Dirigibles really seemed like a good idea, right?
Balloons have a downside: there's not much of a steering mechanism. The development of the cucumber-shaped dirigible, though. Now there's something. We've got an aerodynamic design powered by (first) hand cranks and (ultimately) an internal combustion engine, allowing von
Zepplin's first flight in 1900 too achieve speeds of up to 18 mph. Not half bad.
Not only were dirigibles relatively fast, but they were also big and reliable. By 1910, cities in Germany were regularly visited by scheduled airship flights, making the dirigible (arguably) the first commercial airline.
Things all went bad.
First, like we can learn from Ken Burns' National Park series (on PBS now!), humans like to screw everything up, so in 1914 Germany's dirigibles were painted black and used in bombing raids on London. The world is a forgiving place, though, and after the war, dirigibles
were bigger than ever (and fast, too, with a cruising speed of 68 mph).
Now comes disaster.
Back in (some of) my grad school days, I once caused a not-well-controlled hydrogen explosion. Let me tell you, it is only through the grace of high-quality lab safety glass that I still have my eyebrows. It was rapid and terrifying, and there are a lot of reasons I am no longer a lab scientist, but this is definitely on the list.
Imagine, then, Lakehurst, NJ in 1937.
Or don't imagine -- my grandfather, the illustrious Silver Beaver referenced here, was there.
"I was a teenager when I saw the Hindenberg blow up at Lakehurst, N.J. Along with some friends, we piled into a pickup to watch the airship land. It was late afternoon and quite cloudy. We parked on the road alongside the airfield to watch this giant of the skies come in. As it very slowly approached to land, it dropped many lines and whoosh, the tail lit up and the airship settled tail first into the ground. The entire airship had burst into flame. It's hard to believe anyone could have survived that crash. We were parked about a mile away and as I recall, could feel the heat of that explosion. What caused this to happen, I could not even guess. It certainly, in my opinion, was not the weather. The whole event happened in less then a few minutes."
So why did the Hindenberg go down?
Tune in tomorrow, kids.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Track and field
Oddly, I've been putting this (near-final) Athletics badge requirement off, but with the help of John's poker night, I'm finishing up once and for all. It's time to post the rules for one track and one field event.
I think, strangely, the rough part for me has been choosing which events to write about. I don't have a ton of interest in this particular aspect of the Athletics badge, I'll admit, and its just been feeling more like homework than like entertainment. Of course, I'm in the minority in my general lack of sports-interest, I'm sure -- drive past any college campus in the fall and see thousands of sports fans out to prove me wrong (and to watch football, too, I'm sure, but I like to think they're just out there in a "so there, Emily!" kind of way).
So, given that I'm a less enthusiastic sports, um, enthusiast than most, I asked two of the card-players to pick track and field events for me to investigate. Matt chose the pole vault, and team Ro and Evan chose the 400 m hurdles (specific, but we'll go with it).
This one's for you, dudes.
I've pole vaulted once in my life, in middle school gym class. I believe I cleared the same jump level that at least one slightly taller kid stepped over, which gives you an idea both of my size in middle school (rather petite) and my jumping abilities. That said, I also have a very dear cousin who, I believe, was some class of pole vaulting champion when she was in high school, so I'm aware that some folks can be quite successful at this kind of activity. I just don't quite understand how.
In order to pole vault, you're going to need, um, a pole, usually fiberglass, and usually from 10 to 17 feet long. You'll also need a mat (3-5 feet thick), a crossbar, ad a 40-45 m long runway. In order to successfully vault, you must, first and foremost, clear the crossbar. It's acceptable to hit the crossbar so long as you don't knock it down, but since the crossbar falls quite readily, it's for the best to avoid it altogether.
There are other ways to mess up your jump, too. Touching the mat before jumping would count as a jump failure, as would taking more than two minutes to complete a jump attempt. Finally, remember that a single failed attempt isn't the end of the world -- generally, a competitor will receive a maximum of three attempts at any given height and will be eliminated after his third unsuccessful attempt.
Finally, there are a few very specific equipment rules: no gloves are allowed, nor is more than two layers of adhesive tape. Jumpers may use chalk or rosin, though.
For the 400 m hurdles, we'll get a little more complicated. Men's hurdles are 36 inches tall and women's are 30 inches tall, while the hurdles are evenly placed 35 meters apart, with the first and last hurdles each 40 m from the starting and ending points. (Is it a testament to international unity that we're mixing units of measurement here, or is it just poor coordination? Does it matter?)
It used to be that knocking down 3 hurdles led to instant disqualificiation; however we're either kinder or more effete now, and competitors are disqualified if they intentionally knock down hurdles, but not otherwise. (Also, competitors may not jump over another runner's hurdles, though I can't imagine why they might want to.)
General race rules apply, as well -- runners may not begin running before the race actually starts, may not shove other runners, and so forth, though these things seem obvious as well.
I think, strangely, the rough part for me has been choosing which events to write about. I don't have a ton of interest in this particular aspect of the Athletics badge, I'll admit, and its just been feeling more like homework than like entertainment. Of course, I'm in the minority in my general lack of sports-interest, I'm sure -- drive past any college campus in the fall and see thousands of sports fans out to prove me wrong (and to watch football, too, I'm sure, but I like to think they're just out there in a "so there, Emily!" kind of way).
So, given that I'm a less enthusiastic sports, um, enthusiast than most, I asked two of the card-players to pick track and field events for me to investigate. Matt chose the pole vault, and team Ro and Evan chose the 400 m hurdles (specific, but we'll go with it).
This one's for you, dudes.
I've pole vaulted once in my life, in middle school gym class. I believe I cleared the same jump level that at least one slightly taller kid stepped over, which gives you an idea both of my size in middle school (rather petite) and my jumping abilities. That said, I also have a very dear cousin who, I believe, was some class of pole vaulting champion when she was in high school, so I'm aware that some folks can be quite successful at this kind of activity. I just don't quite understand how.
In order to pole vault, you're going to need, um, a pole, usually fiberglass, and usually from 10 to 17 feet long. You'll also need a mat (3-5 feet thick), a crossbar, ad a 40-45 m long runway. In order to successfully vault, you must, first and foremost, clear the crossbar. It's acceptable to hit the crossbar so long as you don't knock it down, but since the crossbar falls quite readily, it's for the best to avoid it altogether.
There are other ways to mess up your jump, too. Touching the mat before jumping would count as a jump failure, as would taking more than two minutes to complete a jump attempt. Finally, remember that a single failed attempt isn't the end of the world -- generally, a competitor will receive a maximum of three attempts at any given height and will be eliminated after his third unsuccessful attempt.
Finally, there are a few very specific equipment rules: no gloves are allowed, nor is more than two layers of adhesive tape. Jumpers may use chalk or rosin, though.
For the 400 m hurdles, we'll get a little more complicated. Men's hurdles are 36 inches tall and women's are 30 inches tall, while the hurdles are evenly placed 35 meters apart, with the first and last hurdles each 40 m from the starting and ending points. (Is it a testament to international unity that we're mixing units of measurement here, or is it just poor coordination? Does it matter?)
It used to be that knocking down 3 hurdles led to instant disqualificiation; however we're either kinder or more effete now, and competitors are disqualified if they intentionally knock down hurdles, but not otherwise. (Also, competitors may not jump over another runner's hurdles, though I can't imagine why they might want to.)
General race rules apply, as well -- runners may not begin running before the race actually starts, may not shove other runners, and so forth, though these things seem obvious as well.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Kitty!
My kitten is sick.
Charlie the cat is on fluids and is spending the night in the vet's office, so forgive a little lack of focus today. (Poor kitten! If he were home, he would totally be sitting on the couch with me watching Project Runway right now.)
My main interest in the Aviation realm, lately, has been Samuel Langley, who spent serious time in the 1890s building steam-powered airplanes, and time before that testing the aerodynamics of taxidermied birds. (On a similar note, I'd like to refer you a fantastic John Hartford album, for what it's worth.)
In the 1880s, he was launching unpiloted, steam-driven planes via catapult, and they worked -- one in particular (his number 6 model) could fly something like a mile. Of course, this isn't the same kind of aviation our badge is talking about -- first, there's no pilot, and second, many of these planes were models, scaled down to something like 1/4 size.
However, the really interesting thing about Langley comes some years after his flight experiments. See, he donated one of his planes (the Aerodrome #5) to the Smithsonian where, after significant refurbishment (including a new engine), a Smithsonian refurbisher was able to make a few small, short flights in it. Clearly, since the Aerodrome #5 was in service prior to the Wright Bros. Kittyhawk flight, that would make it the first "man-carrying aeroplane in the history of the world capable of sustained free flight." Right?
The Wright Bros. were furious, and reasonably so, especially given that the Aerodrome #5 had, well, crashed, which is generally not a characteristic of a successful airplane. There's a lot of weirdness in this story, especially given the fact that Langley was the secretary of the Smithsonian and received much of his research funding due to his position there. (It's porbably important to clarify something here -- Langley, despite the whole mess surrounding his planes, was not invovled in the situation. He died in 1906, just 3 years after the Wrights' flight, and more than fifteen years before the disputes.)
Ultimately, Orville Wright (Wilbur was long-dead) sent the Wright Flyer to London, where the British might respect the venerable plane. And there it stayed, until a 1942 report by the Smithsonian ("The 1914 Tests of the Langley Aerodrome") essentialy recanted their story -- finaly, they admitted that, well, the Aerodrome #5 as originally built was unsuccessful.
And there we have it. In 1948 the Wright Flyer returned to the Smithsonian. It does not share a hall with the Aerodrome, which today occupies the "Early Flight" exhibit, with the Wright military flyer (a later model). The Wright Flyer itself, currently in its own special exhibit, is usually located in a place of honor in the center of the "Milestones of Flight" gallery.
So much for the Aerodrome.
Charlie the cat is on fluids and is spending the night in the vet's office, so forgive a little lack of focus today. (Poor kitten! If he were home, he would totally be sitting on the couch with me watching Project Runway right now.)
My main interest in the Aviation realm, lately, has been Samuel Langley, who spent serious time in the 1890s building steam-powered airplanes, and time before that testing the aerodynamics of taxidermied birds. (On a similar note, I'd like to refer you a fantastic John Hartford album, for what it's worth.)
In the 1880s, he was launching unpiloted, steam-driven planes via catapult, and they worked -- one in particular (his number 6 model) could fly something like a mile. Of course, this isn't the same kind of aviation our badge is talking about -- first, there's no pilot, and second, many of these planes were models, scaled down to something like 1/4 size.
However, the really interesting thing about Langley comes some years after his flight experiments. See, he donated one of his planes (the Aerodrome #5) to the Smithsonian where, after significant refurbishment (including a new engine), a Smithsonian refurbisher was able to make a few small, short flights in it. Clearly, since the Aerodrome #5 was in service prior to the Wright Bros. Kittyhawk flight, that would make it the first "man-carrying aeroplane in the history of the world capable of sustained free flight." Right?
The Wright Bros. were furious, and reasonably so, especially given that the Aerodrome #5 had, well, crashed, which is generally not a characteristic of a successful airplane. There's a lot of weirdness in this story, especially given the fact that Langley was the secretary of the Smithsonian and received much of his research funding due to his position there. (It's porbably important to clarify something here -- Langley, despite the whole mess surrounding his planes, was not invovled in the situation. He died in 1906, just 3 years after the Wrights' flight, and more than fifteen years before the disputes.)
Ultimately, Orville Wright (Wilbur was long-dead) sent the Wright Flyer to London, where the British might respect the venerable plane. And there it stayed, until a 1942 report by the Smithsonian ("The 1914 Tests of the Langley Aerodrome") essentialy recanted their story -- finaly, they admitted that, well, the Aerodrome #5 as originally built was unsuccessful.
And there we have it. In 1948 the Wright Flyer returned to the Smithsonian. It does not share a hall with the Aerodrome, which today occupies the "Early Flight" exhibit, with the Wright military flyer (a later model). The Wright Flyer itself, currently in its own special exhibit, is usually located in a place of honor in the center of the "Milestones of Flight" gallery.
So much for the Aerodrome.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Aviating
Big secret (okay, not very secret): I hate flying.
Upon reflection, though, much as I may think I hate flying today, I really, really, seriously would have hated flying in 1911.
Now, while a lot of people (myself included, secretly) are thinking back to junior high school history class and trying to remember if planes even existed when the Handbook was published (they did), we need to handle something more important here. Planes were indeed available. But they were much, much simpler and much, much scarier.
(This airplane is from 1912. Hence, when the Handbook was published, this was the future of aviation. The future of aviation involved buddying up to some other dude in a suit while dangling your feet off of an airplane.)
The airplanes our 1911 scouts were learning about were only a step ahead of the Wright brothers' plane, with canvas stretched over wood-framed, parallel wings, steered by a network of pulleys and wire cables by a pilot who sat on seat mounted to the bottom wing (or, in the case of many planes, on the wing itself).
The planes we're talking about here were also much, much less useful than the planes we think about today -- the maximum speed we could achieve was perhaps 40 miles per hour (and this was the record-breaking "Silver Dart," made out of a reassuring combination of "steel tube, bamboo, friction tape, wire, wood, and silk"). In general, speeds and ranges were lower still.
Hold on for discussion, tomorrow or Thursday, about a few more aspects of early planes -- I'm looking into some information about the early altitude record-holder, but work is getting in the way. Boo.
Additionally, I'm trying to decide how to go about model-building. The Aviation badge requires a flight of 25 yards, which is hardly much, but is exactly enough that I feel like I want to approach this as seriously as possible. While some folks are pretty intense R/C model builders (some of whom I'm hoping to speak to, as well), I do want my model to be at least a little bit 1911-accurate. Ideas?
Upon reflection, though, much as I may think I hate flying today, I really, really, seriously would have hated flying in 1911.
Now, while a lot of people (myself included, secretly) are thinking back to junior high school history class and trying to remember if planes even existed when the Handbook was published (they did), we need to handle something more important here. Planes were indeed available. But they were much, much simpler and much, much scarier.
(This airplane is from 1912. Hence, when the Handbook was published, this was the future of aviation. The future of aviation involved buddying up to some other dude in a suit while dangling your feet off of an airplane.)
The airplanes our 1911 scouts were learning about were only a step ahead of the Wright brothers' plane, with canvas stretched over wood-framed, parallel wings, steered by a network of pulleys and wire cables by a pilot who sat on seat mounted to the bottom wing (or, in the case of many planes, on the wing itself).
The planes we're talking about here were also much, much less useful than the planes we think about today -- the maximum speed we could achieve was perhaps 40 miles per hour (and this was the record-breaking "Silver Dart," made out of a reassuring combination of "steel tube, bamboo, friction tape, wire, wood, and silk"). In general, speeds and ranges were lower still.
Hold on for discussion, tomorrow or Thursday, about a few more aspects of early planes -- I'm looking into some information about the early altitude record-holder, but work is getting in the way. Boo.
Additionally, I'm trying to decide how to go about model-building. The Aviation badge requires a flight of 25 yards, which is hardly much, but is exactly enough that I feel like I want to approach this as seriously as possible. While some folks are pretty intense R/C model builders (some of whom I'm hoping to speak to, as well), I do want my model to be at least a little bit 1911-accurate. Ideas?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Apples and honey
In honor of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, we had people over for a celebratory dinner last night. I made a noodle kugel, pasta with pesto, tomatoes, and zucchini, and Anzac cookies, which were experimental but kind of delicious. (These were partially a tribute to my mother's cherished belief that, when having folks over for dinner, one must always provide two dessert types: a fruit and a chocolate. My friend Wendy brought a chocolate cake, so the fruit spot was left unfilled, hence coconut/honey/oatmeal cookies. Yum.)
How does this relate to the Handbook? Simple. Honey.
Traditionally, on Rosh Hashanah, the meal (or the holiday itself) is capped with apples and honey. There are all sorts of explanations for each -- the apples as representative of the tree of knowledge, as references to the Song of Songs and so forth, and the honey as a nod to the "land of milk and honey." I've always liked the old standard the best, though. It's simply that apples and honey are both damn sweet and delicious and represent a wish for a sweet new year.
Our honey this year was the Tremblay Apiraries honey I'd sampled at Union Square a month or so ago, and let me tell you, while not the hit of the party, it was a delicious and seasonally-appropriate addition.
PS: I took a picture of apples, honey, challah, and the Anzac cookies last night in hopes of posting today, but ew. I am not a sophisticated enough photo editor to make a photograph of such delicious food look anything but disgusting. Instead, as a special bonus, my kugel recipe!
Now, many people think they do not like kugel. These people are incorrect. They do not like other people's kugel. Other people's kugel is dry and bland (sorry, other people). Mine is spectacular. Remember, this is a special occasion kind of dish, and fat = flavor.
You'll need:
1 pound of egg noodles
1/2 stick of butter
1 quart of buttermilk
4 eggs
1/2 cup of sugar
1/4 tsp of salt
1/2 cup (or more) of raisins
For the topping, you'll need:
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/2 cup of crushed cornflakes (though I've made it with Kashi Golean, as well as with granola.)
2 Tbs of melted butter
1/4 tsp of cinnamon (though I use a lot more, often.)
To make the kugel, first preheat the oven to 375 F. Cook the noodles however you prefer to cook 'em. Drain them, then add the butter and stir the whole shebang around until the butter melts.
Add the buttermilk, eggs, sugar, salt, and raisins to the buttery noodles and mix them all around. Put the whole mess into a 9 x 13 baking pan, put some tin foil on top, and bake for about a half hour.
While your kugel starts to bake, get to work on the topping! Mix up the four ingredients. (This does not take the entire 30 minutes the kugel is baking unless you crush each flake of cereal individually. Don't do this.)
Sprinkle the topping over the partly-baked kugel, replace the foil, and continue to bake the kugel for another 30-45 minutes. It's done when the whole thing is semi-solid, with no buttermilk sloshing around.
Eat it. Seriously. You will not want to stop.
How does this relate to the Handbook? Simple. Honey.
Traditionally, on Rosh Hashanah, the meal (or the holiday itself) is capped with apples and honey. There are all sorts of explanations for each -- the apples as representative of the tree of knowledge, as references to the Song of Songs and so forth, and the honey as a nod to the "land of milk and honey." I've always liked the old standard the best, though. It's simply that apples and honey are both damn sweet and delicious and represent a wish for a sweet new year.
Our honey this year was the Tremblay Apiraries honey I'd sampled at Union Square a month or so ago, and let me tell you, while not the hit of the party, it was a delicious and seasonally-appropriate addition.
PS: I took a picture of apples, honey, challah, and the Anzac cookies last night in hopes of posting today, but ew. I am not a sophisticated enough photo editor to make a photograph of such delicious food look anything but disgusting. Instead, as a special bonus, my kugel recipe!
Now, many people think they do not like kugel. These people are incorrect. They do not like other people's kugel. Other people's kugel is dry and bland (sorry, other people). Mine is spectacular. Remember, this is a special occasion kind of dish, and fat = flavor.
You'll need:
1 pound of egg noodles
1/2 stick of butter
1 quart of buttermilk
4 eggs
1/2 cup of sugar
1/4 tsp of salt
1/2 cup (or more) of raisins
For the topping, you'll need:
1/2 cup of brown sugar
1/2 cup of crushed cornflakes (though I've made it with Kashi Golean, as well as with granola.)
2 Tbs of melted butter
1/4 tsp of cinnamon (though I use a lot more, often.)
To make the kugel, first preheat the oven to 375 F. Cook the noodles however you prefer to cook 'em. Drain them, then add the butter and stir the whole shebang around until the butter melts.
Add the buttermilk, eggs, sugar, salt, and raisins to the buttery noodles and mix them all around. Put the whole mess into a 9 x 13 baking pan, put some tin foil on top, and bake for about a half hour.
While your kugel starts to bake, get to work on the topping! Mix up the four ingredients. (This does not take the entire 30 minutes the kugel is baking unless you crush each flake of cereal individually. Don't do this.)
Sprinkle the topping over the partly-baked kugel, replace the foil, and continue to bake the kugel for another 30-45 minutes. It's done when the whole thing is semi-solid, with no buttermilk sloshing around.
Eat it. Seriously. You will not want to stop.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday run
I know I promised you guys a run on Tuesday, and, straight up, that promise was the only reason I did it at all today. It's been a stressful few days at work, and the very, very beginning of fall is just starting to show up in the air. When I left, around 5, I could feel just the tiniest bit of a chill in the very tips of my fingers. (I'm cold all the time, dudes. Really.)
I headed out towards the library, untimed because of the last traces of Elmo-titis. I was slow tonight, I think, but in general, it was straight up glorious. There are certain early-evening moments where the quality of light and the buildings are working together just right, and even the guy jumping rope in the middle of the sidewalk didn't slow me down.
On the way home, though, I got distracted, and just went to the library instead of past it. I'd just returned two (Collette's Cheri and The Last of Cheri, which was absolutely heartbreaking, and Shelby Foote's The Civil War, which was intermittently excellent and way more than I could handle), and I was sort of in the market for something different.
Today's haul: Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, which has been on my list forever, Clare Boylan's Emma Brown, cobbled together from an unfinished Charlotte Bronte manuscript (hard to say how this one is going to go), and Vincent Louis Carrella's Serpent Box, which I saw on the shelf and grabbed, without any prior knowledge whatsoever. We'll see how it goes, right?
At this point, I'm going to sign off with a plea for help: oddly, finding private plane airports/folks who are interested in recreational aviation is proving more difficult in the city than I think it would have been anywhere else I've lived, ever. Does anyone have a hot tip? I've got some feelers out, but I think there's a very strong suspicion of weird, airport-related requests that I hadn't entirely anticipated.
I headed out towards the library, untimed because of the last traces of Elmo-titis. I was slow tonight, I think, but in general, it was straight up glorious. There are certain early-evening moments where the quality of light and the buildings are working together just right, and even the guy jumping rope in the middle of the sidewalk didn't slow me down.
On the way home, though, I got distracted, and just went to the library instead of past it. I'd just returned two (Collette's Cheri and The Last of Cheri, which was absolutely heartbreaking, and Shelby Foote's The Civil War, which was intermittently excellent and way more than I could handle), and I was sort of in the market for something different.
Today's haul: Sinclair Lewis' It Can't Happen Here, which has been on my list forever, Clare Boylan's Emma Brown, cobbled together from an unfinished Charlotte Bronte manuscript (hard to say how this one is going to go), and Vincent Louis Carrella's Serpent Box, which I saw on the shelf and grabbed, without any prior knowledge whatsoever. We'll see how it goes, right?
At this point, I'm going to sign off with a plea for help: oddly, finding private plane airports/folks who are interested in recreational aviation is proving more difficult in the city than I think it would have been anywhere else I've lived, ever. Does anyone have a hot tip? I've got some feelers out, but I think there's a very strong suspicion of weird, airport-related requests that I hadn't entirely anticipated.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Traning to run
The Athletics badge asks the applicant to explain, in 500 words or so, how to train for an athletic event. Now, I'll admit, I'm not much of a competitive athlete, so instead, I'm going to address how I went about practicing for the 2 mile run I've been working on (for the Army Physical Fitness Test), and how many, many things I've done wrong. (After a weeklong cold, I'm shooting for another run on Thursday, since I'm hideously busy Wednesday nights.)
Hey, after all, Goofus was always much more interesting than Gallant, right?
To begin with, I started running after something like a 2-year period of nonrunning, as well as a 2-month period of exerciselessness. In general, this is a bad way to start. Honestly, though, these 2 months have been the longest period of time I haven't exercised since I was something like 16 or 17 and going to the gym with my parents after school. Even through college and grad school (especially grad school), I was religious about exercise. Since moving to Brooklyn, though, things have really fallen by the wayside. And for an incredibly stupid reason: there's no available gym that's easy to walk to. Somehow, taking the train to the gym seems like it defeats the entire purpose of going to the gym. (On this front, I feel similarly to the way I used to regard people at my tiny New England college who would drive to the athletic center, which, on a residential campus maybe a mile square, seemed absurd. Does this make me a snob? Maybe.) There are regular promises to open a second branch of the YMCA, and my stubbornness is compelling me to hold out for this new, easier-to-reach branch. I will not take the train to exercise, though it's only punishing my own self.
Regardless of all that, I used a modified version of the couch-to-5k running program, which had served me well in the past (well, moderately well, in that it got me up to being able to run for some distance without stopping, but wasn't all that useful for the building up of speed). Rumor has it that if I legitimately want to become fast, I'll have to train for it -- doing things like the hilariously-named fartleks (Swedish for "speed play," or "running real fast for a couple minutes until your brains fall out, going back to regular pace, and repeating ad infinitum). There are legitimate explanations for fartlek, including all kinds of ideas about how fartlek can increase aerobic capacity, can simulate actual athletic events (sprinting to catch an opponent, for example), and theories about how doing this will allow you to actually run fewer total miles in training. Frankly, I've ignored nearly all of this with the explanation (to myself) that I don't need to get that much faster.
In terms of equipment, my dear shoe-selling uncle would recommend that a new runner might see some class of expert who could recommend shoes with appropriate arch support, correction for pronation, and so forth. I did this, too, once, and it was pretty great (I wound up with a pair of Asics I still have). The truth? Um, remember how I said I still have those Asics? Yeah. I'm running in them, three years later. I've swapped out the insoles for a pair of prescription orthotics (hey, I'm a teacher and on my feet all day, and these orthotics were my last gasp of health care benefits before a multi-month gap in coverage). I was actually extremely interested in an article in the NY Times last week suggesting that shoes, in general, aren't actually all that necessary. However, I've seen what people do on the street, and I refuse to haul around my neighborhood with my poor toes a'hanging out. Hell, I've seen what the soles of my feet look like on a day around the city while wearing flip flops. It's not pretty.
So, to sum up: minimal training, no emphasis on speed, old shoes.
Up next: Running Thursday, then on to beginning the next badge. Aviation?
Hey, after all, Goofus was always much more interesting than Gallant, right?
To begin with, I started running after something like a 2-year period of nonrunning, as well as a 2-month period of exerciselessness. In general, this is a bad way to start. Honestly, though, these 2 months have been the longest period of time I haven't exercised since I was something like 16 or 17 and going to the gym with my parents after school. Even through college and grad school (especially grad school), I was religious about exercise. Since moving to Brooklyn, though, things have really fallen by the wayside. And for an incredibly stupid reason: there's no available gym that's easy to walk to. Somehow, taking the train to the gym seems like it defeats the entire purpose of going to the gym. (On this front, I feel similarly to the way I used to regard people at my tiny New England college who would drive to the athletic center, which, on a residential campus maybe a mile square, seemed absurd. Does this make me a snob? Maybe.) There are regular promises to open a second branch of the YMCA, and my stubbornness is compelling me to hold out for this new, easier-to-reach branch. I will not take the train to exercise, though it's only punishing my own self.
Regardless of all that, I used a modified version of the couch-to-5k running program, which had served me well in the past (well, moderately well, in that it got me up to being able to run for some distance without stopping, but wasn't all that useful for the building up of speed). Rumor has it that if I legitimately want to become fast, I'll have to train for it -- doing things like the hilariously-named fartleks (Swedish for "speed play," or "running real fast for a couple minutes until your brains fall out, going back to regular pace, and repeating ad infinitum). There are legitimate explanations for fartlek, including all kinds of ideas about how fartlek can increase aerobic capacity, can simulate actual athletic events (sprinting to catch an opponent, for example), and theories about how doing this will allow you to actually run fewer total miles in training. Frankly, I've ignored nearly all of this with the explanation (to myself) that I don't need to get that much faster.
In terms of equipment, my dear shoe-selling uncle would recommend that a new runner might see some class of expert who could recommend shoes with appropriate arch support, correction for pronation, and so forth. I did this, too, once, and it was pretty great (I wound up with a pair of Asics I still have). The truth? Um, remember how I said I still have those Asics? Yeah. I'm running in them, three years later. I've swapped out the insoles for a pair of prescription orthotics (hey, I'm a teacher and on my feet all day, and these orthotics were my last gasp of health care benefits before a multi-month gap in coverage). I was actually extremely interested in an article in the NY Times last week suggesting that shoes, in general, aren't actually all that necessary. However, I've seen what people do on the street, and I refuse to haul around my neighborhood with my poor toes a'hanging out. Hell, I've seen what the soles of my feet look like on a day around the city while wearing flip flops. It's not pretty.
So, to sum up: minimal training, no emphasis on speed, old shoes.
Up next: Running Thursday, then on to beginning the next badge. Aviation?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Handbook book club, #2
You may not have known this, but I have a degenerative disease. And it is called Elmo-titis.
Yesterday evening, I was a little hoarse. (Groucho Marx joke here.) By this morning? No voice at all, except something high, squeaky, rumbly, and quiet. Kind of like Elmo. And, like Elmo, I'm pretty chipper, all things considered. But I fear the next step.
Anyway, as a result of the Elmo-titis, I didn't manage to get out today and work on the Athletics badge like I'd hoped to. That means . . . it's time for another round of Handbook book club!
When last we discussed this stuff, we talked a lot about the scout virtues -- cleanliness, honesty, that kind of thing. And while those are important, today we get into something that could be brutally dull but isn't: the structure of a troop.
We go through the scout concil officers fairly quickly, the president, vice president, etc., the scout commissioner, all that. The thing that interests me is the scout master. He's required to be at least twenty-one, be of good moral fiber, the basics. What's interseting is that he is specifically not required to be particularly good at the myriad tasks the Handbook assigns any good boy scout. The exact wording: "He need not be an expert at scoutcraft; a good scout master will discover experts for the various activities."
This is startlingly ahead of its time.
As some of you (those of you who've read my bio on the sidebar, at least) know, I teach school. Specifically, I teach science. Now, I have a decent amount of science-y background, but when I left grad school to start teaching, I realized something: what you know has almost no impact on how good a teacher you are. Seriously. This is hard for me to admit, because I've always been a strong believer in school. I worked hard in high school. I went to a good college and worked hard there. And I went to two separate good grad schools and worked hard at those, too. So I started out extremely good at the science I teach, and extremely hesitant to downplay the importance of learning. I walked into my classroom the first day ever, thinking that my spectacular science-ness was just going to pour all over these kids and bring them to their knees in awe.
By the end of that first day, I was crying in the parking lot.
It got better, of course, and I'm actually a little bummed now to know that my old students started class last week and Iw asn't there to see them. In the past few days, I've gotten emails from several of them, and it unquestionably makes my day. I started out terrified of them, and terrified I woudln't be able to get through to them, but over time, day by day, we managed to build a relationship that I'm really proud of.
In my planner, I have a note from one of my last year's students: "Thank you for being a fantastic science teacher. I already enjoyed science but you made the class so much fun and made learning enjoyable. You becamse my favorite class and teacher and I looked forward to it every day." First, girl spelled "every day" as two words, thank goodness, which shows you how smart she is. And second, this may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
So, as I was implying, I guess, over time you build up comfort with your students and with your job. There is a set of skills you need in order to maintain any regularity in the classroom, in order to write and organize lesson plans, is as different from knowing actual content as is knowing how to cook and knowing how to eat, and while each is different, each is also learnable. So I'm delighted that the scoutmaster simply needs to have an interest in the material rather than being an expert -- the Handbook is recognizing, years before much educational philosophy did, that there's a difference between knowing and teaching.
This is also extraordinarily relevant to my life right now. I've just switched from teaching in a rich, suburban district to teaching in the heart of Brooklyn. Once again, my first day was a rough one. Once again, I entered the classroom convinced that I knew how teaching science worked and that the kids and I would be best friends in a heartbeat. And, once again, I was unimaginably, insurmountably incorrect. It's more of the same, really -- what applies in one situation, whether it's basic science knowledge or how to keep classroom order in a central Jersey classroom in which, frankly, keeping order is not that much of a challenge, is almost irrelevant when it comes to reaching out to a specific group of individuals in a specific location at a specific time. What worked for me at my last job doesn't work here, and that's okay.
Tomorrow starts my second week at my new school. I'm ready. Just like the Handbook recommends, a desire to learn and a desire to teach will pull you a hell of a lot farther than all the knowledge you've got.
(Also, watching MTV's VMAs, I've just seen Taylor Swift singing and dancing on my regular train. I am totally blaming her for long wait times for the train this week, and now I hate a girl I've never met. Thanks, MTV. Thanks.)
Yesterday evening, I was a little hoarse. (Groucho Marx joke here.) By this morning? No voice at all, except something high, squeaky, rumbly, and quiet. Kind of like Elmo. And, like Elmo, I'm pretty chipper, all things considered. But I fear the next step.
Anyway, as a result of the Elmo-titis, I didn't manage to get out today and work on the Athletics badge like I'd hoped to. That means . . . it's time for another round of Handbook book club!
When last we discussed this stuff, we talked a lot about the scout virtues -- cleanliness, honesty, that kind of thing. And while those are important, today we get into something that could be brutally dull but isn't: the structure of a troop.
We go through the scout concil officers fairly quickly, the president, vice president, etc., the scout commissioner, all that. The thing that interests me is the scout master. He's required to be at least twenty-one, be of good moral fiber, the basics. What's interseting is that he is specifically not required to be particularly good at the myriad tasks the Handbook assigns any good boy scout. The exact wording: "He need not be an expert at scoutcraft; a good scout master will discover experts for the various activities."
This is startlingly ahead of its time.
As some of you (those of you who've read my bio on the sidebar, at least) know, I teach school. Specifically, I teach science. Now, I have a decent amount of science-y background, but when I left grad school to start teaching, I realized something: what you know has almost no impact on how good a teacher you are. Seriously. This is hard for me to admit, because I've always been a strong believer in school. I worked hard in high school. I went to a good college and worked hard there. And I went to two separate good grad schools and worked hard at those, too. So I started out extremely good at the science I teach, and extremely hesitant to downplay the importance of learning. I walked into my classroom the first day ever, thinking that my spectacular science-ness was just going to pour all over these kids and bring them to their knees in awe.
By the end of that first day, I was crying in the parking lot.
It got better, of course, and I'm actually a little bummed now to know that my old students started class last week and Iw asn't there to see them. In the past few days, I've gotten emails from several of them, and it unquestionably makes my day. I started out terrified of them, and terrified I woudln't be able to get through to them, but over time, day by day, we managed to build a relationship that I'm really proud of.
In my planner, I have a note from one of my last year's students: "Thank you for being a fantastic science teacher. I already enjoyed science but you made the class so much fun and made learning enjoyable. You becamse my favorite class and teacher and I looked forward to it every day." First, girl spelled "every day" as two words, thank goodness, which shows you how smart she is. And second, this may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
So, as I was implying, I guess, over time you build up comfort with your students and with your job. There is a set of skills you need in order to maintain any regularity in the classroom, in order to write and organize lesson plans, is as different from knowing actual content as is knowing how to cook and knowing how to eat, and while each is different, each is also learnable. So I'm delighted that the scoutmaster simply needs to have an interest in the material rather than being an expert -- the Handbook is recognizing, years before much educational philosophy did, that there's a difference between knowing and teaching.
This is also extraordinarily relevant to my life right now. I've just switched from teaching in a rich, suburban district to teaching in the heart of Brooklyn. Once again, my first day was a rough one. Once again, I entered the classroom convinced that I knew how teaching science worked and that the kids and I would be best friends in a heartbeat. And, once again, I was unimaginably, insurmountably incorrect. It's more of the same, really -- what applies in one situation, whether it's basic science knowledge or how to keep classroom order in a central Jersey classroom in which, frankly, keeping order is not that much of a challenge, is almost irrelevant when it comes to reaching out to a specific group of individuals in a specific location at a specific time. What worked for me at my last job doesn't work here, and that's okay.
Tomorrow starts my second week at my new school. I'm ready. Just like the Handbook recommends, a desire to learn and a desire to teach will pull you a hell of a lot farther than all the knowledge you've got.
(Also, watching MTV's VMAs, I've just seen Taylor Swift singing and dancing on my regular train. I am totally blaming her for long wait times for the train this week, and now I hate a girl I've never met. Thanks, MTV. Thanks.)
Friday, September 11, 2009
Schaefer method
The Schaefer method of artificial resuscitation is the horsey ride of lifesaving.
That said, it was also kind of fun.
For those of you (read: everyone) who don't know how this works, it's pretty simple: the person to be resuscitated lies on his stomach, allowing fluids to drain from his lungs (and preventing him from swallowing his tongue!) while the resuscitator sits on his back "with his hands between the short ribs." (Reading this made me hungry, though I've eaten ribs only once in my life, with my grandparent
s somewhere in Jersey when I was maybe 10. At the time, they offended my occasionally-fastidious sensibilities, but I have a feeling that by this time in my life I would essentially be om nom nomming all the way home.)
Anyhow, the short ribs. The resuscitator leans forward, pushing the air out of the poor, conked-out rescuee's lungs, then releases pressure, allowing the air back in. In the Handbook, this is even illustrated, albeit somewhat uselessly. Please note that the pictures accompanying this entry are from the Handbook via Project Gutenberg, and not from my own demonstration, which involved 100% more sweatpants.
So, it's been a long week -- the first week of school means back-to-school throat (the teachers' affliction of a combination of stress, talking loudly, and sudden exposure to all the germs you didn't have to deal with over the summer), and this evening was shaping up to mean a long nap and not much else. However, my husband is a good, good person and was willing to volunteer himself for some saving of lives.
The entire process was pretty easy, and (according to John) works quite well in the lung-compression department. I kept asking for feedback while I was also doing the pushing-out-air section of Schaefering, which made it difficult for John to answer, but in later debriefings he made it clear that the whole shebang did effectively encourage some breathing. Surprise big of news: while being compressed, your communication is largely reduced to tapping on the ground with increasing or decreasing measures of urgency.
The main advantage to the Schaefer method, as far as I can tell, is this: it's quick and easy, and takes essentially no skill. While the internet has told me the Schaefer method was replaced by another lifesaving method (Holger Neilson, named for a Danish fencer whose name is funnier, and which involves pressing on the resuscetee's upper back) in 1952, and eventually by mouth-to-mouth in the late '50s. Mouth-to-mouth, of course, requires way more skill, or at least more physical contact. Schaefer? Easy peasy. You can even do it on your apartment floor, while wearing sweatpants.
That said, it was also kind of fun.
For those of you (read: everyone) who don't know how this works, it's pretty simple: the person to be resuscitated lies on his stomach, allowing fluids to drain from his lungs (and preventing him from swallowing his tongue!) while the resuscitator sits on his back "with his hands between the short ribs." (Reading this made me hungry, though I've eaten ribs only once in my life, with my grandparent
s somewhere in Jersey when I was maybe 10. At the time, they offended my occasionally-fastidious sensibilities, but I have a feeling that by this time in my life I would essentially be om nom nomming all the way home.)Anyhow, the short ribs. The resuscitator leans forward, pushing the air out of the poor, conked-out rescuee's lungs, then releases pressure, allowing the air back in. In the Handbook, this is even illustrated, albeit somewhat uselessly. Please note that the pictures accompanying this entry are from the Handbook via Project Gutenberg, and not from my own demonstration, which involved 100% more sweatpants.
So, it's been a long week -- the first week of school means back-to-school throat (the teachers' affliction of a combination of stress, talking loudly, and sudden exposure to all the germs you didn't have to deal with over the summer), and this evening was shaping up to mean a long nap and not much else. However, my husband is a good, good person and was willing to volunteer himself for some saving of lives.
The entire process was pretty easy, and (according to John) works quite well in the lung-compression department. I kept asking for feedback while I was also doing the pushing-out-air section of Schaefering, which made it difficult for John to answer, but in later debriefings he made it clear that the whole shebang did effectively encourage some breathing. Surprise big of news: while being compressed, your communication is largely reduced to tapping on the ground with increasing or decreasing measures of urgency.
The main advantage to the Schaefer method, as far as I can tell, is this: it's quick and easy, and takes essentially no skill. While the internet has told me the Schaefer method was replaced by another lifesaving method (Holger Neilson, named for a Danish fencer whose name is funnier, and which involves pressing on the resuscetee's upper back) in 1952, and eventually by mouth-to-mouth in the late '50s. Mouth-to-mouth, of course, requires way more skill, or at least more physical contact. Schaefer? Easy peasy. You can even do it on your apartment floor, while wearing sweatpants.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Glub glub
When we left each other yesterday, we had just been talking about how many, many requirements the Swimming and Life saving badges have. And through a series of emails I've received today, I'm starting to get the idea that some of you may be a little doubtful that any actual swimming took place -- after all, yesterday's video did just cut off with me expressing some reluctance to get fully into the water.
Never fear.
Strict as I may be (or may be inclined to be), know this: Wendy's neighbor, Robin, is far, far stricter than I am. While I might have been tempted to consider that swimming 200 yards total and swimming 50 yards fully dressed could overlap, Robin was having none of it. This applied across the board -- diving from the surface and diving from the surface to retrieve a 5 pound weight also didn't overlap. (This is probably for the best, really. I'm sure that the original Handbook didn't mean for the scouts to conflate one badge activity into another, so really, Robin was probably right. Plus, it meant extra swimming for me, which was probably healthier after all.)
After some convincing (it was only maybe 70 out, and the water was an easy 10 degrees colder than that), it was time. We started out with the clothed swim, then moved into the two hundred yards and the one hundred hands-less backstroke. (Let me tell you, the photography for the hands-less backstroke just looks awkward, but it went much, much better than I'd expected, and was maybe the most useful piece of the whole set of requirements. After all, if I'm saving someone, I'll need my hands for other purposes, right?)
I tried to switch up strokes in general, though it's been a long time since I really did much regular swimming.
When I was a kid, I took swimming lessons at day camp. I was much more of an indoor arts and crafts kind of kid, and my general lack of competitiveness led itself more towards basic swimming than towards kickball, volleyball, any of the standard summer camp stuff. (Besides, I was generally too independent for camp -- I didn't like the regimented schedule, either.) This leads, really, to another of the reasons why the Handbook and I are such a good match. While I was never a fast swimmer, I was an enthusiastic and solid one. I liked swimming because it was fun, not because it was something I might win. The Handbook, in fact, cautions against focusing too heavily on speed and competition in swimming -- "Speed swimming for itself alone is a very selfish sport so that the scout should develop his ability to make it generally useful to others." I keep returning to the public spiritedness of the Handbook, I know, but time and again I'm reminded that this is my favorite part of the project -- we're doing things because they're useful.
I'd forgotten a weight to dive for, but Wendy's mother, Bonnie, produced a small barbell, so I used that instead. The real difficulty there came in with the similar colors of the blue-coated barbell and the dark blue pool bottom. There was a certain amount of blind groping going on at the bottom of the pool. To be more true to the spirit of the badge, I think this would have had to take place in a lake or something with a dark, muddy bottom, so once again, I suppose the barbell camouflage will have to do.
The final piece, and maybe the best, was the actual rescuing. Wendy is a great sport, so she volunteered herself to faux-drown. I first did the release demonstrations on land, and they were no real problem -- I loosed myself from various chokeholds with no trouble at all. In the water, however, things got much more difficult.
See, here's my issue with the Life saving badge: not enough actual saving of lives. The only water-based lifesaving requirement is to demonstrate two forms of release in the water. There are two problems with this: first, there's no water depth requirement (though Wendy and I used the deep end of the pool -- it only seemed fair) and, other than those two releases (we did a wrist grab and a chokehold), there's no demonstration of pulling someone to safety or anything else lifesaving-related. For a document so concerned with completeness, the Handbook is mysteriously silent on this front. I've been trying to think of why, but I'm really coming up empty-handed on this one. Any ideas?
Regardless, Wendy was a good sport about these things and allowed me to mime k
nocking the wind out of her, breaking her wrists, all that kind of thing. Despite the lack of requirements, she also allowed me to pull her to safety (so much the better -- I secretly think this is the most practical aspect of the Life saving badge, even though it's not a real one).
By the end of the morning, I was content to award myself the Swimming badge, and I'm one demonstration of resuscitation away from Life saving. Happy end of summer, kids.
Never fear.
Strict as I may be (or may be inclined to be), know this: Wendy's neighbor, Robin, is far, far stricter than I am. While I might have been tempted to consider that swimming 200 yards total and swimming 50 yards fully dressed could overlap, Robin was having none of it. This applied across the board -- diving from the surface and diving from the surface to retrieve a 5 pound weight also didn't overlap. (This is probably for the best, really. I'm sure that the original Handbook didn't mean for the scouts to conflate one badge activity into another, so really, Robin was probably right. Plus, it meant extra swimming for me, which was probably healthier after all.)
After some convincing (it was only maybe 70 out, and the water was an easy 10 degrees colder than that), it was time. We started out with the clothed swim, then moved into the two hundred yards and the one hundred hands-less backstroke. (Let me tell you, the photography for the hands-less backstroke just looks awkward, but it went much, much better than I'd expected, and was maybe the most useful piece of the whole set of requirements. After all, if I'm saving someone, I'll need my hands for other purposes, right?)
I tried to switch up strokes in general, though it's been a long time since I really did much regular swimming.When I was a kid, I took swimming lessons at day camp. I was much more of an indoor arts and crafts kind of kid, and my general lack of competitiveness led itself more towards basic swimming than towards kickball, volleyball, any of the standard summer camp stuff. (Besides, I was generally too independent for camp -- I didn't like the regimented schedule, either.) This leads, really, to another of the reasons why the Handbook and I are such a good match. While I was never a fast swimmer, I was an enthusiastic and solid one. I liked swimming because it was fun, not because it was something I might win. The Handbook, in fact, cautions against focusing too heavily on speed and competition in swimming -- "Speed swimming for itself alone is a very selfish sport so that the scout should develop his ability to make it generally useful to others." I keep returning to the public spiritedness of the Handbook, I know, but time and again I'm reminded that this is my favorite part of the project -- we're doing things because they're useful.
I'd forgotten a weight to dive for, but Wendy's mother, Bonnie, produced a small barbell, so I used that instead. The real difficulty there came in with the similar colors of the blue-coated barbell and the dark blue pool bottom. There was a certain amount of blind groping going on at the bottom of the pool. To be more true to the spirit of the badge, I think this would have had to take place in a lake or something with a dark, muddy bottom, so once again, I suppose the barbell camouflage will have to do.
The final piece, and maybe the best, was the actual rescuing. Wendy is a great sport, so she volunteered herself to faux-drown. I first did the release demonstrations on land, and they were no real problem -- I loosed myself from various chokeholds with no trouble at all. In the water, however, things got much more difficult.
See, here's my issue with the Life saving badge: not enough actual saving of lives. The only water-based lifesaving requirement is to demonstrate two forms of release in the water. There are two problems with this: first, there's no water depth requirement (though Wendy and I used the deep end of the pool -- it only seemed fair) and, other than those two releases (we did a wrist grab and a chokehold), there's no demonstration of pulling someone to safety or anything else lifesaving-related. For a document so concerned with completeness, the Handbook is mysteriously silent on this front. I've been trying to think of why, but I'm really coming up empty-handed on this one. Any ideas?
Regardless, Wendy was a good sport about these things and allowed me to mime k
nocking the wind out of her, breaking her wrists, all that kind of thing. Despite the lack of requirements, she also allowed me to pull her to safety (so much the better -- I secretly think this is the most practical aspect of the Life saving badge, even though it's not a real one).By the end of the morning, I was content to award myself the Swimming badge, and I'm one demonstration of resuscitation away from Life saving. Happy end of summer, kids.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Swimtastic!
I don't care what the equinox says -- Labor Day is the end of summer, and that's that.
In general, honestly, I get a little glum at this time of year. It's not that I don't want to go back to work (I do, of course) -- it's just the passage of time, the (soon-emergent) chill in the air, all that. Of course, this isn't entirely the healthiest outlook, so this year I wanted to try to show summer a little appreciation on its way out.
Oh reader, I went to Long Island. And reader, I did more swimming than I have since I went to day camp.
There was a reason, of course. My dear friend Wendy is from Long Island, and she has a neighbor with a pool. A particularly tolerant neighbor, that is, one who got a phone call that went something like this: "Hi. My friend is doing Boy Scout badges. Can we go swimming in your pool in our clothes?" It is a fine, fine person who hears something like this and says yes.
See, in honor of the end of summer, and in honor of impending chilly temperatures, Wendy and I decided to tackle the Swimming and Life saving badges. So, this morning, I suited up and we headed over to Wendy's neighbor to take a dip.
The Swimming and Life saving badges are surprisingly simple, and they have a surprising amount of overlap. Swimming requires that one swims for a hundred yards, dives from the surface of the water, does any type of backstroke for fifty feet, and is proficient in the breaststroke, sidestroke, and crawl.
Life saving is a little more complicated -- rather than simply diving from the surface, the candidate has to drive into seven to ten feet of water and haul up a 5 pound sandbag. Instead of swimming one hundred yards, this time it's two (one hundred of which must be on the back without using hands, and for fifty of which the candidate has be to dressed (wearing a minimum of shirt, pants, and shoes). There are requirements regarding actual lifesaving, too -- demonstrating five methods of release (which appear to be just getting a drowning person to let go of you so you don't both drown) on land and two in the water, as well as demonstrating one particular resuscitation method.
It's been a long day, friends, so I'll tell you the rest tomorrow. (Spoiler! I don't drown.)
In general, honestly, I get a little glum at this time of year. It's not that I don't want to go back to work (I do, of course) -- it's just the passage of time, the (soon-emergent) chill in the air, all that. Of course, this isn't entirely the healthiest outlook, so this year I wanted to try to show summer a little appreciation on its way out.
Oh reader, I went to Long Island. And reader, I did more swimming than I have since I went to day camp.
There was a reason, of course. My dear friend Wendy is from Long Island, and she has a neighbor with a pool. A particularly tolerant neighbor, that is, one who got a phone call that went something like this: "Hi. My friend is doing Boy Scout badges. Can we go swimming in your pool in our clothes?" It is a fine, fine person who hears something like this and says yes.
See, in honor of the end of summer, and in honor of impending chilly temperatures, Wendy and I decided to tackle the Swimming and Life saving badges. So, this morning, I suited up and we headed over to Wendy's neighbor to take a dip.
The Swimming and Life saving badges are surprisingly simple, and they have a surprising amount of overlap. Swimming requires that one swims for a hundred yards, dives from the surface of the water, does any type of backstroke for fifty feet, and is proficient in the breaststroke, sidestroke, and crawl.
Life saving is a little more complicated -- rather than simply diving from the surface, the candidate has to drive into seven to ten feet of water and haul up a 5 pound sandbag. Instead of swimming one hundred yards, this time it's two (one hundred of which must be on the back without using hands, and for fifty of which the candidate has be to dressed (wearing a minimum of shirt, pants, and shoes). There are requirements regarding actual lifesaving, too -- demonstrating five methods of release (which appear to be just getting a drowning person to let go of you so you don't both drown) on land and two in the water, as well as demonstrating one particular resuscitation method.
It's been a long day, friends, so I'll tell you the rest tomorrow. (Spoiler! I don't drown.)
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Mannahatta and me
The overarching theme of this project so far has really been a simple one. It's not just to look at the requirements for the 1911 Boy Scout badges, but to really reflect on them and how things have changed over the past hundred years. By and large, maybe things haven't been entirely successful, but I think it's not a bad goal.
Today, though, I came across a National Geographic article about an infinitely bigger (and certainly worthier) project (thanks, mom!). The Manhattana Project is the largest, coolest science fair project ever. Taking maps and historic records from the seventeenth century, Eric Sanderson and the Wildlife Conservation Society have used GIS data to build up image upon image of what Manhattan looked like long, long before Europeans arrived. Sure, my project addresses a hundred years and a whole borough, but this project? Four hundred years, plus all of New York City. There's no contest here.
The images are pretty astonishing for a bunch of reasons. First, there's just the technical aspect. I was once a real, live scientist (and, actually, my undergrad thesis dealt a lot with GIS analysis), and it's shocking how painstaking they were. Just the process of pinning down the coordinates of location upon location, then matching those po
ints up with observations and maps is amazing.
Even more, though, is the series of then-and-now pictures. Looking at the aerial images of Manhattan is almost like seeing inside someone's Batman/Blade Runner nightmare. It's hard to look at just how dramatic the changes have been without wondering what's coming next.
Then again, should it be all bad? It's a much more complex question than just my gut reaction might make it. When we moved to New York, my husband and I both sold our cars, and the same number of people live in our apartment buliding as lived on half of our block in New Jersey, or as lived on my entire road as a child. There's a lot to be said for that kind of compression -- after all, when we cuddle up into a big, urban area, how much more open space does that preserve? Is the best environmental decision, really, to sacrifice some area (Manhattan, for example), and to simply build up up up and to be close close close until we're ready to burst?
What quality of life does that preserve? What can we afford to give up?
Today, though, I came across a National Geographic article about an infinitely bigger (and certainly worthier) project (thanks, mom!). The Manhattana Project is the largest, coolest science fair project ever. Taking maps and historic records from the seventeenth century, Eric Sanderson and the Wildlife Conservation Society have used GIS data to build up image upon image of what Manhattan looked like long, long before Europeans arrived. Sure, my project addresses a hundred years and a whole borough, but this project? Four hundred years, plus all of New York City. There's no contest here.
The images are pretty astonishing for a bunch of reasons. First, there's just the technical aspect. I was once a real, live scientist (and, actually, my undergrad thesis dealt a lot with GIS analysis), and it's shocking how painstaking they were. Just the process of pinning down the coordinates of location upon location, then matching those po
ints up with observations and maps is amazing.Even more, though, is the series of then-and-now pictures. Looking at the aerial images of Manhattan is almost like seeing inside someone's Batman/Blade Runner nightmare. It's hard to look at just how dramatic the changes have been without wondering what's coming next.
Then again, should it be all bad? It's a much more complex question than just my gut reaction might make it. When we moved to New York, my husband and I both sold our cars, and the same number of people live in our apartment buliding as lived on half of our block in New Jersey, or as lived on my entire road as a child. There's a lot to be said for that kind of compression -- after all, when we cuddle up into a big, urban area, how much more open space does that preserve? Is the best environmental decision, really, to sacrifice some area (Manhattan, for example), and to simply build up up up and to be close close close until we're ready to burst?
What quality of life does that preserve? What can we afford to give up?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Thirty-four seconds.
I failed the Army fitness test today.
I considered lying to you about it. I went over the allotted time for the 2-mile run by a healthy thirty-four seconds, and I spent some time at the laundromat today reflecting that, well, maybe if I'd jaywalked a little more aggressively, or if I'd decided to run a little earlier in the day, when there was less traffic, I could have pared away that thirty-four seconds easily. But the truth is, that would be a lie. I failed the running test because I didn't run fast enough and that's that.
I thought so hard about lying (I told myself it was just tweaking my results a little bit, honestly) that I even floated it past one of my friends, the way we look for approval when we don't really think what we're doing is right by the approval of others might make it so. Fortunately, one thing pulled me out. First, the one I wish it was: my own moral compass. I mean, how can I lie, right? Lying is bad! But the real reason is the spirit of the project itself. If the object of this project of mine is to actually complete the badgework, then my own honesty is the only thing keeping this from turning into some kind of peculiar but fictional real-time story. And that's no fun. If I start lying about silly things (say, thirty-four seconds), it can become way too easy to move into bigger lies -- did I really successfully cook an all the required food for the Camping badge? Did I convince Prospect Park to let me raise corn?
As the Handbook (and my dad, actually) remind me, a scout is trustworthy -- heck, it's the first piece of the Boy Scout Law. It's not just honesty the scout should strive for, either. "The honor of a scout is a sacred thing, and cannot be lightly set aside or trampled on." This doesn't just apply to commitments to others (foolish as they may be -- are you, internet, really going to judge me for whether or not my run time was off by thirty-four seconds?), but, more importantly, to self-respect.
Now, I know that a few days ago I had some less-than-polite words for the Handbook, in general. I had a bit to say about mouth breathing (bad!), and a bit more about frogs' legs (huh?). But this bit right here, this is a critical one for me. I really do love that the Handbook sees behavior towards others as inherently tied to a sense of self -- it's almost Golden Rule-like. It's a nice bit, and maybe my favorite part of the Handbook so far. (If you're following along at home, you can check it out at Project Gutenberg, then just move down to the "Scout Virtues" section.)
This bit here, really, is what scouting should be about, and kind of what being an actual human being should be about, too. Don't we all want to think the best of ourselves? Don't we all want to have faith in those around us?
To lie to you about thirty-four seconds. Psh. You deserve better.
(Also, a quick reference to a bee-related article in today's NY Times!)
I considered lying to you about it. I went over the allotted time for the 2-mile run by a healthy thirty-four seconds, and I spent some time at the laundromat today reflecting that, well, maybe if I'd jaywalked a little more aggressively, or if I'd decided to run a little earlier in the day, when there was less traffic, I could have pared away that thirty-four seconds easily. But the truth is, that would be a lie. I failed the running test because I didn't run fast enough and that's that.
I thought so hard about lying (I told myself it was just tweaking my results a little bit, honestly) that I even floated it past one of my friends, the way we look for approval when we don't really think what we're doing is right by the approval of others might make it so. Fortunately, one thing pulled me out. First, the one I wish it was: my own moral compass. I mean, how can I lie, right? Lying is bad! But the real reason is the spirit of the project itself. If the object of this project of mine is to actually complete the badgework, then my own honesty is the only thing keeping this from turning into some kind of peculiar but fictional real-time story. And that's no fun. If I start lying about silly things (say, thirty-four seconds), it can become way too easy to move into bigger lies -- did I really successfully cook an all the required food for the Camping badge? Did I convince Prospect Park to let me raise corn?
As the Handbook (and my dad, actually) remind me, a scout is trustworthy -- heck, it's the first piece of the Boy Scout Law. It's not just honesty the scout should strive for, either. "The honor of a scout is a sacred thing, and cannot be lightly set aside or trampled on." This doesn't just apply to commitments to others (foolish as they may be -- are you, internet, really going to judge me for whether or not my run time was off by thirty-four seconds?), but, more importantly, to self-respect.
Now, I know that a few days ago I had some less-than-polite words for the Handbook, in general. I had a bit to say about mouth breathing (bad!), and a bit more about frogs' legs (huh?). But this bit right here, this is a critical one for me. I really do love that the Handbook sees behavior towards others as inherently tied to a sense of self -- it's almost Golden Rule-like. It's a nice bit, and maybe my favorite part of the Handbook so far. (If you're following along at home, you can check it out at Project Gutenberg, then just move down to the "Scout Virtues" section.)
This bit here, really, is what scouting should be about, and kind of what being an actual human being should be about, too. Don't we all want to think the best of ourselves? Don't we all want to have faith in those around us?
To lie to you about thirty-four seconds. Psh. You deserve better.
(Also, a quick reference to a bee-related article in today's NY Times!)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Pathfinding: Found!
In honor of the end of the summer and the beginning of the school year (starting on Wednesday!), it seemed like an excellent time to wrap up the second major badge project of the summer: the Pathfinding badge.
Only one (required) step remained: to "know something of the history of the place [and] its principal public buildings." And so, in pursuit of the principal public buildings (which the Handbook suggests include
s things like town halls, etc.), I visited downtown Brooklyn.
First stop, Borough Hall, which has been (among other things) both a jail and a court. The NY Emergency Response Team was out in full force urging disaster preparedness of all sorts, largely through handing out a lot of hand sanitizer and providing a packing list for a go bag (a concept that just makes me feel to generally uncomfortable to consider creating). Despite my recent be-prepared theme, I didn't explain my current project to those kind folks. They might have thought I was weird.
I checked out the courthouses, too, both the Supreme Court building, guarded by the most bizarre possible triumvirate of
statues (Bobby Kennedy, Christopher Columbus, and Moses), and the US Court, which (I'll admit) I first imagined was a movie theater. (That glassy facade just says "let's eat popcorn!" to me.)
Finally, I was surprised (very!) to learn more about downtown Brooklyn's noble history as a hotbed of abolitionists until I spotted the statue of Henry Ward Beecher (abolitionist, adulterer, and brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe). Beecher's church was a major player in the Underground Railroad in NYC, and raised so much money for the Union Army and for emancipation that the guns wielded by Kansas' Union soldiers were referred to as "Beecher's Bibles." (Who knew I was this into history?)
So, is it time for a new badge?
I think so.
Only one (required) step remained: to "know something of the history of the place [and] its principal public buildings." And so, in pursuit of the principal public buildings (which the Handbook suggests include
s things like town halls, etc.), I visited downtown Brooklyn.First stop, Borough Hall, which has been (among other things) both a jail and a court. The NY Emergency Response Team was out in full force urging disaster preparedness of all sorts, largely through handing out a lot of hand sanitizer and providing a packing list for a go bag (a concept that just makes me feel to generally uncomfortable to consider creating). Despite my recent be-prepared theme, I didn't explain my current project to those kind folks. They might have thought I was weird.
I checked out the courthouses, too, both the Supreme Court building, guarded by the most bizarre possible triumvirate of
statues (Bobby Kennedy, Christopher Columbus, and Moses), and the US Court, which (I'll admit) I first imagined was a movie theater. (That glassy facade just says "let's eat popcorn!" to me.)Finally, I was surprised (very!) to learn more about downtown Brooklyn's noble history as a hotbed of abolitionists until I spotted the statue of Henry Ward Beecher (abolitionist, adulterer, and brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe). Beecher's church was a major player in the Underground Railroad in NYC, and raised so much money for the Union Army and for emancipation that the guns wielded by Kansas' Union soldiers were referred to as "Beecher's Bibles." (Who knew I was this into history?)
So, is it time for a new badge?
I think so.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
More running but (sadly) less bugle
I just got home from work. (For those of you on the east coast, yes, it's 9:30 PM.) Now, out of respect for my neighbors, sadly, that means no bugle. Not even taps. This is probably for the best, of course, though I may have to reconsider when I actually can do things like play taps, at which point we can consider switching things up a bit. But, for the time being, no bugle.
However, I did take the third run in four days today, for a grand total of more running than I've done in the past two years put together. I have high hopes for this section of the athletics badge, and I should be at the passing-the-run stage soon. I've been measuring the distance of my run very vaguely (oh! this seems like it's been a couple miles!) and timing it even more vaguely (oh! I put songs each of which are roughly 3 minutes long on my ipod and I've been out for 7 songs!), but I think I've got a good shot. For Thursday (I think), I'm going to actually time myself and actually run a pre-charted course. I'll keep you updated. (For the record: the Army physical fitness test standards are not actually all that stringent. It sounds tough, right? Not really.)
Other upcoming events: tomorrow (if I'm lucky), I'll get to downtown Brooklyn to complete the Pathfinding badge. Friday or Saturday I'll post my how-to-train essay (a 500-word requirement for Athletics), and Sunday and Monday there is a top-secret plan in the works. One hint: swimming fully dressed. Be prepared, folks.
Finally, a question: the Athletics badge requires that I explain the rules for one track and one field event. What field event should I investigate? (Heck, what is a field event?)
However, I did take the third run in four days today, for a grand total of more running than I've done in the past two years put together. I have high hopes for this section of the athletics badge, and I should be at the passing-the-run stage soon. I've been measuring the distance of my run very vaguely (oh! this seems like it's been a couple miles!) and timing it even more vaguely (oh! I put songs each of which are roughly 3 minutes long on my ipod and I've been out for 7 songs!), but I think I've got a good shot. For Thursday (I think), I'm going to actually time myself and actually run a pre-charted course. I'll keep you updated. (For the record: the Army physical fitness test standards are not actually all that stringent. It sounds tough, right? Not really.)
Other upcoming events: tomorrow (if I'm lucky), I'll get to downtown Brooklyn to complete the Pathfinding badge. Friday or Saturday I'll post my how-to-train essay (a 500-word requirement for Athletics), and Sunday and Monday there is a top-secret plan in the works. One hint: swimming fully dressed. Be prepared, folks.
Finally, a question: the Athletics badge requires that I explain the rules for one track and one field event. What field event should I investigate? (Heck, what is a field event?)
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