culture – Page 10 – Life In A Word

(Not far from) Madding Crowds

Last night, the University of Nebraska women’s volleyball team played the fourth match of their 2023 campaign. College volleyball doesn’t get much coverage sharing seasons with (American) football, but this match made the sports headlines for several reasons. One, it was played outdoors. Two, it was played in Nebraska’s massive Memorial Stadium (normally a football venue). And three – most notably – the Huskers brought home the straight-sets win in front of 90,000 riotous fans… at $25 a ticket.

I know what you’re thinking. How do you get 90,000 people to cough up $25 for a college volleyball match? Well, it helps to throw in a country music concert for starters. Then add a second match to double the volleyball (Nebraska-Kearney vs. Wayne State). Finally, most importantly, let fans know they just might break the regular-season attendance record for a women’s volleyball match… the same attendance record that volleyball rival Wisconsin stole from Nebraska just last season.

It fascinates me to read about sports competitions played in front of massive sold-out stadiums, weekend after weekend. Nebraska has filled those same 90,000 seats for every Husker football game for the past sixty years (making the venue the “third-largest city in Nebraska” for several hours each Saturday). Michigan’s Wolverines compete in the largest college stadium in America – 108,000 seats – with every seat taken more often than not. And like Nebraska’s volleyball match last night, my fascination is not just with the number of fans but also with how much they’re willing to pay. I’m in the market for tickets for my beloved Notre Dame; the football team headed to nearby Clemson later this season. Unless I’m looking for a nosebleed I’ll be paying north of $450 no matter where I sit.

My weekends are busy so I’m lucky to watch a football game on TV, let alone attend one in person. Yet every Saturday (and Sunday with the NFL) you have tens of thousands of fans gladly opening their wallets and purses to do just that. It’s a loud, colorful thread (rope?) in the fabric of American society.

Major League Baseball (MLB), with an average of 45,000 seats per stadium, is even more confounding to me. In an endless spring-summer season of 162 games, half are played at the team’s home stadium. The majority of those seats are taken by season ticket-holders. With an average ticket price of $36 you’re handing over $3,000 for the season before you’ve even seen the first game. Besides, who has the time to watch so many baseball games (mostly at night)? Do what my friends back in Colorado do: split the season ticket in half with another fan and sell most of the tickets to family and friends. You’ll make a small profit and still go to as many baseball games as you can stomach.

My appetite for baseball games is about two a season; that’s it. Frankly I enjoy sitting outside in the summer air beside a friend as much as I do the game itself. Otherwise, keep me far from those madding crowds. The investment of time, money, effort (and sometimes hassle) to watch a game in person is almost always won over by the convenience, commentary, and cameras of television.

Of course, this is sports we’re talking about. If the topic was music and concerts, my post would take on a decidedly different “tone” (heh). Tempt me with a chart-topper from the 1980s – Billy Joel comes to mind – and I’d give up the time and money to see a live performance. Even better, dangle classical concert tickets in front of me, such as the San Diego Symphony at its cozy waterfront bandshell, or a summer concert in the outdoor gardens of Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace (see below video). Classical concert crowds are not nearly as madding as those for sports.

Nebraska is a five-time national volleyball champion

About that regular-season attendance record for a women’s volleyball match. Wisconsin set the bar with an impressive 16,833 fans last season by filling its basketball arena. Nebraska’s official tally last night was 92,003 fans… more than five times as many (on a Wednesday night, no less). Way to crush those rival Badgers, Husker Nation. That’s what I call a madding crowd.

Some content sourced from the ESPN article, “How Nebraska volleyball plans to pack Memorial Stadium”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

The Times of Sand

I’ve often thought the airport is the best place to people-watch. With downtime while you wait for your flight and the close proximity to others, it’s inevitable you’re going to look around. Every kind of person can be found at the airport (sporting every size, shape, fashion statement, stress level, and age). Travelers are unknowingly entertaining to those who watch them. But today let’s explore perhaps an even better venue where people do their thing: the beach.

As I type today, a sweeping look at the sandy shore beyond my patio shows me (in no particular order): A mother and daughter in animated conversation with a lifeguard; a group of teenagers (male) playing an aggressive form of beach four-square called Spikeball; another group of teenagers (female) sprawled on beach towels in giggly conversation; a father dragging his young son through the shallow waves on a boogie-board; a surfer wiping out in the not-so-shallow waves further out; and an ambitious child shoveling dirt out of a divot of sand as if digging to China.

I look away for a second and then look again: A pack of aggressive seagulls pecking away at someone’s leftovers aside their abandoned beach chair; that same lifeguard sprinting into the water to rescue a struggling swimmer; an older couple having a (clearly) not-so-happy conversation at the water’s edge; a jogger attempting to put in the miles while dodging the less active in his way; and a paused beach volleyball game where the players can’t determine if the ball hit the (sand) line or not.

It’s a rare treat when I can create a blog post from the goings-on on right in front of me, but the beach allows me to do just that. More to today’s point, an active beach like this one changes character throughout the day. In other words, there are the sands of time and then there are the times of sand:

Dawn: Seagulls, sand, and surf. The beach at its most peaceful and pristine.
Early morning: Serious runners at the shore (unlike the casual joggers later in the day); an Asian elder performing a standing form of meditative yoga; a surf camp for pre-teens to the north; a lifeguard training camp for teens to the south; a pickup truck clearing the trash from the evenly-spaced cans.
Mid-morning: The gradual arrival of the masses (and all they bring with them). Also the arrival of the lifeguards, with bright cones marking the “no-man’s land” for emergency vehicles, flags indicating the adjacent street number so people know where to find you, and more flags to mark the beach’s “surf zone” versus “swim zone”.
Midday: Everything I observed at the start of this post (and so much more).
Mid-afternoon: The gradual departure of the masses, and (hopefully) all they brought with them. Also the departure of the lifeguards, signing off with a megaphone farewell to those who remain behind.
Early evening: The ritual of the sun-worshippers, who simply must remain behind to witness the (West Coast) sunset. There’s nothing like a setting sun to bring a person to a focused standstill.
Dark: An umbrella of stars, a rhythmic ribbon of white foam as the waves crash to shore, and an occasional party of two out for a romantic stroll at the water’s edge.

Trust me, it’s easy to be mesmerized by the times of sand if you watch them long enough. They’re the reason I never make progress with my latest “summer read”, and the reason I can abandon my electronic devices for hours at a time. Frankly, it’s a wonder I was able to turn away from the sands long enough to bring you this blog post today.

Solitary Singles

A recent study of lifestyles determined the eight healthy habits that can add the most years to a human life. It’s a list of what to do (four) and what not to do (another four) to live longer. All eight are fairly commonsense, but one in particular stood out to me: Surround yourself with positive social relationships. You’ll increase your chances of a longer life by five percent, and you won’t be able to claim COVID-y words like “lonely” and “isolated”.

Let’s not make this a sad blog post, okay? I could spend the rest of my paragraphs talking about loneliness and isolation, but why bother when so many musicians have already done so before me? “Lonely” songs go back decades. In 1960, one of the biggest solitary singles was Roy Orbison’s Only The Lonely. The same year, Elvis released Are You Lonesome Tonight? And anybody who remembers the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby (1966) knows Eleanor’s story is all about loneliness.

The 1960s is a little too far back for my purposes. I’d rather focus on two more recent songs you know (from popular re-recordings) and another one you might know. One thing’s for sure; all three play in my brain now and again, but especially when I’m “Alone” or “All by Myself”.

Alone

The power ballad made famous by Heart (and then Celine Dion) is not so much about being alone but about wanting to be with a particular someone else… but not being able to. “Alone’s” lyrics voice the frustration of a romantic longing. It’s more about how do I get you alone than actually being alone. There’s even this suggestion of before versus after: Till now I always got by on my own. But the song’s final lines – nothing but repeating, wailing, unsatisfied “alones” – gets me every time. Heart’s version of “Alone” spent three weeks at #1 on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 and still makes an occasional appearance on the radio.

All by Myself

Even though this was another Celine Dion’s hit (what’s with all the loneliness, Celine?), no one who lived through the 1970s would ever take “All by Myself” away from Eric Carmen. The song hit #2 on Billboard’s Top 100 and sold more than a million copies (back when listeners actually purchased music). “All by Myself” is also categorized as a power ballad; “a style of music that often deals with romantic or intimate relationships… usually in a solemn but poignant manner”. The second verse is a good example:

Livin’ alone
I think of all the friends I’ve known
But when I dial the telephone
Nobody’s home

Like “Alone”, there’s no happy ending to “All by Myself”. In fact, the lyrics are disconsolate from start to finish (yet somehow they work). Also, trivia buffs, you’ll hear the song’s melody in the second movement of Sergei Rachmaninoff’s classical Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, which is odd but intentional.

Alone Again (Naturally)

I find it fascinating when a song sounds happy but really isn’t. Maybe that’s why Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again (Naturally)” has stayed with me all these years. It’s easily the “loneliest” song of the three I cover today, and seems to take pride in being so from start to finish. “Alone Again” manages to pack suicide, being left at the altar, wondering if there’s a God, and losing one’s parents into a single set of lyrics, layered on top of a merry duet of piano and guitar. The song spent six weeks at #1 on the U.S. Billboard Top 100 and was re-recorded by several others, including two American Neils (Diamond and Sedaka). But it’s Irishman O’Sullivan’s rendition I’ll always hear in my head.

Regarding those healthy habits I mentioned earlier, I think my report card’s looking pretty good. So good in fact, I can enjoy these chart-topping “lonely” songs without getting down. I hope you can do the same.

Some content sourced from the CNN article, “These 8 habits could add up to 24 years to your life, study says”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Rocket Men (and Women)

A year from today, we’ll all be glued to our televisions and tablets watching the Olympic Games in Paris. I will be glued, at least. The Summer Games get me all fired up, especially the track and field events. Especially especially the field events. I mean, c’mon, you can watch running all year long, but how often do you get to see a javelin thrown, a discus tossed, or a shot “put”? (and how often do you even say “javelin” or “discus”?) But one field event tops all others. There’s simply nothing more gawky-entertaining than a human launched into space by a pole.

If you live in a two-story place with a fairly flat roof, it might be a little unnerving to learn Swedish-American pole vaulter Armand Duplantis can jump over your house. While the rest of us have to walk around at ground level to get to your backyard, Armand will simply sprint up your front path, plant his pole in your rose bushes, launch himself past the bedroom windows and between the chimneys, and make a splash landing in your swimming pool. Armand can do this because he can pole vault 20.4 feet, a world record he set last February. It’s the fifth time this twenty-something has broken his own world record.

Pole vaulting is a truly bizarre sequence of movements constituting an Olympic event. The vaulter balances a long fiberglass pole in one hand while sprinting down a rubber-surfaced runway. Just before running out of runway he or she raises the pole overhead with both hands, stabs the leading end into a boxed area on the ground, and pushes… hard. The ensuing bend of the pole and a whole lot of momentum hoists the vaulter into the air, feet first. With gymnastic flair, the vaulter then rotates his or her body around to be facing a high horizontal bar, just as gravity counters flight. The final flop back to Earth (and onto a giant cushion) is typically punctuated with a mid-air fist pump if the bar is successfully cleared.

Imagine that exhilarating feeling when a pole vaulter is at peak height, pointing skyward, feet above body, pole released, practically cruising into the earth’s atmosphere. As Elton John sings “… it’s gonna be a long, long time ’til touchdown brings me round again…”

Four Olympic field events involve jumping: 1) pole vault, 2) long jump, 3) high jump, and 4) triple jump (the ol’ “hop, skip, and jump”). None of the last three hold my interest because they’re easy to do. But not pole vaulting, not even close. Launching my body even a few feet off the ground with a bendy pole? Let’s just agree, I am no Rocket Man.

Pole vaulting brings to mind two questions (or three if you include Why in heaven’s name does anyone do this?). First question: What happens if the pole breaks? Seriously, sports equipment fails. Golf clubs break in two with enough swings. Tennis racket strings get loose. At some point a pole vault pole will bend one too many times. Yikes. Second question: How does the pole translate horizontal energy into vertical energy? It’s a physics problem akin to the catapult, but I’d have to go back to high school to solve it. No thanks.

The origin of pole vaulting is a bit of a letdown. My too-many-movies imagination pictured a medieval war, with soldiers clearing castle walls on long pieces of bamboo. Instead, pole vaulting is a rough translation of an old technique used to scale narrow natural obstacles, like watery marshes. Get a running start, plant the pole, and sail from one side of the marsh to the other. But those poles don’t bend, and nobody cares how high you go as long as you make it over. So you see, even the origin of pole vaulting is gawky.

The pole vaulting world record was eighteen feet in 1970. Fifty years later it’s been pushed two feet higher. Do the math; maybe we’ll be clearing one hundred feet by the year 2773. But we’ll probably have flying cars by then as well, so any interest in humans launched by poles will be gone. My advice: watch the Paris Games, especially the pole vault. These rocket men and women won’t be around forever.

Some content sourced from the CNN article, “Olympic champion Armand Duplantis…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Oliver Twist

Because of the numbering system I use to save photos for my blog, I know last week’s dish on ice cream (ha) was my four-hundredth WordPress post. I’m not one to track statistics but unexpectedly, reaching this milestone begs the question: Will I make it to #500? Mind you, it’s not about staying in the game. Topics worth my exploration are endless and creative writing is a welcome escape. No, today begs a much more relevant question: What about artificial intelligence (AI)?

If I could meet you readers face-to-face in the Amazon rain forest I’d whisper a secret password for all to hear. Then when I use that password in a post, you’d know it’s actually me, Dave, the human, and not some updated version of HAL 9000 doing the typing. Surely you wonder, as I do, when will AI get so good at authoring documents, so genuine, you won’t even realize you’re reading something untouched by human hands?

Before we go any further, I think “AI” sounds awfully impersonal. I suppose impersonal is appropriate for a silicone wafer and a pile of circuit boards. I just think we need a friendlier word for it; something we humans can better identify with. How about “Oliver”? Oliver is the third most popular boy name of 2023. Oliver Twist was one of Charles Dickens’ most beloved characters (and AI will certainly be a twist on the way we ask for and receive information moving forward). Let’s nickname it (him?) Ollie.

Wikipedia’s article on artificial intelligence (yes, there’s already an article) says one of Ollie’s primary goals is problem-solving. Okay, that digests well. But then you see goals like reasoning, learning, perception, and social intelligence and your stomach flips a flop. My reasoning and perception are tools I use for this blog. If Ollie develops those same tools, it’s only a matter of time before Dave 1.0 (me) is replaced by Dave 2.0 (machine).

Let’s go back to ice cream for a second. Let’s say you want to read an opinion piece on ice cream. If you have AI at your disposal, you could say, “Hey Ollie, write me a post about ice cream, 600 words or so, with arguments in favor of plain old ice cream over sundaes, bars, and other frozen treats. Reference a few commercial ice cream brands, a few local brands, and finish by talking about the most expensive ice cream in the world. Oh, and speak the page back to me in James Earl Jones’s voice.” Then you’d hit the ENTER button and who knows? Your screen might light up with something remarkably similar to my last post in Life In A Word.

Also consider, Ollie will have his own opinions on what you read. After you ask about ice cream, he may spam you with posts on healthy lifestyle. He also may counsel you about spending your time on more important topics. Like world peace. Newsflash, Ollie. We’re all trying to figure out world peace. How about you put your circuit boards together and come up with a post on that?

Here’s my point. If you have Ollie you don’t need me. In fact, you don’t even need the WordPress platform. You could simply slip on a VR headset and ask for a post with just the right topic, tone, reading level, length, and restrictions. It’s like placing an order at the drive-thru of a fast food restaurant. Seconds later, what you asked for is right there in front of you (no paper bag necessary). And if Ollie “reads” all four hundred of my posts, he’ll write it pretty much the same way I would.

At the rate I’m posting, I’ll publish blog #500 in about two years. Two years. Considering all we’ve covered today, how advanced will Ollie be in two years? Enough to put WordPress out of business? Enough to where you can generate your own Life In A Word posts by simply entering a handful of carefully chosen criteria? I hope not. I’m having a good time with you people (especially those of you who also write blogs). Maybe all of us should pick up and move to the rain forest. Then we could pass our handwritten pages around and keep this ~~artificial~~ intelligent party going. Someone make sure Ollie doesn’t get an invite.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Cream of the (Dessert) Crop

A week ago last Tuesday, Salt Lake City hosted its first ever drone show of “fireworks”, replacing the traditional explosives residents have come to expect over the downtown park. The drones create colorful shapes and animations in the sky – even giant words – as well as a pretty good impression of the blooms and starbursts of fireworks. But let’s be honest: drones don’t replace fireworks. The same can be said for the frozen treats aiming to be more popular than, say, a simple serving of ice cream.

On the heels of Independence Day, America has another celebration coming up. National Ice Cream Day is the third Sunday of July in our country (and July itself National Ice Cream Month!) The “holiday” was signed into public law in the mid-1980s when Congress apparently had nothing better to do. So how do you and I “celebrate” ice cream? No clue, other than a Google search to figure out where to get a free scoop. And if you think ice cream is a poor excuse for a holiday, consider, the first Saturday in February is Ice Cream for Breakfast Day… which pretty much confirms every day of the year is some sort of “Day”.

A stroll past the freezers of ice cream in any grocery store boasts an impressive variety of spins, including cones, sandwiches, pies, and bites. Ice cream is split by bananas, cherry-topped into sundaes, blended into shakes, cloaked as “gelato”, and even fried into crispy-covered bites. I ask you, who buys all this stuff? Sure, as a kid I had a thing for Eskimo Pies (because my mom bought them) and later on I ate my share of Dove Bars (because my dad loved them). But feet to the fire, I’d rather spend my pennies on the best version of plain ol’ ice cream. I have my favorite brand (and you have yours) and time and again it ends up in my grocery cart instead of any of those other treats.

For a few years there I got caught up in the Cold Stone Creamery concept, where your serving of ice cream is placed on a marble slab and combined with “mix-in’s”. It was (still is) a trendy take on ice cream. But after just a few visits I realized the draw was the mix-in’s more than the ice cream. Safe to say Cold Stone doesn’t use a brand of ice cream anyone would consider “gourmet”. They know what brings people through the doors: marble slabs and mix-in’s. Cold Stone’s rival is even named Marble Slab.

For anyone growing up on the West Coast in the 1970s, the one-on-every-corner ice cream parlor was Baskin-Robbins. Their ever-changing selection of thirty-one flavors guaranteed slow perusing, even if the final choice was vanilla or rocky road nine times out of ten (okay, I’ll grant you peanut-butter-and-chocolate too). Today, Baskin-Robbins is still going strong, but I think most people prefer the flavors of whatever local parlor is closest to their house. And let it be said for the millionth time: Vanilla is and will always be the king of ice cream flavors. Simple, delicious, and versatile.

As for the commercial brands in grocery store freezers, Dreyer’s “Grand Ice Cream” is trying very hard to make its offerings your favorite. They smartly purchased www.icecream.com and dressed up the website as a tribute to ice cream, but let’s be real: they’re just pushing their own products here. My favorite brand is still Haagen-Dazs but get this: Haagen-Dazs is now a subsidiary of Dreyer’s. Whoa. Give it a few more years and Dreyer’s may turn into the Amazon of ice cream.

If you like to spend big on ice cream like I do (Haagen-Dazs is not inexpensive!) you might consider Cellato, a brand from Japan. Cellato makes particularly fragrant gelatos, mixing in white and black truffles from Italy, champagne, and caviar. Their “white night” flavor is topped with an edible gold leaf, two exquisite cheeses, and a sake-like paste. The price of a single serving? $6,380 USD, making it the most expensive ice cream in the world. Might as well make the airplane seat to Japan first-class for a dessert like that.

In closing, a very happy National Ice Cream Day to you! However you choose to celebrate this Sunday, you don’t need Cellato. You don’t need Coldstone Creamery either. For me, the entire ice cream aisle at the grocery store might as well be reduced to the Haagen-Dazs flavors. Those, and the choices at my local ice cream parlor satisfy my craving. In other words, forget about the drones. Traditional fireworks will always be better.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Don’t drop it: World’s most expensive ice cream costs $6,400”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Power of the Purse

On a daylong trip to the shopping mall last week, my wife excused herself from my daughter and me and disappeared into a Kate Spade boutique. Forty-five minutes later she emerged with a purse, proudly declaring her new tote to be “discounted on top of the sale price”. As I’ve learned over many years of marriage, buying a new purse is a big deal for women, akin to slipping into the leather seat of a new sedan. After all, her purse is in hand almost as much as her smartphone.

The Kate Spade “Flower Jacquard Stripe Faye Medium Satchel”

If you’re a guy, don’t ever, EVER make the following statement about a purse: It’s just a bag. When I was a young and naive husband, it took me several bags – er, purses – to realize a) a new one will always be on the near horizon, and b) a purse contains the very essence of a woman’s life. There’s a lot in there and a lot going on in there – stuff we guys are better off not knowing about. Kind of like the women’s restroom.

In our defense, we guys can only relate from the perspective of the pedestrian wallet. Our “purse” is a whole lot smaller, stored out of sight versus over the shoulder, and designed to hold a minimum of essentials. In these terms, wallets and purses could be considered polar opposites. Not to suggest bigger is better, mind you.

My wife’s purse has countless zips, snaps, buttons, and hidden compartments, each of which she designates for specific items. She’ll go “here” for a pen, “over here” for some loose change, “out here” for the car keys, and “right here” for lip balm. And I’m not even talking about the main space. When you open the main pocket of a purse, it’s a dark, cavernous void suggesting a passageway to another world. I don’t venture in there very often – usually just to help myself to a little of my wife’s “cash stash”- and then I always get caught. No… no… not red-handed but rather after the fact, because I don’t put things back exactly as I found them. My wife knows precisely how her purse is laid out, so I can never deny her accusation of, “HEY!!! Have you been in here?”

Every now and then my wife goes fishing for a something in her purse and can’t find that something. This process is a joy to behold from the safe distance of the kitchen table. She knows whatever she’s looking for is in there somewhere; it just won’t surface. So she fishes and fishes to no avail. Sometimes she’ll resort to pulling out half of her stuff just to see what’s underneath. Other times her hand goes in so deep, half her arm disappears. With this in mind, I should know better than to go into my wife’s purse. I mean, there could be a wild animal in there!

When my wife moves into a new purse, it’s another process worth my witness. Everything comes out of the old bag (darn it all, Dave… PURSE!) and piles up on the counter. Then almost everything goes back into the new one (in exactly the same places). What’s left behind on the counter could fill the shelves of a curiosity shop. Ancient starlight mints. Expired gift cards. Pens from businesses we’ll never use. Faded receipts. And photos so old, you can’t help but say about the person, “Man, didn’t they look great back then?”

A wallet is a wallet, but a “purse” – in more technical terms – is a shoulder, satchel, sling, quilted, clutch, minaudiere, hobo, wristlet, beach, or even, yes, “wallet”. I’m sure the list goes on from there. As for size, my wife’s satchel preference probably rates an “M” on a purse scale of XS/S/M/L/XL. Too big to hold in the hand but too small to double as a changing room. She’s tried a few times go bigger or smaller but inevitably returns to “just right”. Goldilocks would’ve approved.

My wife’s birthday is this Sunday. If you read last week’s post you know I hinted at a rather expensive gift for her. Instead, I think I’ve found something a little more affordable. A purse, of course (don’t tell!) It’s a yellowish-green Louis Vuitton, in the style of a handbag, with the bold pattern of the designer’s signature initials. Gorgeous. Admittedly, I have two concerns. One, the bag (PURSE!) runs $69,000 USD. Two, it measures 0.03″ wide, or barely visible to the human eye. Yep, we’re talking an XXXXXXXXXXS from a 3D printer here, with it’s size described as “grain of salt” or “eye of needle”. It’s almost worth the cost just to see my wife try to move into it.

Some content sourced from the CNN Style article, “Handbag ‘smaller than a grain of salt’ sells for $63,000”.

Once in a Red Moon

I try to keep my blog topics timely, inspired by the come-hither headlines of my news feed, shouting, Click me! or No, click ME! But it’s not often – once in a blue moon, in fact – where I talk about what happened last week and what happens next week inside of the same topic. The calendar positions us perfectly today to do just that. So let’s talk rubies.

My first introduction to the four “precious gems” was probably when I started going to the movies. Diamonds Are Forever was as much about the title jewels as it was about James Bond. Romancing the Stone – the first movie my wife and I ever saw together – was a swashbuckling pursuit of a giant emerald in South America. The “Heart of the Ocean” pendant from Titanic was the biggest sapphire I’d ever seen (until someone reminded me it was actually a blue diamond). And rubies, of course, became something magical through Dorothy’s red slippers in The Wizard of Oz.

Last week, the largest ruby ever mined – 55.22 carats – came to the auction block at Sotheby’s. For a cool $35 million it could’ve been yours. Named the Estrela de Fura – Portuguese for the Mozambique mine where it was discovered – the “Star of Fura” was twice as big in its native form a year ago, then cut down and polished to the glistening red rock you see here.

Rubies aren’t made to be broken but world records are, and this one was shattered. The previous largest ruby, known as The Sunrise, was “only” half as big (25.59 carats). To me, The Sunrise looks about as big as a red M&M. The Estrela de Fura looks like a strawberry. The most expensive strawberry in the world, that is.

If rubies are your thing, keep an eye on Mozambique. Ruby mining is relatively new to this country in the south of Africa, with the first significant discovery of the gems made in 2009. Less than fifteen years later we have the record-setting Estrela de Fura. Surely an even bigger ruby can’t be far behind.

Moving on. This week begins the month of July (and the second half of 2023) which means we have several reasons to see red. America’s Independence Day includes a lot of red, whether the flag or the fireworks. Sunbathers will see the color on their skin more often than they’d care to. Strawberries are ripe and in abundance. The month’s zodiac sign is cancer (the crab) and crabs are often red. And July’s birthstone is, of course, the ruby.

Now’s a good time for some ruby trivia, the fun facts you most likely don’t already know. The first one is my favorite for your next social gathering:

Rubies are actually sapphires by definition (all mined from the same crystalline form of aluminum oxide known as “corundum”). In other words, rubies are simply rarer, red-colored sapphires.
Don’t touch!
Rubies have symbolized power and protection throughout human history, as with decorated warriors in battle (or slippered Dorothy in the Land of Oz).
“The Hope”
You’ve heard of the (blue) Hope Diamond but how about the (red) Hope Ruby? The Hope is 32 carats, cradled in a ring and highlighted with just a few diamonds. Same name, yes, but different gem, color, and setting.
The most desirable (read: costly) rubies have a hint of blue in them, which contributes to the rich deep color known as “pigeon’s blood” red.
A 10-carat ruby is typically more expensive than a comparably sized diamond. Why? Supply (and demand). You just don’t find as many large rubies as you do diamonds.

So there you have it: everything you need to know about rubies just in time for the month we celebrate them. I’d be remiss (translation: “in trouble”) if I didn’t mention my wife’s birthday, which is next week as well. Yes, her birthstone is the ruby, and “darn it all” I had the perfect gift idea if I’d only known about last week’s Estrela de Fura auction sooner. These opportunities come along but once in a red moon. Sorry honey, I need to be a little more on the ball. Guess I’ll hang onto our $35M for next year’s birthday present.

Some content sourced from the CNN.com article, “Largest ruby ever to come to auction sells…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Rolling in the Isles

With the world “opening up” again, my wife and I often talk about places we’d like to visit. Some of them are more accessible now that we live near the East Coast. One in particular is further away. But coincidence or not, the five locales tempting the travel bug in me have one thing in common. Every one of them is an island.

Let’s get my first choice out of the conversation straight away, because it kind of stretches the definition of “destination” and “island”. I want to go see a round of The Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia. If you’re not into golf you won’t understand the fuss, but trust me, when you’ve watched this competition on television every April since you were a kid, the place becomes a shrine of sorts. The Masters never played into our decision to move to South Carolina, but the course is suddenly only forty-five minutes from my new front door. So why is it an “island”? Have you been to Augusta? The Masters is like finding a bright green emerald in a bowl of gravel. Let’s just say it would be complimentary to describe the rest of Augusta as “plain vanilla”.

Now for the real islands. The first two fall on a lot of must-see lists: Hawaii and Ireland. Hawaii is no less appealing even though South Carolina makes it three hours further than from where I used to live. I’ve only seen “The Islands” on my honeymoon and on family trips (decades ago) so I know this time around would be decidedly more adventurous. Not that I want to bungee-jump into a volcano or anything; rather just take a closer look at all Hawaii has to offer.

As for Ireland, it feels a lot closer when you live up against the East Coast. If I had x-ray vision I might see the Blarney Stone from these parts. My wife and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary with our first trip to the Emerald Isle, where we saw a lot of Dublin and only a wee bit of everything else. We tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain to be sure we’d go back, and… oh wait, right… that’s Rome. Anyway, something we did in Ireland back then – whatever it was – instilled the yearning to go back someday. And we will.

Island #4 – Mackinac – sits neatly between the two peninsulas of the state of Michigan. The “Crown Jewel of the Great Lakes” has been on my must-see list ever since I watched Somewhere in Time in college in the 1980s. Yeah the movie’s a little corny, but it’s utterly romantic and it stars Jane Seymour, so cut me some slack. More importantly, Somewhere in Time shows off Mackinac’s Grand Hotel in all of its past/present glory. No, I can’t afford the stay at the Grand (rooms start at $500/night) but I’ll settle for one of the B&B’s on the island and spend my money on other stuff instead. Like a horse-drawn carriage tour with my wife (Mackinac has no cars). Or a round of golf on the only course in the country where the trek between the front nine and the back is, again, by horse-drawn carriage. Or a brick of Mackinac’s famous fudge. Whatever the draw, I’ll endure two connecting flights, a couple hours of driving, and a quick ferry ride, just to experience Mackinac’s throwback delights.

I’ve saved the best for last (well, at least, I think it’s the best). If I ever make it to France, I’m heading straight to Mont-Saint-Michel. “St. Michael’s Mountain”, which I’ve blogged about here, first captured my imagination when professional sandcastle builders (yes, there are such people) built a replica on the beach where I grew up, and again when I studied architecture in college.

The whole island setup is just so remarkable: nothing but a walled village of shops, restaurants, and other structures, connected by cobblestone streets ascending up, up, up to the Romanesque church and abbey at the pinnacle. Only 29 residents at last count. The surrounding tides ebb and flow, so at times Mont-Saint Michel is an island and at other times not so much. And about that abbey on top. The first cornerstone was laid in 1023, making Le Mont 1,000 years old this year. All that time and I’ve never ever seen it? Mon dieu.

If I make it to my five “islands”, I might have to add just one more. Ireland is paying people almost $100k for the “gift” of an island off the western coast of the country. There are twenty such islands. The catch: you have to refurbish whatever structures you find and you have to live there. Shelter yes, but food, water, power, and fellow humans are maybe’s. Yeah, I won’t be rolling with any of those isles. Let’s just start with that golf course down the street from me, shall we?

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Ireland will pay you $90,000 to move to a beautiful island home”

The Cheese Stands Alone

Back in his days of stand-up comedy, Bill Cosby did a great routine on golf. He talked about the frustration of watching the game on TV, trying to locate a little white dot as it flies through a screen of blue sky. I can still hear his puzzled description of playing the game, where he’d say, “You had the ball right there in your hand, but then you went and hit it away! Now you have to go get it!” It’s the sort of “play on play” I thought of when I heard about cheese rolling.

Humans thrive on competitions and we’ve come up with some weird ones over the years. Wife-carrying. Fruitcake tosses. Pole vault. Or just about anything from the Scottish Highland Games (caber toss, anyone?) But the Cooper’s Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake may be the weirdest one of them all. Seriously, who willingly signs up to sprint down a seriously steep hill, in hot pursuit of a rolling, bouncing wheel of cheese, where the grand prize is… the cheese itself?

Here’s a video of one of this year’s races at Cooper’s Hill (near Gloucester in England). I dare your jaw not to drop as you watch these contestants spill into view at the top of the hill. Notice the leaders have already left their feet and are literally falling down the mountain. It reminds me of the ad where the tire goes over the cliff, starts rolling down a steep incline, and then bounces high off the rocks and terrain as it gathers speed before disappearing below.

🧀 Canadian 🇨🇦 Delaney Irving won’t remember much of winning the Woman’s race at #cheeserolling.

After being knocked out on her way down, she was unconscious for a period of time but told us it was all worth it.

⚠️ WARNING: Contains graphic images pic.twitter.com/yxwk0YaGUE
— Greatest Hits Radio Gloucester (@GHRGloucester) May 29, 2023

The cheese really does stand alone at Cooper’s Hill because it’s never actually caught. A rolling wheel of Double Gloucester is simply too fast. Instead, the winner is the runner (“faller?”) who makes it to the bottom first. Just about every participant sustains injuries. In last week’s running, with the usual nod to the hospital emergency room, the winner of one of the women’s races knocked herself unconscious just as she crossed the finish line. Revived in a nearby recovery tent, only then did she realize she’d won.

Organizers expect “damage to participants” at Cooper’s Hill. A first-aid service is at the ready, as are several ambulances. A local rugby club volunteers to be “catchers”, positioned on the hill to rescue anyone who finds themself out of control. In a quote from the Sydney Morning Herald (yes, this event gets global attention), a participant described the race as “twenty young men chasing a cheese off a cliff and tumbling 200 yards to the bottom, where they are scraped up by paramedics and packed off to hospital.” Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it?

Here’s my favorite quote about cheese-rolling. Matt Crolla, who won one of this year’s men’s races, was asked how he trains for the event. He admitted, “I don’t think you can train for it, can you? It’s just being an idiot”. That about sums it up in my book.

I tried to think of similar sports to cheese-rolling and drew a total blank. Golf, shot put, and javelin all start by sending an object on its way (like a rolling cheese) but in none of them do you race after it. Then I thought about hoop rolling. Remember that game? No, you don’t – you’re too young! Nobody rolls hoops anymore! But there was a time when kids did just that, using a short stick to propel a wooden hoop along the sidewalk, trying to keep it upright as long as possible. Sounds about as boring as cheese-rolling is dangerous.

In the timeless nursery rhyme The Farmer in the Dell, one of early lyrics includes “the child takes a nurse”. Several lines after that, “the cheese stands alone”. Maybe the song was a nod to cheese-rolling. After all, most participants are going to need a nurse whether or not they win this crazy race. Maybe even a wake.

Some content sourced from the CBS News article, “Women wins chaotic UK cheese race…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.