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 envelo
pe. 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.
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.
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.
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.
pe. 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.
