Boreal B[l]og

A recent Facebook post from a Republican-leaning group showed the picture below:

Here is what I suggest be done, and it requires only about 4 minutes:

1. “Ladies and gentlemen, will all veterans present, and only those veterans, please stand for one minute.  All others remain seated.” 
2. One minute later: “Now, will everybody stand for 1 minute of silence honoring those who died for America, both at home and abroad.”
3. A minute later: “Now, let us all sing our national anthem.”

I served this country in uniform abroad, deployed on a ship as the sole physician for an 8 month and a 3 month deployment.  I serve America as an individual every time I volunteer, help somebody, follow the laws, and try to be a good citizen.  I know the words of the National Anthem.  When played, I face the flag, come to attention, remove my hat, stay silent, and sing quietly.  When it is finished, I sit down. 

When asked to pledge allegiance to the flag, I face the flag, put my hand over my heart, and say the words with meaning, especially “to the REPUBLIC for which it stands, ONE nation,” then the next two words, added in 1954, (they weren’t Francis Bellamy’s original ones), with especial emphasis on “INDIVISIBLE, with LIBERTY and JUSTICE FOR ALL.”

Rote pledging and rote singing lessens value:  I’ve seen shabby treatment of the Pledge by both students and teachers in schools.  Every time I hear the national anthem, I am distracted by someone on a cell phone, people walking by me to find their seat, the guy in front of me with his hat on, or my neighbors chatting.  I don’t know if they are Republicans or Democrats.  They are likely both…and rude.

Before the national anthem, I find the nearest flag. Then, when the music starts, I look at the top star on the left, Delaware, the first state, where I grew up.  I look at the thirteen stripes, remembering 13 colonies winning independence against heavy odds, we fought the bloodiest war in our history to keep the Union intact from those who fought to divide us, what has happened so often in Europe. The Union is our strength, even the parts I don’t like, parts that are now patriotic, but fought us 150 years ago under another flag.

I look at the red stripes, meaning courage.  I remember the Americans who died at Bunker Hill, Belleau Wood, Corregidor,  Midway, Guadalcanal, Chosin Reservoir, in the skies over Europe, Okinawa, Da Nang, Hue, Fallujah, or Kabul; every one of these places should be known by every American, regardless of how necessary the conflict was. “I have not yet begun to fight;” “Retreat?  Hell no, we just got here;” and “Nuts” should be taught in the schools. I bet kids would enjoy learning where they came from.

The white stands for honor and purity: the Marshall Plan, counting our dead. The Flag and Pledge deserve respect, regardless of one’s feelings.  So does the office an elected official holds.  One may dislike the holder, but the office deserves respect. I disliked the senators in the state where I once lived, but I dressed appropriately and was polite if I went to their offices to complain.   Disagreeing with the Pledge, Flag, or Anthem is a right; that is what America is about.  So is respect and honor.

The blue stands for justice, the most difficult of the three, which is why I emphasize the word when I recite the Pledge.  If I don’t like a law, I work to change it, not willfully violate it.  We are a REPUBLIC, not a free-for-all, pick and choose society.

• The flag should be lighted at all times, either by sunlight or by an appropriate light source.  

• The flag should be flown in fair weather, unless designed for inclement weather use.       

• The flag should not be used as part of a costume or athletic uniform, except that a flag patch may be used on the uniform of military personnel, firemen, or policemen.  Sports teams may have individuals of their sponsors contribute to any number of veterans organizations or the USO (my words). 

• When the flag is lowered, no part of it should touch the ground or any other object.  To store the flag it should be folded neatly and ceremoniously. [Try to do that properly sometime.  It is difficult.] 

• When a flag is so worn it is no longer fit to serve as a symbol of our country, it should be destroyed by burning in a dignified manner.

In 2005, I was one of 300 correcting AP Statistics Papers in Lincoln.  At one meeting, all the veterans in the audience were asked to stand.  I was pleasantly honored, but there weren’t many of us.  Maybe this is how we get children to serve.  Some day, maybe they want to stand up and out from the crowd.  Before the minute of silence, I suggest the organizers dedicate the time to honor those Americans, here or abroad, who fought with weapons or words.  The choice should be respectful, meaningful, and educational, not jingoistic.

“Tonight, a minute of silence preceding the singing of the national anthem will be to remember the courageous Marines who served and died at Belleau Wood, Chosin Reservoir and Guadalcanal.”  Every American ought to know these places.  Yes, every.

“Tonight’s minute of silence is dedicated to those who kept West Berlin free during the Berlin Airlift, their honor and courage a proud moment in our history.”

“Tonight’s moment of silence is dedicated to those who died in the continuing struggle for Civll Rights in this country, seeking justice under the law.”  Some in the South might object; the African-American players they idolize would not.

“Tonight’s moment of silence is dedicated to those who stood up for science against tremendous pressure and saved American lives, like Dr. Frances Kelsey (banned thalidomide) or Dr. Richard Feynmann (Challenger disaster).”

Then, we can sing the national anthem with meaning, proud of who we are as a people.

I don’t care what we pick, so long as it is American.  Controversial?  Use judgment. Perhaps a young boy will Google “Guadalcanal” and learn about Henderson Field, the Sullivan Brothers, “The Slot,” and Ironbottom Sound.  Or remember another Philadelphia, in a southern state, that I’ve never forgotten.

Perhaps some man will be at a business meeting the next day and hear, “We can’t do that in fewer than two weeks.”

He might reply, “They said that about the USS Yorktown, but fixed her in 48 hours.  She was sunk at Midway, but her planes helped sink all 4 Japanese carriers, and stopped Japanese expansion in the Pacific.”

Click yes if you think that teaching Americans at sporting events what this country stands for is a good idea.  Might even be a step towards getting people to serve her and bring us together again.

I live in Eugene near the freeway dividing it from Springfield:  two cities, two different worlds.  Most have heard of Eugene:  the University of Oregon. Springfield is poorer.  One immediately notices the change upon crossing the McKenzie River.  The houses are smaller, there are strip joints, pawn shops, bars for loggers, but no sign of the University of Oregon.  One of the high schools is for problem students. There are no IB (International Baccalaureate) high schools or even Duck Stores in Springfield.  Eugene has three of each.

There is a divide even in Eugene, evident when one rides the bus, which I often do.  A neighbor has lived here for decades and has never ridden it.  In a week, I had been all over both cities.  I know many schedules, the routes, and never am concerned if I get lost, because I will learn something.

Many poor people ride the bus, because it is far cheaper than having a car:  insurance costs alone are more than a year’s fare.  I’d say 90% of riders have some type of pass.  I do. I see single mothers hauling large bags of groceries, maybe with a child or two in tow.  There are students, with no other way to travel, the disabled, who can easily get on the bus and strapped in. The bus allows cheap, efficient mobility for many who would otherwise have no way to get what they needed.

The riders are polite.  I’ve never been yelled at, nor have I seen unruly behavior, although it must exist.  Daily, I see a lot worse from vehicle drivers. People who take the bus often strike up a conversation when I meet them at a bus stop or on the bus.  They thank the driver when they get off.  They are ordinary people: young and old, male and female, poor and …. poor.  They call me “Sir” and offer a seat, which I politely decline.  They are trying to get by.  I see many of these same people when I pick up my medication at Wal-Mart. I find myself becoming more polite and tolerant in the presence of those who have little, perhaps because I realize how much I have.  I made it to 65; Steve Jobs didn’t make it to 60, or even 57.  I struggle to learn German; but millions of people would give much to speak English the way I do.

Recently, on a rainy day, I decided against taking the bus home, walking instead. I got some hot chocolate at Dutch Brothers, chatted with the clerk, and left a decent tip:  a year ago, I would not have done any of the three. Columnist “Dear Prudence” once wrote how important tips are to service workers.  It matters. I walked home along the Willamette River, in flood, spotted a man, stopping to talk.  This is difficult for me to do; last year I would have continued walking. Lately, however, many on the other side of the fortune divide have become easier for me to talk to, this man’s being no exception.  His face had a lot of miles on it; he had ridden his bike from Springfield, in the rain, just to watch the river.

We talked about the water’s going to the sea, rather than California, which needs it, or to storage, where it could be used later in a variety of ways. He told me that the large, empty, moss-covered pipe behind me was once going to be used to pump water elsewhere.  What happened, he didn’t know.  I had wondered about that pipe. I wonder how many rich folks looked at the river, really high, the whole character different.  If you are a mover and a shaker, you often don’t have time for these sorts of things.  Charisma, looks, ability to pitch ideas, money, and business plans are on one side of the divide.

I’m on the other side: I am old, neither good looking, charismatic nor a businessman.   But on my side is an intense curiosity about the world.  Perhaps if others came across, they would discover useful ideas from a curious old man: a safe way to report and learn from medical errors, how to conserve resources, especially fresh water; how to count outcomes of high risk medical procedures; the need for mandatory national service; keeping public schools open evenings and weekends for tutoring, by volunteers like me, who know how to make the material relevant.  We also need to get kids outside to see nature, the rhythms of the sky, listen to the music of the spheres, smell, and touch the Earth. I keep trying to open the door to my side of the divide.

The man from Springfield listened, as I computed aloud the approximate volume of water passing us.  I mused if we could build an oil pipeline across Alaska, we could build a waterline to Lake Shasta, in northern California.  I called fresh water 21st century oil, which he thought interesting.  We have enough water; we must use it better.  He listened.  Maybe he didn’t understand me; maybe I didn’t, either, but we both knew a big opportunity was being lost.  He and I were on the same side of the curious-not curious divide, the side where one lives usually decided in early childhood by whether parents allow kids to be curious. I was lucky; I grew up in a household where you could ask three questions about a topic at the dinner table.  I was taught to be curious, and that curiosity required asking good questions.

Crossing a few divides has made me happier, perhaps because I am more grateful for what I have.  I smile more, which others return.  They talk, thank me for allowing them to sit, or tolerating their child.  I’m not part of their side of the divide, but traveling there has taught me compassion.

“Damn it!  The snipes turned the water off just as I got soaped up!!”  The First Lieutenant on my ship (head of the Deck Department) had been in the shower when the engineers (we called them “snipes”) had suddenly instituted “water hours”; fresh water was no longer available for the crew.  

In the Navy, fresh water was required for our two steam boilers that turned the screw and provided power.  Toilets used salt water.  When the boilers had enough fresh water, then it was made available for the crew.  If we were short on fresh water, we had “water hours,” restricting water for a few hours a day.  I took “Navy showers,” where I turned the water on, got wet, then turned it off.  Then I soaped up, quickly turned on the shower, and rinsed.  End.  My wife tells me I take infinitesimally short showers.  I do.  I was a Navy shipboard doc for 2 years: Forty years later, I still say “Sir,” wear my hair short, line up my shirt and zipper, and take Navy showers.

My showers last 1 minute, 90 seconds tops.  Counting waiting for hot water, I use 2-3 gallons per shower.  I can’t imagine a 10 minute shower. Using low flow shower heads to cut use from 30 to 15 gallons to me is ludicrous.  We ought to be using 5. Brushing teeth with the tap running (10 gallons) is unbelievably wasteful.  I use 1 gallon per week.  My breath is fine, and I see a dentist twice a year.  I use an electric shaver; when I use blades, my water use is a pint, not a gallon.

Over time, in the desert, we learned “when it’s yellow, be mellow; when it’s brown, flush it down.”  I flushed the toilet once daily.  As the drought intensified and became semi-permanent in the southwest, we did more: we collected the cold water when we turned on the shower, waiting for it to warm, using it to water trees outside that shaded the house.  We collected gray water from the washing machine, realizing how much we used, watering the trees.  Our sewer bill decreased, too.  In addition to garbage barrels collecting water from the roof, I installed gutters and bought a 200 and three 65 gallon containers.  We were rainwater harvesting before the term was coined.

I found a leak under the main road to our house where water came up through the pavement. Nobody else called it in, although hundreds drove over it daily.  I saved well over a million gallons.  That is 3 acre-feet, a number that everybody ought to know: 1 acre flooded to 1 foot is 325,000 gallons.  That’s easy high school math.  Here is more: There are 7.5 gallons in a cubic foot; 100 cubic feet= 1 CCF=750 gallons= 43.5 CCF per acre foot.  It is our water use for a year, and we conserve.  You can’t understand water problems without understanding numbers and math.  Water hours.

Last summer, I noted a little water running down the street.  I traced it to a house where the family was away.  Stuck sprinklers watered an unnecessary lawn (all lawns in the desert should be banned), wasting 9000 gallons a day, 3 months of our use, until I called that in, too, and their water was turned off.  Water hours.  Yet, the more we did, the more was wasted.  A golf course used regular water, not reclaimed; golf in the desert should be severely restricted, use reclaimed water, and cost much more to play, especially on private courses.  Water hours.

Half of the water used in Phoenix, where water bills are less than Boston (look it up), is for landscaping and swimming pools.  I’d ban new pools and severely limit the landscaping to drip irrigation and shade trees that cool houses.  Water hours.

The Central Arizona Project loses 4.4% of its water annually, nearly 100,000 acre-feet, due to evaporation and leaks.  Covering it would have quadrupled the cost, then $4.4 billion.  Maybe we should begin covering it with solar panels. India and the Netherlands do it.  Given that an acre-foot of water for many fruit trees is worth about $2000, farmers can buy it for $500 and sell it to developers for nearly $6000, Arizona could be losing $50-200 million a year. Covering the Canal starts looking reasonable.

Driving through California’s Central Valley, one sees many signs protesting water use laws and blasting politicians.  California is in an historic drought, yet people act as if the supply is unlimited.  Why is the per capita water use in Fresno five times that of Boston?  Why do restaurants automatically serve water?  California needs water hours, not voluntary cutbacks.  Fresh water is 21st century oil, and if we treated oil this way, one low monthly payment for fuel would entitle one to as much gas as he wanted.  This is crazy; however, half the homes in Sacramento have no water meters. California is a huge producer of food, leading the nation in irrigated acres, using about 33 million acre feet a year, 40 million state-wide.

Some forms of agriculture produce high cash value crops, like almonds; others don’t require as much, like some vegetables.  Alfalfa is water intensive, transpiring a great deal; 70% is fed to cattle to make milk products. When a place has too many people, too few regulations, and tries to grow plants that don’t belong in a place that gets 10-11 inches in a good year (3-5 in a bad), there is a recipe for trouble.  There is a lot of waste.  Water hours.

Water harvesting should be mandatory for new houses.  An inch of rain on 1000 sq ft of roof produces 600 gallons of soft water. My homeowners association was upset about “unsightly” water collection devices.  This is absolutely inane.  A square mile of roofs, about 16,000 normal size houses, in a place with 12 inches of rain a year, produces 1000 acre feet.  Not enough.  But triple that, using more houses and large  buildings, and increase it 69 fold, to deal with all cities of more than 100,000 in California, and you have 207,000 acre feet.  Add in other cities, and the number could be a third of a million.  The average family uses 80 gallons a day for “bathing”.  That should be fewer than 40.  Fifteen million families?  Six hundred million gallons, nearly 2000 acre feet, just by restricting water use a little. Mandatory rationing cut St. Helena’s use by a third….in 2 weeks.  Water hours. 

Given that people kayak in Phoenix, and misters are used to cool people at restaurants, misuse of water is not likely to disappear. I saw them running at a Tucson restaurant 6 hours before opening.  If that is self-regulation, then they should be banned.  Water hours.

Drip irrigation saves water and increases tomato yield.  While labor intensive, I am looking at long term, not short term.  Many in California are hoping March storms will save them, not at all likely, rather than having instituted mandatory cuts 9 months ago. I saw irrigation in Kern County last October that was watering barren field and a nearby roadway near Wasco.  Time, date and place upon request.  Water hours.

Fix leaks.  On board ship, leaks cost us 80 gallons a day.  A faucet losing a drop a second loses 2000 gallons a year.  Think we have a few of those around?  A hundred and sixty waste an acre foot annually.  Think there might be a million of them in LA?  That’s 6000 acre feet.  Ten million in California?  60,000 acre feet.  Stuck flapper valves in a toilet waste water.  Hire people to check toilets in all municipalities.  Fresno had unlimited water use with flat rate billing until 2010; drop per capita consumption to national levels, and one city alone would save 90,000 acre feet.  Water hours.

In a state where another million acre feet of water is desperately needed, I have outlined a way to get perhaps half.  I bet my estimations are lowball.  Utilities should price water appropriately, not raise rates when demand drops, as some do.  Keep rates high for excessive and truly unnecessary water use:  golf courses, misters, families with lawns in arid climates, those with pools, those who won’t fix leaks.  Agriculture needs to be realistic about what can and cannot be reasonably grown in arid climates.  Water use needs to be regulated.  That’s politics, but people will not regulate themselves, unless  one is having a wet dream, pun intended.  

We need 21st century thinking on water, rather than those born in the 20th century thinking in terms of the 19th. We are all on a ship, and fresh water is limited.

Time for water hours.

In my moves to Oregon, I  travelled through California, staying overnight, since I drove alone.  Going up, I stopped in Fresno; on the way back, at Bakersfield.  Hauling a trailer, it was a difficult two days, and I was tired, not always in the best mood when I arrived.  I had awakened early, driven well over 700 miles, and had the same ahead of me the following day.

At one hotel, the lobby was full of friends of the night clerk, who was wearing a Fresno State sweatshirt.  That was fine, I thought; maybe she is going to school there and working nights.  The room, however, was not so fine.  As a matter of fact, it hadn’t been made up, something I have encountered before.  It’s very disconcerting. Once, I was told that wasn’t possible. That’s not smart to say to a customer.

I returned to the lobby and asked for another room, explaining the problem.  There was a look of disbelief, but I bit my tongue and stated the facts.  I was given another room, actually more convenient, on the ground floor, but the key didn’t work in the door.  Problem 2.  Now, I was getting annoyed.  I had been on the road about 13 hours, and I just wanted a room.  Finally, I got a key to work, but the handle was stuck.  I returned yet again, and finally got in the room.

There were no apologies, no sense of embarrassment, and no sense of realizing I was a stranger in their town.  That happens too often, even when–or perhaps because–a person is old, like I am.

The next day, I checked out, and nobody asked me anything.  I didn’t say anything, either.  In a way, I understand the lack of interest.  Many who work the night shift, and I have, aren’t paid well, chronically poor, and are trying to get by.  They aren’t in any better mood than I am.  In a sense, their whole life is full of 750 mile daily drives with a trailer, except they are going nowhere.  I try to keep that in mind when I eat at Denny’s, leaving a larger than usual tip, even for poor service, because these people need the money, and I can afford the extra $2 that might just make their day.  Dear Prudence, a Slate columnist, taught me that, when some stockbroker wrote her and said people didn’t deserve great tips.  She ripped him a new one as only Dear Prudence can.

Fast forward a few months, and I am back in Fresno, now at a different motel, because I vote with my wallet. I had the sense to stop early at a Denny’s in Bakersfield for dinner.  The manager had a problem customer at the cash register, who couldn’t figure out his discount and answered “none” for tip. Yes, he was rude, but she should have asked somebody to seat me sooner.  I waited a long time, but the waitress was good and quick.  When I wanted to pay, I could have done without the customer ahead of me using a $100 bill, so the waitress had to find the manager to get change.  Still, I gave the waitress a good tip and arrived in Fresno more rested, but still tired.  I parked the car and trailer where I could, and as I walked to the reception, a woman ran up to me, asking me if I were checking in.  I said I was, and she opened the door for me.  She had checked on another room.  She might have even made it up.

The young woman asked me whether I wanted upstairs or downstairs. That I appreciated, as was the chance to move the car-trailer closer to the room.  I noted her pleasant accent, thought she was South Asian, and asked where she was from: India.  We started talking about India and her life.

Her father wanted her to marry some rich man who would care for her.  She didn’t like that idea and came here in 2007.  She has earned a BSN, now working on her MSN.  Because of regulations, she is not allowed to teach English, although hers is impeccable.  I can understand keeping jobs for locals, but we need many more good English teachers.  I had the same drive, the same stress, but I spent 15 unnecessary, but interesting minutes with the check in clerk. She felt her job was important, because it was a job, and jobs mattered.  She was going to be successful, and if she stayed here, America will do well by her.

The only problem with my stay was a stuck flapper valve in the toilet the next morning, which I adjusted.  Had the same woman been on duty, I would have told her when I checked out.  Alas, somebody took my key and only said good by.

Thoughts to the American hotel industry:  Talk to your customers. Show some interest in them using body language and tone of speech.  I taught myself to watch body language, and I can spot interest or disinterest in me in a moment.  I also can effectively use my body language to say things I wouldn’t dare say verbally. Tell your employees to learn to read and to use body language; it is far more important than “Have a nice day.”

Thoughts to American business:  Stop your “3-4 minute” surveys. I’m not interested, and I doubt most are. They are statistically invalid and poorly written. You want to make the customer happy?  Fix broken systems.  Every time a customer complains, you have a broken system. Fix the system, and listen to your employees, too, for they likely know a lot more about your customers and systems than you might think. You ought to ask every customer one question, only one absolutely essential question:

“How could we have helped you better?”  Trust me, people will speak.