The Northward Contrail

An old friend

Many, many years ago when my family would get to the Charleston area, we'd stop in at Patriots Point.  Part of my love for historic ships comes from those visits we'd make there.  The first time we visited, I was seven or eight.  The carrier Yorktown seemed like the biggest thing in the world I'd ever seen, and I was fascinated. 

Over the years they added a few more ships and opened them for tours.  One of the most historically significant was the nuclear ship Savannah, basically built as a technology demonstrator, to show that atomic power could be used in the name of commerce.  Savannah was a beautiful ship and caused quite a sensation, but for a variety of reasons (controversy over her nuclear power plant, the switch from breakbulk ships to containerships, and labor issues, among others) didn't quite work out as a merchant vessel, and her time in service was comparatively brief and occasionally turbulent.  

For many years you could go aboard Savannah down at Patriots Point, and it was like going aboard a time capsule.  It was sometimes eerie, too.  Few people wanted to go aboard a big merchant ship when there was a bigger ship parked nearby that had cool airplanes up on the deck and all that stuff.  Often, you'd have the ship to yourself, and I remember one visit, standing on the promenade deck with my parents, looking through the big windows out toward the ocean, watching the containerships come in.  A few years later, when Savannah was due for a required drydocking and inspection, Patriots Point gave the ship back to the Maritime Administration.  The poor ship never quite fit in there, and some lofty plans they had to turn the ship into part of the attraction never worked out. 

For many years after, I wondered what happened to poor old Savannah.  Pictures eventually emerged online of the ship sitting in the James River Reserve Fleet, looking forlorn and rusty, and I worried a little bit.  I wondered if someday soon we'd see her at the end of a towline, headed off to be "recycled" the same way they "recycle" nuclear warships.  I knew that because of her unique powerplant, there were a lot of regulations and precautions and protocols that had to be followed, and that they couldn't just dispose of her like any other ship.  I didn't see the future looking that bright.

Then, one glorious day a few years ago, I did some looking around and learned that Savannah was in a shipyard in Baltimore undergoing maintenance.  There were pictures.  They'd completely repainted her!  She looked better than I'd ever seen her.  And, as ridiculous as it may be to assign human emotions to an inanimate object, my old friend looked proud and happy once again.  I know that MarAd had to do certain things because of the ship's complicated nature, but they could have just stuck with what was absolutely necessary and left it at that.  Instead, now the ship lives again and has people on board as a matter of course.  It's more than maintenance; it seems like she's cared for, and there's a little pride involved.  Savannah will likely never sail again, but she's again a showpiece, hosting special events and continuing to educate and inform in a new way. 

The other day I found out there's now a virtual tour of the ship.  If you have a fast line, you can see some spectacular 360-degree views of places on board that most folks have never seen.  The public spaces are also documented, including some that weren't open for visits while the ship was on display at Patriots Point.  I was very happy to see that while some of the furnishings are gone, an awful lot remains intact, and the ship continues to be a floating time capsule.  Take a look and enjoy the trip back in time.

BTW, there's a group already working to make sure the ship has a long, happy retirement once MarAd lets the ship go.  It's a noble cause, and of course, I wish them the very best.  I hope the chance will come soon for me to renew my acquaintance with my beloved old friend.

This isn't good

I'm several weeks back at work, and I'm not too happy right now. 

Not with work, mind you.  It has its nuisances, but thus far it's been a low-maintenance semester, and my courses are going as well as can be expected.  I'm getting things done, and things are generally working there. 

Instead, what has me unhappy is what's happening to me.  I haven't had time or ability to exercise.  My new morning routine has eliminated the chance I have had to do some exercise before breakfast and shower.  Nor has the weather helped.  This would be the time of year when I'd go run after I come home, since I obviously can't do it in the mornings.  Although it's getting better now, the last few weeks it's still been extremely hot, enough for me to foresee health risks if I try anything.  Discretion is the better part of valor there.  The only time I've really been able to do anything is Sunday mornings, and those Saturdays when we don't leave for frolic and detour until late morning.

It's not that I've gained weight; a relatively careful diet has meant I've pretty much kept off what I lost over the summer.  Instead, it's other things I'm noticing.  For instance, I don't like how I feel my heart pounding when I get to the top of the stairs in our building.  I don't like how easily I tire out these days.  I went out walking the other day, and it was a brisk walk, and I got to the top of a hill and had to stop for half a minute.  "This is ridiculous," I told myself.  

I sure hope the weather stays cool so I can get back on it.  I'm happiest when my body is happy, too.  When my body feels happy, it does wonders for my self-confidence.  But let me get a few days out of practice on exercise, and it definitely makes me feel deflated inside and out.

Splendid

Nothing I could say today could be better than this discovery, which has me thinking "I love it" on too many levels to count: Warren Zevon on Letterman's NBC show, performing a favorite song.  Enjoy.

Obsessed with reality

This semester I did something different for the senior seminar.  It's an election year (you may have noticed), so I thought it would be a good time to examine the interpretations of reality that happen during campaign seasons.  One of the texts is Farhad Manjoo's splendid True Enough, a book that really nicely examined a lot of things I've noticed over the years: it boils down to not only are we unable to agree on the same page these days, we can't even agree on the same book. 

As part of my in-class presentation, I've been giving the students a crash course in the evolution of political advertising.  This has meant a lot of raiding the YouTube for old ads, and in other cases using the invaluable and addictive Living Room Candidate website.  For some students, this has been a revelation.  I had at least two students who had never before seen the "Daisy" ad, even though there have been countless pop culture callbacks to it in the decades since, and I couldn't get over the jaw-dropped reaction they had to it.  

When you think about it, a course in how political rhetoric plays out in the media fits right in with the rest of what I teach.  The first-year writing course deals a lot with learning how to write advertisements, and, as I tell the students, to write good ads you have to figure out a little about psychology, what motivates people, how you play on their hopes and fears.  In the world of commodities, you play on their hopes by showing them how much better their lives could be (buy this car and you'll look really cool) and also by playing on their fears (if you don't use this deodorant, you could suffer embarrassment when the one you're using stops working).  It's no different in politics: this candidate is all about the stuff you and I believe in, while his/her opponent is all about the stuff we're against.  It's just taking what they've learned and applying it in a little different direction.  Some make the connection, and some don't.

There's the other function of this course.  I want them to know that no matter how their sympathies are aligned, the purpose of these ads -- and, for that matter, everything that plays out in the political sphere -- is meant to play on their emotions and sympathies.  It's specifically crafted to do so, done by people who are trained in the art and practice.  Slogans, words, issues and other areas are carefully chosen, based on market research.  How Candidate X is packaged and marketed is no different from how Cheez-Its are marketed, or how conglomerate radio has made it possible to drive from coast to coast and, all the while, hear radio stations that sound exactly alike, playing the same overplayed list of songs five minutes apart from one another.  Or why every local newscast you'll watch will look exactly alike and have the exact same demographic spread across the anchor desk and the same sort of stories in the lineup.  Just the same, no matter where you go in this country, the campaign ads pretty much all have the same feel, the same slogans, the same look to them.  Anything these days in the world of political rhetoric is about as spontaneous as a Hollywood epic (and, among other reasons, that's part of why you so seldom hear any new ideas, or anything of any genuine substance).

What I'd like for my students to take away -- no matter what the course, or its subject -- is this: no one tries to persuade you unless they have a reason.  Chevrolet doesn't try to persuade you to buy a Corvette because they genuinely want to make you look cool and be happy.  They do it because they get something out of the deal.  It's the same with political candidates, and political issues, and the interest groups rallying behind various causes.  They have institutional needs that are met if you vote for them, or if you send them money, or whatever.  The way these organizations survive, and the way people attain and retain elected office, is by identifying the things that get people motivated, by appealing to their hopes and fears.  Sometimes they accomplish great things when it happens; other times, it brings great harm.  Regardless, the way they attain and maintain influence and market share is by manipulating your emotions. 

The difference for the consumer, though, is knowing, and having an appropriate degree of skepticism.  You may have a belief or an interest that aligns with those of a candidate or an organization or a party, and that's okay.  But, invariably, you're going to differ somewhere along the line.  In my younger days I'd let myself get wrapped up in candidates or issues, and invariably I'd be disappointed. Now, I don't let myself feel sold out any longer by politicians or interest groups, because I know how it works, and because training in mass media techniques and political science have taught me things I didn't know then.  (It's akin to why I always say I'm never disappointed by the things that happen in Formula One racing; I came into it with full knowledge of its intrigue, soap-opera elements, shady characters, and so forth.  When you have no illusion to shatter, it's easier to watch.)

It's made me more skeptical, and it's sort of made me an evangelist for gentle skepticism, especially in the political realm.  I don't care what my students believe in; that's their prerogative.  But, just as you should check out a car before you sign the papers and yoke yourself to an installment plan, I do hope they learn to check their beliefs out before they buy them.  Don't let the salesman's sweet-talk get to you; either the car is in good shape and worth the money, or it's not.  Same deal with beliefs and politics and what all.  Does it all check out, or are you just being seduced by somebody who just wants to use you and spit you out?  

All that is what's making this course fun for me to teach, and I hope it's something the students benefit from -- if not now, then down the road, I hope.  The older I get, the more I see the same corn being hauled out and re-roasted at two- and four-year cycles -- and, the older I get, the more I see things getting crazier in the political realm. 

(By the way, post title stolen from a chapter in Carl Sagan's The Demon-Haunted World.  Apologies, Dr. Sagan.  In the art world, that's called "homage," isn't it?)

Thinning the herd

As I've had time, I've been going through my things and disposing of a bunch of things I no longer need.  Some of it's been a little painful, some of it's been liberating, but I have to say that once I've tossed it, I breathe a lot easier.  A couple weeks ago I took a huge load of old magazines and newspapers to the recycling center.  I'd kept the magazines because of single articles in them, but I finally tore out the articles I wanted and tossed the rest.  You can imagine how much space that freed up in my life.  I drove home happier than I'd been in a good while. 

Now that the downstairs has been cleaned up and organized, I'm looking upstairs at the workshop.  There's a huge, huge collection of model kits up there I've accumulated over the years.  And, the more I look at it, the more I realize just how much of it I'll never get around to.  Some of it is stuff that requires more work than I care to put into it.  Some of it is stuff I bought because it was cheap at the time.  Some of it is stuff that was just given to me.  Some of it is stuff for which my enthusiasm, if I had it, has waned.  And some of it reflects interests I no longer have.  I had great dreams and visions for so much of this stuff, but over the years, I've come to realize I only have so much longer on this planet, and I would rather spend the time I have left working on the things that really, really interest me instead of just sticking things together because I have them. 

So I've started going through the collection, pulling out things I can't see myself building.  I'm going to dispose of it one way or another, either by selling it off or giving some things away.  Either way, I'd like to get these kits out of the house as soon as possible while making sure they go to people who are going to do something with them and enjoy them as they were meant to be enjoyed.  I've kept them long enough, and it's become obvious I'm never going to do anything with them.  Time to let someone else take a whack at them.  That way, I can free up some space and spend more time on the things that truly interest me.  (Like, for instance, this kit I bought last weekend.  And the forthcoming reissue of this favorite from my youth.)

Awash in sea lawyers

About a decade ago, I had a student who was quite the sea lawyer.  He made my first year a living hell.  He constantly slacked, screwed off, you name it, but when you tried to do anything about it, he was very much adept at finding loopholes or citing supposed missteps on your part.  Many was the time I had to deal with crises he caused, and at least once I ended up in my boss's office because he'd gone to see him after he got nowhere with me.  It would have been silly had it not eaten up so much of my time.  It was also pathetic because if he'd put the effort into his work that he put into rationalization, justification, and blame-shifting, he would have been on the Dean's list.  I think eventually he flunked out or gave up and ended up somewhere else; somehow, the chickens came home to roost.  A few years ago he came by my office, said he'd turned his life around.  I hope he did.

That's one of the curses of this job.  You must deal with people whose physical maturity often long precedes their emotional and ethical maturity.  Sometimes it's not so bad, and I know we all cut corners and rationalize.  I sure did my share of it.  But if there's one thing I can't stand, it's when someone tries to blame me for their screw-ups.  It grates in two ways: because I was raised with this rigid, almost military sense of honor and responsibility, and because I bust my tail to treat other folks fairly.  But I must often operate in a world in which it's not whether you win or lose, but how you place the blame.

There was an episode a few years ago in another situation that still makes me angry to this day.  It didn't involve work, but the principle's the same.  We'd gone to the store one Sunday morning for the week's provisions.  We were turning the corner, heading down the aisle where the cookies and crackers and such were.  Right when we did, we saw this group of late teens/early-twentysomethings with their hands down in this box of snacks, just helping themselves.  They were also darting their heads back and forth to see if anyone saw them do it, and when we came around the corner, they tried to make it look like they weren't up to anything.  But, they were busted, and I said something about it.  They claimed the box was already open, therefore they weren't stealing.  I told them that it didn't matter.  And, yes, this became an episode.  Any person with a functioning conscience would have felt shame (well, you could argue that any person with a functioning conscience wouldn't have done it to begin with).  But, instead, we were the bad guys because we called them on it. We kept running across them in the store, and they were behind us in the checkout line, and we could hear them talking about whether or not hubby and I "had the right" to call them on what they did. Their preoccupation wasn't about if it was right, but if they could get away with it.  On the way to the parking lot, they heckled us.  Hubby shouted right back at them.  The incident was over, but to this day, it still makes my blood boil.

I spend my life coming in early and staying late to make sure my work gets done on time.  I drive the speed limit.  I pay my taxes.  I vote.  I don't try to weasel out of jury duty.  I don't take what's not mine.  I accept responsibility, even sometimes when it's only peripherally mine, because somebody has to.  I don't holler and scream at people.  I try my best to play by the rules and treat other people the way I'd have them treat me.  I was raised to believe your word was your bond, that your good name mattered and could never be salvaged if you broke a promise, and that a handshake should be as good as a 50-page contract.  I was raised to believe that life was about helping people because it's the right thing to do, not seeing how much you could screw the other guy over.

My parents never really used the term "ethics" or anything like that to describe it; it was just a way of life for them.  There was a way you treat people, and there was a way you didn't, and it was as simple as that, as simple as the Golden Rule.  And yet so much of my life's grief comes from having to deal with people who see that rule, if they see it at all, as something to be broken if they think they can get a better deal (or, as the classic sea lawyer would, they argue that the rule is invalid because what they did isn't expressly specified therein).  And it makes me wonder if I was made for these strange, strange times.

Three degrees off

One day last week I had to go to the dentist for my six-month checkup.  That went well enough; it was the usual scaling, polishing, etc., and quick inspection with pointy metal things.  I like my dentist and he treats me well, so it's never a hassle going there.  All was proclaimed well inside the mouth of Nerd Girl, and I went on my merry way.

As it happened, this was the same day our usual weekly provisioning takes place.  I decided I'd lurk around town for a bit and wait for hubby to get off work, and we'd meet up and go for groceries together as we'll do sometimes.  I had some other things I wanted to get done, so I could use that couple hours to get them done. 

That's when things started to get weird.

On the rare occasions when I get my hair done, there's a salon in the nearest shopping mall I go to.  It belongs to one of the big chains.  I've been going there for years, and though it's sometimes hit-or-miss, it's at least convenient.  So I decided I'd go there, get my hair done, and maybe kill some time at the nearby Borg Coffee installation in the same mall.  Only I go there, and find out the salon ain't there no more.  Drat.  A quick consultation with the mall directory convinces me to go elsewhere.

So I end up at the successor to the mall store, a salon owned by the same firm, in a nearby strip mall.  It's mid-afternoon and sort of quiet.  There are two stylists on duty.  I ended up with one who was good, but sort of stand-offish.  For the next 15 minutes, there was infrequent, stilted conversation and perhaps the most ruthlessly efficient shampoo and trim I've had in a long time.  It was odd and awkward.  I liked the result well enough (well, after I'd repaired to a nearby restroom to use the mirror and run my fingers through my still-damp hair to reset it a bit, it looked really good), but the experience was weird, and made me wish I had an established relationship with a stylist who knew me as a person instead of as another faceless walk-in.

That done, I decided to kill more time in a nearby bookstore.  It was mid-afternoon, and a cream soda and a muffin would hit the spot, I thought.  So it was direct to the little cafe in the store for me.  Where, again, another awkward transaction took place between me and a somewhat indifferent barista.  

Finally, it was to the hobby shop.  And, at long last, another decent transaction by someone who knows who I am.  (Then again, I know most of the staff, so there you are.)  Then to the grocery store, and then home.

Still, by the time it was over, I was glad to be back home.  And I kept hoping the reset button got pushed for the next day.  That day just seemed like it was three degrees off plumb.

The bounty continues

One thing led to another last week, and before I knew it, I found that the YouTube had been packed full of even more rare tasty goodness.  Too much to list here, but among my favorite treats:

-- Long-form, Walter-to-Walter coverage of the Apollo 13 crisis.  In multiple parts, all the way through to recovery.  While the 1995 feature film is beloved in our household, nothing can match seeing how it actually unfolded.

-- Introduction to another network's coverage of Apollo 16.  Very simple, but elegant.  I like how the mission emblem components come to life.

-- The same network's coverage of the flight of Liberty Bell 7 in 1961.  A real rarity here.  Frank McGee seems so young!

-- And, from the same year, the network in distant third promotes its news broadcasts.  Apparently, you not only get reports from that top-notch reporting staff (and a shout-out to Mr. Bergman!), but the news is apparently told through lots of Defense Department stock footage.

It happened again

I did something over the weekend that I long vowed I'd never do: took work home with me.  Actually, it's not the first time I've done it, but it was the first time in a while.  I used to hate doing it, but now, it doesn't bother me as much.  In fact, there are times it's better that way.

This isn't because I wouldn't have time in the office to do it.  Not long ago, my philosophy was that I'd stay as late as I needed to at the office to get it done, and sometimes I still do that.  However, I'm finding it more and more difficult to do things when I'm there.  There's a constant stream of distractions and interruptions and demands for my attention, and too much temptation from the electronic box on my desk.  (I'll get to this paper in a moment, it's too easy to tell myself, but first I want to check my e-mail just one more time.)  Or I can really be in a groove getting papers done, and the phone will ring or a student will come by and need something, and the groove is gone. 

Home, on the other hand, is within my means to control. I'm usually home several hours before hubby, so I have some time I can devote to such things without taking away from my time with him.  I can turn off the television and stay away from the computer, sit down somewhere comfortable, and let myself focus on the tasks at hand.  So I did that Friday afternoon. I had a stack of newspaper articles that needed to be marked up, and another stack of assignments from another course.  I threw them in my satchel and brought them home with me, and spent a couple hours marking them up.  I didn't get interrupted, I didn't really get distracted, and I could unwind a bit and focus on what I was doing.  A couple hours later, I was done, and I really felt good.  I was all caught up.

I think it was President Reagan who said one reason he liked Air Force One so much was because he could take a bunch of paperwork with him, minimize his distractions and actually get some things done up there.  This weekend, I was reminded of what he meant, and it's why I'm able to come into this week a little more relaxed.

The ship is leaving

Once upon a time I had the desire to travel by sea.  Not because of the idea of the crossing or the cruise itself, although it would have been my intent to have a glorious time in the process, but because of the ship.  Twenty or so years ago, there were still some classic ships still out there: the Constitution and Independence were still cruising Hawaii, the Queen Elizabeth 2 was still sailing trans-Atlantic, the Norway (nee France) was alive and well, and there were many others, some dating back as far as the 1930s, still out earning their keep.  It wasn't quite the way I always wanted to travel -- in my purist's heart, I'd have loved to sailed on the original Queen Elizabeth, the America, the United States, maybe the Ile de France -- but back then, there were enough left to at least let you get the feeling of how it used to be. 

Now, it's far different, and those ships are going or gone.  Reading the Maritime Matters blog these days is like reading an obituary page, with all these old ships going to the breakers or already gone.  A handful escape, but others face uncertain futures (like the poor United States, now 40-plus years in limbo, and the poor Queen Elizabeth 2 in Dubai).  The poor Independence finally met her end.  And others are soon to follow.

What's replaced them?  Well, nothing I'm interested in sailing.  They seem like big floating hotels with the maritime vessel part designed out of them.  It strikes me that they're all about helping you forget you're out at sea.  Sure, the Queen Mary 2 is a throwback in some ways, but you can tell she's designed for the modern sea traveling market, and the modern sea traveling market wants to do things I don't.  I can't blame the cruise lines for what they've done; they're following the market demands.  But what they offer isn't what I'm looking for.  I'd love to experience it as it used to be, when it was five days from New York to Southampton and you had to dress up for dinner and all that.

But, then again, you'd expect that from a grumpy old historian.  I guess it's a good thing I can't do that now.  With my luck, even if I could afford the kind of voyage I wanted, I'd spend the whole voyage seasick.