A Charm of Humans?

I set out to write a piece on optimism and hope for the New Year. In the piece I would propose that by universal effort we make 13 a lucky number. The critical word here is 'universal', defined as pertaining to all or the whole. By that definition, it would take us all to make 2013 a lucky year.

Often we use the words 'we' or 'us' in a partisan sense, meaning those allied to us or congruous with our thoughts or objectives. But for the effort on the scale I propose to succeed, it must be truly universal.

There are relatively few words that describe the entirety of the human race. Our species seldom acts in a universal, all inclusive capacity toward a unified objective. Size and distance are factors, of course. But in a shrinking world, must that always be so? Perhaps not.

Humans are after all social animals. We like to gather. We have names for our social selves. When several of us are gathered together we are a group, or perhaps a crowd. Or we could be a throng or a bunch. On certain days we might be a congregation, or sometimes a rabble, on lesser days a posse. We even borrow terms from other species to refer to ourselves in the plural; a swarm, a herd, a pack. There are more names for humans in groups than when alone.

But we are not the only social animals. Other animals congregate too, within their species. We've heard that birds of a feather flock together. And so do sheep...flock, that is. But not goats, they are a tribe or a trip or a herd, as are cattle and buffalo, at least until they run away and become a stampede. Porpoises are also a herd, or they can be a school, or a pod. Whales can be a pod, and they can also be a school and a herd, and a gam and a float and a run and a troop and shoal and a mob. Kangaroos are a mob but have been known to be a court and a troop. And yes, a group of baboons is also called a troop. Some call a large group of baboons a congress; I'll leave that to you to decide. But chimpanzees are also a troupe, and they can be a barrel, a cartload, a community, or a tribe. Gorillas can be a troop too, or a band. Notice that with monkeys we have come full circle to humans, who can be troops, tribes, cartloads, communities and yes, a congress.

It seems all creatures band together by species, at least on occasion, and become an entity. Crows become a murder, a group of crocodiles a bask or a float, a group of doves a dule, eagles a convocation, falcons a cast, finches a charm, larks an exaltation, ferrets a business, goldfish a troubling, greyhounds a leash, lions a pride, leopards a leap, owls a parliament, peacocks an ostentation, rattlesnakes a rhumba, squirrels a dray, turtledoves a pitying…well, you get my drift.

I wondered if there is any creature so independent that it lacks a term for it as a group?  I remembered that when it is difficult to move things as a unit, we say it is like herding cats. Aha! Maybe that most independent of creatures is the exception. But no. It seems there is actually more than one name for a group of cats. They are called a clowder or a clutter or a glaring. Even cats in the wild when gathered together have a name, a dowt or a destruction. Apparently all creatures, the birds of the air, the denizens of the deep, the beasts of the field are social enough to have a name as a group.  Contrary to what we might like to think, humans are not the only social animal or even the most social of animals.

And so I suggest we consider some new names for humans when gathered together. We have named other groups of animals for the characteristics we have assigned them. Perhaps if we called a large gathering of humans by a truly fine name we might eventually grow into it. How wonderful for a mob of humans to be known as a Charm, like the finch, or an Exaltation, like the lark. What if we called gathered humans a Loving or a Fairness? Or maybe a Good? I think its worth a try.

Richard Gamble launches eBook

Richard Gamble launches eBook. Read all about it in the Santa Ynez Valley News.

Cliffs

We've been hearing a lot about cliffs lately. That's good. We need cliffs, otherwise life is too mundane. As a culture, we always manage to have a cliff or two down the road. We like to have precipitous cliffs that are just around the corner as well as distant cliffs that we can worry about from time to time.

Today two precipitous cliffs loom, the Mayan End-Of-Days Cliff and the Fiscal Cliff. It is interesting to note that if we fall off the former we won't need to worry about the latter. The Mayan Cliff has us scheduled for departure this Friday, December 21st. Some people are very worried about that. In fact, some are so worried they talk of committing suicide before that day to avoid it, a sort of a sub-cliff to the main cliff. I guess one cliff isn't enough for some people.

But if we survive the Mayan Cliff, we can all worry about the Fiscal Cliff which is due to arrive with the New Year. And every once in a while we can think about the Global Warming Cliff and worry about that.

Our last cliff of any size was the Y2K Cliff at the turn of the century. People worried that computer systems would malfunction when the year ratcheted around to 1/1/2000, that missile systems would go off, bank vaults would open, trains would crash into one another, and so on. None of that happened. But it wasn't long before the doomsayers adjusted the prophecies forward another five years. We needed to have a cliff.

Marq De Villiers wrote a book titled The End. In it he points out that our culture has adopted doomsday as a state of mind, that nowadays we don't turn a hair at the thought of an asteroid strike or a nuclear winter. Just another cliff. He writes of all the natural close calls our earth has survived already, the crashing and churning and smacking and burning of our globe from forces beyond and within. He speaks of the hazards to come. We are unlikely to run out of cliffs any time soon.
He writes of the need to come together politically as a global community to prevent approaching cliffs when we can and plan for those cliffs we cannot avoid.

But this is unlikely to happen, because we are fascinated by cliffs. We are mesmerized by them like a bird transfixed by the gaze of a cobra. We want to walk to the edge and look over it.

I believe we will survive the Mayan Cliff and the Fiscal Cliff. And many other cliffs to come. But we are a vulnerable species. As de Villiers points out, the planet will still be here after the ice melts and water rises and the violent storms wreak their havoc and life will survive as well, in some form. Just not our form.

I Saw A Bobcat Today

I saw a bobcat today. Not while jogging, when I tend to have such encounters, but while driving a stretch of road I take to buy groceries, a distance of about thirteen miles. The terrain here is long sweeps of grassland with occasional groves of live oak. I saw the bobcat from the window of my jeep as I drove along. At first I thought it was a house cat, for the distance deceived. I slowed and looked close and could then see the distinctive markings and ear shape of the lynx rufus. It was intent upon its quarry, crouched, tense, foreleg muscles bulging, ready to pounce. It never saw me, such was its focus.

Most of my enjoyment of California's Central Coast where I now live is from sharing the region with plentiful wildlife. I have encountered most of it on my runs; a gray fox, all kinds of deer from bucks to fawns, coyotes (including one I came face to face with at a distance of fifteen feet, startling us both), eagles and hawks, vultures, a ring-tailed cat, and near misses with bears and mountain lions.

The creatures in this area of California do not seem accustomed to runners. They are unprepared when I suddenly come upon them, padding up on light feet. I've nearly stepped on snakes and tarantulas. The cattle that line the fences gape at me in astonishment as I pass, their mouths hanging open exposing mouthfuls of grass.

I am told that the population of mountain lions in California is actually increasing. The cats have been driven west from other habitats where their existence has been challenged. In California, it is against the law to kill one (it is not against the law for one of them to kill us). And I wouldn't have it any other way. I was greatly saddened when a cat with which I shared a particular trail, each of us knowing of the presence of the other but going about our own business, became roadkill on the El Camino Real. But I know that another will likely move into the region.

I fear intoxicated drivers and illegal marijuana growers and deer hunters much more than the animals. It is with the former that my closest calls have come while jogging.

This all suggests to me that there is a balance in nature, a balance experienced by the other animals but not by humans. We've lost interest in maintaining the balance. We believe that we do not need nature, we believe that the existence of flora and fauna depends upon us, and not we it. We are saddened when a species dies out, or the ice pack which has stood for hundreds of thousands of years melts away. But then we pick up our coffee and flip to the next page of our newspaper.

It will be interesting to see if we can manage to live without nature. We are well on the road toward finding out.

 

Learning & the Brain

Another Learning & The Brain Conference looms (the 34th) in San Francisco this February. It will convene at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill and is totally worth the price. I first attended the Boston Conferences in the Fall of 2006. At that time, there was a disconnect between scientific research into how the brain learns and those trusted with actually educating it. Fairly recent advances in brain scan techniques had scientists collecting data at a rigorous clip.  All long standing educational concepts were under review. While some traditional teaching methodologies were validated many were turned on their collective ears.  The scientists doing the research suddenly found themselves with an abundance of data critical to education methodology and no means to apply it.  Yet those charged with educating our children often had very little knowledge of the human brain, its growth and capabilities.
     In 2006 the presenters at the conference were predominantly research scientists and college professors/researchers at the research end of the spectrum. The attendees at the conference were largely fellow scientists and researchers, or people from the medical profession, or special education teachers. But very few middle to high school educators were in attendance, those front line classroom teachers who need this data and its implications the most. Presenters expressed a common concern, the need for educators to work closely with scientists to understand how best to apply the new, critical data to education practices. There was a general call to teachers to partner up.
     At that conference in 2006, my first,  my interest in learning more about the brain was sparked. I soon realized that some basic assumptions in our current educational systems, particularly public education, were flawed and desperately needed to change. In fact, some truly basic assumptions, ranging from academic and athletic scheduling to classroom construction and numbers, homework assigning, school starting times, and so on.  Since that time I've written articles on the subject, presented posters, and generally tried to stimulate interest from those responsible for current education practices.
   When I received the promotion pamphlet for Learning & the Brain this year, I was happy to see that the balance of topics for scientists and educators is much more even. Such fascinating subjects as the role of maturation, parents and training on memory, the effects of parental nurturing on child brain structure, mood and learning, and why every brain is wired differently and implications for education.
   Wow. And that's just the beginning. As I read title after title I realized that few forums or places on earth can offer such a wealth of material on education and neuroscience.
   Yes, the $569 price is steep. I can't afford it. I must limit myself to attending every couple of years. But when I go, I fill entire notebooks. And the accompanying spiral bound book containing the research that backs the presentations is almost worth the price by itself. If you've got the dough, go.

A Clean Sweep

I propose a new political plan, one that will ensure that congress functions as it should. It's called Leave Every Congressperson Behind. It's very simple; when at the polls, always vote for the new candidate. Vote out the old.

In Washington today, there is an endemic problem caused by buddy systems, exclusive clubs, ingrown party affiliation, misguided oaths and loyalties, pork barrel politics, greed and yes, money, either too little or too much. These perpetual sores are not so likely to afflict a first time, single term congressperson.

How necessary is experience in congress today, really? Does the value of experience offset the harm done by block political voting, intimidation from power groups, leverage from lobbyists, or intimidation from political party leaders? I think not.

To those who would argue that the systems in Congress and in Washington, the codes and codicils, the processes and procedures are too complex for the initiate, I say, simplify them. After all, complexity breeds fraud. My congressperson should question the status quo, should test the old assumptions, and should ask the stupid questions.

I want a congressperson who is fired up to solve problems, ready to take a fresh look at issues, one who wants to safeguard democracy and to help the American people, an idealist. I want a representative who always has his/her constituents in mind, regardless of their rank or class.

I do not want to be represented by an individual who no longer remembers those inaugural ideals, who has learned the insider game, who treads water, who has succumbed to excuses and believes that some things are just not possible. I do not want a representative who has been bent and battered by the pounding surf of political pressures and corrupted and minimized by the erosion of short cuts and temptations over multiple terms. I do not want my congressperson to hide in a crowd.

I want a representative who is a Washington outsider, because I am a Washington outsider. I want my representative to be an American first, a citizen of my state second, and a resident of Washington D.C. last and least. I want a representative who views the work of a congressperson as a job, a mandate, a responsibility, and an obligation. I want a congressperson who does not adjourn for vacations or leave on holiday until the work is done. I expect the same of myself. I want a congressperson who will discuss issues with his/her colleagues on both sides of the aisle and continue to search for resolutions until they are found.

I do not want a congressperson who allows his/her political party loyalty to supersede the needs of the people. Ever.

I want a first time, single term representative, one who has not had the chance to learn 'who's who, 'how things work', or 'who to please'.

Where will I find this individual, this paragon of democratic idealism and virtue?
Not in the rolls of incumbency. Vote out the old, vote in the new. Leave every current congressperson behind and bring in a whole new crop. Let's restore to the American people a fully functional United States Congress.

All Those Little Things...

Palm Springs, California, is delightful in early fall. Yes, it is pitilessly hot, but the nights and early mornings are cool and the air is crystal clear. The mountains leap forward as if sculpted in bas relief. Until this year, that is.
This year was hot as always, but it was humid and cloudy, the air thick. The mountains hid behind haze, sometimes until late afternoon. Exercising outdoors produced gallons of sweat.
One morning we awoke to a peculiar smell, somewhat like sulfur. At first we thought something was wrong in our condo, then blamed it on nearby construction or a local industrial spill. But as we went about our day we found the smell everywhere. It lasted the entire day and it was there when we went to bed.
The next day it was gone. A news report explained why.
Fifty miles to the southeast of Palm Springs lies the Salton Sea,  a huge body of water created long ago, drained, and then recreated by the Colorado River overloading an ill-considered aqueduct into the region during the flood of 1905, since then shrunk to its current dimensions. It lies in the Salton Sink which is 225 feet below sea level. Depending upon rainfall and agricultural run-off, the Sea averages 15 miles by 35 miles with a maximum depth of 16 feet. With the alkaline nature of the desert floor here, the salinity of the lake, while less than the Great Salt Lake, is greater than the Pacific Ocean and is increasing by  one percent annually.
The Salton Sea originally was the product of the delta building of the Colorado River. The silt it deposited over three million years created a dam that prevented the Sea of Cortez from flowing on up the southern end of the Imperial Valley. The Salton Sea has always changed character from a fresh water lake to a salt sea depending upon the tug and pull of the fresh water rivers feeding it versus evaporative loss from the desert sun. An interesting side note is that the Sea lies over the San Andreas Fault and computer models have demonstrated that the deviatoric stress from water infill contributes to a vulnerability to earthquakes, the area (and consequently Los Angeles) is currently in risk of a magnitude 7 or 8 event.  
The news report we heard that day explained the odor as the smell of decay of the thousands of dead fish and other marine organisms lining the shore of the Salton Sea. Changing weather patterns and increasing salinity of the water over the past years have combined to produce this circumstance and deliver the unpleasant aroma to Palm Springs.
When I learned this, I was again struck by the myriad of little changes that must inevitably occur as a result of man's interaction with nature and an accelerated global climate change. Not that I condemn man's participation, on the contrary I see it as inevitable. We might possibly have delayed these changes by a few thousand years , perhaps by deciding not to participate in the Industrial Revolution, or by making a much more concerted effort to stop releasing bio-carbons into the atmosphere once we realized the harm we were doing. But inevitably with the march of time and the growth of the human population and the consequent clearing of vegetation, the growing consumption and polluting of water despite our best efforts, the increasing methane release from increased bovine population to feed the population, all the things that humans do to survive, the effect would eventually be the same.
Consider the animals. Left to their own devices, they balance their own populations. They do not invent machines to improve their lives. The vegetation they consume they replenish by pruning or by carrying seeds from place to place. They do not, they can not harm their world. Which organism, then, is alien to this planet, do you suppose?

Here in our Beautiful Valley

Here in our beautiful Santa Ynez Valley there are opportunities that  I must imagine are unavailable to any other community in this state, perhaps even the country.  To begin, we have the opportunity to hear music groups in concert that we have wanted to experience but for which tickets were always difficult to acquire or the venue not intimate enough to be enjoyable and at an inconvenient distance. Here in Northern Santa Barbara County we attend many such concerts, at the Chumash Casino and at local churches and at the missions. I have a taste for fresh beers and with five breweries within a dozen miles and even more within an hour's drive I am easily able to satisfied that thirst. I need hardly mention the wine, of course, for we are surrounded by the grape and may choose among hundreds of tasting rooms specializing in dozens of varietals. Nor do I need mention the cuisine in the valley, as famous as it is exceptional, from Irish Pub to Danish Pancakes to storied steakhouses like the Hitching Post I & II.
The beaches, all within easy reach, from Pismo to Oceano to Jamala, are as beautiful as any in the world, yet often almost empty. Or go to the mountains, the Santa Ynez range which marches into the sea, and hike the mountain trails in the Los Padres National Forest and the San Rafael Wilderness. Fancy boating? Drop your canoe into Lake Chumash, its startling blue waters outlined by white powdery cliffs, tucked away in a mountain valley, or kayak the challenging Pacific coast guarded by intimidating cliffs and pockmarked by unexpected tiny coves, or explore the offshore Channel Islands National Park by paddle.
Birdwatchers can ogle the Least Tern and the Snowy Plover, biologists hunt for the Red-Legged frog, and botanists draw the endangered La Graciosa thistle. The fresh produce of our valleys pours in to the local Farmer's markets, the fresh beef comes directly from the hillsides to the groceries and the restaurants, and everywhere are the flowers, the roses that punctuate the vineyard trestles, the multitude of colorful gardens brightening every home, the flowering bushes along the highways, the wildflowers that spatter points of color on the hills every spring.
Like the flowers, there is in the valley a colorful variety of people, of ethnicities with still-thriving cultures that have continued from their advent here, the Chumash Tribe of Native Americans, the Spanish and the Mexicans of the Ranchos, the Danish Colonists of Solvang, the American business men, horse and cattle breeders, and retirees, and the newer Mexican immigrant populations, each offering a piece of that which makes their culture special, the casinos and horsemanship and movie stars and windmills and baked goods and tacos and tri-tip steak, all part of an amazing kaleidoscope of possibilities woven together into the multi-textured fabric of this valley.
And from all this diversity comes a rich history. History that is alive in the golden hills and in the towns and under the live oaks. History that can still be seen wherever you look for here everything that was still is, the traces of  roads, the old pueblos, the narrow gauge railway bed, the train depots, the stage stops, the hotels, the Spanish Missions, the flour mills, the long horn cattle,  the ancient stands of mission cactus along the El Camino Real. Each has a story to tell if it can be extracted.
But why wax so rhapsodic about the this place now, and here? Because I have just come from another unexpected experience in this unexpected place. Through our membership in the Santa Ynez Valley Historical Museum, a resource for the history buff that I have yet to fully explore, we were made aware of a special offering, the Santa Ynez Valley Horse Ranch Tour.  We have experienced the Behind The Garden Gate tour in past years, and fully enjoyed it, feeling we had received even more than advertised. We saw the Horse Ranch tour as an opportunity not to be missed. And so it was.
Choreographed tighter than a Radio City Music Hall performance (we were chastised for being late to the first venue) four shifts of car caravans were orchestrated to four different venues in the valley, four very special venues. The first stop for caravan 'C' was Magali Farm (and why is it that owners of these fine horse ranches call them farms?).  Here some of the finest horses are bred from especially fine former racing stallions content now to relax and mingle with the ladies and sip drinks with little umbrellas. We were introduced to jockey Jerry Lambert, who won three Hollywood Gold Cup races in a row, and Giacomo, the winner of the 2005 Kentucky Derby. As we gazed at this magnificent animal we were told we were looking at horseflesh worth upward of 35 million dollars. He looks every bit of that, and is even more impressive close up. After a tour of the barn and a chance to rub the muzzles of several other very accomplished horses, we were sent along (precisely on time) to our next stop, Intrepid Farm.
This is the home of the Morgan Horse. Owner Art Perry met us in his bejeweled show costume, worth the trip all by itself. He explained that his horses were all away preparing for a show (choreographed sigh), but…but…he had a special treat in store for us. He then introduced Frenchwoman Claire Buschy Anderson who instructed us in the art of riding side saddle with elegant demonstrations and a short history of the side saddle delivered with her charming accent. When she had finished, Mr. Perry invited us to visit his private museum, a trove of such treasures as mechanical banks, wood carvings, weather vanes,  rare paintings, photos and drawings, as well as all the awards collected by the Intrepid Morgan horses. There among the exhibits we found the costume worn by Elvis in "Love Me Tender" and the travel performance outfits of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans (none of which could hold a candle to Mr. Perry's splendorous togs).
The third stop for caravan 'C' was at the Alamo Pintado Equine Clinic,  a remarkable horse hospital equipped better than many human hospitals. With the ability to accommodate 70 plus horses the Equine Clinic has the capability to take traditional and digital X-rays, do an ultra sound,  bone scan, cat scan, MRI, or fluoroscopy. There is a hyperbaric chamber (horse sized!), an aqua tread, a recovery pool, and even an equine ambulance capable of transporting four horses. Our team of three guides took time from their busy schedules to offer expert commentary on the equipment and the facilities, even finessing us around a foaling emergency that arrived while we were there. Then promptly at the prescribed time our caravan departed for our final stop, the Om El Arab International Arabian horse breeding farm.
At Om El Arab (meaning "Mother of all Arabians") we could pretend as we sat in our ring-side seats drinking cold beverages that we were among the rich and famous (and royalty) who come from around the world to view and purchase these exquisite animals. We listened to owner Sigi Siller describe each horse as her daughter Janina Merz presented, one by one, some of the most magnificent animals we've ever seen. Perhaps we should have realized that our breath would soon be taken away when we were informed at the outset that the origins of the breeding of the 'Mother of all Arabians', Estopa, and her son El Shaklan have enjoyed unparalleled influence in the Arabian breeding world.  But first came the colts, beautiful free spirited little ones to whom we were introduced in the inside ring, where buyers may sit in comfortable sofas in air conditioning and watch the horses presented there through a picture window! Fortunately, we were permitted into the ring itself with the horses.
Then it was back to the outside ring and into our ring-side chairs. We viewed a series of mares and stallions, the first a mare ridden stylistically (and nervously) by an employee. But the remaining mares and stallions were led to the ring and then un-haltered, allowed then to run free so that we might observe the true, unfettered spirit of this remarkable horse, each more beautiful than the last, the narrow face and black eyes and muzzle, the erect head and curled up tail, the particular coughing snort when exhilarated, the long legs that float above the ground.  We were entranced.
But even then we were not fully prepared for W.H. Justice. Before his appearance, Sigi told us her experience in meeting this horse, when she cried openly at his beauty. We understand.  First some background. W.H. Justice is owned by Equid Systems Ltd., and is in America on lease to Aljassimya Farm and sent from there to stand for one year at Om El Arab International. Thus our good fortune to see him.  By coming to Om El Arab, W.H. Justice is in a sense returning, for he is the great grandson  of El Shaklan. Emma Maxwell has written "W.H. Justice has changed the face of the Arabian show horse," as she herself says, a pretty tall statement. But his looks, his charm, his awards, and his progeny support this statement, and then some. We were treated to his charm. He was led into the ring, head erect, precise, obedient. His halter was removed. At that moment his spirit was unleashed and around the arena he flashed, nimble, powerful, light on his feet, joyous and, let there be no doubt, the ultimate prima donna. Sigi told us that as the last group of the day we were the only ones privileged to see him. To W.H. Justice, that was an injustice, for he had simmered in his stall watching other stallions grab the limelight all day long. Now was his moment, and he made his feelings very clear to his handler and Sigi by a series of full-out runs toward them at the fence, only to pull up at the very last second and shower them with dirt.  Having vented, he next put nose to ground and sniffed like an alpha wolf, scenting the animals that had preceded him and then very carefully urinating on those spots.  That accomplished, he set about putting on a show to put all the other horses to shame, with runs around the ring, quick agile turns and spins, his challenging huff growing with each leg. And so he entertained and entranced us as time flew by until finally he was taken from us. We were all under his spell.    
And so ended a truly remarkable day in the Santa Ynez Valley, and again I ask, where else in the world could we have experienced such an afternoon?                                                        

Guns & Poses

Strong character and leadership are in that category of things that are difficult to define but you know it when you see it. And you know it when you don't see it. I don't see it around the subject of guns in America.

There are certain moral imperatives anyone claiming good character and the role of positive leadership must acknowledge. A test for this is whether your decisions are for the good of the majority of people or only for a powerful minority. As the philosopher Kant's second imperative states: "Act so that you treat humanity, whether in your person or that of another, always as an end and never as a means only." Kidder and Born identify ends-based thinking for resolving ethical issues with the question, "How many people will benefit from this decision compared with other options?".

The international relationships of the United States have suffered because of distrust arising from a dichotomy: we preach the sanctity of human life but as a nation we take lives at a great pace. We say 'Do as I say, not as I do'.  The lesson we teach is those with power are entitled to set the bar for morality, an oxymoron if ever there was one.  The proliferation of weapons in this country and employed by this country grows even as we sanctimoniously proclaim to root out inhumanity around the world. We are posers.

That a restriction of guns in the United States would save thousands of lives annually is not a debate; it is fact. That lawmakers should accept the moral responsibility to limit gun sales in this country is not a question; it is an imperative. That the presidential candidates should take a stand against gun proliferation is not a random idea; it is a moral obligation.

Consider this question with ends-based thinking: a.) Thousand of lives will be saved each year if the number of guns in America is decreased. b.) If guns become inaccessible to the majority of Americans they will experience no discernible harm as a result. The choice, it seems to me, is clear.

Guns are designed to take a life, no more, no less. The purpose of this machine is intrinsically harmful, there is no benign construction that can be attributed to it. The purpose of a gun is to kill. It is People attempt to defend their homes, but it is the guns that kill. People go to war, but it is the guns that kill. People are often careless, but it is the guns that kill them.  People become anxious or depressed or frustrated or psychotic., but it is the guns that kill others. That's what they do.

Times have changed and we need to change with them. The second amendment was written in a climate of real threats to individuals and to our young nation. Then there was a frontier full of dangers, hunting was a necessity, not a sport. States still regarded themselves as independent colonies potentially under threat not only from foreign nations but from their own newly formed central government as well as .

No more. Today, the proliferation of guns has created dangers, not alleviated them.  And guns have evolved too. They are more efficient, more deadly.

I write this not to engage in debate nor to present facts and figures that will prove this or that; such articles have been written many times. The issue of guns won't be swayed by statistics, it won't be determined by persuasive language. There are those who will always cling to their guns as long as law permits. And there are those who will die from them.

This piece is about clarity. It is about putting form to what, in our hearts, we already know. To take a life is wrong. Guns take lives.  Thats what they do.

                            * * *

I  recognize that this article will likely engender an emotional response. I encourage comments and will publish them here unedited. 

An Excellent Running Adventure

I am a runner. Or perhaps, more accurately, a runner am I, for there can be no doubt that this organism that is me is a subcategory of runner, and not the other way around. The proof is in my sense of self, for unless I am running or have been running I am less than whole, I am diminished.
Yet to run as frequently as I must to retain wholeness is not easy, it requires motivation. Every runner knows that a sustained running regimen is more about the mind than the body, for to lace up and propel oneself out the door daily, each week of every month for years requires entertaining the mind with increasing imagination and creativity. And so I invent goals, targets that will pique my mind's curiosity to the degree that it will momentarily forget the drudgery and overlook the pain, increasingly difficult goals like finishing a half marathon, then a full marathon, then qualifying for the Boston Marathon, then trail running, running mountains, ultra running, and so on.
But sometimes increasing the level of difficulty is no longer sufficient stimulation to motivate me and then I look for an 'adventure' run, an environment for my run that is so novel or so pleasurable or unique that my jaded mind is rejuvenated at the very prospect. This pursuit of novelty has led me to run up mountains in Tennessee, through Indian reservations, along shoulder-less blind roads in Wales, at excessively high altitudes in Peru, up mist cloaked rhino infested hillsides in Kenya, along miles of sun scorched arrow straight treeless expanses in Kansas, and, well, you get the idea.
You will understand, then, why it was not so extraordinary to find myself running at six thousand feet in Sequoia National Forest last week. I had never seen a giant Sequoia. But my reason for being there was not to see one of nature's marvels, but to find sufficient trail elevation within one or two days travel from home to train toward my latest goal (a subject for another time and place).
Sequoia National Forest cloaks the range of mountains just north of the Mojave Desert, where the extreme tip of this upheaval is slashed apart by the dramatic Kern River Canyon and the basin that is now Lake Isabella. To the west simmers Bakersfield and the broad expanse of the San Joaquin Valley. That city, I decided, would be the hub for my exploratory incursions into the mountains in search of high elevation trails to run. Roads into the National Forest are limited, my choices were few.
Day one I selected route 155, a road that looks deceptively straight on the map, as my access to Greenhorn Summit, the road's high point at 6102 feet of altitude. There I found a ski mobile trail, snowless now, leading along the ridge then descending slightly to a fork. I chose the right side which curled back to the far side of the ridge and gradually ascended again, all through conifer and pine, straight and tall, sweet smelling and shady. The temperature for running here was perfect, while down below the citizens of Bakersfield scalded in triple digit heat. It was along this road, on the far side of the ridge, that I saw my first Sequoia. I knew it immediately, the reddish swirled bark, the column-like branchless trunk, a narrow obelisk pointed skyward. More came into view as I ran, scattered among the lesser pines. Dignified, statuesque. They presented an aura of antiquity, a sense of timelessness that I had read about but never experienced. I returned to my Jeep after a run of an hour, satisfying to me in terms of a test of my stamina at higher elevation and the pleasure of the experience.
That night in my hotel I plotted my next day's destination, searching for a trail that offered higher altitude and greater elevation gain. To find it, I had to look farther north, to Giant Sequoia National Monument. Far up the Tule River Valley within the monument I found Camp Nelson, a remote area of rustic cabins. And trails. One of those trails ascended Bear Creek, commencing at an altitude of 4600 feet and climbing to over 7000 feet over three plus miles. Steep, strenuous, sufficient altitude. Perfect. The trailhead was not well marked, but my guide sheet was accurate and after passing by it once on the narrow dirt track I returned to find it just across the creek. I parked, changed to running shorts and a light jacket (eat your heart out, Bakersfield) and set out at an easy pace.
The trail ascended immediately with several switchbacks up the forested slope then angled back into the creek canyon well up its steep side, the creek a few hundred feet below and well hidden by a tangle of red mazanitis alternating with chaparral. The path was narrow, treacherous underfoot, textures changing frequently to muddy, sandy, or rock protrusions. It ascended steeply following the creek gorge. As the elevation increased I found it necessary to stop to deepen and slow my breathing from time to time. To my satisfaction, I could bring my breath under control easily and continue after just a minute or two. Then came the onslaught of mosquitos, in clouds. They infiltrated my eyes and mouth, buzzed in my ears, enjoying the novelty of a barely clad, hide-less creature, so different from the thick carcass forest creatures upon which they normally feasted. It became much more laborious to run waving my hand in front of my face, and when I stopped now to recover my breath, it was difficult to resist the temptation to begin again before I was ready.
I climbed steadily and the path rose higher above the creek, the slope became steeper, in some places the trail slid away leaving just inches in width to run along. I  traversed one such tricky section and in the middle of the trail saw a mound of poop, tubular mazanitis seed infested, berry speckled, and very large. Fresh, although not steaming. Bear Creek. Oh, right, I should have thought of that. Now I ran watching my footing, waving off mosquitos, and studying every dark shadowed tree and bush along the way.
The path continued to climb along the creek valley, switchbacking occasionally at steeper sections. I came to a second pile of bear poo. In my mind there were three possibilities, that one bear was preceding me (and pooping frequently), that there were two bears and they both enjoyed pooping on the path, or there were a whole lot of bears along this creek. I wasn't particularly pleased with any of my conclusions. Then the path made a steep turn and left the creek valley, climbing steeply up the ridge slope. Steep enough now that in addition to increasingly labored breathing my leg muscles began to ache as I ran.  But the mosquitos were left behind. And hopefully the bears.
The forest opened up, giving way to taller trees and an open forest floor studded with pinecones and deadfall. There were large trees fallen across the path now, which demanded a circuitous route or a tiring climb over them. The trees became taller as I ascended toward the ridge line. I began to see Sequoia like those I had seen the day before.
Then I was on top of the ridge and running along it as it ascended more gradually. A sweet distinctive wood smell came to my nose, tinted with pine pitch. The forest air was thick and scent laden, like a nutritious soup. My footfalls were deadened in it, there was a deep stillness. The world was muffled. I felt better now, more vigorous. The trail climbed less steeply, I breathed easier. I began to see more Sequoias, larger ones and taller. These surpassed the ones I had seen before, some were two feet or more in diameter. Now the path steepened as the ridge line rose higher. I had been running nearly three quarters of an hour now and thoughts of turning back darted from amygdala to frontal lobe with recurring frequency.
Just over a rise I came to a metal sign affixed to a Sequoia. I stopped. It read, simply, Boundary of Belknap Grove. So, I thought, I have been running through a Sequoia grove. I had suspected as much. But looking forward I saw quite a few more Sequoia. I decided to run on just a bit further. The trail ascended gradually now, I could run easily now. Large trunks of trees obscured my view ahead. The trail looped around a stand of several trees and then a clearing was before me and a sight that took my breath away, forcing me to stop and gape.
Before me stood a mammoth tree, its red branchless column of a trunk fully fifteen feet in diameter, towering up, up, up. Over a hundred feet above me thick scaly branches reached out ornamented with massive pinecones and needles. It shaded the entire clearing in which I stood, indeed it must have created it. Now I understood that the metal sign had announced the beginning of the grove, not its terminus. I gaped at this tree, this overpowering presence, this surreal giant, its scale beyond any living thing I have known, Olympian.  I ran on and encountered more and more of these giants, some standing near one another, others residing within the dignity of their own solitary presence. I came upon even larger trees, massively trunked, twenty feet in diameter, sky scraping above me. I felt privileged, as if granted an audience with gods, permitted to enter their sanctuary and the sanctity of their presence. I ran on in awed silence.
And then a sacrilege, the sudden sound of a gunshot, a partially muffled shotgun blast, percussive, very near by. I was startled, upset. Even here, in this temple? Was nothing sacred to hunters? The path I ran was next to the base of a giant, circling its trunk. I slowed, now worried that this nearby hunter might mistake my movement, might shoot carelessly not expecting to find a runner here. And then I saw the pinecone upon the ground four feet away, still twitching. Had the shooter actually shot at me, actually hitting the forest floor so near to me?
All this came in a rush of anxious thought. And then came understanding. I realized that this pinecone, a foot long and ten inches in diameter, had just fallen. That the percussive report I had heard was its impact upon the forest floor, the sound made as it hit the ground after free falling hundreds of feet, to land just four feet from me.
Sobered, humbled, I ran on. Not long after, the grove appeared to thin. The trail angled away across the side of a new ridge, off to meet up with another trail deeper in the forest, farther than I wished to go today. I turned around and returned through the grove, feeling as awed and humbled as I had been on my way up. Running down hill was easy, my breathing controlled, my calves twitchy but sufficiently strong to negotiate the obstacles of the path I had ascended. Down into the Bear Creek valley, down among the mosquitoes, striding over additional bear scat that had not been there on my way up, conversing loudly with myself to alert  bears to my presence. And then the glint of my red jeep through the trees.
I jumped into Bear Creek, running shoes and all and bathed, then toweled off and changed into dry clothing. I faced a five hour drive, down the steep winding Tule River canyon, down, down into the heat of the San Joaquin Valley, through the exhaust filled streets of Bakersfield and on across the Sierra Madre to Santa Maria and then south along El Camino Real, and so home. My muscles were tired, but my addiction was assuaged and my soul fulfilled.    
It was a most excellent running adventure.

Dog Reflections

I have witnessed that pet dogs often reflect the characteristics of their owners.

A neighborhood where I lived is tightly constructed around a green upon which dogs and owners move about in high visibility. The percentage of dog owners to non-owners here is typical, as is the percentage of those who own only cats (or is it the other way around?), although no census taker would ever dare to attempt to quantify the latter. But cats are never an issue, because avoiding controversy goes to the very heart of that creature. Nor are they likely to take on any characteristics other than their own.

Not so dogs.  When you consider the wholesomeness of dogs, the guilelessness, loyalty, and cheerful obedience that is at the core of this animal, it seems strange that these pets are more often the center of controversy than are selfish, skittish, disobedient, untrainable, unleashable cats, but so it is.
A concern in our tight little neighborhood at the moment is the poo habits of some of the neighborhood dogs, of particular concern the neighbor who leaves the front door open to allow the dog to take itself out to poo at will where and when it pleases. To the regulated dog owner, who keeps the dog tight on the leash, then directs the placement of poo, bags it while still warm, and places it carefully in the proper receptacle, the unconcerned behavior of the freedom owner is a pure horror. Dogs reflect the feelings of their owners, and dogs on lead take exception to dogs cruising by unfettered and so animosity has a tendency to build, dog to dog, owner to owner.
 
I am convinced that the tendency to mirror the traits of the alpha dog is in the dogs' gene pool. The mimicry can be uncanny. One close neighbor was owned by cats (and children). These neighbors were warm, friendly people, and the entire family lived their lives happily and openly with a kind of barefoot exuberant freedom. When they wanted a dog to join the family they adopted one from a shelter. Within days, the dog had become indistinguishable from any other member of that family, trotting freely with head high, tail erect, ambling happily around the neighborhood, unleashable and irrepressible. I could have picked it out of a lineup as part of that family.

I provide this particular example because the dog was adopted as an adult, not raised within the family from puppyhood. What can explain the immediate, comprehensive manifestation of family traits by this dog?    

Dogs appear to approach strangers and strange environments in ways similar to their owners - timid dogs reflect timid owners, blustery dogs blustery owners, sneaky dogs sneaky owners, untrustworthy dogs untrustworthy owners, and so on. And dogs seem also to reflect the anxiety levels of their owners. One seldom sees a patient dog with an impatient owner, a calm dog with a restless owner, or a courageous dog with a fearful owner. The ultimate restless spirit is the dog whose owner is away from home days at a time, leaving the dog to its own devices. This canine, like its owner, is the dog about town, roaming the streets and exploring the scents of far reaching neighborhoods, streetwise, confident.

Taking this tendency to another level, I have observed that entire towns, like individual owners, may have characteristics that are illustrated by its citizen dogs. There are plenty of exceptions to the rule, of course, but the dog of choice in my town is the small dog. The human population in my town, like many American communities, is mixed, in this case divided generally between Caucasian and Hispanic families. A walk through the town reveals that some of these small dogs are a Chihuahua type, brown or black, generally off-lead, and others are a white or light colored dog, almost always on-lead. Thus the cultural composition of my town is evident to any observant stranger through its canine inhabitants.

Dogs and children have in common this tendency toward mimicry. Children, like dogs, tend to reflect the characteristic attitudes and behaviors of their parents. But dogs and children are guileless and will display these traits openly, while  parent/owners may conceal them beneath the surface. Thus dogs and children can be a window to the true nature of family culture and behavior.

It has occurred to me that these observations might be taken to yet another level, on a much larger scale, perhaps even to countries. It's not difficult to link certain dogs to certain nations. I automatically link the St. Bernard to Switzerland, for example, the English Bulldog with Great Britain, the Chihuahua to Mexico, and the Doberman Pinscher to Germany. And there are those breeds whose heritage is revealed by their breed name, such as the Russian Wolfhound, the Siberian Husky, the Rhodesian Ridgeback, the German Shepherd, and so on.

Can we use this insight on such a large scale? Might inference from predominant dog attitudes owned by certain nations lead to better understanding within the global community? Might the attitude and intent of nations be revealed by their dogs, despite a desire to conceal them? Could World War Two have been avoided by close observation of the attitudes of German dogs? Do the characteristics of the Russian Wolfhound offer insight into the true nature of the Russian people? What do the Bichon Frise or the Poodle suggest about France? In the wide spectrum of how nations treat their dogs all the way to the nations that eat their dogs, the nature of the master is revealed in his canine mirror, his dog, which, after all, desires nothing more than to please its master, enjoy a square meal, wag its tail, and live in peace.

Let's Take the Dollars out of Democracy

I am writing this on the Fourth of July, just before a lunch of grilled hot dogs followed by fireworks at the Embarcadero, and my thoughts turn to my good fortune that the founding fathers of this country decided that individual liberty should be the hallmark of the nation they intended to build, that the opportunity to express oneself freely should be safeguarded, that a construct  for a fair and representative election process for the leadership of the nation should be created along with a means for its preservation. I am thankful I do not live in Syria or Iran or North Korea. And so on this day when we as Americans celebrate our good fortune it seems a propitious time to talk about money in politics, about how its accepted role is leading us toward an erosion of these aforementioned liberties and rights, particularly now that the Supreme Court has ruled that corporate entities should have the right to express themselves with financial politics, that we should consider them as we do individual American citizens in terms of First Amendment rights. We have seen how the huge resources of large companies can sway the outcome of a proposition or an election, crossing state borders to do so. Is that what our forefathers had in mind? Is that fair and equal?
It appears to me that fewer and fewer large corporations (the ones with the money to spend on political contributions and beneficial legislation) see patriotism as a first priority. Some have moved their corporate offices to Ireland and other countries with forgiving tax structures to avoid paying the taxes to this nation that pay for the systems that secure our liberties. Others have deliberately victimized the American public with high risk investments for corporate and personal profit and when they failed then sought and accepted bail-outs from the very same taxes they attempted to avoid but which were dutifully payed by individual Americans - and then used that money to reward their CEOs and to pay lobbyists to influence politicians already indebted to them because of political contributions and other, less obvious, support.
But to me the real point, the underlying point, is that money should not be the grease for the wheels of democracy. Yes, yes, I know, it has always been that, to one degree or another. But should we accept crime, for instance, just because its always been done? There's nothing in the constitution that says we must accept dollar democracy, it is simply the will of a wealthy minority. Such as those who lead the aforementioned corporations. Nor do I believe this was the intention of our forefathers whose efforts we celebrate today, who rather than suffer similar injustices took the initiative to declared independence and throw off the mantle of fiscal and political oppression. They recognized that "Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience has shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed"*, and determined that this not be their fate. To me, dollar democracy is an issue about which the silent majority has remained silent, trudging stoically onward rather than calling it into question.
My point is money has no place in politics, it is not needed. Particularly in the age of the internet. For arguably the first time in our nation's history direct communication with each and every individual citizen is no longer at issue. We should use what we have been given.
This election year, both political parties are poised to spend a combined 2.5 to 3 billion dollars on the presidential campaign. And the current national debt is $15,724,907,364,995 and growing. And yes, there are still Americans living in poverty. Why not spend those large amounts of money to help the less fortunate or to pay down the national debt rather than throw it away on a political campaign that could be resolved without it? (Unless, of course, one is more interested in personal gain than the will of the people.)
The purpose of big money in political campaigns today is not to support but to overwhelm and overpower the opposition, to bludgeon the voters by innuendo and half truths into subscribing to one side over the other. To influence blocs of voters and those in a position to effect the votes of others. The American ideals of truth, the addressing of real needs, the desire to improve lives; little of this is on the table with big money politics. And ultimately the power money wields serves to create a ruling class within a democracy.
        Few can afford to run for national office except the wealthy or those candidates supported by the wealthy. The median wealth of the United States Congress is $2.63 million. There are 250 millionaires in Congress. On the other hand, the median American income is $26,364. That particular American is seldom found in Congress.
But what if? What if the American people set about changing the system? Just as our forefathers did on this day that we now celebrate? If we used the tool of democracy that is available to us, if we used the internet and social media, and through this medium orchestrated change?
What if political campaigns were to become completely and solely virtual? No television blitzes, no billboards, no expensive road trips? No big money? What if all the candidates were limited to a virtual representation of themselves and their qualifications on a blog or website? No more dirty tricks, no unseemly name calling or slander? What if the incumbent president was no longer taken away from the country's business for months at a time in order to campaign? What if there were no more intrusions into people's lives? What if every citizen was expected to be a responsible voter, to hold themselves accountable for learning the issues, expected to visit each candidate's web site, expected to learn about each of the candidates, to form their own opinions without assistance from big money politics? Let each candidate construct their web or blog site to reveal their plans, their views, their solutions, to show their family pictures, to show their videos, to present themselves in their own way, to help us learn all about them. No negativity, no name calling, no slander.
Perhaps this kind of campaigning would return responsibility for choice to the American people and compel us to take a more active role in our government instead of a passive one? And along the way ensure a government of the people that truly derives "their just powers from the consent of the governed"*.

* The United States Declaration of Independence.

Mission Magic

Three distinct ingredients propelled last Friday evening's presentation in the Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa of Chanticleer's Mission Road to the apogee of our musical experience: venue, historical research, and performance perfection.

The halls, bars, and cathedrals of history have always helped shape the music styles and performance forces of their times. When Junipero Serra set about establishing a string of missions up through Alta California the building designs in modest part reflected that of the churches and cathedrals he knew from back home in Mexico, designed for the music of that time, best represented by Antonio de Salazar and his student Manuel de Sumaya.

But much of the music that might have been performed in the missions, the plainsongs that reverberated off the solid adobe-brick walls, the arias that floated up to the high raftered ceilings had been lost and forgotten, that is until Cal Poly professor Craig Russell began to unearth them. His passion for the Mexican Cathedral music and for the California Missions also infected his graduate students, who assisted in the recovery and reconstruction of compositions that had lain forgotten in archives for hundreds of years.

Then came the magic of collaboration, a musical marriage between Russell and Chanticleer, arguably the best male chorus in the world today, which produced four CDs and ultimately stimulated this musical tour of the missions, this Mission Road.

We were smitten from the first sounds. The perfection of the unison response  in the plainsong Venite Adoremus Regum regum by eleven male singers in the center aisle somewhere behind us - and how could that many singers manage to sound like a single beautiful voice? - set the tone for the delights to come. Chanticleer on this tour consisted of a bass, a bass-baritone, a baritone, three tenors, three male altos, and three male sopranos. Each is a highly trained voice, capable of solo oratorio or opera (as indeed most have done), and skilled in the music arts. Necessarily so, for Salazar and Sumaya present intricacy in their vocal compositions the equal of any madrigal or polyphonic choral work demanding individual part independence, great tonal accuracy, and incredible vocal flexibility. Each and every Chanticleerean demonstrated this ability and more. Add to that a uniform perfection of enunciation, rendering even the archaic Spanish in absolute clarity, syllable by syllable. The presentation encompassed great variety, from recitativo and arias such as Ya la naturaleza redimida by Manuel de Sumaya performed beautifully by male alto Cortez Mitchell (close your eyes and you saw a female operatic contralto!) to Estribillo and Coplas (refrain and verses), and then Sumaya's seguidillas, a new genre (to his time) of song and dance.

The height of musical enjoyment for the evening came with Salazar's Salve Regina for eight voices, a beautifully intricate work with a chant melody leading to the motet, gradually building momentum with back and forth sallies from choir to choir, alternating complex independent interweaving vocal lines with the contrasting power of the full unified chorus to incredible effect.

Our enraptured enjoyment of the performance was enhanced by the realization that the music sounding here in this mission had not been heard anywhere for hundreds of years, returning now for our ears only in the venue for which it was originally intended. Chanticleer was accompanied by violin, cello, arch lute, and guitar played by consummate professionals, including Professor Russell himself.

After the last note of the evening had trailed off somewhere high above us the audience leapt to their feet with loud exclamations of "Bravo", sounds that may not have been so authentic to the venue, but which felt entirely appropriate and right nonetheless.

(Mission Road is a series of concerts by Chanticleer performed in six missions from San Francisco to Santa Barbara presenting the music of Salazar and Sumaya)

Wine: The Canary in the Coal Mine

I've just returned from Napa Valley. The valley is perhaps the best known wine producer in California despite the fact that it produces a mere 4% of California wines. But it was the first American wine growing region to establish a worldwide reputation in a face-off with the French, and the Napa Valley Vintners maintain perhaps the best region-wide organization and sales approach. And let's face it…they make very good wines.
I spent two days at the Mumm Winery engaged in a course of study offered by W.I.S.E. (Wine Industry Sales Education) Academy, taking Wine 101. It was fascinating.
I've always been an ale man, as those who know me can attest. I began in the trenches with Budweiser and Miller, graduated to Coors even before they were shipping beyond the Mississippi, and pursued my graduate work in England sampling bitters and ales from pub to shining brewpub. Those were the years immediately following the launching of CAMRA (the Campaign for Real Ale) and each tour of duty was a delightful sojourn into infinite variety and taste. And then came the American age of the microbrewery. Finally, real beer drinkers could stay home. Living in the Boston area, there was much to taste and appreciate, both of the old world and the new. Life was a foam-filled frolic.
In 2009 I retired from teaching and moved to California seeking new challenges. I found myself surrounded by vineyards. I made new friends, all of whom drank wine. My daily jog took me down Harvest Road past Merlot, Shiraz and Pinot Noir. I joined a cellar club at a nearby winery. I bought a wine rack. Chameleon-like, I found myself taking on the ruby-red colors of my environment. Although I learned quickly, I could not speak the language of wine, which involved a bit too much French and Montecito. And thus it was that I enrolled in the Wine Fluency course with the Academy.
I learned a lot. I learned that I store Champagne incorrectly, that my new wine rack is located badly, that my palate is seriously dull, that I have no head for drinking wine…and if a test follows a class on wine tasting: spit, don't swallow.
But I also learned that Napa Valley wine growers are a concerned community. Perhaps it's something to do with the fragility of growing grapes, the uncertainties associated with each vintage year from bud break to harvest to fermentation to aging. Like that box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get from year to year. Whatever the reason, the wine producers in Napa Valley all work together. Now they are working toward sustainability.
First and foremost, the Napa Valley vintners accept the reality of climate change. In the wine business, it is necessary to adapt quickly. In "Warming to the Future", an essay by Rod Smith commissioned by the NVV, he notes "viticulture is to climate what the canary in the coal mines is to the miners' air supply". When the canary stops singing, the miners don't stand around discussing why. Working with UC Davis, vintners are continually adapting vines to respond well to changing climatic conditions and devising canopy strategies that protect the grape. But beyond that, Napa Valley has moved quickly to embrace green values and to utilize new technologies. The Mumm Winery where my classes were held has installed motion sensitive switches insuring that lights are never left on. Interior lighting is maximized naturally with large windows and open spaces (daylight is a ready commodity here) and large solar panels account for much of the power generation. The huge main wine warehouse in the valley is solar powered. At one winery, a newly constructed customer center is not only 100% solar powered but also utilizes geothermal power through two dozen bore holes in the parking lot and pipes that recirculate fluid from the building's heat-exchange unit to help maintain a constant 60 degrees year round (wine enjoys 55 - 65 degrees - I do too).
Armed with all of this information, I wondered what the vintners in my Central Coast area are doing to anticipate climate change. In a 2010 technical report prepared for the Local Government Commission of San Luis Obispo, the authors observe that "San Luis Obispo faces a variety of risks from climate change, including extreme heat, a generally drier climate, increases in extreme weather events, and sea-level rise. Important vulnerabilities are apparent for water supplies…". A not insignificant aspect of vulnerability to grape growers is the length of time required to produce a wine product from vine to grape to properly aged wine. If growers consider a change from certain grape varieties they must think many years in advance, thus incurring a potentially large financial risk. In Napa, for instance, the climatic designation for grape growing has already warmed from a designated Region III to IV, and is threatening to become a Region V. Fog is the great mitigating factor, a benefit shared by many if the Central Coast AVAs.
So which grapes are we talking about here? According to Dr. Gregory Jones of Southern Oregon University, those grapes that require the coolest growing climate are Gewurszteminer, Pinot gris, and Reisling. These grapes will have to keep moving north with the climate. (My wife loves a sweet Gewurszteminer, the late harvest variety. I guess she'll be moving north.) Meanwhile, Zinfandel, Sangiovese, Cabernet Sauvignon and Grenache are better suited to a warmer growing season.
But I find no panic on the part of Central Coast vintners. Where Napa Valley is product forward with their actions and plans in this regard, I had to delve deep to find any organized climate initiatives here, and those were primarily county plans. San Luis Obispo county has a green building plan in preparation, part of which is now ready for view by citizens, and includes support from the wineries. Called the Green Building ordinance, it "will highlight the ways to reduce energy consumption, improve indoor air quality, resource conservation, and Greenhouse Gas emissions". The land management portion is apparently not yet ready for review. Santa Barbara County is "developing an Energy and Climate Action Plan to achieve energy efficiency and conservation, renewable energy, water efficiency and conservation, reduced vehicle trips, and minimized waste". Soon...
The Central Coast Winegrowers Association points to these efforts, but does not own them. An organization called the Central Coast Vineyard Team is promoting efforts toward sustainability, but only those targets already established by the state of California. To me, their goals do not exceed those of any civic minded business organization.
So what does this mean? I believe the difference to be organization. Napa Valley is tight knit. Despite competition with one another, and neighboring Sonoma Valley, the NVV has found that in unity there is success. This concept is illustrated by their label policy, the agreement that the appellation Napa Valley should be present on every winemakers label in addition to estate or AVA labeling. You won't find that in Sonoma or on Central Coast wine bottles.
Here on the Central Coast, the canary is not yet singing. I hope that means the glass is half full…not that the bird is dead.

Smith, Rod. Warming to the Future. Napa Valley Vintners.

Angels Descend on Solvang

From the Courts of Europe…a review.

It is the good fortune of those who live in the Santa Ynez Valley area that the town of Solvang is of Danish descent, for the 2012 tour of the Copenhagen Royal Chapel Choir was otherwise designed only for large venues in five major American cities. This special performance last Tuesday evening was not to be missed.
The unique sound of a choir is not to be found in rehearsal alone but is largely determined by the original selection of voices. In this case it was a masterful job. The blend, the deliciously straight tone of each voice part, the dynamic range, but especially the overall quality of sound were ethereal.
The boys wore blue sailor tunic tops for the performance, the men  tuxedoes.
The venue was perfect for this choir of twenty-nine boys and eighteen men. It needed to be large - and it was. The high hardwood ceilings and deep transverse of the Santa Ynez Valley Presbyterian Church suited the performance admirably. The divided voices for the Palestrina Sicut Cervus/Sitivit anima mea and the Heinrich Schutz Motet for double choir and continuo Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen could be performed to great effect due to the size of the church.
The boys well deserved their nickname of 'the angels'. Not all pre-adolescent boy's voices are created equal and all of Denmark must have been combed to find such quality, followed after by much dedication, discipline, and work.
Eighteen professional adult male voices, ranging from bass to counter-tenor deepened and lent body to the sound of the boys. The careful selection of voices was once more in evidence when the men sang without the boys during a section of the Danish folk song suite.
Mr. Ebbe Munk's conducting was clear, strong, and articulate. He averted the conductor's worst fear in acapella music, that of beginning on a wrong pitch, by humming the starting pitches out loudly for the boys to hear.
The organist, Hanne Kuhlmann, was strong in technique, well versed in her stop selections and not overly flamboyant, except perhaps when she sent her music flying in the final measures of the organ solo Fugue sur le theme du Catillon des Heures de la Cathedral de Soissons, op. 12 by Maurice Durufle.
A harpist, Helen Davies Mikkelborg (related to Palle Mikkelborg, Northern Lights composer?) played primarily after the intermission and added texture without overpowering the treble voices.
The early selections, in terms of music history as well as their place in the program, demonstrated the assiduous attention to detail these works demand: sharp attacks, sharp cut-offs, abrupt dynamic changes, attention to rhythm, precise pitch. The successful voicing of the choir was strongly evident in the Palestrina double motet and by the Monteverdi echo choir. The Anton Bruckner Locus Iste was lush and beautifully yearning, the Liszt selections models of precision in resolved dissonance and the beauty of  the melodic line.
After a ten minute intermission the boys re-appeared in traditional folk tunics for the folk suite Northern Lights and for the final number, a Palle Mikkelborg composition, Dear God, be Good to Me, originally created for the baptism of Prince Christian of Denmark.
If one doubted for a moment the quality of every single boy's voice in this choir that thought was dispelled during the encore pieces, when the choir left their place at the front of the church to come down into the aisles to sing, in effect ringing the audience with their sound. Thus were performed two national songs, America the Beautiful for the host country and a Danish national song. When it became evident that the audience was not about to leave, the choir sang its absolute final number, O Magnum Mysterium by Laurensen (a Danish American).
Not every attack was perfect. Some effects and thematic material in the suite tended to be repetitive and perhaps overly dramatic. And boys, regardless of talent and nationality, will be boys as could be seen in the occasional whisper, nudge, or quickly concealed smile. But never did they detract from the music or the moment. And really, isn't that how it should be?

I spent an evening recently in Veterans Hall in Solvang listening to
Dr. James Lawrence Powell, a local resident and a scientist appointed to the National Science Board by two presidents, Reagan and George H. W. Bush, neither exactly standouts with their concerns about climate change…the topic of Powell's lecture. The immediacy of Powell's concerns regarding man-induced global warming, or 'climate instability', as he termed it, is all the more remarkable for, or perhaps enhanced by his service to those two particular presidents.
Powell didn't pull his punches. He gives us fifteen years to stop sending CO2 into the atmosphere. Serious events linked to climate instability have already begun. After fifteen years it will be too late - we might as well party (my words, not his!).
It is clear to me that Powell's tenure on the National Science Board and his current post of executive director of the National Physical Science Consortium have honed his perspective on the likelihood of Americans to change their ways. Consequently, his approach this night was one of precision surgery, beginning with the presentation of graphic, undeniable evidence of a consistently warming planet, and his proof that man is the cause. I won't reiterate those…we've all heard them before, if not as clearly and specifically outlined as done by Powell. Suffice to say, scientists find no evidence of change in CO2 levels in the atmosphere before the industrial revolution (ice core samples supply data going back hundreds of thousands of years) but there has been a steady 41% increase ever since. Scientists can distinguish between ancient and modern carbon particles because ancient CO2 molecules do not contain C14 (from oils and gas). C14 is rapidly becoming diluted in the atmosphere as we burn our fuels and send that residue into our life bubble.
Powell's intensity, his unapologetic directness of stance comes from those changes we all experience as we grow older…the sty is removed from the eye. In our grandfather-hood we are able to see the bigger picture, the image of our grandchildren struggling in a waterless, windy, dry, stormy, hot, hostile planet. Because of us. Because of the comforts and urges ands splurges we have granted ourselves.  Now the warmer nights are increasing, even faster than the warmer days...sea levels are rising faster than any other time in history...the number of days without frost each year are increasing steadily.  And the dominoes are falling.
Dr. Powell is a scientist. For him, the evidence has been collected, analyzed, tested, evaluated and is unequivocal. He finds it difficult to understand how anyone can deny the science. He does not understand that not everyone chooses to see that the emperor has no clothes.

Teaching Character in Schools

It is time to begin putting thoughts to paper and slides into computer as I contemplate an upcoming meeting with the faculty of a local private school who distinguish themselves (in my mind) by their desire to find a way to impart character to their students. So often comes to mind the ancient wisdom that a long journey begins with the first step, and too often that first step is lost in a wave of hopelessness over the totality of the undertaking.
How can one dedicated faculty fight the tide of a multitude of contrary influences? How can one person change the world?
That journey parallels the growth of the human brain, about which I intend to speak, and a single neuron which after migrating to a part of the unformed fetus of the yet-to-be-born child adapts itself and becomes a particular part of a much more complex organ, a lonely pioneer which when joined by many, many more of its kind will form a brain, a brain that when developed and joined one day by many other brains, can, in fact, change the world.
But our tiny neuron must take that first step, or none of this will happen.
In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions, wherein a small change occurring at one place in a nonlinear system results in a large difference in a later state.
In terms of character, the group of neurons forming the brain will develop and grow and that brain will mold itself through the influences of genetics and environment to direct its host organism in its attitudes, its perceptions, its beliefs. A character will develop, with or without the additional input of the educator, for good or for ill. But the trajectory of that nonlinear system can be effected, even if the attempt at that one time and place along the continuum seems as minimal as the flapping of butterfly wings. If we believe this can happen, we will take that first step, and educate for character.
In our clear and present world, our true investment isn't in stocks and bonds, it is in the currency of character. Everything else changes over time.
But in the same sense that you would not expect a driver from another state to learn the speed limit of your freeway by observing the speed of drivers around her, so we should not expect children to develop a beneficial set of personal standards and values by observing those around them, without specific directions.
And so we must teach them. But how? Where do we begin?
By the time the educator meets the child, character development has already begun. Our job, then, is to guide its growth.
Character germinates within a warm, nurturing environment, regardless of its aspect, as a beautiful flower may emerge from a pile of warm, nutrient rich dung. A loving, supportive surrounding is the construct for a platform of self-esteem out of which can grow courage, and trust, and respect.
Not all children have such an advantage. But the brain is malleable, it is never too late. The school can provide such an environment, in each classroom, in every meeting, in all of its corridors. And provide guidance toward those traits that lead to good character.
But whose definition of good character traits do we teach? The world is filled with all kinds of minds, and beliefs. The dispute over whose values to impart can be a distraction which can go on forever.
But look closely. There are values common to all societies around the world. They are these: industry, fairness, respect, and truth. Most world communities would not dispute the addition of responsibility, compassion and courage.
That's a pretty good set of tools.

Odds or Angels?

The stretch of El Camino Real that runs the twenty miles from Gaviota Pass to my humble abode in Los Alamos has lately seemed more like the Kyber Pass in terms of volatility. Since I moved here almost three years ago, a burned body was found along that stretch and there have been two fatal accidents, most recently a tanker truck which overturned and burned two days ago closing the northbound lane for almost twelve hours. The story of the other fatal accident that I shall relate here got a lot of press, including national attention by TV's big three. But to my mind it bears telling again, not only because it is an incredible story, but because it brings us face to face with some fundamental questions.
It's the story of an automobile accident near Buellton, just fourteen miles from Los Alamos. The 101 winds through the narrow Gaviota gorge and tunnel when driving north from Goleta and Santa Barbara, then climbs up and over a mountain pass to drop down into the Santa Ynez River valley and the town of Buellton. On its way down this long, twisting hill it crosses a trestle-like bridge over Nojoqui Creek, some seventy feet below. The two lane highway crosses on two bridges here, one for northbound and one for southbound. The long grade down to this bridge requires attention from truckers. You'll sometimes see them pull over at the top of the grade to check equipment and cool their brakes. The Santa Barbara County Coroner's Office later found that the trucker who caused the accident was under the influence of drugs, both methamphetamines and amphetamines to a level "where you could be hallucinating or displaying aggressive behavior.” If this indeed was the man's condition he paid dearly for it. Officials say that his big-rig gravel truck came up behind a BMW sedan at the Nojoqui Creek bridge in the high speed lane driven by a woman transporting her two children, and struck the car from behind. At that speed the sedan was crushed sideways up and onto the left lane concrete bridge barrier. The truck went out of control and slammed through the concrete and crashed to the river bed below where it burst into flames. The truck driver did not survive.
The BMW was almost knifed in half on top of the barrier, one side crimped against the road side and the other crushed and hanging precariously above the gorge. Literally every part of the sedan was squashed flat except those areas of the passenger compartment containing the occupants. The vehicle was so mangled and crunched beyond recognition that the firemen could not tell where to make their cuts into the metal to free the victims without endangering them. The woman and her ten month old baby girl were still alive and visible, trapped inside the tangle of metal which threatened momentarily to slip from the bridge and fall to the creek bed far below.
Amazingly, one of the vehicles immediately behind the accident  was a tow truck. Realizing that the crashed BMW was in jeopardy of falling off the bridge, the driver turned his truck and attached his cable to the wreckage to secure it as well as possible.
Firemen, rescue teams, helicopters, and rescue vehicles all swarmed to the scene, arriving in a very short time. But it was a case of 'all the kings horses and all the kings men…' because there was nothing that most of rescue workers could do beyond trying to stabilize the car better with additional ropes. And those few who could help were unsure how to proceed, how and where to cut into the wreckage so not to destabilize the vehicle on its precarious perch, how to extricate the injured adult and two children from wreckage that threatened at any time to plummet off the bridge.
The first responders had arrived and assessed the situation and called for a large crane but it was far away and making slow progress. Without it, the wrecked vehicle could never be entirely secure. But time for the injured victims was running out. The rescue workers could not wait and began their work. A fireman harnessed up and climbed down the outside of the bridge barrier where the woman was most accessible, conscious and able to communicate but trapped there with a window view of the horror she faced. He tried to encourage her and assess her condition. She was injured but stable. Her ten year old daughter was somewhere in the wreckage, she believed the girl had died. The infant was alive. Guided by the suspended fireman a rescue worker up on the road surface began to make cuts into the wreckage attempting to remove enough metal to release the trapped passengers. But with each cut, the car grew less stable, creaking and squealing incrementally toward the chasm. It seemed an impossible situation.
To this point in my narrative, you may already have been counting miracles. That the BMW had not followed the truck into the gorge was certainly one. That a tow truck was right behind the accident was another. That in smashing down upon the barrier the mother and infant had not been instantly crushed to death was certainly another. That the rescue workers responded so quickly, that the delicately balanced wreckage remained on the barrier as long as it had, that the truck fire beneath could be extinguished quickly enough not to threaten the trapped passengers or keep the rescuers from their work must all be added to the list.
But another miracle was needed. If more cuts were made into the wreckage it must certainly pull away from the ropes and cable and fall. But the trapped family could not be extricated without making the cuts. It was a stalemate. The missing crane was desperately needed or some heavy equipment that could lift the wreckage to a safer place or at least hold it securely while the needed cuts were made.
And then, the miracle.
Among the vehicles in the backed-up traffic were those of a group of Navy Seabees traveling from their home base in Port Hueneme. They walked up among the cars to see what was holding up the traffic. They quickly assessed the situation and spoke to the rescuers. On their transport, they said, they happened to have the ideal machine for their needs. They had a forklift - not just any forklift - but a forklift that could extend its forks out from the body of the tractor. They went back to their transport and drove the forklift up the southbound lane and onto the bridge. Turning it to face the crash site they extended the lift down and under the hanging wreckage and gently supported it from underneath. With it now secure, the remaining cuts were made and the family extricated.
Now consider - what are the odds that precisely the right machine for this particular rescue happened to be so close at just the right time?
But the miracles are not done.
The ten year old girl was found alive and rescued. In fact, she had not sustained major injuries. The infant was also free from serious injury. And the brave mother was helped from the wreckage by the harnessed rescuer standing on the miraculous forklift. She was lifted up to the safety of the roadway. Her injuries were not life threatening. The entire family was released from the hospital six days later.
So now I ask you: Odds, or angels? Did the dice roll out the perfect sequence of numbers again and again for this family, or was there some sort of divine intervention?
I leave that for you to decide.