It’s Just Another New Year’s Eve

James Bradley was an English astronomer, best known for two fundamental discoveries in astronomy. The first is the aberration of light (1725 - 1728), which explained the displacement of the apparent path of light from a star, providing conclusive evidence for the movement of the Earth.

The second is the nutation of the Earth's axis (1728 - 1748), also known as the oscillation of the Earth's axis. Caused by the changing direction of the gravitational pull of the moon on the equatorial bulge, Bradley's observations covered the period from 1727 to 1747, as a full cycle of the motion of the moon's nodes is approximately 18.6 years. He choose not to publish until 1748 when the cycle was complete, but announced this discovery on December 31, 1744.

Nutation is defined as a rocking, swaying, or nodding motion. It is quite the coincidence that the discovery of the Earth's nutation would be announced on New Year's Eve, which in itself tends to include rocking celebrations, swaying (whether due to music or alcohol), and eventually a nodding motion as even the most stalwart of individuals will draw their merriment to a close and slumber.

As New Year’s Eve rolls across the globe with a sense of wonder and renewal, I bid each and every one of us great joy, peace and prosperity.

Don't Save It All For Christmas Day

It is a magical time of year. As I grow older (and presumably wiser), Christmas has less and less to do with the hustle and bustle of crowds or the army of Santas available at every turn or the amount of presents under the tree. It is more about the opportunity to stop and smell the mistletoe, to listen to music that is put away the rest of the year, to focus on everything that is truly important in life.

It is a festival of the human heart, a time of year when heavenly forces inspire us to focus on joy instead of fear, on sharing instead of wanting, on love instead of hate, the rebirth of the soul and the return of the light to earth.

The "Toys of Tots" box in our office was filled to the brim, a testament to doing good things without needing recognition or reward. Store managers had the pleasure of calling up families who didn't think they'd have Christmas gifts and tell them the good news: "Layaway Angels" anonymously paid for their layaway items.

The vanishing days before Christmas and its fleeting magic tends to make people more mindful that you can’t buy what Christmas is about or put it under a tree. Gifts of wonder and time carry more value than monetary gifts, and the most meaningful gifts tend to cost little to nothing. The people we love around us is really everything we need.

"And he puzzled three hours, 'til his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! 'Maybe Christmas,' he thought, 'doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas … perhaps … means a little bit more!' "

He Is Sailing

Italy emerged from World War I in a poor and weakened condition, a costly conflict borne by an relatively new and underdeveloped country. Post-war inflation and large debts led to mass unemployment, food shortages, strikes, and general unrest throughout the country.

With no obvious solutions in sight, millions of Italians left their homeland, about half going to other locations in Europe, hoping for a better life; the rest headed to ports of departure throughout Europe, including Le Havre (France), Hamburg (Germany), and the Italian cities of Naples, Palermo, Venice and Genoa. Steamships picked up their human cargo and set sail to points north, south, east and west. The overwhelming majority of immigrants traveled in steerage, packed in as tightly as space would allow, and days dragged into weeks, waiting and waiting for the ship to complete its journey and arrive at the dock.

My four grandparents were among the millions of Italians who immigrated to the United States. Eighty-five years ago today, on December 17, 1926, Emilio Frederick Tabacchi stepped on board the SS Duilio. Two weeks later, the ship approached the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and for those on board the American Dream was finally at hand. Eventually he would pass through the huge Registry Room on Ellis Island and then travel by train to Santa Barbara, his home for the rest of his life.

Today I say thank you to those who came before me, their stories of risk, courage and determination an inspiration for me as I continue on my journey, each remembrance breathing life once more into those who paved the way for us.

"To those who came before me in seasons long ago
To those who are the loved-ones that I have yet to know
To those whose noble names I bear, whose light within me burns
To them in gratitude shall my heart be turned ." - Sally DeFord

Buone Natale

Christmas would be incomplete for me without a panettone, a risen bread rich with eggs and butter, sweet with honey, scented with vanilla and lemon zest, with the finishing touch of dried and candied fruits. This labor intensive treat is best accompanied by hot cocoa or liqueur, although I have been known to toast a slice for breakfast or to even make a type of French toast using panettone.

My grandmother made them when I was a child, mixing ingredients, including a special flavoring that came from Italy called "spumadoro" which has a distinctive citrus flavor. The dough would rise, rest, be punched down and allowed to rise again and again, producing a high and light treat. The traditional method is accomplished over the course of several days, including long sessions of kneading and allowing for up to 20 hours of rising, creating a sweet, complex flavor as a result of the fermentation of the dough. Traditional panettone uses a biga – a pre-ferment made from a mixture of flour, yeast and water that ferments overnight – to achieve a high rise and a nice deep flavor.

This famous Italian bread has its modern-day beginnings in Milan, Italy, around the 15th century; that much is certain as it is mentioned in a recipe book written the personal chef to popes and emperors during the time of Charles V. The origins of this cake appear to be far older, dating back to the Roman Empire when ancient Romans sweetened a type of leavened bread with honey. The first recorded association of panettone with Christmas can be found in 18th century writings.

As with many things whose origins are lost to time, panettone is the stuff of legends and numerous stories about how it originated abound. The most common version refers to young nobleman who fell in love with the daughter of a poor baker named Toni. In order to impress the daughter, the nobleman disguised himself as a pastry chef’s apprentice in her father’s bakery and created a tall fruit studded bread to present to her father, calling it “Pan de Toni” and winning the admiration of the lady and the father’s respect who then blesses the marriage. Another version refers to a poor baker named Tonio who developed a special bread to earn the dowry for his daughter to marry a nobleman. A different version altogether says it was Christmas and the cook in a famous Milan family had no dessert to offer, so the guests were given a sweet bread baked by a kitchen boy called Toni. All three stories are rich and fanciful, just like a panettone.

Many variations exist, including cake stuffed with chocolate chips, cream, or even lemon liqueur, but the traditional recipe for a fluffy, dome-shaped cake dotted with dried fruit and candied citrus peel remains my favorite, with more than 50 million sold during the Christmas holidays. I will eat my share, both as dessert or breakfast, the yeasty citrus scent taking me back to my grandmother's kitchen with its wonderful sights, sounds, and smells, and the good times we shared as a family in that room full of love.

Ferry Cross The Mersey

Cindy and I recently spent a couple of days in Victoria, British Columbia. We headed north from Bellingham, drove across the border and headed west to Tsawwassen to catch the ferry to Victoria. We lined up with the rest of the cars and patiently waited our turn to drive onto the ferry, and then watched as people got out of their vehicles and headed to the terminal.

As novice ferry waiters, we followed suit and found ourselves surrounded by various eateries, gift kiosks and coffee shops. Eventually it was time to get back in the car and drive onto the ferry, which we both expected would be spent in the car. Again we watched as practically everyone abandoned their vehicle and headed up one or two flights of stairs, and again we followed.

We were surprised and pleased to find out this ferry was more like a cruise ship than a transportation vessel, with multiple places to eat, comfortable seats, work stations for those with laptops, play areas for children, and even (for an extra fee) a quiet room with over sized chairs and wi-fi. I'm sure we looked like Ma and Pa Kettle visiting a big city, as I just couldn't stop looking around or wanting to walk all over the ship to see what else there was. It was a beautiful day and smooth passage as we threaded through the Gulf Islands and saw many small lighthouses, such as this one on Prevost Island.

An opportunity to see the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Show at the Royal Theatre and spending time in Victoria was the destination. The show was, of course, wonderful and Victoria, the City of Gardens and a favorite destination of tourists from around the world, was beautiful. However, as with many trips, it was not the destination that brought the most happiness, but rather, the journey. Ralph Waldo Emerson put it best when he said "Life is a journey, not a destination.”

Blown By The Wind

This week, I was reminded the velocity of the wind increases as it is forced over the top of a solid fence, increasing the force on the solid fence exponentially, increasing air pressure on the windward side and creating a slight vacuum on the downwind side. This principle applies to all objects that slow the velocity and/or change the direction of wind. Such objects include buildings, trees, shrubs, terrain surfaces, and, of course, fences.

Given the right conditions (which included a rotting 4 x 4 post and a recorded gust of 70 mph), a fence panel can come loose and repeatedly bang on your portable gas grill until it wakes you at 4:24 am and welcomes you to the new day. Moving fence panels in the wind and rain before breakfast can now be crossed off my bucket list.

In the light of morning we were able to use some wire fencing to temporarily replace the missing panels. The chickens are none too happy about it, as this wire fencing was being used to give them a larger are to peck and scratch for the winter. The dog appears pleased as she can now see the neighbors and has another excuse to bark. The cats, as usual, are ambivalent about the whole thing, as it has little effect on their ability to sleep most of the time.

While many people spent Black Friday shopping, I took advantage of a break in the rain to try and remove the balance of the fence post still in the ground but well below ground level. Trying to avoid digging a large hole to remove the concrete and minus a jack hammer or a large sledge hammer to break it out, I armed myself grandfather's 3/8 inch 8 amp motor corded hammer drill and proceeded to drill the sucker out. The rotted parts were easy and came out fast, but the solid portions presented more of a challenge. I added an extension to the drill bit and kept going back, unwilling to give in. About the time I had most of the post drilled out the cement started coming apart in large sections, clearly showing the broken areas that allowed water in which allowed the post to rot.

A forecast of wind and rain will delay getting the new post in the ground until next weekend. A metal brace in more concrete than was there the first time will be my over-engineered attempt to never need to replace this post again.

Ode De Toilet (The Toilet Song)

November 19th is World Toilet Day. Sounds like a joke, but it's deadly serious. The number of people worldwide without access to a toilet -- no public restroom, no outhouse, no latrine, no smallest room -- is a whopping 2.6 billion. That's four out of ten people who have to use fields, river-banks, beaches, rubbish dumps or city streets.

"Imagine life without a toilet. No toilets in your home or at work, no public toilets, no toilets anywhere. Imagine the mess. Imagine the disease.

"It's hard to imagine life without something we take for granted, but this is the daily reality for 2.6 billion people. 40% of the world’s population do not have access to adequate sanitation. That’s 2.6 billion people having to practice open defecation, urinating into rivers which lead to water borne diseases such as acute diarrhea, cholera and dysentery. Others resort to roadsides, buckets, plastic bags and open fields as their toilets. The eventual outcome -- deaths."

The things we take for granted are not to be. And while we all may want more, perhaps today is a day to remember what others do not have, and, with a national holiday almost upon us, truly give thanks for what we do.

Saturday's Child

For many, Saturday morning presents the opportunity to sleep in. After a particularly trying and long week at work, I desired to join that group, hoping to convince my body not to automatically wake me as it usually does just before the alarm goes off.

The cat, however, had other ideas. Her sure-fire process for waking me up usually starts with a faint meow. Sometimes a few pets will distract her and allow me to sleep a bit more. After the meow comes the licking the hand. I have learned to avoid that by keeping my hand under the covers, which seemed to confuse her for quite some time. Snoring again, she now brings out the big guns: the large cat purring face about two inches from my eye. You haven't really lived until you open your eye and your entire field of vision is filled by a cat head.

Okay, I'm up. The cat wants out, then wants to be fed. Coffee brewing. The quiet of the morning. Overcast skies, drops of rain. Listening to podcasts. Making some notes for a class I am taking.

The stress of the week melts away. Saturday is truly a day to relax, recharge and replenish the mental and emotional reserves.

You Might Think

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about how it was not conscious thought on my part to help a person manage their food tray. It got me thinking about conscious and unconscious thoughts and how they vary.

Unconscious and conscious thought have different characteristics, which, under different circumstances, makes each the preferred format. Simple issues are generally better handled by conscious thought; complex matters are better considered with unconscious thought. What do I mean by this? You have likely experienced giving up on trying to solve a problem and while not consciously thinking about the situation a solution comes to mind within moments courtesy of the power of unconscious thought.

In Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, Malcolm Gladwell brings us face to face with the role of unconscious decision making. The main focus is that decisions made rapidly can be every bit as good as decisions made slowly, cautiously and deliberately.

One of the main concepts is your mind is more efficient when you can move higher level thinking into the unconscious. What do I mean by that? Consider riding a bicycle. If you were like me, it took a lot of conscious attention and effort to coordinate balancing, steering and pedaling. Bicycling is no longer a daily item for me, but climbing on one does not require relearning the mechanics of riding a bike.

Driving a car, walking and using chopsticks are examples of other things you don't need to relearn. If you know how to waltz but haven't done it for a while, you may be a bit rusty, as you are relying on muscle memory, hidden away in the cerebellum, behind and underneath the brain, close to the brain stem, where physical coordination skills live without conscious thought. You get to commonly visited places without a lot of thought, what some refer to as being on auto-pilot. Do you even remember driving to work? I get there without issue, but remember almost nothing of the trip.

We are always taking in information, some of it consciously and some of it unconsciously. You don't have to know about the muscles around the eyes that only contract when a person has a true smile on their face to recognize the difference between a real smile and fake smile; this ability occurs at an unconscious level. Most people can't tell you how they know, but they know.

Our unconscious is a very powerful force. Call it what you will: instinct, gut reaction, intuition. What appears mystical or psychic is part of the function of our normal yet amazing brain.

Lost In A Lost World

I lost my wallet a few weeks ago while Cindy and I traveled to Seattle for the weekend. It was a disorienting experience (not having it in my pocket) combined with fear (where is it), anxiety (who has it now), frustration (what was in it), all at once and each equally intense. My wallet was my key to everyday life, containing credit cards, a debit card, my driver's license and much more. It was my digital DNA that allowed me to be me.

This vault of information could also allow someone else to be me, so I began making phone calls to credit card companies and the like to cancel accounts. The paradox of using an automated phone system soon set in...to reach a live operator I needed the account number, but I did not have the account number since the card was gone. I also found that most voice recognition systems do not respond to sarcasm, frustration or phrases such as "I lost my card" or "I NEED HELP YOU BLEEPING RECORDING".

Life, as they say, is what you make of it, full of accidents and surprises. It is up to us to make the decision on how to react and where to focus our thoughts. Had I lost my wallet a few years ago it would have involved much hand wringing and worrying about things I could not change, all wrapped up in the constraints of negative emotion. Losing it now, well, it wasn't fun, but it was over and done with within a few hours and I could begin to feel the relief of letting go.

Many pushed buttons later, the accounts were cancelled and replacement cards ordered. They have been trickling in and no errant charges appeared on any of the cards. My identity appears to be still safely attached to me and me only.

The other day there was a message on my work phone: my wallet had phoned home. Found by a nine year-old boy who gave it to his father, my wallet arrived in the mail earlier this past week, fully intact, minus whatever cash was in it that I insisted the boy keep as a reward. It is worth every penny to remind me of the goodness of people that are out there.

Reach Out And Touch Somebody's Hand

For years, Cindy and I have made it a point to have lunch together once a week. Just the two of us, no family, no friends. Sometimes it is filled with discussion, other times it is an opportunity to listen without comment, but every time it is an opportunity to be with each other, to tie up big threads and leave the little one hanging about for another day.

This week was no exception. We had just finished getting our self-serve drinks when I noticed an elderly woman starring intently at her receipt. She explained to me she was legally blind asked me to read the number on her receipt so she would know what to listen for. I told her the number and she thanked me, and then continued working on getting lids for the drinks she was managing.

Just then her number was called and she looked about a bit flustered as if wondering how to manage both the beverages and the food. I offered to get her tray and delivered it to the table where her friend was waiting, both of them thanking me for the assistance.

I stood back later and never considered why I helped that woman, as I already knew. It was my family that taught me right from wrong, to say please and thank you, showed me how kindness, courtesy and respect were part of everyday life.

Helping others brings good feelings to the giver and the receiver, making both feel more worthy of good deeds, reinforcing the decency of people, feeling more connected to others. Studies show that service to others helps us to feel more grateful for what we have and less invested in whatever causes stress for so many of us.

It was not conscious thought on my part to help this person, it just happened. It, of course, was the right thing to do. It was also a reminder to me that when opportunities to help present themselves we must take the risks we are asked to take, we must put ourselves out there and remember not everyone in this world is bad and waiting to sue us for a good deed gone wrong.

Harvest Moon

We have had clearing skies as of late, which means streaks of white on blue (instead of the opposite) during the day and an opportunity for some stargazing in the evening/morning. The waning moon has been peaking through the clouds and the nights are getting colder, another reminder that fall is in the air. Shorter days and longer nights means I am slowly exchanging my short-sleeved shirts and shorts for warmer clothing.

Each season has a signature smell. For autumn, it is more than just the scent of falling leaves, fresh air, and apples. It is difficult to distinguish exactly what makes fall smell like fall.

Breathing air into your lungs that is slightly colder than expected is part of it. The smell of burning wood in a fireplace, especially those that are being lit for the first time since spring with the slightly damp odor from the bricks unused for months.

On cool, crisp, sunny autumn days, the air has almost a spicy smell to it, reminiscent of earthy and woody notes, definitely there but still subtle and unassuming. It is the smell of pumpkins and the last of the vegetables growing in the garden.

Pinpointing what causes the air to smell like fall can be elusive, as autumn is a sensory explosion of odor and color. Quite fitting, considering winter arrives soon enough with the absence of most things beyond the white of the clouds, snow and ice.

Dirty Laundry

Laundry is a chore that everyone does at some point. It can be a weekly time-consuming chore that ties you up for many hours. Doing laundry is one of the oldest known domestic tasks and while the process differs across cultures and time, the basic need (clean clothes) is unchanged. If you're typical, you likely dread doing laundry, a mundane part of life. If you're atypical, like me, you actually like doing laundry.

It's the obsessive part of my personality, I know. A full hamper of dirty things is bothersome, as it all could be clean and put away in its place instead of being piled in a jumble. Still, there is a certain satisfaction in gathering all of the sheets, towels and clothes and knowing they will be clean when you are done.

We moved two years ago to a new home, new neighborhood, new views...but the best part was the new front-loading washer and dryer. The smell of detergent and dryer sheets, cleaning the lint filter on the drier after every load...ah yes. Dirty clothes go in, clean, nice-smelling clothes come out.

I work during the week so I save laundry up for the weekend. Walking downstairs, opening up the washing machine and starting a load before the coffee pot is on, the hum of the washer reminding me of my accomplishment. The challenge of the stains, the crease of permanent press...bliss.

All in all, washing, drying and folding is very meditative and relaxing. A tremendous sense of satisfaction and fulfillment arrives each and every Sunday night, as I know each and every towel in the house is clean, dry and folded just right, my clothes neatly hung and/or folded, and clean sheets on the bed.

American Pie

As Cindy related in her blog, we have recently been overrun with apples from the tree in our backyard. We harvested about half of them a couple of weekends ago, and then sliced, diced and froze them for future pies, crumbles, buckles and other baking opportunities.

The tree was there when we bought the house, so what variety the apples are is still in question. We think it is "Akane", an early season apple with firm flesh and plenty of juice. Developed in Japan in the 1930s, it represents an unusual marriage of the classic English early variety, Worcester Pearmain, and the high quality American heritage apple variety, Jonathan. Whatever it may be, they are better eaten in pie than out of hand.

Apple pie has, in a way, become a tradition itself. Pumpkin may be the primary pie at Thanksgiving, but apple is what brings me back to the table after too much turkey. The fragrant aroma of apples and spices signals many that Christmas is upon us, and what Fourth of July would be complete without apple pie. A flaky crust topped with vanilla ice cream, a crumble topping with whipped cream, an open-face Tarte Tatin...it is looked forward to regardless of the shape it takes.

What makes apples and apple pie so all-American? We didn't invent either, as the wild ancestors of apples can be found in Western Asia, specifically in Kazakhstan, and apple pies have been eaten since long before the European colonies were started in the Americas. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, apple pie became a symbol of American prosperity and national pride with "as American as apple pie" becoming a stock phrase.

Then again, as long as we have pie, does it matter?

Roam

The envelope was on the table with the other mail. It looked vaguely nondescript yet important at the same time. The "new-car" smell was the first thing I noticed when I opened the envelope. In a new car, that combination of volatile organic compounds released into the air come from sources such as cleaning and lubricating compounds, paint, carpeting, leather and vinyl treatments, latex glue, gasoline and exhaust fumes.

There was no car in this envelope. It does provide an opportunity to travel, but unlike a car it does not require gas or oil, tires or maintenance. The odor of plastic, glue and paper that filled my nostrils was from my passport.

The blue book with its gold-embossed eagle, the blank pages, full of potential, waiting to be filled with a stamp, in turn filling the holder with knowledge and experience. The ups and downs of travel, the vivid experiences, the shared journeys...all wrapped up in a passport.

I have my paternal grandfather's original passport from when he left Italy in 1926, and now I have my own. Despite the 85 years that separate the two, there exists a tangible link to the heritage of my past and well as my future, as in 2012 we plan to travel to Italy, to visit the land of my ancestors, to connect with relatives we have never seen and attempt to fill the gaps that exist in our family tree.

Soundwaves

A recent episode of Car Talk included a female caller who said she believes the windshield on her parked car was cracked from falling bird poop. Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers, hoped somebody with physics background would weigh in on the discussion. Not to disappoint, Rhett Allain, an associate professor of physics at Southeastern Louisiana University, picked up the challenge and discussed, among other things, the Terminal Speed of Poop.

Physics was the bane of my educational existence in college. Thinking I had a decent understanding of physics, I took a semester at City College in Santa Barbara with the expectation that it would be the easier classes I took that term. It was there I was introduced to the "slug", one of the units of the gravitational foot-pound-second system (FPS). For the uninitiated, the slug is a mass that accelerates by 1 ft/s2 when a force of one pound-force (lbf) is exerted on it, therefore a slug has a mass of 32.17405 pound-mass.

Yeah, they lost me around that point too.

Never had I missed the metric system so much as that semester. Atmospheres, Newtons and Pascals were replaced by pounds per square inch, poundals and poundals per square inch. I spent lots of time converting pounds to stones, inches to chains and other archaic forms of measurement for length and mass. Fortunately time is time, so a second was still a second. I passed the class but it wasn't pretty. I was able to manipulate a three dimensional organic chemistry model but sound waves made no sense to me.

Scarred by that experience, I started and subsequently dropped the last few credits I needed in Physics twice before I completed the class. I didn't leave much room or error, as it was my last quarter at UC Davis and it was all that stood between me and graduation. I hunkered down, went to tutorials and kept pushing. It was not looking good as I headed into the final, but it was either try or go home without a degree. I completed the exam and spent the next two days wondering.

Unlike many instructors, this one did not post grades in the hallway or on their office window, but rather held office hours so he could tell you the results and answer any questions you may have had. I reluctantly made my way to his office, expecting the worst while hoping for a small miracle. As I approached the office I heard the instructor and a student I recognized from class locked in a heated discussion over points on the final exam that made the difference between a class grade of a B+ versus and A-.

The other student eventually left and I waited several seconds before moving into view. The instructor waved me in and looked for by results after I gave him my name. A look of resignation crossed his face, steeling himself as if expecting another argument. He explained he had reviewed the exam numerous time looking for additional points to bring up my results, but my class grade was going to be a D+.

I was expecting worse and was, frankly, thrilled to have passed the class. I took his hand in mine, shook it and thanked him. He had a perplexed look on his face for a moment, and then smiled. He understood, as did I, that passing was good enough for that day.

It was years after that fateful physics class that some of it finally made sense. I was driving a car with the radio on (reasonably loud, I am sure) when I rolled down a window. The sound changed. Opening the other window changed it again. I couldn't remember that frequency = speed / wavelength, but at that time I understood the pitch changes when you add or subtract ends on a box with sound waves in it.

I have tried reading physics books for the layperson over the years. "A Brief History of Time" by Stephen Hawking and "The Elegant Universe" by Brian Greene both graced my nightstand at different points. Despite these authors having a reputation for explaining modern physics in a way that speaks to the non-scientist, I still don't often get it.

And it's okay that I don't, for people like Rhett Allain exist to explain it to me. Still, his final decision on if bird poop could break a car windshield is less than satisfying: "I am leaning towards possible". Perhaps if I drive around listening to loud music and play with the window controls the answer may come to me.

Sailing Homeward

Home, it has been said, is where the heart is. It is a place you love, a place for family to gather, a place you have painted or remodeled or added your own personal touches to, a place close to your favorite restaurant, favorite stores and friends. A house, on the other hand, is simply walls, bedrooms and bathrooms.

It is not homes many of us have lost to due financial issues, it is houses. It can be difficult for anyone who has an emotional investment in their living space to make the change, to allow “homes” to become “houses”.

Foreclosures, short sales, being upside-down on your mortgage; however you call it, it can seem like the end of the world. While it is not, there is psychological trauma associated with the event. You aren't likely to starve or sleep on the streets as an immediate result of a foreclosure, and a family’s belongings are no longer tossed to the curb when it happens.

Owning a home is a fundamental part of a sense of belonging in this country. In 1890, the American psychologist William James wrote that “a man's self is the sum total of all that he can call his...his body and his psychic powers...his clothes and his house, his wife and children, his ancestors and friends, his reputation and works..." Home ownership, along with our family, belongings and jobs, are an extension of self. Losing those things, even temporarily, effect our self value.

The important thing to remember is this too shall pass. Another house will become a home, a place we fell comfortable in and personalize to make it our own. The pain, sense of loss and heartache will subside, and one day it will be hard to remember ever feeling so bad. Self values right themselves, the journey begins anew and you never know where you might be swept off to.

Sailing homeward, it's time to go home,
Over the ocean of life we must roam.
And when you get there, say hello for me,
For I've a long, long way to go.

Backwards Traveller

During a recent trip to Santa Barbara, my sister and I looked through several boxes that belonged to our paternal grandparents. Digging through the past is essentially traveling through time, an opportunity to remember when, to wonder why and to dream about what was.

One box contained dozens of photographs. A few were people we knew; some were faces that had family resemblances; the majority were unknown to either of us. After some further review they all appear to be from our maternal grandmother's side of the family, some of them were of cousins that lived on the east coast of the United States, the majority of them photos from Italy of family we can not identify.

Years ago, early in our married life when we lived in Southern California, Cindy and I went to the Pasadena City College Flea Market. I don't recall if we were searching for anything in particular or just looking, but with products ranging from high-end antiques to rummage sale type items it was a good location for either purpose.

I was struck by a vendor who had old photos for sale, collected from various sources such as garage and estate sales. A few of the photos had names, locations or dates on them, but most lacked any sort of annotation. I remember wondering who these people were, where they came from, where they ended up. Mostly I wondered what stories did they hold, what lessons could we have learned from them, what history was now lost forever.

Now I hold a box of photos, most without dates, names or locations. This time I have a link, an attachment to them, as they are of family, albeit distant in both generation and location. It will take time, sleuthing and some guessing, and it may never be complete. They deserve to be known to whatever extent they can be, for they hold stories, lessons and history that need to be re-found, remembered and retold.

Cellphone's Dead

In this day and age of disposable items, cell phones rank high on the list of things that are replaced on a regular basis. As technology changes, so do cell phones; what is new today may be passe tomorrow.

I'm good with passe, as long as it makes phone calls. I have been holding on to an original Motorola Razr V3, living like it was 2004, avoiding the extra monthly data charges. It did what I wanted it to: made and received phone calls. The camera was a bonus feature that I used occasionally. I don't text, so the numeric pad was fine for adding names to numbers in the address book. We were comfortable with each other.

It was, however, inevitable: my long-time friend and companion began to falter. Little annoyances at first, like the back falling off, were not a huge problem. Eventually the rudimentary form of Java it contained stopped working and I could no longer play the sample games that came with the phone. When it started thinking there was no SIM card installed when there was, I knew it was the beginning of the end.

But what to do? I was left behind years ago by the smartphone train, an abandoned caboose on a spur line no longer used. Shelling out additional fees every month for a data plan is not in our budget, which severely limits the choices. I could buy an unlocked brand-new Razr over the Internet for around $50, or I could take one of the free flip phones my service provided. I checked every angle and option, working on what we call "Lucy Plans" (after Lucille Ball and her antics on "I Love Lucy"): what if I get a free phone and then try to sell it on e-Bay so I could by a Razr? How about turning off and on the existing phone every few minutes to make sure it is working? What about selling plasma every month to pay for a data plan?

Eventually the zero cost plan was followed and I was the owner of a new phone that wasn't a Razr. Cindy, as she has for years, sat patiently on the sidelines of my indecision and waited for me to make a choice. She also volunteered to trade phones with me, as she had no attachment to hers...a Razr V3xx. To paraphrase Captain Kirk at the end of Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, "my friend, I've come home."

The Stars Shine In the Sky Tonight

Every year in August, as the Earth passes through rock and dust fragments left behind by the comet Swift-Tuttle, last time it came near the Sun, these small particles collide with the Earth’s atmosphere, burning bright, creating a blazing yet momentary streak of light across the sky.

There were no meteors to be seen this year from our vantage point. The Perseids, one of the more consistent meteor showers, were hampered by the full moon and a thin scattering of clouds.

Vacations as a child were almost always camping, which meant night skies were never hampered by city lights. I remember many nights in various states with my dad, my mom, and my sister, gazing into the night, watching the stars roll by (and sometimes listening to the radio).

Even without the meteor shower, the sky was a beautiful sight. Despite the full moon it was still filled with visible stars. I leaned against the car and gazed into the night, looking at light that traveled through time to get here, gazing at the sky’s majestic beauty, remembering when...

Italian Song

Sunday we will attend the Madonna del Grappa picnic at Lower Manning Park. It is the picnic of my fore bearers, all revolving around good food, good friends and how we ended up in Santa Barbara.

The pinochle games played by older men, the accordion player who serenades the group, the wine that is shared. As children we would pay our dimes and get into the "cake walk", trying to guess the number that would be called when the bell stopped ringing, hoping we would win, but just not the dessert our family brought.

I have fond memories of the picnic baskets of my parents and grandparents, traditionally only brought out for the various Italian picnics over the summer; heavy wicker and wood hampers filled with durable plastic plates and silverware, tumblers for cold drinks and wine and enough tablecloths to cover several benches, reserving our spot amidst the other tablecloths, butcher paper and signs.

The deep-pit barbecues will turn out chicken, ribs and sausage to be served with the traditional polenta, salad and bread. There will be too much food to eat, but the point of the picnic was never the food, much to the chagrin of those who insist in lining up early and being first to receive their food. The point was, and is, to relive those memories of picnics past and set the stage for future picnics, insuring opportunities to celebrate our heritage and relive memories.

The Dangling Conversation

Unintentional eavesdropping. It's what happens in the airport, waiting in line at the theater, walking through a shopping mall. There are dozens of web-sites dedicated to what you overheard in various cities across the globe, in your office, in public.

Things are hardly ever in context when all you hear are several words from an incomplete sentence, missing the balance of the conversation.

The best conversations I don't intend to listen to occur at the Farmer's Market. Heard last week:

"...my roommate, who surfs, has taken to drinking rye whiskey with Coke and uses frozen strawberries for ice cubes..."

"...do you think that was a fake arm?"

"...you should really consider starting your own state..."

"...is this natural hemp?"

"...are you sure those red things are okay to eat?"

"...walking out, shutting the door of your house, not even saying goodbye to him, leaving all your clothes, everything, and starting over..."

"...her Facebook page is to sterile..."

Why do we listen? Are the lives of others that interesting? What causes conversations to be remembered while others fade rapidly into oblivion?

I've let the post sit for almost a week, hoping the time would help me tie things together and come up with an appropriate ending. Much like the dangling conversations of those around me, this is incomplete, waiting for another sentence or two to fill in the blanks and put it all in context.

Bright Side Of The Road

For most of the past week in I was in Wisconsin, spending time with my fellow quality department members at the company headquarters. One afternoon we had a team building exercise that was a car rally. This rally provided a few hours on a Thursday afternoon to drive a course that made use of some scenic roads, showing me places I had not seen nor likely would not have had the opportunity to see, as well as the team building intent: to rely on others to get you where you needed to go.

We were scored based on information found on the course. We counted signs, kept track of the number of T-intersections we came to, copied information onto our scorecard. No smartphones or GPS systems were allowed, and the largest part of the score was the accuracy of our mileage. We did not finish first nor last, but we did finish and enjoyed drinks and dinner after the rally, comparing answers to questions specific to the Wisconsin countryside.

The details of the first car rally I was in is lost in the wisps of memory. It was in Santa Barbara, that much I know for certain. I was not the driver or navigator, likely a whimsical back seat passenger in either a Fiat or a Porsche, depending on who was driving, watching for signposts, learning rally basics. We set out on the rally course separated from the car in front and in back of us by a few minutes, each convinced they were going to make the best time of the day.

The finish of the event included stories from other competitors. We found out where we had gone awry, what instructions we had misunderstood and where we had followed the course correctly. The results were announced and well, how we did that day is immaterial, especially as I don't remember that part either. I had become addicted to the process, trying to out-think the instructions, split the time clock right down the middle and be in the running for the overall best performance.

Time-Speed-Distance (TSD) Rallying was very different from how most people think of motor sports. Each car was given a set of written instructions and sent off at intervals, all on public roads. The goal was to follow the course, maintain the given average speed (always legal, of course), and arrive at the checkpoints where our arrival time was clocked, giving us a score based on how close we were to being on time.

It was not a competition of speed, but rather of precision driving and navigation. The driver relied on the navigator to provide the instructions while the navigator relied on the skills of the driver. It was exciting, sometimes frustrating and always fun.

I started driving and my best friend became the navigator. At first, both of us mainly concentrated on staying on course and following the directions, more by feel than anything. I added a tachometer to the car for more accurate tracking of speed. As we gained experience, the difficulty of instructions (sometimes purposely misleading) and timing became easier to overcome. We soared to the top of the Novice category, winning the March March rally. Winning as a Novice meant we had to move up to the intermediate group, which is where we stalled and remained until we each moved away.

What mattered then and now is that the rally concept requires people to work closely together while doing fundamentally different things. Communication, trust and interdependency, building relationships and learning about one another, the foundations for the success or failure of a team.

Together We're Better

In this day and age, families generally live hither and yon, many miles apart, and this subset of the Tabacchi family is no exception. This weekend we are fortunate that our relatives have traversed the many miles and arrived in Bellingham by plane and by ground. Words escape me when I try to thank them for making the journey.

It is a vital time for everyone, reconnecting, talking, eating, laughing loudly, updating. Most importantly we are together again and can pay tribute to those who caused us to be, brought us to where we are and made us the people we are today. Memories are the diary we keep in our heads, an instance, a thought. We carry in our hearts their smiles and joy, their tears and sorrow. We carry around their love for us, but most importantly we carry around our unconditional love for them.

Together, we are better.

Mr. Spaceman

As child of the space age, exploration beyond our atmosphere defined my childhood. As I wrote last year, I somehow convinced my parents while I was in grade school to allow me to take our television to school on days when Saturn rockets would launch carrying men into space or when capsules carrying those men would plunge through the atmosphere and splash down on the blue waters of the Pacific.

On April 12, 1981, we were again glued to the television as the Space Shuttle Columbia became the first shuttle to orbit the Earth. We watched history in the making as the first spacecraft intended to be used more than once lifted off from Complex 39 Pad A at Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Since the late 1960s, Pads A and B at Kennedy Space Center's Launch Complex 39 have served as backdrops for America's most significant manned space flight endeavors - Apollo, Skylab, Apollo-Soyuz and the Space Shuttle. The shuttle raced off the pad, literately taking off like a rocket, especially compared to the lumbering Saturn rockets that slowly built up speed, lifting heavy payloads to Earth orbit and beyond.

On July 8, 2011, I watched the the Space Shuttle Atlantis lift off, the last shuttle to orbit the Earth. Dragging a television into my office wasn't necessary, as the all-knowing and ever-present Internet provided the images. The world has changed dramatically in the last 50 years since Yuri Gagarin became the first human in space, and much of the technology that has changed it was born of the space program.

Ear thermometers, smoke detectors, hand-held vacuum cleaners, water filters, ergonomic furniture, portable X-ray machines, programmable pacemakers, concentrated baby foods, freeze-dried instant mixes, biofeedback techniques used to reduce stress, kidney dialysis machines, reflective materials used to insulate homes, water purification technology, flame-resistant textiles, telecommunications and the Global Positioning System (GPS)...the list goes on and on, and almost all of these items pale in comparison to what some consider the single greatest result of the space program: microprocessors.

During the 1950s, computers were the size of a supermarket. Traveling into space required computers that could fit into a much smaller footprint, the now practically non-existent phone booth (see telecommunications in the paragraph above). Companies experimented with ways to reduce the size of computers, eventually resulting in the microprocessor. Every one of the tiny computer chips found in personal computers, commercial airplanes, automobiles, washers and dryers, cell phones and tens of thousands of other products trace their beginnings back to those integrated circuits first developed for the space program.

Times are tough and many of us don't have the money we need to live on; the government isn't funding much in terms of space exploration and there will be a several year gap before NASA puts its own astronauts into space. The roar of millions of pounds of thrust putting men and women into orbit will not be there to inspire the next generation to study math and science, so if there ever was a time when more investment in science education was necessary it is now. Scientific growth means economic growth and there is still much to discover.

The future of manned flight looks to depend on private companies like SpaceX, Lockheed Martin and Boeing for low earth orbit vehicles, while NASA aims to solve the next step in exploring ever further in space. It doesn't matter who works on what, but rather that the work continues, that dreams are dreamt, that the impossible is sought to be made possible, that we continue to look to the new frontier, wherever that may be.

Strawberry Fields Forever

These are the salad days of summer here in the Northwest. Not quite warm enough for most items in the vegetable garden, lettuce continues to be main harvest, at least for the moment. As they say, when life gives you butter leaf and iceberg, you make salad.

The cold and soggy spring, served up by the current La Niña, produced one of the chilliest months of May on record, pushing strawberry harvest into mid-June. The early varieties are late and the later varieties are on time, so strawberry season has been compacted into a short period. Just-picked, sun-ripened strawberries, loaded with natural sugars that rapidly convert to starch once the picked. The fresher the berry, the sweeter the taste.

I have not always been a fan of strawberries. As a child, strawberries and shortcake for dessert meant I was having shortcake. I did not appreciate the complex volatile flavors. Turning down strawberries always produced unusual looks in others; who turns down that scarlet exterior, filled with the flavor of summer sunshine?

It was during my first job in the food industry as a product developer that I was introduced to strawberries from the Pacific Northwest. Picked, sliced and packed at the peak of their flavor, they were different from the berries available in Southern California. The flavors were deeper, the core wasn't white, the juice deep red. The names of the varieties were just as intoxicating: Shuksan, Totem, Rainier. And they were packed with sugar, which is always an added bonus.

High tea would be incomplete without strawberry preserves along side scones and clotted cream, traditional lemonade is better with with the addition of fresh sweet strawberries, fruit salad is naked without the deep red color of sliced strawberries. Today strawberries are a welcome addition to my plate. I still need them to be sweet, as for me it embraces and enhances the flavor.

Too soon we will pack summer away for another year, carefully storing it in boxes and photographs, dreaming of when we can unpack it again. For now, we relish in it being here, living for and in the moment, taking in all that summer can supply, placing some strawberries into the freezer to open when need to feel the warmth of summer on our back.

All Summer Long

This isn't the first time I have written about the Summer Solstice Parade in Santa Barbara, and it certainly won't be the last. It is a sunshine-soaked Santa Barbara tradition that is absolutely the most unique experience that anyone can attend. In Celtic mythology, summer solstice is a day to make wishes and then let go. The parade is just that: a wish made on a summer day, visualized in may colors and dimensions, arising from the heart and soul.

The heart of downtown Santa Barbara is transformed from the Spanish-style business district into an explosion of color and music filled with illusions and imagery, creativity on steroids, beating back the "June Gloom" that can envelope the area.

This year, look for the car from Gilligan's Island. If you have an extra bottle of water, find the small slit in the side about eye level and press the bottle through (they'll thank you for it, trust me). Clap when they go by and tell them I love each and every one of them.

Summer Solstice is a celebration to manifest your wildest dreams. Today, as it is with many days, I dream of Santa Barbara, my family and friends who are there, the times of my life spent there and the times yet to be.

Drift Away

What is it about music that stirs my soul? Certain songs set me to move, to tap my feet, to dance to the music, to feel it with my very being, with my heart, my brain and my soul. It doesn't matter where I may be: sitting here at the computer, writing a business e-mail, at a restaurant. When the urge to move, even just mentally, occurs, it happens.

Scientific studies have shown music can equalize our brainwaves, affect blood pressure, heartbeat, respiration, pulse rate, body temperature, strengthening memory and generating a sense of well-being. The dentist plays music for a reason, as it helps disguise or balance out the sounds of equipment you'd rather not think about.

Music changes my perception of time and space. Listening to certain songs take me to specific moments and places in my life. Many of my memories are fixed to songs, processed in the right hemisphere of my brain, the different neurons responding based on what kind of music is playing. I go to that far away place within the caverns of my memories when reaching for my favorite music would cause the world to drift away.

Pieces of familiar music serve as a soundtrack for the movie that plays in my head, calling back memories of a person or place that is disappearing into the fog of time, snapping them back into the foreground of my mind, putting the past front and center in the present.

When The Roses Bloom Again

The Winter that seemed to last forever and the Spring that never really was have passed. Given the extended period of cold and wet, it's not much of a surprise that our roses had held off making an appearance. As the week wore on, they started to show themselves, just a little at a time. I first noticed some white peeking through, then some pink. And as always, I breathed a sigh of relief that the pruning I had done months earlier didn't frighten the plants into never growing again.

I am a hesitant pruner. I never liked to trim the trees that were in the way of the walk; they went to a lot of trouble to grow and who was I to cut off a branch here or there? It took years for me to understand why it is needed (control shape, encourage more growth, improve health), and that it can be good for your plants, shrubs and trees.

Not all my pruning opportunities were successes. I still remember the Philadelphus virginalis (better known as Minnesota Snowflake Mock Orange) that I, well, pruned is too kind of a word to use. Butchered may be a bit strong, but you get the general idea. I am still haunted by the memory of its malformed shape, looking more like a gangly creature than a shrub. I was lucky it was at the rear of the house so none of the neighbors could really see it.

Fortunately roses are very forgiving and they are no worse for my pruning. Soon we will be enveloped in their intoxicating aromas, a myriad of colors and exquisite forms. It is no wonder that many consider roses to be the quintessential flower, as once they start there is generally no stopping them, producing a parade of nonstop color.

"I am glad that in the springtime of life there were those who planted flowers of love in my heart." - Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer (Can't Last Too Long)

It is finally summer here in the northwest. It was a magical transition, from cold and damp to warm and sun. The overcast skies and rain that have persisted long after they should have given way to a bright, blue sky with the occasional puffy white cloud.

The temperature is expected to reach 70°F today. Bellingham has gone 249 consecutive days without reaching 70°F. We are not going to break the record of 254 days set in 1955, according to the National Weather Service, which keeps records for this area as far back as 1949. That is a record I am sure all Bellinghamsters will be happy not to leave to history.

For now, the sun is out, flowers are blooming, the vegetable garden is finally flourishing. The Winter that seemed to last forever and the Spring that never really was have passed.

And while summer solstice is over two weeks away, I will revel in the pastel colors of the dawn and dusk, and the azure sky in-between. This is the sort of day we can live with, soaking in all the rays the sun can provide. It will seem perfect. It will be perfect.

In My Dreams

Dreams can be fleeting, with just the smallest flecks of images and color left in your mind when the morning comes. Others stay with you, filling your mind with visions that you try to fill in and stitch together to make the dream more coherent.

Last night, I dreamt of zombies. Not the zombies of "Thriller" with their orchestrated dance moves. Not the zombies of "Night of the Living Dead" or "Dawn of the Dead" by George Romero. Not even the zombies of "Shaun of the Dead", a brilliant meld of intelligent humor and bloody horror.

These zombies were...organizing.

Humans have been trying to interpret and analyze what dreams really means since the dawn of time. Some cultures believe understanding dreams allow you to more fully understand the meaning of life. Thought to be messages from the gods, profound and significant dreams were submitted to the Roman Senate for analysis and interpretation.

Dream interpretation is certainly not an exact science. Read enough books or web pages and you will find that zombies in dreams have several theoretical meanings, such as the mindless acceptance of ideas, an unquestioning nature, a tired listless state.

Organizing Zombies...try interpreting that.

Typically is it the survivors that are organizing after a catastrophic event. Survivors come together as a group, a de facto leader emerges and a plan developed, changed and altered again and again to fit the circumstances. Even the best documented survival plan is only good for a while, then you need to work out the details on your own. I can only imagine the same would apply to a zombie apocalypse.

I wish more details of the dream were still available to me. Within five minutes of the end of a dream about half the content is forgotten, and by the ten minute mark about 90% is gone. If the content of dreams reflects aspects of memory consolidation taking place during the different stages of sleep, what memories was I consolidating that lead to organizing zombies? What were the purposes of their organizing? Don't zombies live in the here and now? If so, why were they planning for future opportunities?

I tried to go back to sleep to recover more zombies-related thoughts, hoping for dream recurrence, but no more walking dead entered my sleep. I did dream of cake, which carries a much simpler interpretation: I want cake. Today, I will have cake. And avoid organizing zombies, just in case.