Sunday, June 29, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Donate Your Boat
I've been puzzling over that bilboard. Why would I want to donate my boat? Then, the rains came and now it made sense. It rained for a few days. Then a few weeks. And suddenly inundation set in. Well, let's better call it what it really was, a flood. As the Gazette, our local newspaper named it, an EPIC SURGE. It was all of that.
And the folks lost the scrapbook stuff that pasted their lives together so that they made some sort of sense. Pictures of that wonderful week in Minnesota when they landed a string of bluegills and crappies, a signed garter from their high school prom, a pressed flower from a first communion, a hospital first picture of a squealing newborn, and the memories of equally precious stuff.
Gone forever. Washed away. Dissolved into detritus. Crap!
So what would you grab if surging waters gave you moments to clear out? Dianne and I pondered that question and we couldn't come up with a sensible handful of stuff. We decided we'd do what tens of thousands of folks did, just get the hell out of the way.
And mourn over the lost stuff. Refrigerators can be replaced. So can dishwashers, clothes dryers and Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. But not the physical fragments of the memories that buttress our lives. And that's the real sadness that hangs like a cloud over eastern Iowa.
Few, if any, gave their lives; but all those submerged dreams lie fragmented in a cold and muddy grave. And we grieve for them.
Iowans will rebuild like good folks everywhere would. But there will linger a grief that remains forever. No amount of FEMA, state or local aid, can bandage that wound. And that's the real tragedy of natural disasters.
I'ts drying out now.
But some tears don't dry very well.
And the folks lost the scrapbook stuff that pasted their lives together so that they made some sort of sense. Pictures of that wonderful week in Minnesota when they landed a string of bluegills and crappies, a signed garter from their high school prom, a pressed flower from a first communion, a hospital first picture of a squealing newborn, and the memories of equally precious stuff.
Gone forever. Washed away. Dissolved into detritus. Crap!
So what would you grab if surging waters gave you moments to clear out? Dianne and I pondered that question and we couldn't come up with a sensible handful of stuff. We decided we'd do what tens of thousands of folks did, just get the hell out of the way.
And mourn over the lost stuff. Refrigerators can be replaced. So can dishwashers, clothes dryers and Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. But not the physical fragments of the memories that buttress our lives. And that's the real sadness that hangs like a cloud over eastern Iowa.
Few, if any, gave their lives; but all those submerged dreams lie fragmented in a cold and muddy grave. And we grieve for them.
Iowans will rebuild like good folks everywhere would. But there will linger a grief that remains forever. No amount of FEMA, state or local aid, can bandage that wound. And that's the real tragedy of natural disasters.
I'ts drying out now.
But some tears don't dry very well.
Ok, so God promised a rainbow to follow His rains. Thoughtful plan there. It's what us positive thinkers always look for. And this one has the three ironies of what will forever be called the Great Iowa Flood of '08.
First, because sewers don't function up to snuff during a flood, many people had to evacuate because they couldn't, well, evacuate. That's truly a delicious irony.
Second, with gazillionas of gagallons of water thrashing down on us, guess what is rationed? Yep. Water.
Third, the wireless carrier CommSpeed had a local center on Third Avenue and second street down town in Cedar Rapids. Under water and out of service, for sure. So how did they inform their dealers that they had no wireless service? You guessed it. They sent an email.
Wouldn't you agree that real life surpasses fiction six different ways from Sunday? Yeah. Me, too. As my UI Dental College friend, Dean David Johnson, always tells me, 'Keep your powder dry!' Good advice.
Monday, May 12, 2008
If you can't slurp, you can't eat Chinese noodles
Some Random Final Thoughts About China
Noodles: They are the national dish, it seems. Rice seems to be more Japanese, noodles more Chinese. 'Engineer' confided to me, during our fancy dinner at the 5-star Shang-ri-la hotel, "I'm a simple guy. I just eat noodles." And he doesn't eat fish which, In China, may be as sacriligeous to us an Iowan not eating corn on the cob, or morel 'shrooms. We had fresh fish at every meal, thanks to Michael. And it was delicious.
But back to the noodles. The Italians have it all wrong. Wrapping spaghetti around a fork shoved into a spoon seems antiquated when one sees the Chinese eat noodles. Then, again, I've seen the end of a strand of speghetti; but I've never seen the end of a strand of noodles. One might conclude that they may be endless.
As an aside, there are many kinds of noodles. Michael was especially fond of the Hong Kong noodles, thin little see-through noodles. The ones pictured were served in a neat restuarant near the Terra Cotta Warriors. I called them serious noodles. More like the spaetzel served in the Amana Colonies.
Noodles 101 teaches to grasp a bunch of noodles with chopsticks, and stuff them into your mouth. Then you slurp them up until the mouth seems full enough. It helps to bend ones's head over the plate as spatter can be significant depending upon the speed of the slurp. Although, I know of no such measurement, as in rpm's for example.
At this point, the diner does something foreign to Caucasian ways. You bite off the noodle strands and the rest falls back onto your bowl. Of course, this action flies in the face of everything our mothers taught us; but then we didn't have Chinese mothers. It's really sort of fun, once you get the hang of it. Hey! Everyone else in the restaurant is doing the same thing. When in Beijing do as the Beijingers do, I always say. Well, now I do.
"Think of all the starving kids in China!": We depression kids of the thirties were duty-bound to clean our plates. Our parents warned us again and again that food was precious and we were far luckier than others. 'Think of all the starving children in China' became a mealtime mantra, even if the food left was okra, or dandelion greens, or sweetbreads. Honest.
I mentioned this to a lovely Chinese waitress who was removing my plate with food still on it. She laughed, "That's funny. Our parents always told us to think of all the starving children in Indonesia!"
Pickup Trucks: I never saw one. Of course, we were in the big cities so maybe that tipped the scales. But not one? Lot's of three-wheeler bicycles hauling stuff though; perhaps that's why.
Praying before breakfast: A young Chinese lady sat down near my table in the cafe and before she ate her food, closed her eyes, clasped her hands and bowed in an attitude of prayer. By now emboldened because no Chinese person had refused to engage in smiles and nods or English repartee, I stopped by her table on the way out, "Excuse me, bu are you a Christian?" I asked. When she admitted she was, I asked if she was Catholic. Yes, again. "But there are some Protestants in China," she added.
The National Geographic reports that 8.2% of the Chinese are Christians. Multiplied by their population that may be more than in America.
I left her table, recalling how the Russian Communists had brutally rejected any form of religion. Communist China seems to have taken a different stance. And the lady worked for the hotel.
Using a Toothpick: The Chinese do this differently, and I saw scores of them performing the ritual. Michael showed me how: You cover your mouth and the toothpick with your other hand and shield the act from watching eyes. Somehow this seems like a cultural advance.
Gunpowder, Yo-yos and umbrellas: Since we've returned, the Gazette featured a story of how local children are learning of the Chinese culture and now know that the Chinese invented gunpower, yo-yos and umbrellas. Seemed strange the reporter left out the Chinese inventions of silk, paper and printing, which seem to outrank yo-yos and umbrellas, IMHO.
Smog in Beijing: The Friday after my Wednesday return, the Des Moines Register ran a picture showing three bicycle riders riding with a backdrop of what they called smog, so dense one could see nothing behind the riders. The title of the picture was something like: This is not L.A. It's Beijing. I sent three pictures of Beijing to the editor at the Register, taken only days before, saying that it appeared the reporter had turned morning fog into smog to make a case. Our pictures, and we, never once revealed an iota of smog. The smog story seems to have a life of it's own, facts be damned.
This Trip Called Life: In an upscale, posh department store, the equal of Macys, I watched a young lad scootering along on wheels embedded in his tennis shoes. Suddenly, it occurred to me what this trip we call life is all about: It's a venture we take from 'wheels on heels' to 'meals on wheels.'
Have a good ride.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The Original ' Miss Saigon' Engineer
"Since you're with Michael, I'll knock off 600 yaun. Your price is only 3600." The smooth-talking fellow was the rep of the store we were touring. Michael had found him in ways I will never understand. This was his first trip to Xi'an, too.
I never was sure what this fellow's name was but he was to guide us through the Terra Cotta Warrior exhibits, be our constant companion that day and, eventually our dinner guest. He spoke a form of garbled English which he was sure I totally understood.
To deal with this circumstance, it helped to mirror his expression, so I smiled and nodded a lot. It helps, too, to punctuated my silence with "Exactly!", "You said it!" and, " I couldn't agree more!" I think he must have had a point somewhere in there.
If you have seen the musical Miss Saigon, and recall a character named Engineer, a wheeler and dealer, always on tap for the fast buck, this was him in the flesh.
"I'll give you 2800," I countered. The goods were an assortment of scarves, grandkid's stuff, and some jade things we tourists buy. A yaun came in at 14.5 cents, give or take. (Don't tell Dolph. He sold $637 worth of them to me at 13.5 cents.)
"Thirty-two hundred and it's yours," Engineer responded. "Deal?"
"Deal."
I was rather smug about my negotiating skills. But, as we walked out of the store, Michael whispered, "I got him down another 400 to 2400." Asian ways are mysterious and awesome.
We had started the morning with a driver who was to be with us all day. So much so that he, too, joined us for dinner. I never knew his name, either.
But start at the beginning. In local soil is a clay, that undoubtedly was used to make the original Terra Cotta Warriors. It's cheap, readily available and used for modern-day replicas.
To show me how, a young lady pressed some in a half-mold to conform, then, did the same in the opposing mold. Making sure there is a hollow space in the replica, she slapped the two molds together. Then, she carefully peeled the molds apart, and the resultant replica is fired in an oven. In fifteen minutes, the replica is removed and handed to scores of ladies with scalpel-like knives, who hunch over dimly-lit benches and carve off the flash.
Engineer told me his 500 employees work 8-10 hours daily, the more if they want to earn more money, and net about $90 a month for their seven-day stint.
"But what do they want to do with more money when they never have a day off?" I asked.
Engineer shrugged.
That's more than you need or want to know about the process but I had to go there so . . . hey!
The factory tour was a oner. No one gets it except Michael, with his Dawg at his heels. We had begun the day with a stop at a place where a slew of dynasties had flourished thousands of years ago.
Dianne's Pilgrim ancestry of the 1620's Mayflower voyage--that seems so amazing to me--is but a blip of recent history in comparison. I had no real concept at what I was viewing, since the original inhabitants had lived before Christ. (My Uncle Cecil always said our family came over in a washtub tied behind the Mayflower. Seems more than likely.)
The Warriors, added to the Great Wall, are another of China's contributions to the Great Wonders of the World. And, well, no wonder. Giant buildings, resembling airplane hangars, were built around the three pits that harbor them, and the efforts to preserve their heritage are inviolate. Since they had already been unearthed--when some local farmers dug a well--the building had to be done with great care so as to not destroy an iota of this priceless cultural heritage.
After our day-long tours--replica factory and Warriors--we added two more people to the entourage and returned to our hotel for dinner.
That was Sunday. On Monday, Michael returned to his cadre of merchants and I spent a lazy day, shopping and receiving an awesome Chinese oil massage.
At dinner, Michael showed me pictures of the furniture he had seen that day, and now wanted for the Purple Star. Also, he had purchased all the plates, glasses and silverware he needed, too. I had to ask him as he didn't volunteer his conquest.
When our waitress arrived at our table, he gave her--as he had all our waitresses--explicit instructions on how the fish had to be cooked: It must weigh no more than 1.25 pounds and must be cooked 8-10minutes, no more.
Restaurant protocol in China dictates that the live fish is brought to the table for inspection, prior to cooking. Somehow. the flapping fish in the plastic box, or in a sack, seems slightly bizarre.
The fish was delectable and as we ate the chef came into the dining area to survey his diners. Obviously, he wanted to see who was giving him--the chef of a five-star hotel-- orders on how to cook a dinner.
But Michael called him over and a half hour of animated, chop-chop conversation was capped by the two men trading names and numbers. If he's good enough to cook there, he's good enough to cook for Michael, so the reasoning goes.
Now we're in Hong Kong readying to head home. Michael wants to visit another chef of a five-star hotel here, so he's staying another two days.
In the airport hotel, I splurged on a hamburger and fries.
At last! My culture.
A final tidbit of Chop Suey
I never was sure what this fellow's name was but he was to guide us through the Terra Cotta Warrior exhibits, be our constant companion that day and, eventually our dinner guest. He spoke a form of garbled English which he was sure I totally understood.
To deal with this circumstance, it helped to mirror his expression, so I smiled and nodded a lot. It helps, too, to punctuated my silence with "Exactly!", "You said it!" and, " I couldn't agree more!" I think he must have had a point somewhere in there.
If you have seen the musical Miss Saigon, and recall a character named Engineer, a wheeler and dealer, always on tap for the fast buck, this was him in the flesh.
"I'll give you 2800," I countered. The goods were an assortment of scarves, grandkid's stuff, and some jade things we tourists buy. A yaun came in at 14.5 cents, give or take. (Don't tell Dolph. He sold $637 worth of them to me at 13.5 cents.)
"Thirty-two hundred and it's yours," Engineer responded. "Deal?"
"Deal."
I was rather smug about my negotiating skills. But, as we walked out of the store, Michael whispered, "I got him down another 400 to 2400." Asian ways are mysterious and awesome.
We had started the morning with a driver who was to be with us all day. So much so that he, too, joined us for dinner. I never knew his name, either.
But start at the beginning. In local soil is a clay, that undoubtedly was used to make the original Terra Cotta Warriors. It's cheap, readily available and used for modern-day replicas.
To show me how, a young lady pressed some in a half-mold to conform, then, did the same in the opposing mold. Making sure there is a hollow space in the replica, she slapped the two molds together. Then, she carefully peeled the molds apart, and the resultant replica is fired in an oven. In fifteen minutes, the replica is removed and handed to scores of ladies with scalpel-like knives, who hunch over dimly-lit benches and carve off the flash.
Engineer told me his 500 employees work 8-10 hours daily, the more if they want to earn more money, and net about $90 a month for their seven-day stint.
"But what do they want to do with more money when they never have a day off?" I asked.
Engineer shrugged.
That's more than you need or want to know about the process but I had to go there so . . . hey!
The factory tour was a oner. No one gets it except Michael, with his Dawg at his heels. We had begun the day with a stop at a place where a slew of dynasties had flourished thousands of years ago.
Dianne's Pilgrim ancestry of the 1620's Mayflower voyage--that seems so amazing to me--is but a blip of recent history in comparison. I had no real concept at what I was viewing, since the original inhabitants had lived before Christ. (My Uncle Cecil always said our family came over in a washtub tied behind the Mayflower. Seems more than likely.)
The Warriors, added to the Great Wall, are another of China's contributions to the Great Wonders of the World. And, well, no wonder. Giant buildings, resembling airplane hangars, were built around the three pits that harbor them, and the efforts to preserve their heritage are inviolate. Since they had already been unearthed--when some local farmers dug a well--the building had to be done with great care so as to not destroy an iota of this priceless cultural heritage.
After our day-long tours--replica factory and Warriors--we added two more people to the entourage and returned to our hotel for dinner.
That was Sunday. On Monday, Michael returned to his cadre of merchants and I spent a lazy day, shopping and receiving an awesome Chinese oil massage.
At dinner, Michael showed me pictures of the furniture he had seen that day, and now wanted for the Purple Star. Also, he had purchased all the plates, glasses and silverware he needed, too. I had to ask him as he didn't volunteer his conquest.
When our waitress arrived at our table, he gave her--as he had all our waitresses--explicit instructions on how the fish had to be cooked: It must weigh no more than 1.25 pounds and must be cooked 8-10minutes, no more.
Restaurant protocol in China dictates that the live fish is brought to the table for inspection, prior to cooking. Somehow. the flapping fish in the plastic box, or in a sack, seems slightly bizarre.
The fish was delectable and as we ate the chef came into the dining area to survey his diners. Obviously, he wanted to see who was giving him--the chef of a five-star hotel-- orders on how to cook a dinner.
But Michael called him over and a half hour of animated, chop-chop conversation was capped by the two men trading names and numbers. If he's good enough to cook there, he's good enough to cook for Michael, so the reasoning goes.
Now we're in Hong Kong readying to head home. Michael wants to visit another chef of a five-star hotel here, so he's staying another two days.
In the airport hotel, I splurged on a hamburger and fries.
At last! My culture.
A final tidbit of Chop Suey
* The Chinese joke about what they call their new national bird: The Construction Crane! In the threee cities we visited, it was almost impossible to to look in any direction and not see scores of cranes, roosting on the rooftops of 20-40 story buildings.
China's building at a sizzling pace. Don't ever sell them short. Today, they have surpassed the USA in the numbers of internet users. And cell phones are the new appendage attached to every Chinese hand that I saw.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
China Sells Babies
"You want to know something interesting" Arturo Gemenez asked, shoveling a handful of peanuts in his mouth. I n0dded.
"There's fewer Chinese babies for adoption every year." He grabbed a swig of his Tsng Tao beer and dropped his other hand onto the tray in the stroller that held his new Chinese baby. Unsteady little fingers tried to fondle his watch. Arturo was on a roll and I merely raised my eyebrows to ask 'Why?' .
"Because, with China's race to embrace capitalism there's a rising middle class that can now afford to keep their babies. Even girls. And peasants are now allowed two children. China needs food."
The scene played out in the lobby bar of the Capital Hotel in Beijing. That morning I had watched a couple of dozen Caucasian couples wheel their Chinese baby girls to a waiting bus. Sensing a story, I asked the concierge, What gives? Then, I headed for the business center to scour the web for answers. I learned some interesting stuff.
Since 1992, American couples have adopted 50,000 Chinese babies, almost all of whom were girls. Then, I found the rules put out by the adoption arm of the Chinese government: The couples must be between 30 and 50 years of age. If either prospective parent is 29 or 51, it's no go. Further, eligibility hinges on mountains of paperwork, including revealing their tax returns and net worth statements.
Chinese social workers, then, visit their home plus conduct three in-office interviews. After roughly two years, and twenty thousand dollars later, the couple flies to southern China to receive it's baby.
Social workers hold classes for the new parents: 'Hold it often so it bonds to you.' 'Learn to change it's diapers and how to feed it.' 'Learn how to sleep with your baby.' And the list goes on.
After the initial introduction, the couple takes their baby to Beijing for the final ten days to two weeks of paperwork. If both the gpvernment and the couple agree, the adoption is final. And upon entering the US, the baby is granted citizenship.
"What did you name her, Arturo?"
"Breta Ying Gemenez,' he said proudly, tickling a finger into the chin of his, maybe, 5-6 month old baby girl.
"Why the Ying?"
"It's important for her to have a solid attachment to her cultural heritage." Then he added, "I gotta go. Good talking to you." And the proud new daddy wheeled his precious cargo away.
All over the hotel lobby, in bars, restaurants and shops, proud new parents strollered and hugged their new babies--some towing older Caucasian children with them, as well, some trailing one or two other Chinese children.
The children available are excellent health risks, for their health histories have been studied carefully. Another factor is that most are born of peasant women in the hinterlands where drugs and alcohol are scarce.
So why the prevalence of girls up for adoption over boys? My brain, stuck in a sterotypical time warp of centuries past, blamed a male-dominated Chinese culture which would lessen the value of a girl baby. Particularly in a country where the 'One Baby' law is not heresay or figment, but a living reality. I was wrong, of course.
The reason is simple. It's called economic self-preservation. My waitress taught me that.
When I returned to my table to await Michael joining me for dinner, she asked why I had talked to the Spanish gentleman. Arturo, by the way, had made a proud point of noting that more Spanish couples, per capita, adopt Chinese babies than do American couples, a rather surprising stat.
When she asked the question, I had the uneasy thought that she might be checking me out for some governmental reason. Wrong again. I related our conversation and asked her why girl babies were more adoptable.
"It is simple," she said. "Boy babies live with their parents and take care of them for life. When girls marry they move into their boy's homes, leaving their own parents without support in their old age."
In a country that has only had Social Security for seven years, the answer could not be more practical. But consider the tragedy of having to relinquish your precious baby girl to people who would cart her off to some strange land, and keep her there, forever. As a father of two daughters, the thought staggers.
In Beijing one must peform two tasks: Eat Peking duck, we did at the Peking Duck and, two, climb the Great Wall.
Pete, having seen me wimp out on the Ellis golf course hills, I know wondered if I would make it. Yeah. Me too.
But what neither Pete nor I knew was that climbing the Great Wall, is much like skiing. In any ski area, one finds bunny slopes, on up to back country black powder. Same with the Wall. I chose a green climb, maybe dotted green. Still it was a climb and, once on top, I awoke Dianne to claim my victory. I would have called Pete if I had his number.
Then I saw a guy in a wheelchair on the top. Incredulous, I asked how he got there. "There's a ramp, matey," the chap informed me.
I promised to tell about the admonition: Bring your own chopsticks to Beijing. China is straining to Go Green for the Olympics. Saving a few thousand trees that would end up as chopsticks is part of that effort. There's another thing: The much-vaunted air pollution of Beijing is puzzling. Neither Michael nor I had a single moment when we sensed air pollution. Of course, there are a million or so cars there. But other major cities that have hosted the Olympics have as many cars and no one howled. Red-bashing maybe?
I started this post with the title 'China sells babies!' for a reason. Here's why: After we understand how their adoption process works, what could be a more sane and caring way to place babies in new homes than how the Chinese governemnt demands?
If you are anything like me, you might share my Coolie mentality that had considered China to be a backwater, primitive country. Welcome to the Twenty-First Century, for nothing could be further from the truth.
Tomorrow: The second Great Wonder of the World.
"There's fewer Chinese babies for adoption every year." He grabbed a swig of his Tsng Tao beer and dropped his other hand onto the tray in the stroller that held his new Chinese baby. Unsteady little fingers tried to fondle his watch. Arturo was on a roll and I merely raised my eyebrows to ask 'Why?' .
"Because, with China's race to embrace capitalism there's a rising middle class that can now afford to keep their babies. Even girls. And peasants are now allowed two children. China needs food."
The scene played out in the lobby bar of the Capital Hotel in Beijing. That morning I had watched a couple of dozen Caucasian couples wheel their Chinese baby girls to a waiting bus. Sensing a story, I asked the concierge, What gives? Then, I headed for the business center to scour the web for answers. I learned some interesting stuff.
Since 1992, American couples have adopted 50,000 Chinese babies, almost all of whom were girls. Then, I found the rules put out by the adoption arm of the Chinese government: The couples must be between 30 and 50 years of age. If either prospective parent is 29 or 51, it's no go. Further, eligibility hinges on mountains of paperwork, including revealing their tax returns and net worth statements.
Chinese social workers, then, visit their home plus conduct three in-office interviews. After roughly two years, and twenty thousand dollars later, the couple flies to southern China to receive it's baby.
Social workers hold classes for the new parents: 'Hold it often so it bonds to you.' 'Learn to change it's diapers and how to feed it.' 'Learn how to sleep with your baby.' And the list goes on.
After the initial introduction, the couple takes their baby to Beijing for the final ten days to two weeks of paperwork. If both the gpvernment and the couple agree, the adoption is final. And upon entering the US, the baby is granted citizenship.
"What did you name her, Arturo?"
"Breta Ying Gemenez,' he said proudly, tickling a finger into the chin of his, maybe, 5-6 month old baby girl.
"Why the Ying?"
"It's important for her to have a solid attachment to her cultural heritage." Then he added, "I gotta go. Good talking to you." And the proud new daddy wheeled his precious cargo away.
All over the hotel lobby, in bars, restaurants and shops, proud new parents strollered and hugged their new babies--some towing older Caucasian children with them, as well, some trailing one or two other Chinese children.
The children available are excellent health risks, for their health histories have been studied carefully. Another factor is that most are born of peasant women in the hinterlands where drugs and alcohol are scarce.
So why the prevalence of girls up for adoption over boys? My brain, stuck in a sterotypical time warp of centuries past, blamed a male-dominated Chinese culture which would lessen the value of a girl baby. Particularly in a country where the 'One Baby' law is not heresay or figment, but a living reality. I was wrong, of course.
The reason is simple. It's called economic self-preservation. My waitress taught me that.
When I returned to my table to await Michael joining me for dinner, she asked why I had talked to the Spanish gentleman. Arturo, by the way, had made a proud point of noting that more Spanish couples, per capita, adopt Chinese babies than do American couples, a rather surprising stat.
When she asked the question, I had the uneasy thought that she might be checking me out for some governmental reason. Wrong again. I related our conversation and asked her why girl babies were more adoptable.
"It is simple," she said. "Boy babies live with their parents and take care of them for life. When girls marry they move into their boy's homes, leaving their own parents without support in their old age."
In a country that has only had Social Security for seven years, the answer could not be more practical. But consider the tragedy of having to relinquish your precious baby girl to people who would cart her off to some strange land, and keep her there, forever. As a father of two daughters, the thought staggers.
In Beijing one must peform two tasks: Eat Peking duck, we did at the Peking Duck and, two, climb the Great Wall.
Pete, having seen me wimp out on the Ellis golf course hills, I know wondered if I would make it. Yeah. Me too.
But what neither Pete nor I knew was that climbing the Great Wall, is much like skiing. In any ski area, one finds bunny slopes, on up to back country black powder. Same with the Wall. I chose a green climb, maybe dotted green. Still it was a climb and, once on top, I awoke Dianne to claim my victory. I would have called Pete if I had his number.
Then I saw a guy in a wheelchair on the top. Incredulous, I asked how he got there. "There's a ramp, matey," the chap informed me.
I promised to tell about the admonition: Bring your own chopsticks to Beijing. China is straining to Go Green for the Olympics. Saving a few thousand trees that would end up as chopsticks is part of that effort. There's another thing: The much-vaunted air pollution of Beijing is puzzling. Neither Michael nor I had a single moment when we sensed air pollution. Of course, there are a million or so cars there. But other major cities that have hosted the Olympics have as many cars and no one howled. Red-bashing maybe?
I started this post with the title 'China sells babies!' for a reason. Here's why: After we understand how their adoption process works, what could be a more sane and caring way to place babies in new homes than how the Chinese governemnt demands?
If you are anything like me, you might share my Coolie mentality that had considered China to be a backwater, primitive country. Welcome to the Twenty-First Century, for nothing could be further from the truth.
Tomorrow: The second Great Wonder of the World.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Hong Kong a People Packin' Place
We're dining in a very old and highly-thought of Chinese restuarant in Hong Kong. We have wound our way a half dozen blocks from the Prudential Hotel (5-star) through milling flocks of smiling, well-dressed, well-scrubbed people. None of the women own a skirt longer than a hands length and none of the men own a comb . They all have shiny black hair. A six-foot, four inch guy, like Rick, Pete or John, could hold his arm, straight out and 97.5 percent of them wouldn't even brush the top of their head as they walked under it.
It's eight p.m. Monday evening and we are exhausted, having just creaked off a plane that had held us captive for 15 hours of droning boredom.
"So, Michael, how do I say 'water' in Chinese?"
"Soy, it's spelled shuai (I may have missed or added a vowel there)"
"And how do I say'Please'?"
"Kin, it's spelled Qin."
"OK, then if I say to our waitress, 'Shuai, Qin', did I say 'water, please'?"
Michael laughed and looked away. "It's not quite that easy," he said.
Nothing is. And thus endeth my first and last Chinese lesson. But I get ahead of myself.
The flight from Chicago to Hong Kong consumes: five feature-length films, a Chinese lunch--a rice/chicken thing and a spice cake desert, later a bowl of Chinese noodles, dry--"Peel back half the lid and wait for the flight attendant to pour hot water into the bowl, cover and wait four minutes before eating", followed by a ham and cheese sandwich and a cookie, an entire book 'The Dead Sea Scrolls Deception'. about three stars out of five, a book that Kansas friend Don recommended, a few walks around our cattle car, a series of BR breaks, several bouts of fitful dozing, and a bellyful of boredom.
Oh, and one more: Uncrossing the Sunday Gazette's crossword . Dianne and I wage weekly war over who can finish with the least misses. She wins more often than I. (I missed three, Babe.)
Our friendly flight attendant, Miles, smiley, single, age 57, asked where we were from. When I said Cedar Rapids (who in their right mind says 'Vinton'?), he responded, "You know I just love your Kernels logo." Whaaaat?
Where do you live, Miles? Bankok. So where did you grow up? Idaho. Then how in the world do you know anything about the CR Kernels? I'm a baseball nut. Well, I guess.
Between shows. the crew flashed a map on the screen showing our altitude: 38000', ground speed: 589 mph (about a mile every 6 seconds), our ETA: 4:26 p.m. the next day, Tuesday--they missed: we arrived at 4:23--the outside temp.: Minus 58 degrees, and the distance to destination: Whatever.
The movies all bore subtitles. There are two langauges in Chinese, Mandarin the most prevalent, and Cantonese, both of whom can still talk to each other. with understanding. Maybe that's like we MidWesterners can (sometimes) understand a redneck from, say, Valdosta, Georgia.
Oh, the subtitles were all those unimagineable Chinese heiroglyphics. The spoken movie language was English.
When the flight path revealed that we were going over Juneau and Anchorage, we lifted our shades to watch the snowy/showy Alaskan mountains, ablaze and blinding with morning sun, fly by. Later we saw our flight path cover Tokyo, Hiroshima (can you imagine?), Taipei, Nagasaki and names I never heard of but that probably hold gazillions of Asians.
Hong Kong is under construction, not that the 7-8 million people (not sure the cab driver knew) don't already have more and higher buildings than anywhere on the planet.
But China is embracing capitalism like some Americans decry it. Maybe we can learn something from them.
In June of 1997, when the Brits lost their 100-year lease, China, in a display of friendship to their new subjects, gifted Hong Kong with a huge Civic and Convention center. I've been in several. This tops anything I have seen. Outside the entrance to the center is a 30-foot statue of a flower that I believe Michael said was the HK Flower. It was cast from tons and tons of 24-carat gold.
Today, Tuesday we are going slow trying to get our body clocks up to China's speed. Nap time now and then another of our Chinese Cuisine Quest dinners, slated for the best Chinese restaurants China has to offer.
Last night we had an Australian lobster and a Japanese fish, both lifted live from a tank in our dining room, then wok'd. No rice, but some Chinese Brussel sprouts. And two sets of chopsticks. The silver handled, black ones were for taking portions of the entres off the common serving family-style dish. The tan, bone ones were for eating. Desert was a soy-almond curd together with a walnet-soy curd in another bowl. They were to be mixed and eaten with a porcelain ladle, like soup. Sweet, tasty, different.
No chard on the wine menu, but a white that was suitable. There were likely more calories in the two glasses of wine than in the entire meal. Michael was tickled about how healthy the meal was. Yes, and perfectly delicious. There are many ways to travel much worse than going gourmet.
Tomorrow is Beijing, where the warning flags already fly: Bring your own chopsticks!
Tell you why tomorrow.
It's eight p.m. Monday evening and we are exhausted, having just creaked off a plane that had held us captive for 15 hours of droning boredom.
"So, Michael, how do I say 'water' in Chinese?"
"Soy, it's spelled shuai (I may have missed or added a vowel there)"
"And how do I say'Please'?"
"Kin, it's spelled Qin."
"OK, then if I say to our waitress, 'Shuai, Qin', did I say 'water, please'?"
Michael laughed and looked away. "It's not quite that easy," he said.
Nothing is. And thus endeth my first and last Chinese lesson. But I get ahead of myself.
The flight from Chicago to Hong Kong consumes: five feature-length films, a Chinese lunch--a rice/chicken thing and a spice cake desert, later a bowl of Chinese noodles, dry--"Peel back half the lid and wait for the flight attendant to pour hot water into the bowl, cover and wait four minutes before eating", followed by a ham and cheese sandwich and a cookie, an entire book 'The Dead Sea Scrolls Deception'. about three stars out of five, a book that Kansas friend Don recommended, a few walks around our cattle car, a series of BR breaks, several bouts of fitful dozing, and a bellyful of boredom.
Oh, and one more: Uncrossing the Sunday Gazette's crossword . Dianne and I wage weekly war over who can finish with the least misses. She wins more often than I. (I missed three, Babe.)
Our friendly flight attendant, Miles, smiley, single, age 57, asked where we were from. When I said Cedar Rapids (who in their right mind says 'Vinton'?), he responded, "You know I just love your Kernels logo." Whaaaat?
Where do you live, Miles? Bankok. So where did you grow up? Idaho. Then how in the world do you know anything about the CR Kernels? I'm a baseball nut. Well, I guess.
Between shows. the crew flashed a map on the screen showing our altitude: 38000', ground speed: 589 mph (about a mile every 6 seconds), our ETA: 4:26 p.m. the next day, Tuesday--they missed: we arrived at 4:23--the outside temp.: Minus 58 degrees, and the distance to destination: Whatever.
The movies all bore subtitles. There are two langauges in Chinese, Mandarin the most prevalent, and Cantonese, both of whom can still talk to each other. with understanding. Maybe that's like we MidWesterners can (sometimes) understand a redneck from, say, Valdosta, Georgia.
Oh, the subtitles were all those unimagineable Chinese heiroglyphics. The spoken movie language was English.
When the flight path revealed that we were going over Juneau and Anchorage, we lifted our shades to watch the snowy/showy Alaskan mountains, ablaze and blinding with morning sun, fly by. Later we saw our flight path cover Tokyo, Hiroshima (can you imagine?), Taipei, Nagasaki and names I never heard of but that probably hold gazillions of Asians.
Hong Kong is under construction, not that the 7-8 million people (not sure the cab driver knew) don't already have more and higher buildings than anywhere on the planet.
But China is embracing capitalism like some Americans decry it. Maybe we can learn something from them.
In June of 1997, when the Brits lost their 100-year lease, China, in a display of friendship to their new subjects, gifted Hong Kong with a huge Civic and Convention center. I've been in several. This tops anything I have seen. Outside the entrance to the center is a 30-foot statue of a flower that I believe Michael said was the HK Flower. It was cast from tons and tons of 24-carat gold.
Today, Tuesday we are going slow trying to get our body clocks up to China's speed. Nap time now and then another of our Chinese Cuisine Quest dinners, slated for the best Chinese restaurants China has to offer.
Last night we had an Australian lobster and a Japanese fish, both lifted live from a tank in our dining room, then wok'd. No rice, but some Chinese Brussel sprouts. And two sets of chopsticks. The silver handled, black ones were for taking portions of the entres off the common serving family-style dish. The tan, bone ones were for eating. Desert was a soy-almond curd together with a walnet-soy curd in another bowl. They were to be mixed and eaten with a porcelain ladle, like soup. Sweet, tasty, different.
No chard on the wine menu, but a white that was suitable. There were likely more calories in the two glasses of wine than in the entire meal. Michael was tickled about how healthy the meal was. Yes, and perfectly delicious. There are many ways to travel much worse than going gourmet.
Tomorrow is Beijing, where the warning flags already fly: Bring your own chopsticks!
Tell you why tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
How do you say China, in China?
It started with sashimi, miso soup (miso means water in Japanese) and a Kirin beer, a typical enough lunch if one does not have to go back to the office. And then I met Kong Ni the owner of Osaka's Japanese Steakhouse inCedar Rapids. We have shaken hands probably a thousand times now, a year and a half later. It always seems like the right thing to do, before, during and after anything. I lunch there two to three times a week and, one day last year, he confided his plans to build a new restuarant.
Kong masquerades under the name Michael. He was born in Canton, lived in Hong Kong as a young teen, immigrated to Canada, then New Jersey, then Nashville and finally to open his thriving and highly successful restaurant in CR.
His English teacher told him he couldn't go around under the name Kong in America. When he asked her what name he could go around under, she said, You look like a Michael. And that was it. Most of us are stuck with our parents' birthing kneejerk.
Must be fun to choose one's name. I would have chosen Dan for mine. My daughters have changed theirs from Cyndee to Cyd and Catherine to Cat. That and their hair color. It's a new age thing, I know. I'm comfortable with the name granddaughter Rachel gave me years ago: Schmidt-Dawg.
A year ago Michael confided he wanted to open another restuarant, an Asian-French restuarant. Somehow that strikes me as a conflict in terms. He showed me gorgeous pictures of elegant Chinese restaurants. We talked and soon it developed that I would build the shell and he would fill it with a Chinese restuarant. The French aspect soon melted when he couldn't persuade his uncle--who had a Chinese French restuarant in NYC--to come live in CR. Culture shock supreme, of course.
So the restuarant will be of the PF Chang persuasion, supremely upscale, modern, catering to a younger crowd. Interestingly, Michael's mother was Japanese and his father Chinese. And now he will own a Japanese restuarant and a Chinese restaurant. So we will bring back a picture of each of his (now deceased) parents and he will build a little shrine on a prominent wall dedicating each restaurant to his parent with that nationality. That's a ka-chung moment.
Michael said he had to go to NYC to order kitchen equipment. He went seven times and it's ordered. A few nickels short of a million dollars worth of it. Actually, his restuarnat will make PF Changs look like a China Buffet.
Last summer, I was nosing around on a Mayo Clinic computer (they have them, for use in reception areas) and ran onto a form of Chinese astrology called Purple Star. Michael said it was a lucky color and would make a lucky name. So, the Purple Star Bistro it is. None in the USA, one in London, but the TM will hold water. The A in star is a star symbol with a Nike-like swoosh coming down to it.
Then, Michael said he had to go to China to buy Terra Cotta warrior memorabilia to decorate his restuarant, plus glassware and, well, Chinaware, and chopsticks and whatever. Then, he said I must go, too. Then, I said yes.
So I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a CD, Chinese for Dummies, an investment only a dummy would make. I understand the name now. I could get more understanding from the noise of a chair sqeaking on a wooden floor than from the gutteral grunts on this CD. I took it back. B&N said I had opened it and they couldn't take it back. They need to talk to Wal-Mart to learn you can always take something back. Besides, how do you know it isn't right unless you open it? I gave it to the clerk and voted with my feet. Amazon.com will work fine for future books. For one thing, they take it back.
Then Banker Dolph said he had a bunch of Yuan, the Chinese version of the more familiar Japanese Yen. I could buy them without a fee, $637 and change worth. If I figure correctly a Yuan is about thirteen and a half cents, making ten of them worth 1.35 and a hundred...well, you get the idea.
Then again, the rule is: Never trust a decimal point to a dyslexic. A hundred of them are worth either $13.50 or $135. This knowledge gap will make shopping in China an interesting experience.
But, then, there's Michael who will not let me go astray.
As further prep, I read The China Road, a fascinating journey of a Brit PBS reporter stationed in China for 12 years, who was leaving and as his swan trip decided to hitchhike across China on Hiway 312, a road that bissects China from East to West. A speaker, there was no language problem. And his reports are intriguing as he chronicles the rapid changes coming into a country embracing capitalism under the Red Star.
My final prep is to read The Fortune Cookie Chronicles, by Jennifer 8. Lee. Her book began when the Powerball lottery results were reported one day and 110 people had the identical same 5 out of 6 numbers, meaning they each won $100,000. Astounded lottery officals checked and found that the people all got the numbers from a Chinese fortune cookie. And the book goes on from there with a wonderful expose' of Chinese culinary delights, with it's lack of sugar and minimal oil.
For example, there are more Chinese restuarants in America than there are KFCs, Burger Kings and MacDonalds combined. One chapter is the Chosen Food of the Chosen people, how Jews love Chinese almost over all other repasts. Chop Suey means 'odds and ends' or 'bits and pieces.' The Chinese don't know of it and fortune cookies were invented in America by a Japanese cook.
Did you know that the nationwide Powerball headquarters are located in Des Moines, housed in an innocuous building? I didn't, either.
We wanted to fly first class. Oh yeah. Julie, my T.A. reported that 1st class on UAL fcrom Chicago to Hong Kong is $28,000. The cattle car accomodations are $1,231. For that kind of difference, we'll tough out the 15-hour ride. Take an Ambien my barber advises.
So I guess I'm ready. Our good Vinton friends, Keith and Kathie Ervin, will be in Beijing the Wednesday of next week. We were headed to Xi'an (Terra Cotta Warriors) first but Michael switched our plans so we will be in Beijing and will see them and even stay in their hotel.
When I asked Michael what clothes to take, he said, Hardly anything. Buy it over there. it's cheaper. Hey, why not?
As I find Internet Cafes in the various cities, I'll Blog a daily diary. And if I truly have Photobucket.com in hand--not really sure there--I'll drop in pictures from different cities.
I have no idea how to say anything in Chinese. But, then, I've got Michael. Such a deal.
And I will miss most my MQB, Mama Queen Bee, Dianne, and wish she felt up to the journey.
Dawg
Kong masquerades under the name Michael. He was born in Canton, lived in Hong Kong as a young teen, immigrated to Canada, then New Jersey, then Nashville and finally to open his thriving and highly successful restaurant in CR.
His English teacher told him he couldn't go around under the name Kong in America. When he asked her what name he could go around under, she said, You look like a Michael. And that was it. Most of us are stuck with our parents' birthing kneejerk.
Must be fun to choose one's name. I would have chosen Dan for mine. My daughters have changed theirs from Cyndee to Cyd and Catherine to Cat. That and their hair color. It's a new age thing, I know. I'm comfortable with the name granddaughter Rachel gave me years ago: Schmidt-Dawg.
A year ago Michael confided he wanted to open another restuarant, an Asian-French restuarant. Somehow that strikes me as a conflict in terms. He showed me gorgeous pictures of elegant Chinese restaurants. We talked and soon it developed that I would build the shell and he would fill it with a Chinese restuarant. The French aspect soon melted when he couldn't persuade his uncle--who had a Chinese French restuarant in NYC--to come live in CR. Culture shock supreme, of course.
So the restuarant will be of the PF Chang persuasion, supremely upscale, modern, catering to a younger crowd. Interestingly, Michael's mother was Japanese and his father Chinese. And now he will own a Japanese restuarant and a Chinese restaurant. So we will bring back a picture of each of his (now deceased) parents and he will build a little shrine on a prominent wall dedicating each restaurant to his parent with that nationality. That's a ka-chung moment.
Michael said he had to go to NYC to order kitchen equipment. He went seven times and it's ordered. A few nickels short of a million dollars worth of it. Actually, his restuarnat will make PF Changs look like a China Buffet.
Last summer, I was nosing around on a Mayo Clinic computer (they have them, for use in reception areas) and ran onto a form of Chinese astrology called Purple Star. Michael said it was a lucky color and would make a lucky name. So, the Purple Star Bistro it is. None in the USA, one in London, but the TM will hold water. The A in star is a star symbol with a Nike-like swoosh coming down to it.
Then, Michael said he had to go to China to buy Terra Cotta warrior memorabilia to decorate his restuarant, plus glassware and, well, Chinaware, and chopsticks and whatever. Then, he said I must go, too. Then, I said yes.
So I went to Barnes & Noble and bought a CD, Chinese for Dummies, an investment only a dummy would make. I understand the name now. I could get more understanding from the noise of a chair sqeaking on a wooden floor than from the gutteral grunts on this CD. I took it back. B&N said I had opened it and they couldn't take it back. They need to talk to Wal-Mart to learn you can always take something back. Besides, how do you know it isn't right unless you open it? I gave it to the clerk and voted with my feet. Amazon.com will work fine for future books. For one thing, they take it back.
Then Banker Dolph said he had a bunch of Yuan, the Chinese version of the more familiar Japanese Yen. I could buy them without a fee, $637 and change worth. If I figure correctly a Yuan is about thirteen and a half cents, making ten of them worth 1.35 and a hundred...well, you get the idea.
Then again, the rule is: Never trust a decimal point to a dyslexic. A hundred of them are worth either $13.50 or $135. This knowledge gap will make shopping in China an interesting experience.
But, then, there's Michael who will not let me go astray.
As further prep, I read The China Road, a fascinating journey of a Brit PBS reporter stationed in China for 12 years, who was leaving and as his swan trip decided to hitchhike across China on Hiway 312, a road that bissects China from East to West. A speaker, there was no language problem. And his reports are intriguing as he chronicles the rapid changes coming into a country embracing capitalism under the Red Star.
My final prep is to read The Fortune Cookie Chronicles, by Jennifer 8. Lee. Her book began when the Powerball lottery results were reported one day and 110 people had the identical same 5 out of 6 numbers, meaning they each won $100,000. Astounded lottery officals checked and found that the people all got the numbers from a Chinese fortune cookie. And the book goes on from there with a wonderful expose' of Chinese culinary delights, with it's lack of sugar and minimal oil.
For example, there are more Chinese restuarants in America than there are KFCs, Burger Kings and MacDonalds combined. One chapter is the Chosen Food of the Chosen people, how Jews love Chinese almost over all other repasts. Chop Suey means 'odds and ends' or 'bits and pieces.' The Chinese don't know of it and fortune cookies were invented in America by a Japanese cook.
Did you know that the nationwide Powerball headquarters are located in Des Moines, housed in an innocuous building? I didn't, either.
We wanted to fly first class. Oh yeah. Julie, my T.A. reported that 1st class on UAL fcrom Chicago to Hong Kong is $28,000. The cattle car accomodations are $1,231. For that kind of difference, we'll tough out the 15-hour ride. Take an Ambien my barber advises.
So I guess I'm ready. Our good Vinton friends, Keith and Kathie Ervin, will be in Beijing the Wednesday of next week. We were headed to Xi'an (Terra Cotta Warriors) first but Michael switched our plans so we will be in Beijing and will see them and even stay in their hotel.
When I asked Michael what clothes to take, he said, Hardly anything. Buy it over there. it's cheaper. Hey, why not?
As I find Internet Cafes in the various cities, I'll Blog a daily diary. And if I truly have Photobucket.com in hand--not really sure there--I'll drop in pictures from different cities.
I have no idea how to say anything in Chinese. But, then, I've got Michael. Such a deal.
And I will miss most my MQB, Mama Queen Bee, Dianne, and wish she felt up to the journey.
Dawg
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Evolution: The 800-pound Gorilla
In what has portent for every Board of Education in the United States, the Florida State Board of Education recently tossed a banana to scientists who affirm that Darwin’s theory makes sense. Florida teachers are now required to teach the theory, and call it just that, as well they should.
Evolution has hung around 150 years and been extolled or excoriated by scientists of all stripe. Those who proclaim its validity, conveniently overlook magnificent flaws in the theory. But they should be heard. And their arguments weighed.
On the flip side, many of those who go ballistic over the concept, do so–not because they are onto the scientific waffling of the theory–but because it conflicts with their religious beliefs. That discussion has no place in any science classroom.
Kids need to know a theory as grand as evolution. They need to know how Darwin cranked it up and the evidence he saw that seemed to convince him to speculate that we evolved from that first cell of life, in some primordial soup. Followed by his speculation that living species changed over time.
They also need to know that the theory of evolution poses some scientific gaps that currently seem unbridgeable, for teaching the theory without teaching its shortcomings is proselytizing, not teaching.
The gnawing questions about the theory are legion: How did that first cell of life pop up from five inorganic elements? Life requires information. The smallest cell of life contains as much information as the New York City Public Library (52 million volumes). This, in a cell so small we cannot see it. No known science can show how information can create itself, which that first little bugger had to do.
How does a lizard (cold-blooded, lays eggs) become a rat (warm-blooded, gives birth)? In essence, if a rat evolved from a lizard there’s a hold-the-phone moment in the whole process: How does a half rat/half lizard reproduce?
Where is proof of a single evolved species? Every so-called ‘evolved’ species is only speculated to have evolved. Scientists have every right to speculate at will; but they have an obligation to call guesswork what it truly is. Some find it difficult to believe that whales ‘evolved’ from polar bears. And germs that lose their ability to respond to penicillin, for example, are not a new species—merely a defective species that will return to form later.
Just where is the fossil trail? The ‘Cambrian Explosion’ is an era when suddenly fossil layers are found in the subsoil. But there’s a problem: Those fossil critters are fully developed, not little fellers on their way somewhere. Where are the beginners?
And, yes, it always comes to this: Where is the missing link? Darwin himself shook his head over those horrendous chasms, as he called them, gaps that have not been bridged in the 150 years since. Maybe someday those gaps will be filled with solid science; but certainly not today.
None of the supposed missing links–Nebraska Man, Java Man, Peking Man, et al.--actually steps up to the evolutionary plate and hits a homer. Even poor little Lucy’s knee was found 2 miles away and 200 feet deeper in the ground. Seems like quite a stretch there. For all we know, Lucy may well have been Lucifer.
Science is all about questioning and Florida science teachers, as well as their colleagues nationwide, should teach the substance of the theory of evolution. Teaching about the theory is no more anti-religious than is teaching the many ways in which human beings reach out to various altars of higher powers.
Learning does not corrupt. It’s people who do.
Evolution has hung around 150 years and been extolled or excoriated by scientists of all stripe. Those who proclaim its validity, conveniently overlook magnificent flaws in the theory. But they should be heard. And their arguments weighed.
On the flip side, many of those who go ballistic over the concept, do so–not because they are onto the scientific waffling of the theory–but because it conflicts with their religious beliefs. That discussion has no place in any science classroom.
Kids need to know a theory as grand as evolution. They need to know how Darwin cranked it up and the evidence he saw that seemed to convince him to speculate that we evolved from that first cell of life, in some primordial soup. Followed by his speculation that living species changed over time.
They also need to know that the theory of evolution poses some scientific gaps that currently seem unbridgeable, for teaching the theory without teaching its shortcomings is proselytizing, not teaching.
The gnawing questions about the theory are legion: How did that first cell of life pop up from five inorganic elements? Life requires information. The smallest cell of life contains as much information as the New York City Public Library (52 million volumes). This, in a cell so small we cannot see it. No known science can show how information can create itself, which that first little bugger had to do.
How does a lizard (cold-blooded, lays eggs) become a rat (warm-blooded, gives birth)? In essence, if a rat evolved from a lizard there’s a hold-the-phone moment in the whole process: How does a half rat/half lizard reproduce?
Where is proof of a single evolved species? Every so-called ‘evolved’ species is only speculated to have evolved. Scientists have every right to speculate at will; but they have an obligation to call guesswork what it truly is. Some find it difficult to believe that whales ‘evolved’ from polar bears. And germs that lose their ability to respond to penicillin, for example, are not a new species—merely a defective species that will return to form later.
Just where is the fossil trail? The ‘Cambrian Explosion’ is an era when suddenly fossil layers are found in the subsoil. But there’s a problem: Those fossil critters are fully developed, not little fellers on their way somewhere. Where are the beginners?
And, yes, it always comes to this: Where is the missing link? Darwin himself shook his head over those horrendous chasms, as he called them, gaps that have not been bridged in the 150 years since. Maybe someday those gaps will be filled with solid science; but certainly not today.
None of the supposed missing links–Nebraska Man, Java Man, Peking Man, et al.--actually steps up to the evolutionary plate and hits a homer. Even poor little Lucy’s knee was found 2 miles away and 200 feet deeper in the ground. Seems like quite a stretch there. For all we know, Lucy may well have been Lucifer.
Science is all about questioning and Florida science teachers, as well as their colleagues nationwide, should teach the substance of the theory of evolution. Teaching about the theory is no more anti-religious than is teaching the many ways in which human beings reach out to various altars of higher powers.
Learning does not corrupt. It’s people who do.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
How can angels be so noisy?
She was first, Anna Babette, interestingly named for ancestors on both sides of her tree. The singsong phrase rolled out easily: "Anna Babette, Anna Babette, Ask for angel and she's what you get."
And then Howie thumped onto the scene. At age three, he sidled up to me and with a knowing grin said, "Call me Bubbie." I swore I would as soon as I could stop laughing.
They're older now at 6 and 4, which merely gives them greater mobility and imagination to construct lairs of chairs and blankets, Leggo structures that match devious plans swirling in their brilliant little brains, and to swat one another as the occasion demands. It seems, occasions are indeed demanding.
They visited us these past few days at what they call our 'Beach House' which is a full mile and many millions of dollars removed from the true Atlantic Beach in Ponte Vedra Beach, outside of JAX. Google Earth says we're seven full feet above sea level, a perfect target for a tsunami swoosh.
Their visit was a mix of pandemonium and hugs. Grins and grimaces. Treats and tricks.
It was a love fest that worked both ways and, as we waved goodbye to flailing little arms driving off to their nest, we thanked God for their parents who taught them to say their prayers and put their trust where it belongs.
Grandmas and Grandpas come and go. But these cherubs, who will pick up where we left off, have their heads on straight because their parents do, as well. Life is indeed good.
She was first, Anna Babette, interestingly named for ancestors on both sides of her tree. The singsong phrase rolled out easily: "Anna Babette, Anna Babette, Ask for angel and she's what you get."
And then Howie thumped onto the scene. At age three, he sidled up to me and with a knowing grin said, "Call me Bubbie." I swore I would as soon as I could stop laughing.
They're older now at 6 and 4, which merely gives them greater mobility and imagination to construct lairs of chairs and blankets, Leggo structures that match devious plans swirling in their brilliant little brains, and to swat one another as the occasion demands. It seems, occasions are indeed demanding.
They visited us these past few days at what they call our 'Beach House' which is a full mile and many millions of dollars removed from the true Atlantic Beach in Ponte Vedra Beach, outside of JAX. Google Earth says we're seven full feet above sea level, a perfect target for a tsunami swoosh.
Their visit was a mix of pandemonium and hugs. Grins and grimaces. Treats and tricks.
It was a love fest that worked both ways and, as we waved goodbye to flailing little arms driving off to their nest, we thanked God for their parents who taught them to say their prayers and put their trust where it belongs.
Grandmas and Grandpas come and go. But these cherubs, who will pick up where we left off, have their heads on straight because their parents do, as well. Life is indeed good.
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