we learn.”

Blog hijack

Language Log is a terrific blog with a long list of prolific contributors. It can be a little unwieldy to follow, not only because of the number of posts but because each post is usually an in-depth article and is followed by many insightful comments.

Not so one Dec. 25 entry, in which Arnold Zwicky traces the divergent sources of a clever line by Paul Krugman (writing on politics: "No, Virginia, at this point there is no sanity clause.").

The entry itself is brief, and the comments section is abruptly truncated by Zwicky after a commenter went off-topic, attempting to move the discussion from language to politics.

Zwicky writes, in his terminal comment, writes:

I've had it repeatedly explained to me that when you open a posting to comments, the comments section then "belongs to" the commenters (who are free to take up any topic they want), not to you. I reject this idea, but hardly anyone seems to agree with me.

Well, I certainly agree with him, as do many other bloggers who moderate the comments on their sites. Unfortunately, Zwicky has decided that to obviate such a hijacking in the future, he simply won't allow any comments at all.

I do hope Zwicky reconsiders this drastic measure. It's a shame the rest of us should miss the lively discussions Language Log usually inspires just because one crank realized there's a bigger audience for his political views there than at his own blog.

I bring you good tidings...really.

The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is of the earth belongs to the earth and speaks about earthly things. The one who comes from heaven is above all. He testifies to what he has seen and heard, yet no one accepts his testimony. Whoever has accepted his testimony has certified this, that God is true. He whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for he gives the Spirit without measure. The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands. Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God's wrath.

—John 3:31-36

That's neither holly nor jolly, is it? Yet this is today's gospel reading from the Presbyterian Church USA's daily lectionary.

Many people are taking today as a vacation day. But is is a holy day? Are we stopping to consider what it meant for God to put on flesh and dwell with us? Are we accepting his testimony? Or are we performing some cultural norms out of habit, or because everyone else does?

I skipped decorating this year. Not so much as a wreath on the door. And for half a minute, I worried that my neighbors might think I'm not a Christian because there's nothing on the outside of my house to show it.

Meanwhile, around the corner, our neighbors have a yard full of inflatable decorations and more lights than Vegas. I would live in fear of such an electric bill.

What, I ask you, does an electrically lighted inflated Santa have to do with the immanence of God?

By contrast, I attended my first Christmas Eve worship service at my new church last night. I had the pleasure of sitting in front of the most tone-deaf person I have ever heard. I soon got over the little thrill of not being the worst singer in the room for once. As the saint behind me offered up "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" with all the gusto she could muster, I thought of this Psalm, which also happens to be on the lectionary for today:

Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth;
break forth into joyous song and sing praises.…
With trumpets and the sound of the horn
make a joyful noise before the King, the LORD.

Sing praises to the King of Kings. Accept His testimony. It's not holly. It's not jolly. It's holy.

The most fun I ever had losing

Over at The Anomaly, the online forum where the Marcher Lord Select contest is being conducted, matters have taken an interesting turn.

Remember when I said there was no Simon Cowell in this contest?

As I quickly discovered, the participants are keen and well able to offer insightful commentary. Some of it may be a tad snarky, but none is cruel or rude. They are always helpful and constructive. One author even re-wrote her pitch right there in the forum based on reader input.

Many of us have formed extraforum partnerships to continue appraising one another's work. I e-mailed my first three chapters to Robynn, for example. After giving me her excellent critique she wrote, "This is fun! I hope you're enjoying it, too."

I am having a blast.

A couple of days ago, Publisher Jeff Gerke posted this thought:

I love that you guys are forming your own crit group partnerships. I didn't realize that one of my secondary goals in all this should've been to bring you folks together for an amazing meeting of the minds. I'm glad you're way ahead of me.

This is the beauty of networking, whether it happens online or off. Connections are made, and new projects develop therefrom. I doubt anyone could have planned it this way.

I would go so far as to say those of us who've been "voted off" are now having a better time than those who are entering Phase 3, for the pressure must be increasing as the competition gets tighter. The rest of us are free to critique and encourage one another. It's like a support group.

I call it "Writers Anomalous."

But none are named Quatro

Watching the Little League Baseball World Series today, we couldn't help but notice the disproportionate number of players in the game named Trey.

Georgia has a player named Trey Maddox, and Iowa has Trey Creighton and Trae Cropp.

Yes, Cropp, a pitcher, spells his name differently. But the presence of several boys whose names are all prounounced the same, all in a single ball game, got us wondering whether, ten years from now, we'll be watching Major League Baseball games populated by vast numbers of Treys with increasingly ingenious (or is that ingenuous) spellings: Tres, Tray, Treigh...

And of course I find it amusing that, in this game, there were three.

Milking it for all it’s worth

I'm alternately entertained and consternated by lists of things I’m supposed to eat – or not. For example, one article advises me to drink milk for calcium to prevent osteoporosis. But another tells me to avoid dairy products to reduce my risk of heart disease.

That, along with a visit to a restaurant where every other thing on the menu had goat cheese in it, got me wondering: Why do humans consume products made from the milk of ruminants?

Or, as Calvin once said to Hobbes, “Why do we drink cow milk?? Who was the guy who first looked at a cow and said, ‘I think I’ll drink whatever comes out of these things when I squeeze ’em!’?”

Cattle have been domesticated for thousands of years, but even before then sheep, goats and other ruminants were domesticated and provided dairy products like cheese, which was developed about 10,000 years ago in the Middle East.

Legend tells of a trader carrying milk in a pouch made from a sheep’s stomach. After being jostled by the movement of the trader’s horse all day, the milk separated into curds and whey. Hungry, he ate/drank it anyway, and the rest is history.

Curds are solidified bits of milk, mostly protein and fat. Whey is the liquid that’s left over, mostly water, lactose (milk sugar), and some proteins and minerals. Yum.

Strain the whey from the curds and you have, basically, cottage cheese. Adding various bacterial cultures and leaving the results to harden produces different types of “aged” cheese. Soft cheeses, such as Camembert, are aged for a short time. Hard cheeses such as Roquefort are aged longer. Both Camembert and Roquefort are made using molds related to penicillin.

Dairy consumption is an almost entirely European idea, although it did also crop up in the Middle East and parts of Africa. Since Europeans spent the 15th through the 19th centuries colonizing other parts of the world, dairy products have become more widespread.

But many segments of the world’s populations do not — or cannot — consume dairy foods. The late, great Bob Mervine, one of Orlando’s most famous foodies, once told me the use of milk and cheese is unheard of in traditional Asian cuisine. Almost 100 percent of Asians are lactose intolerant.

Dairy consumption, evolutionarily speaking, is a recent mutation. The ability to digest lactose is present in infants, because they subsist almost entirely on milk. But the production of lactase (the enzyme that digests lactose) slows after infancy and stops at about age four. Or would, if we didn’t keep consuming milk from other animals.

Lactose tolerance is found only in cultures that have a long history of dairy consumption, such as northern Europe, where only 4 percent of Swedes are lactose intolerant.

In Africa, the population of southern Sudan, where people have long been cattle herders, is only 17 percent lactose intolerant. But in Nigeria, where the climate is not conducive to raising cattle, the lactose intolerance rate is 99 percent.

Native Americans also have a high rate of lactose intolerance — 95 percent — presumably because it is so hard to milk a wild buffalo.

Many nutritionists and physicians now question the health benefits of humans consuming milk from other mammals. Especially when cow’s milk is what allows a calf to double its body weight in only 47 days.

A woman after my own heart

Harriett Lake is a lovely woman who has had a tremendous effect on the arts community in Central Florida through her philanthropic contributions.

Not only is Lake the namesake of the Harriett Lake Festival of Plays, but Harriett's Bar at the Lowndes Shakespeare Center is named for her. I especially enjoyed hearing of her latest contribution to the community.

For her $1 million donation to the Dr. P. Phillips Orlando Performing Arts Center, Lake was offered her choice of naming opportunities. She picked the first floor ladies room, which will henceforth be known as "Harriett’s Ladies Lounge."

Board chairman Jim Pugh would win my quote of the week award, if I had one. He said, "She obviously has a clear sense of the priorities of the patrons who will utilize the facility."

For a mere million, you, too, could get a piece of the center in your name. But these bits are already taken:

• The Bill and Mary Darden Box Office (Darden Restaurants)


• The Richard Kessler Hospitality Suite (Richard Kessler, a local hotelier)


• The Peter Family Stage (Annette Neel, the Peters’ daughter)


• The Lynn and Chuck Steinmetz Stage (the Steinmetzes)

Although Jesus said we should give without regard for recognition, I must say these people-centered labels are, at least, better than giant corporations slapping their logos on major landmarks. I still staunchly refuse to call the sports arena in downtown Orlando by its proper name. It will always be the O-rena to me. But Harriett’s Ladies Lounge is a naming right I’m glad to honor.

I just hope Avodart doesn’t sponsor the men’s room.

Connections are good

After gathering dust for many years, my short story The Last Buffalo has been cleaned up and given its debut. It appears in the 2009 Coffee House Fiction anthology.

I was directed to Coffee House Fiction by an entry in Hope Clark's "Funds for Writers" newsletter. I met Hope at last year's Florida Writers' Association conference. And I joined the association on the recommendation of Jim Lussier, whom I met in connection with an arts project for OBJ.

So this post is just a big thank you to everyone in the chain.

Fitting a book into your boot

Grant Barrett, a lexicographer and co-host of the National Public Radio show A Way With Words, has posted an e-book version of his The Official Dictionary of Unofficial English on his blog as a free download.

He has done this because the book, which is no longer being printed by the publisher, has shown up on bootleg e-book sites. Barrett figures he'd just as soon have the traffic to his site as someone else's. He also says he's "resigned" to the bootlegging of his book.

Which is sad, really. No person should have to resign himself to the theft of his work.

Unfortunately, there isn't much that can be done to stop book bootlegging. Or movie or music bootlegging or other forms of intellectual property theft, for that matter.

And it can't all be blamed on computers and the Internet, either. On an episode of Masterpiece Classics earlier this season, host Laura Linney mentioned that Charles Dickens's books, though immensely popular in the U.S., earned him little money here because most of the editions were bootlegged.

Now, as then, most people give little thought to copyrights. It would be laudable if the citizenry would consider it their bounden duty to uphold copyright law. But I hold out little hope for this, given a society in which we can't stop our own co-workers from taking their colleagues' sodas from the company fridge. Perhaps resignation is the less stressful response.

Do pigs swarm?

An OBJ poll showed most respondents believe the news surrounding H1N1 virus -- that virus of many names -- to be hype. One commenter summed the matter up well, pointing out that "over 36,000 people die from influenza every year in the U.S. … More people die in car accidents … yet you do not see them staying out of cars. Just practice good hygiene and go about your business."

You also rarely see news of flu deaths delivered with the breathless sort of mania that has attended the recent outbreak.

Detracting from the hype is the inappropriate amount of furor over what to call the thing. "Swine flu" offends the pork industry and Israelis. "Mexican flu" annoys Mexicans.

Whatever you call it, don't make this unfortunate error:

Third Case Of Swine Confirmed In Orange County.

I'm sorry, a "case of swine?" Is that a crate containing a dozen pigs? Or is it more like "Hey, I've been turned into a pig. Can I go home?" What does a swine outbreak look like? Or is a rash of swine better called an "infestation?"

One may justifiably ask why the story wasn't headlined "Third case of flu confirmed..."

Well, obviously, that would draw a big "who cares" from the readership.

Which is exactly the point I wish to make.

Perhaps it is inappropriate to belittle a fatal illness. But the problem with coverage of The Virus That Must Not Be Named is that it has been completely out of proportion to the actual threat. Moreover, it is out of proportion to the usual coverage of the flu. This sort of skewed journalism needlessly frightens the naive and just leaves the rest of us jaded.

Tweet mystery of life...

After David Pogue told us Twitter can be useful, I've been looking for evidence of this.

I finally got it.

John McIntyre's blog, You Don't Say, was discontinued by the Baltimore Sun when McIntyre abruptly became the latest victim of newsroom cost-cutting.

Previously, when I attempted to follow colleagues on Twitter, I gave up because of the superfluity of most tweets. But this was important, dang it. I needed to know where to go to get my daily dose of McIntyresian wisdom.* So I added McIntyre's Twitter page to my webfeed reader.

McIntyre's interim tweets are entertaining. On April 28, his last at the Sun, he indicated he would continue the blog elsewhere. On April 19: "An unexpected pleaseure in reading here, at Facebook and elsewhere what amount to one's own obituary notices. Not. Dead. Yet."

Then, at last, today: "The blog is back."

So Twitter proved useful indeed for keeping up with one of my favorite sages.

So am I going to ask you to follow me on Twitter? Heck no. Not only do I not have time to tweet my every move, I suspect that if I did, anything I had to say would be superfluous.

* McIntyre is a giant in the field, and the publisher wise enough to hire him will be fortunate, indeed.