memories – Page 4 – Life In A Word

You Can Say That Again

When I was a kid, I remember (or was told) I used creative pronunciations for common words. Instead of cinnamon I’d say cimm-anin. Instead of spaghetti it was bis-ketti. The library was the lie-berry. Maybe back then my excuse was in just learning to talk but I can’t play that card as an adult. So when someone says Feb-YOU-air-ee instead of Feb-ROO-air-ee, or Shur-BERT instead of Shur-BET, I tend to wince.

We’ve made it to the time of year where we reflect on the previous one, and we do so in year-in-review lists. “Most Influential People of 2024”. “Best Television Shows of 2024”. “Significant World Events of 2024”. And how about this one? Most Mispronounced Words of 2024. Thanks to Babbel, maker of language-learning platforms, the hard audio evidence doesn’t lie. Babbel came up with ten words people mispronounced over and over last year.

I could print Babbel’s list here, but it’d be a waste of your time so I’ll just hyperlink it instead. Eight of the words I never ever used in 2024 (and never will), and the only reason I spoke the other two was because they’re the last names of politicians featured in 2024 headlines. To be honest, the list made me question Babbel’s approach to learning languages. Are these the words promoting a budding English speaker’s proficiency?

Babbel also listed mispronounced words from other languages, including one of my favorites: espresso. Not sure how we Americans get that one wrong time after time, but we do. Maybe the myriad “ex-” words in the English language have us saying EX-presso but the concentrated coffee drink sounds exactly as it reads: ES-presso. Keep that in mind and your next Italian barista will be happy to serve you.

As long as we’re speaking Italiano let’s get another one right – al dente. When you want your pasta cooked just right; “not too soft but firm to the bite”, you describe it as ALL den-tay, not ALLA dawn-tay. I only know this because I learned Italian when I was in college. If I didn’t know better myself I’d probably go with AL dent.

As long as we’re talking foreign language mispronunciation, let’s correct another one. Notre-Dame de Paris, the medieval Catholic cathedral in the middle of Paris (and the middle of the River Seine), can be mispronounced so many ways it’s almost as devastating as the fire from which it was resurrected. On the surface it sounds something like NOH-tur daym day PEAR-iss, which is “English-French” at its absolute worst. In actual French it sounds like this: NOH-tr dam due PAH-ree, where the two “r”s almost sound like “l”s.

You never saw it coming but today’s language lesson is a segue to the topic I’ll be covering for the next several weeks and months. Notre-Dame de Paris is a magnificent structure and a renowned work of architecture. It’s also a new model created by the good people at LEGO. And speaking of good people (great, actually), my wife put that LEGO model under the Christmas tree for me this year.

For those who enjoyed the long journey of my building the LEGO Grand Piano (which I chronicled in Let’s Make Music!), and the shorter journey of the LEGO Fallingwater House (Perfect Harmony), I’ll be at it again as I attempt to rise Notre-Dame de Paris from the “ashes” of 4,383 plastic pieces. Won’t you join me on this foray into all things FRON-says? (That’s “French” for those of you who mispronounce it.) You’ll learn about the world’s cathedrals along the way, many of which took hundreds of years to construct. Let’s hope my own build of Notre-Dame de Paris is a whole lot shorter than that.

Some content sourced from the CNN World article, “These are the most mispronounced words of 2024”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Choc’ Full and Wheat Thin

Chocolate aficionado that I am, the recent headline of the possible buyout of The Hershey Company instantly grabbed my attention. Hershey has been around for well over a hundred years; the American brand most associated with chocolate (no matter what you think of their products). But one detail caught my attention even more than the chocolate. Mondelez, the purported buyer of Hershey, also makes Wheat Thins snack crackers. Suddenly this announcement is downright riveting.

If you don’t have a box of them in your pantry right now, you’re at least familiar with Wheat Thins. The flat, square, unashamedly crunchy crackers have been around forever (that is, if 1947 is the same as forever). Wheat Thins are packaged in the bright yellow box with the distinctive red Nabisco logo in the upper corner. The box top encourages you to “Open for 100% Awesome” and boy do I ever. I sometimes wonder whether Nabisco has baked more Wheat Thins or Oreos over the course of their respective existences. As a kid I would’ve hoped that winner would be Oreos. These days I nosh more like an adult and prefer the ultimate snack cracker.

Here’s where you come at me with your own “ultimates”. Maybe your pantry is stocked with Cheez-it crackers instead of Wheat Thins. Maybe “everything sits on a Ritz” in your house. Or you like Premium saltines because they’re, well, saltier. Are you’re one of those inexplicables who actually prefer table water crackers? You must’ve really liked communion wafers as a kid. Nothing says “Styrofoam” like the taste of a table water cracker.

Wheat Thins was (were?) introduced to my palate at a very young age. My dad was obsessed with them. I can’t think of a time I entered our pantry where the big yellow box wasn’t present. My dad would eat them right out of the box instead of bothering to pair with cheese or dip. My dad was never one to talk with food in his mouth, but I swear I can still hear him holding conversations with my mother while simultaneously crunching a mouthful of Wheat Thins. Apparently obsessions are hereditary.

Wheat Thins are described as “100% Whole Grain”, which is a sly way to throw you off the canola oil, sugar, cornstarch, and other garbage you’ll find on the ingredients list. Admittedly there were several years where I strayed from Wheat Thins. At the time our pantry morphed into a collection of decidedly more healthy options, and many, many boxes of Wheat Thins gathered dust on grocery store shelves. We indulged in almond, baked, and organic wheat crackers instead, as if any of them held a candle to Wheat Thins.

I can’t say exactly when they made their comeback, but suddenly Wheat Thins is a pantry staple again. Probably because I missed their “indescribably delicious taste”; a spot-on advertisement because I can’t describe what makes a Wheat Thin so delicious. Whatever the attraction, the recommended serving size of “16 pieces” is laughable. Heck, I grab that many in one handful. On that note, I’m eternally grateful to Nabisco for creating a “Party Size” box of Wheat Thins (and I’m perfectly content to be the only one at the party).

To be clear, we’re only talking about the “original” here. I was horrified to learn there are over twenty spins on the taste of Wheat Thins, including “lime”, “chipotle”, and (gag) “dill pickle”. Then Nabisco went completely off the rails and created sweet versions of Wheat Thins, including “honey” and “lightly cinnamon”. Those last two have been discontinued because, c’mon, did they really think the king of sweet crackers – the graham – could be dethroned?

Like a lot of food products I was raised with, Wheat Thins are not as “original” as they claim to be today. They just aren’t. I can’t say how many of them I’ve eaten in my life but let’s go with a billion, shall we? That makes me an unquestionable Wheat Thins expert. And I’m here to tell you the taste may be the same but the consistency is suspect. Wheat Thins are a little crunchier these days than they used to be. If they’d just let me into their factories I bet I could figure out exactly which ingredient they swapped out (in the interest of profit margin, of course).

If I were you (wait… reverse that; if you were me), keep an eye on Mondelez. You know them by their former name: Kraft Foods. Mondelez is quietly consuming the entire snack aisle. Chips Ahoy, Triscuit, Sour Patch, Toblerone, Dentyne, even Tate’s Bake Shop (another “thin” delight) all belong to this foody conglomerate. Hershey Kisses (and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups!) may soon join the list. But if someday we all wake up and finally realize these products are terrible for us, I hope the one cracker Mondelez is still making on the day it closes its doors is Wheat Thins. I’m not sure I can live without them.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Hershey’s stock explodes higher on report Mondelez offered to buy it”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Recycled Airbags

As I build the beginnings of this week’s blog post (three “b”s already for those keeping count) my screen distracts me with alerts for Cyber Monday deals. Laptops at 30% off retail. E-readers at 25% off. DNA tests at 70% off (which begs the question: do we really care about our ancestry anymore?) Cyber Monday is a sort of second chance for those who shunned the big box stores the Friday after Thanksgiving (good decision). But here’s what I wonder today. Why endure Black Friday or get distracted by Cyber Monday when you can shop through lost luggage any day of the year instead?

I’ve finally found a reason to visit Alabama. A six-hour drive due west of my keyboard puts me in the little town of Scottsboro, of which an entire block is consumed by a business known as Unclaimed Baggage. UB is exactly what you think it is: deep-discounted personal belongings made available to you by the traveling misfortunes of others. Think of UB as one person’s trash becoming another person’s treasure only, of course, the original owner had no intention of throwing it away.

Unclaimed Baggage is the kind of entrepreneurial enterprise I wish I’d thought up myself. Consider the end-to-end process. You and your luggage start at Point A, but sadly one of you doesn’t make it to Point B. The airline (or the bus or the train) spends several months trying to reunite the two of you. Failing that, they compensate for the loss (sometimes). But what of your bag if it turns up later? Dump it into a “Dead Luggage” office? Actually, yes, and then Unclaimed Baggage comes a-calling.

Here’s an encouraging stat: 99.5% of lost luggage is reunited with its owner. You wouldn’t think Unclaimed Baggage could make a business of the leftovers. But those leftover are, on average, 7,000 items every day. No wonder Unclaimed Baggage needs a city block to house all that it sells. And the best part of the business? UB never knows what it’s going to get because the airlines don’t (or aren’t allowed to) open the bags. It reminds me of the show where bidders vie for contents of storage lockers without being able to raise the roll-up doors beforehand.

The most expensive item UB ever sold was a Rolex watch for $32,000 (50% of retail). Visit the store today and you can purchase a diamond ring for $20,000 that surely appraises for more. Some items are so strange they’re relegated to an area known as the “Museum Gallery”. Wigs. Shark teeth. A funeral casket key (?) Items considered “unsaleable”, and items where you have to wonder why they were on an airplane in the first place.

When I first learned about Unclaimed Baggage I thought, they have something of mine and I want it back! No, I’ve never lost luggage. Rather, I’m the passenger who keeps forgetting the little things in the seat back pocket right in front of him. Reading glasses. E-readers. A rather expensive pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Somehow my stuff gets left behind despite the pointed announcement from the flight attendant: “Please check in and around your seat for personal belongings, as you will not be allowed back on the aircraft after you deplane.” Sigh…

Unclaimed Baggage has at least one example of an item unintentionally returned to its original owner. At UB’s annual ski sale (which earned an LOL from me; I mean, just how many skis are left at baggage claim?), a shopper purchased ski boots for his girlfriend. When he brought them home, she discovered initials on the inside of the boots – hers. The airline had already compensated her for the lost boots so effectively, she re-owns her boots at a deep discount.

As you might expect, a good percentage of shoppers at Unclaimed Baggage are the same ones who troll garage sales and eBay for items they have no intention of owning. They simply relist their wares online for purchase (and profit) from others. It’s another enterprising way to make a buck but it’s not my cup of tea. I’m the shopper who shows up at sales well after the best items have been picked over.

Unclaimed Baggage has cornered a lucrative market. I don’t think they have any competition for the business of repurposing lost luggage. I will say this: I’m less likely to leave my stuff on airplanes now that I know about UB. I mean, do I really want some stranger buying my stuff for way less than I paid for it myself?

Final thought for the day. Why don’t they call it Unclaimed Luggage? Baggage? Luggage? Bag? Lug? Who the heck added two words into the English language when we only needed one? The Oxford English Dictionary estimates we use 170,000 words these days. I’m here to say that’s one too many.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “US travelers lose millions of suitcases every year…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Minuscule Marvels

For Christmas this year I’m putting a small ornament into my wife’s stocking. It’s a miniature of… well… let’s just leave it at “a miniature” in case she reads this post. But I know she’ll love this ornament and promptly hang it on our tree for the remainder of the season. Why will she love it? Because it’ll spark fond, romantic memories. But she’ll also love this ornament because she can’t help loving something that’s a little, well, little.

One of my bucket list items – still to be fulfilled – is a trip to the south of France for a taste of those wonderful wines created from Burgundy or Bordeaux grapes. Maybe you hope to make the same trip some day so I’ll let you in on a little secret. If your trip only allows a visit to Paris, you can still visit a vineyard… right in the middle of the city. Most people visit the neighborhood of Montmartre to see the Sacre Coeur cathedral but most don’t know about the tiny vineyard just steps away. Clos Montmarte produces wine on a single acre, from 2,000 vines forging a connection to the long-ago rural times of the region. Compare an acre to the wineries in Bordeaux, with vines covering an average of fifty times that much property.

Harvesting the grapes at little Clos Montmartre

Clos Montmarte wines probably aren’t award-winning. Who knows if I’d even care for the taste of their reds or rosés. But does it really matter? I love the thought of a teeny-tiny field of grapes right in the middle of Paris. I love how the grapes are harvested by locals and transported to the cellars of the nearby Town Hall to be pressed and turned into wine. The whole operation is appealing to me because it’s quaint and because it’s small.

This affection for itty-bitty things must hearken back to our childhoods. Who among us didn’t spend countless hours of playtime with (take your pick) little dolls, little cars, little houses, or scaled-down trains? When we played at the beach we built little castles. When we played in creeks we made little boats out of sticks or leaves and watched them flow with the water. Tea parties meant tiny cups and plates on tiny tables.

In today’s world the toys might be different but the attraction to small things remains. It fascinates me to watch my (little) granddaughter choose her favorite toy from among dozens: a set of ten two-inch high Sesame Street characters. She stands them up all over the house. She hides them and then finds them. She always seems to have one or two in her hands. Even though my granddaughter doesn’t speak in complete sentences yet, she probably has complete thoughts as she considers tiny Big Bird. You are a lot smaller than me and that’s why I like you so much.

If you include Japanese toymaker MegaHouse in this year’s Christmas purchases, maybe you’ll go for their world’s smallest operational Rubik’s cube. You can’t get one until next April, but picture this: the minuscule marvel is one 1,000th of the size of the original. Pull out your metric measure to confirm it; a single face of the wee cube measures only 5mm from side to side. Best throw a pair of tweezers into the Christmas stocking along with the cube. There’s no way you’ll be able to rotate the Rubik’s colors with fingers alone.

Would I want the world’s smallest operational Rubik’s cube, you ask? Heck yeah! Consider, the faces of a traditional Rubik’s cube contain a 9×9 grid. Then someone went and created a miniature Rubik’s cube with 2×2 grids. I thought, how very cute. I just had to have one so my original would have a little buddy. My cubes are hanging out together on my home office shelf as we speak. And they’re asking for an even littler buddy for Christmas.

So let’s summarize the pint-sized products we’ve covered today. I already have the ornament for my wife in-hand (soon to be in-stocking). I won’t put a bow on a bottle of Montmartre wine this year because I want the chance to see the tiny Paris winery for myself first. And you probably thought I sprung for one of MegaHouse’s pee-wee Rubik’s cubes (and a pair of tweezers). Sadly, no. I don’t have the $5,300 it costs to buy one (minuscule marvels aren’t cheap!) Thankfully, my wife will be happy with an adorable little ornament for $15 instead.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “The secret vineyard in the middle of Paris…”, and the CNN Style article, “This is the world’s smallest Rubik’s cube…”

Overblown Air

When you travel to Colorado, you should pack a few things you might not think to bring. A reusable water bottle will be your constant companion since it’s high and dry in the Centennial State. Lip balm will be your pocket pal. Your wardrobe should be designed in layers since Colorado’s weather is so unpredictable. And finally, for the lack of air in the Rockies, don’t forget to bring a can or two of oxygen.

Canned oxygen? For the longest time I thought this was the biggest scam on earth. There was a time you could find “oxygen bars” at Colorado ski resorts – high altitude establishments where you’d pull up a stool and choose from a menu of “airs” to augment your oxygen intake. Watching those suckers – heh – with their mouths attached to transparent hoses had me picturing a guy on the other side of the wall furiously working the plungers of bicycle pumps. But forget oxygen bars. Now you can take a hit from your very own can instead.

Boost , a popular brand of canned oxygen, has been around for a while since its humble beginnings through Shark Tank. In Colorado you’ll find Boost products in every market, drug store, gas station, and airport concession. Boost is advertised as “95% Pure Supplemental Oxygen in lightweight, portable, and affordable canisters for health, recovery, natural energy, and athletic performance”. That’s an impressive string of words to describe nothing but canned air.

First-timers will react to Boost with a well-defined smirk. Gag gift for the relatives back home? Stocking-stuffer? After all, you’re paying $10 for a can of… well, nothing. Yes, Boost comes in flavored varieties like lavender or eucalyptus menthol but in the end, it’s just air. And watching someone take a hit of Boost is just like the goofball in your kitchen who tips the can of whipped cream directly into his mouth. Even the sound of escaping compressed air is the same. Just no whipped cream.

Naturally this is the point where I admit I’m a canned-air convert. Never thought I’d see the day I’d actually need a “boost”. But last January as I was moving belongings out of our Colorado house, I came to a breathtaking realization: I was no longer acclimated to the thin air of the Rocky Mountains. Climbing a set of stairs had me huffing and puffing. Lifting a box made my heart go pitter-patter. For some reason I’d thought to add a can of Boost into my suitcase, so what do you know? Compressed air to the rescue. Every now and then I’d blast the can into my mouth and darned if it didn’t clear my head and help me breathe. I was no whipped-cream junkie but rather a bold astronaut, seeking the occasional hiss of his supplemental oxygen.

For all its success, the legitimacy of a product like Boost is sullied by similar products having no health benefits whatsoever. On your next trip to Italy, head up to Lake Como in the far north for a look at the pristine waters and nearby snow-covered Alps. While you’re there you can purchase a can of “Lake Como Air” for $11. Lake Como Air claims no value other than “something original, provocative, and fun”, or “… a tangible memory you carry in your heart”. Really? I have lots of tangible memories from Italy and they didn’t cost me a dime.

On your next trip to Israel (which best not be anytime soon), head over to the Dead Sea for a look at the biggest, saltiest resource of natural minerals in the world. You can float in the Dead Sea without even treading water. And no surprise, you can “purchase” the Dead Sea in small containers. The so-called manufacturer claims its consumption “contributes measurably to feeling better and to looking wonderful and healthy”. Huh. Not sure about you but I like to think I feel better and look healthy just by drinking from the tap at my kitchen sink.

The list goes on and on. Holy dirt from New Mexico. Healing waters from right here in western South Carolina. Rocks from outer space. I mean, seriously, when are we going to stop paying for natural elements we can help ourselves to just by stepping outside our front doors? Yeah, probably never. That train left the station for good the day someone decided to bottle water. Now we have canned air as well… and it’s a good thing. Turns out, I’ll never take another trip to Colorado without a little Boost in my suitcase.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Cans of ‘fresh air’ from Lake Como on sale to tourists in Italy”.

Flop O’ the Mornin’

Parked prominently within my wife’s impressive collection of teas are colorful boxes of English Breakfast and Irish Breakfast. The first is described as “expertly blended… a smooth classic” (strength: 4 tea leaves) while the second is “brilliantly blended… bold & robust” (3 tea leaves). Maybe those descriptions are right on the money but I’m a coffee drinker so what do I know? What do I know? I know I’d never let English breakfast or Irish breakfast anywhere near my dining table.

Sorry to disappoint but we’re not talking about tea at all today. Instead, we’re talking about the food that goes with the tea. Or rather, the food that should go with the tea. In my world, the sanctity of breakfast is second only to the cornucopia of the Thanksgiving meal. There’s a certain well-defined menu of dishes that screams BREAKFAST!!! and nobody in the Western Hemisphere (or at least, in the New World) would disagree. Even so, I must acknowledge the “illegal aliens”; the dishes that try to crash the morning party when they really belong on the lunch or dinner table. Or in the trash. Or at least on the other side of the Atlantic.

In its various forms, the full English breakfast starts out promising. You’ll find eggs, bacon, and sausage almost without fail; even hash browns on occasion. But the plate shatters after that. You have a tomato, cut in half, fried, and doused with salt and pepper. You have baked beans in tomato sauce (which aren’t even sweet the way Americans think of VanCamp’s or Bush’s). Finally, you have the horror known as black pudding, which can only be described through the hyperlink above instead of the words of this post, for fear I’ll lose my lunch – er, breakfast.

Unlike the teas, the full Irish breakfast is virtually identical to the full English, with the singular exception of white sausage instead of black. Again, the definition will remain behind hyperlinked for the sake of a clean keyboard. I was in Dublin on business years ago and took the “try anything once” approach with white pudding. Bad, bad, very bad decision.

White pudding (not for the faint of stomach)

If I were born in England or Ireland I probably wouldn’t rain on the breakfast parade on the other side of the pond. But here’s the thing: even if you like a savory tomato or “pudding” for breakfast, the entire plate is greasier than the wheel bearings in your car. There’s not even anything to mop up said grease (like the slices of dry toast we Americans prefer). I can’t imagine having much pep in my step after a weighty meal like this.

Denny’s is very helpful to reestablish breakfast order. If you walk into one of their restaurants and order the “Build Your Own Grand Slam”, you can construct your plate from four of the following: Eggs (7 different ways), pancakes (9 different), bacon (2), sausage, potatoes (3), toast (countless), muffin, biscuit, ham slice, or seasonal fruit. With all those combos you could eat breakfast at Denny’s every day of the year and no version would be the same as another. But more to the point, Denny’s offers breakfast items decidedly “All American”. Add in waffles, hot/cold cereal, baked goods, and hash browns, and you’re looking at everything deserving of the list.

American breakfast menus do include a few trendy alternatives these days (even at Denny’s). You can keep it simple with a fruit smoothie, breakfast sandwich, or avocado toast. These all-in-ones strike me more like convenience foods than full breakfasts. Yes, you paint yourself a little healthier just for ordering them. But let’s hang in there a few generations and see if they still show up on breakfast menus. More likely they’ll just be memories the way porridge or salted meats have become breakfast history.

For the record, my wife’s English and Irish tea boxes sit largely untouched, except for the few bags she’s brewed. They’re untouched for good reason. Just the words on the box have me thinking of tomatoes, baked beans, and pudding. Someone bring me a blueberry waffle stat.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “The Full English: How a greasy feast came to define and divide a nation”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Parts Party

I’ve always been fascinated – mesmerized even – by the mechanics of assembly line manufacturing. A product takes form from a single part, then moves down the line to where another part is added. Then another part, another, and another, until at long last the completed product presents itself at the very end for packaging. Assembly lines are becoming more and more automated, which begs the question: When will humans be removed from the process altogether?

On a recent trip to Detroit with my brothers, we were lucky enough to snag tickets to a tour of the Ford River Rouge Complex, where the F-150 truck (gas engine) is mass-produced. Ford has over 65 manufacturing plants worldwide but I think “The Rouge” is the only one you can tour. And boy is it worth it. You walk away with a lot more admiration for a fully-built F-150 than when you first set foot in the building.

The tour begins on the bridge at the lower left

Ford doesn’t allow you to take photos inside The Rouge (and they keep a close eye on visitors) else I’d include a few here. The tour starts with a couple of promotional videos in comfortable theaters, followed by an elevator trip to the top of the visitors center for a look down at the vast campus. Then things get serious. You put away your phones, listen to the rules and regulations about behaving inside the factory, and off you go.

Here are the eye-popping numbers. The F-150 travels the length of a four-mile assembly line as it grows from parts to finished product. That line includes over two hundred stops to add parts (which aren’t really stops because the truck is always being pulled along). A fully-functioning F-150 rolls off The Rouge assembly line every 52 seconds, which translates to a remarkable 650 new vehicles per ten-hour working shift. And finally, the whole process is far from automated. 6,000 workers assemble the vehicles, each a specialist in the given part, calibration, or inspection the truck demands.

Of course, an F-150 has far more than two hundred parts. Some of those assembly line stops are for the installation of major components. The entire dashboard, for example, or most of the engine are installed in a single stop. But you also have workers who do nothing more than take a rubber mallet and pound on rear taillight covers. Think about it. Can you imagine hammering on taillight covers 650 times a day? It’s mindless, it’s repetitive, and you have to wonder about the toll it takes on the human body.

Assembly line work can be more fun and less repetitive than building cars. My family and I visited the Kellogg’s (cereal) factory in Battle Creek, Michigan in the early 1970s. The smell of cooked corn flakes might’ve turned a kid’s nose but the tour was the next best thing to Willy Wonka’s. You’d don a Kellogg’s paper hat and read the colorful brochure story about how “this little kernel went to Kellogg’s… first it was milled… then it was flavored…”. Then you’d walk the assembly line of breakfast cereal, from cooking all the way to box filling. The best part was at the very end, where you’d get free samples of all your Kellogg’s favorites, and postcards so you could brag about the place to your friends. Alas, like many manufacturing facilities, safety and espionage concerns brought an end to the Kellogg’s tours in the mid-1980s.

At least I could watch assembly lines on TV after that. How It’s Made was my kind of show. The Canadian documentary spent years creating virtual factory tours so viewers could see the ins and outs of manufacturing processes. In a single episode you’d watch the dizzying mechanics behind the creation of everything from candies to clothing to cars. How It’s Made kind of gave you access where access wasn’t allowed.

Speaking of no access, the electric-engine version of the Ford F-150 – the “Lightning” – is produced in a plant where no tours are permitted (back to the espionage thing). Instead, you watch a short video of the process after you’ve completed The Rouge tour. How are the two F-150 assembly lines different? Several thousand humans. The Lightning production is almost entirely automated, with robotic machines hovering over the vehicles as they come together. Our tour guide said the assembly line is eerily quiet, since a robot doesn’t require a banging mallet to add on a taillight cover.

For all my fascination with assembly lines and automation, I wonder whether “loss of humanity” is really the way to go. All those jobs at The Rouge would disappear. Machines would be one step closer to taking over the world. Suddenly “handmade” sounds better than ever.

Some content sourced from the Michigan Blue article, “Visiting the Kellogg’s Factory”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Hack Attack

Imagine a plain brown box showing up at your front door with no indication of who or where it came from. The box is topped by a small white envelope with a card inside. In elegant script the card reads: Scan the QR code to see who sent you this gift! So you scan it. Congratulations – you’ve just given scammers access to everything on your smartphone.

I wish this story was a work of fiction but some day soon it could be coming to a doorstep near you. The gift box scam worked on my son’s friend and frankly I can’t say that it wouldn’t have worked on me. If someone sent you a gift and they wanted it to be a surprise, would the situation look much different than what I just described? Would you scan the QR code?

I can’t explain how the simple scan of a QR code translates to the hack of a smartphone, but technology far outpaces my understanding of its capabilities these days. My first reaction to this story was to check my phone apps to make sure any “data-sensitive” ones were password-protected. My next reaction was to wonder if I could ever trust a QR code again.

Here’s a second bit on hacking, also passed along by my son. He said scammers now prey on public parking lots. Many of these lots use pay-by-app technology and the app can be downloaded onsite by scanning a QR code. Scammers simply place their own sticker over the one you’re supposed to scan and presto! – you’ve unknowingly given some level of data access to thieves. It reminds me of gas station scams where the pump credit card reader is retrofitted with a device capable of collecting your card’s data.

By comparison email and text scams now seem pedestrian, but boy-howdy they keep trying don’t they? I got one just last week claiming I have a “USPS parcel being cleared, but the parcel is temporarily detained due to an invalid zip code”… and I’m supposed to click on a link so I can correct the zip code. These phishing messages are so common they’ve become easy to spot, whether from the broken English or from the bizarre originating email address. Phishing reminds me of those long-ago Nigerian princes who sought our help in exchange for “large sums of money”.

At least I’m not a head-over-heels fan of Brad Pitt. Last month two women were scammed out of hundreds of thousands of dollars by five people in Spain, posing collectively as the actor in an online conversation. The fraudsters were arrested, but you have to wonder about the naivety of people these days. Do you really believe Brad Pitt would contact you to invest in one or two of his projects? More importantly, would you invest this kind of money with anyone without meeting them in person first?

All of this hack-yacking brings to mind the 1970s counterculture bestseller Steal This Book. From the title you’d expect to read about tricks of the hacking trade but it was a different topic entirely. Steal This Book gave step-by-step instructions on how the average American could get free services and products courtesy of the federal government’s welfare programs. The book was intended as a sort of protest against the powers-that-be, written by a well-known activist of the time.

[Side note: Steal This Book also explained how to create (underground) radio broadcasting and printing presses, start (non-violent) demonstrations, and make bombs with household materials. You can still buy the book but I’m guessing the section on bombs has been removed. And don’t ask me how many copies of the book were actually stolen.]

The FBI’s website lists eighteen categories of common frauds and scams. The examples I shared above fall under just one of these categories: “skimming”. Some of the other categories are even more disheartening, like “holiday”, “elder”, or “romance”. Collectively it’s a sad statement about the world we have to deal with. So be skeptical, I tell you. That unexpected gift at your front door is probably not a gift at all. That QR code may create a connection you don’t want. And “Brad Pitt”? He has no interest in doing business with you. He only wants your money.

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

Dental Essential

When I filled a prescription at my supermarket’s pharmacy recently, the line of customers snaked down an aisle of toiletries. I surfed on my phone for a few minutes as I waited but eventually took note of the products on display around me. To the right, endless shampoos, conditioners, sprays, and other hair care items. To the left, nothing but rows and rows of toothpaste.

If you’re a Millennial or older, I’ll bet you’ve brushed a time or two with Crest or Colgate. Both products have dominated the toothpaste market since their humble beginnings in the 1950s. I was raised on Crest and saw no reason to change brands as a young adult. But these days, like most anything I put into my mouth I’m a little more selective.

The shelves of toothpaste in my supermarket caught my attention for two reasons. First, the options from a single manufacturer these days are daunting. Crest may have only eight product lines (like “Gum Health” or “Kids”) but that translates to a total of fifty-seven unique tubes of paste. Wow. So you’re telling me you’d know which one would be perfect for you?

My second observation: there are surprisingly few players in the game for a product each of us uses at least twice a day. Crest and Colgate dominate the shelf space; I’d put the number at 85%. The other 15% – at least in my supermarket – goes to products from Sensodyne and Arm & Hammer. Sensodyne targets those of you with sensitive teeth. Arm & Hammer promotes, naturally, the perceived benefits of baking soda.

The truth is, there are dozens of toothpastes besides Crest and Colgate. Just think of it like a chessboard: you have the two kings and then you have the rest of the pieces. Those pieces include a few that make me nostalgic. For a short time I had a “brush” with Pepsodent; its unique taste flavored with sassafras. My dentist’s recommendations during my cavity-prone years included Mentadent and Aim (neither of which took hold). And honorable mention goes to Pearl Drops, which I never tried but was the first product to add sex appeal to brushing your teeth.

I don’t know anyone who uses Pepsodent or Pearl Drops anymore, but I also think Crest and Colgate are finally getting serious challengers. Today’s generation (and those behind it) is more enlightened. In fact, my own choice for my toothbrush – Earthpaste – has to be purchased at a specialty store or online.

I’ve talked about Earthpaste before, in Polishing the Pearls. That post was more about the ingredients in toothpaste than the products themselves. But ingredients certainly matter. Crest contains between fifteen and twenty (and some are better left in a science lab). Earthpaste contains just five, including bentonite clay, salt, and essential oils. I have no problem putting any of those in my mouth, including the “dirt” of bentonite clay.

The truth is, if you can stand the bitter taste you can just brush with baking soda. It’s a short list of ingredient that actually benefit your dental hygiene. And for me, the habits I’ve locked in besides brushing far outweigh the importance of which toothpaste I choose. Daily flossing (at night). Oral rinses. Toothpicks for my close-together teeth. Recent trips to the dentist would suggest I’ve got a good regimen going.

As for you Gen X, Y, Z and especially Alpha members, there’s a palpable point to this post. 99% of humans will continue to brush with toothpaste. Crest and Colgate still dominate the market seventy-odd years after their debuts (at least in America). It seems to me there’s room for another low-ingredient high-health product like Earthpaste. I’d fire up that home chemistry lab before someone else beats you to it. There’s potential prodigious profit in the production of paste!

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

It’s (Not) Just a House

Let’s agree to disagree today (one of my favorite catchphrases). You see things one way while I see them another. Perspective, angle, viewpoint – choose your word – we all come to our conclusions on different roads. Which is ironic, because four of us came to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater on the same road three weeks ago.

I blogged about Fallingwater in Perfect Harmony a couple of years ago. The post was meant to be a primer on what makes the house an iconic work of American architecture. At the time I was also building LEGO’s version, which is as close as I thought I’d ever get to the real thing. Today I can say I’ve checked an up close and personal visit off my bucket list.

Fair warning: there’s no convenient route to travel to Fallingwater, which shouldn’t surprise you about a house hidden in the forest. You’ll drive ninety minutes southeast of Pittsburgh on two-lane roads, some in desperate need of repair. And watch carefully for the driveway entry; it kind of pops up out of nowhere.

You won’t get to see Fallingwater without booking a reservation beforehand. Despite my dismay in last week’s post about required reservations in Rome they make a ton of sense with Fallingwater. It’s a small house after all, so it’d be overwhelming if visitors just showed up and walked in. We took the final tour on a Saturday and our guide said 600 others had already been through the house earlier in the day.

Thanks to the resources of the Frank Lloyd Wright Conservancy (which is still buying up property around Fallingwater), the experience begins before you ever see the house itself. The driveway wanders past a guard house to a modest parking lot. From there you walk to a beautiful Visitors Center nestled in the trees. A central outdoor seating area is surrounded by a small museum of Wright’s work, a cafe, and a gift shop that offers much more than shirts and postcards. Frankly, the Visitors Center is a nice little work of architecture all by itself.

The walk to the house begins down a kind of woodsy nature trail, so you can see the rocks, trees, and other materials used to construct Fallingwater in their native forms. What impressed me most about the tour is how you never see the house until you’re practically at its front door, making for a dramatic reveal. Your walk descends through the canyon of Bear Run (the river over which Fallingwater is perched) until the house’s signature cantilevered forms emerge from the dense forest.

As I described it in Perfect Harmony, Fallingwater looks like it was “constructed entirely offsite and dropped gently within the forest by pushing aside a few tree branches”. After seeing the house in person, I wouldn’t change a word of that statement. The design is a marvel, not only in how the indoor/outdoor spaces integrate with their natural surroundings, but also in how it was built as if floating over the waterfall below.

Enough with the fawning over Fallingwater, am I right? After the four of us took the tour we had a chance to process what we’d seen, and my wife’s and brother’s reactions were clear: it’s just a house. It’s not even a nice house, with its low ceilings, dark spaces, and anything-but-cozy use of rock, concrete, and glass. Fallingwater is hard to get to, and it’s in the middle of nowhere. And with its hundredth birthday not far off, everything about the house has a decidedly dated feel.

I did my best to explain why I love Fallingwater. My sister-in-law, who appreciates everything about the arts, understood the significance of the house. She “got” what Frank Lloyd Wright was conveying in the design, and allowed the sacrifice of comfortable living for the sake of the indoor-outdoor interplay. She probably took in the house the way she would a painting at the Louvre. My wife and my brother, not so much. For them the ninety minute tour was probably sixty minutes too long.

Fallingwater promotes the thought: “one person’s junk is another’s treasure”. My treasure is architecture (so much so I studied it in college). Yours is probably something entirely different. It fascinates me how my brother spent years and years of research, consulting, and money to restore a 1960s vintage Ferrari in his back garage. To me, cars get you from Point A to Point B; a mere convenience. My brother could spend hours explaining why his Ferrari goes worlds beyond that statement.

Still lingering on my bucket list is a visit to Paris, where among the city’s many wonders stands the Eiffel Tower. I want to see this engineering/architectural masterpiece from far and near, and of course, ascend it’s many levels to fully experience the structure itself. For now however, I’ll have to settle for building LEGO’s version. As with Fallingwater, we can all agree to disagree. The Eiffel is (not) just a tower.

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