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Hello, I’m Veronica

The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.

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    Poor Little Ginny

    Next Tuesday, if I could drag myself out of bed before dawn, I’d see the planet Venus hole-punched into the inky sky, low and bright. If I looked further I’d probably see Mars – dim but distinctly red. And if I really did see Mars I’d be sad, because I know Ginny’s up there, all alone, waiting for someone to bring her home. I’m sorry, Ginny… I’m so sorry.  Nobody’s coming for you, not for a long, long time. Rest your rotors in peace, little helicopter.

    “Ginny”

    Ginny (known more formally as Ingenuity) is a brave little helicopter.  She may look like a nasty bug instead of something you’d want to cuddle with, but she’s quietly been filling up the record books with her remarkable achievements.  Four years ago Ginny hitched a ride to Mars on the belly of NASA rover “Perseverance”.  A few months after Percy plunked down on Mars, Ginny took her “first steps”.  She spun her rotor blade into a blur, rose ten feet above the Martian soil, took a quick look around, and dropped right back to where she started.  That brief maneuver earned her the title: “first powered, controlled, extraterrestrial flight by any aircraft”.

    [Note: You can read about Ginny’s first flight in the post Whirlybird Wonder]

    Ginny may not be easy on the eyes but I’m in awe of what she accomplished in her brief time on Earth (er, Mars).  I should’ve paid better attention in science class.  Imagine the teacher saying, “Okay Dave, here’s your assignment.  I need you to design a mini-copter that can travel to Mars, perform a few lighter-than-air maneuvers, and be able to take a few photos at the same time.  You’ll be at the controls back here on earth, so whatever communication mechanism you come up with needs to work over, uh, 140 million miles.” Cue my blank stare.

    The smarter-than-I-am people at California’s Jet Propulsion Labs (JPL) designed little Ginny to do all those things.  What makes her ten-foot hop on Mars so remarkable is this: the atmosphere up there is less than 1% as dense as Earth’s, so there very little to hold Ginny aloft.  To put it another way, earthly helicopters can only fly to 25,000 feet.  Ginny had to be designed to fly to 80,000.

    Let’s call her “The Little Copter That Could”, shall we?  Ginny was supposed to fly five times in thirty days.  Five little hops in a month’s time and her mission would’ve been considered an unqualified success.  But Ginny chose to be an explorer instead of an experiment.  She flew seventy-two individual missions, further and longer each time than her JPL designers ever expected.  She also captured images as she flew, so scientists could better decide where on Mars they wanted big-brother Percy to rove.

    Ginny’s a good photographer!

    Ginny was more “alive” than any helicopter I’ve ever known.  She cleaned herself up after nasty Martian dust storms.  Her solar panels froze unexpectedly during the rough winters, rendering her unable to fly or even take commands, yet she still radioed “wellness reports” to Percy so the JPL people would know she was (barely) there.  She made three emergency landings when her sensors detected trouble.  And even when one of those sensors went dead, Ginny kept her rotors a-whirling on demand.

    Ginny captured the shadow of her “broken wing”

    Whatever happened on Ginny’s Flight #72 two weeks ago remains a mystery, one Percy hopes to figure out as he rovers back to her location.  Ginny had been close to another landing when she suddenly stopped communicating.  A day later the JPL team reestablished the connection to find Ginny resting comfortably on the Martian soil.  Somehow she’d still landed on her feet.  Somehow however, she also damaged a rotor blade.  Ginny can’t repair herself so alas, her flying days are over.  Now her waiting days begin.

    Admirers like me refer to Ginny as “that little extraterrestrial trailblazer”.  Haters call the dormant helicopter “the first piece of trash on Mars”.  As long as Percy’s in her neighborhood, Ginny will keep sending her little wellness reports (even though she’s really not so well).  I just hope the scientists at JPL are already hard at work on their next mission to Mars.  A brave little copter is waiting to be rescued and brought home to the Smithsonian.

    Some content sourced from the CNN article, “After damaging a rotor blade, NASA’s Ingenuity helicopter mission ends on Mars”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

     

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    Renaissance Man

    In the second movement of Antonin Dvořák’s New World Symphony, the orchestra settles down as the English horn begins its soft, wailing solo. You’ve heard this famous lullaby in one version or another, but never more powerfully than in the “Largo” movement of Dvořák’s symphony, with the strings and woodwinds providing the sweeping background (~45 seconds into the following video). It’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and my performance is flawless every time I play it.  Play it in my head, that is.

    I’ve developed a satisfying habit over the years which you might share (or at least, be willing to try).  Think about something that interests you, or an activity in which you like to participate.  Over time you’ve developed a fair understanding of your subject, though your level of knowledge and skill would never qualify you as a professional.  But what if it did?  What if you suddenly had the smarts or the talent to find yourself among the world’s best?  Wouldn’t your life be wildly different?

    My years of piano lessons never propelled me anywhere close to the ranks of “professional” or “best”.  I never even advanced beyond the piano’s foundation to pursue an instrument like the English horn.  To do so would’ve meant a wholly different direction in life.  More practice and lessons instead of time spent with friends or years in the Boy Scouts.  A different college or at least a different degree.  Competitions.  Travel.

    Music eventually gave way to an interest in sports and soon I found myself on the basketball court more than in front of the piano keyboard.  I’d practice endlessly at our backyard hoop, imagining myself making game-winning shot after shot.  I did play a couple of years of JV ball in high school and went to college games at nearby UCLA.  But my skills never developed to the varsity-, let alone college-level.  Was I infatuated with basketball at the time?  Yes, but I also knew early on I’d never be one of the greats.

    You’re starting to see a pattern here and it continued in college.  I studied architecture (“I’ll be the next Frank Lloyd Wright!”) but only spent the first few years of my career in the field.  I had a good run with info technology companies (“Bill Gates!”) but never developed the level of expertise to be labeled a “techy”.  I write these weekly blog posts (“John Grisham!”) but have no plans for the next Great American Novel.

    Here’s my point, and maybe you never saw it coming.  I find all of this dabbling and dreaming incredibly satisfying.  My interest in a subject or activity wanes well before it becomes an obsession, and then I simply move on to the next thing vying for my attention.  Why do I behave this way?  Two reasons.  First, I prefer to be a jack of all trades (or a master of none, if you will), not a virtuoso.  Second, more importantly, I am far too content with my life as it is to ever be tempted by the sacrifices necessary for the pursuit of singular success.

    Michelangelo’s “David” 🙂

    There’s a complimentary phrase for people like me: Renaissance Men.  We hearken back to the great thinkers and artists who came along just after the Middle Ages; Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, for example, with “unquenchable curiosity” and “feverishly inventive imaginations”.  Mind you, I can’t paint like da Vinci or sculpt like Michelangelo, but my curiosity and imagination may run just as rampant.  The modern Renaissance Man, in a nutshell, has “broad interests” and “superficial talents”.  Me to a tee.

    Playing in my head

    The next time I hear Dvořák’s “New World Symphony”, I’ll think about playing the English horn.  Maybe I’ll sign up for lessons and eventually get good enough to play the “Largo” movement.  Maybe then I’ll join the local orchestra so I get the chance to perform in front of a live audience!  Yeah… probably not. Long before my much-anticipated stage debut, some other activity will vie for my attention and off I’ll go.

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

  • Celestial Silver Dollar

    I walk the dog late at night, just to be sure he doesn’t nudge me awake in the wee hours of the morning. The walk can be a chore when I’m tired but most nights it’s a quiet, peaceful stroll through our pitch-black horse pastures. We’re usually blessed with clear skies here in South Carolina, which means the stars and planets put on a display worthy of a paid ticket to an observatory. Regardless, the moment I’m out the door I’m in search of my other faithful companion: the moon.

    Through the trees

    The “heavens” offer a plethora of topics to blog about (which I have: Saturn in Of Rings and Romans or Starlink satellites in Celestial Strings of Pearls, for example) but I’m overdue with a few words about the moon. Our nearest galactic neighbor is a constant wonder to me.  The moon (or is it “The Moon”?) is the reason we have ocean tides here on Earth and solar eclipses far, far away.  The moon has been the target of some of the most impressive space technology and exploration in history.  But let’s put the science aside, shall we?  Today I’d rather just muse about the moon as its sits in the night sky, like a shiny silver dollar laid out on top of a black velvet cloth.

    My favorite moons are full – the perfectly round ones – but the shadowed partials can be just as beautiful.  Depending on the season and the atmosphere, the moon takes on countless looks.  Some nights it rises giant above the trees, as if invisible binoculars rest before my eyes.  Other nights the moon sits as an elegant crescent, a perfectly white slice of melon.  Still other nights the moon doesn’t rise at all, or at least, not until well after I’m in bed.  It’s a guessing game every time the dog and I head out into the dark.

    I also make a game of trying to guess when the moon is full just by looking at it.  On the nights just before or after it occurs the moon can still appear as full.  So you have to look very carefully at the edges to decide if it’s perfectly round or not.  Conveniently, the moon is full about once a month, or at least, once every month in 2024.  Next year or the year after, perhaps we’ll get a “blue”: that second full moon in a calendar month.  Doesn’t happen very often, of course.

    Here’s a fascinating fact about the moon.  It’s locked into place by the earth’s gravity, meaning it’s always showing you the same face.  Try to picture the earth taking a trip around the sun (once a year or so), while it’s spinning on its own axis (once a day), while the moon is spinning around the earth.  Technically the moon is rotating, just not on its own axis.  So you never get to see “the dark side”.

    Here’s another fact that makes me pause.  If you drive across the United States from coast to coast and back again, you’re driving about 6,000 miles.  Do that same drive thirty times and you’ve driven to the moon.  Suddenly our celestial silver dollar doesn’t seem so far away, does it?

    The next full moon (from my perspective), nicknamed “The Wolf”, is a week from this posting, on Thursday, January 25th.  It’ll be the first full one of the new year.  Good timing really, because some of you readers don’t make it to my blog until several days after the fact.  If you’re exactly a week late, walk outside tonight after dark.  A spectacular scene in the heavens awaits.

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

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    Calling… Into Question

    When I first started piano lessons as a kid, my teacher gave me a little book of scales and keyboard exercises called “Teaching Little Fingers to Play”. I came across that book again recently, and the title made me think about smartphones. Our grandchildren will get their very first phones one of these days, on which they’ll be teaching their little fingers – not their little voices – to play.  Maybe the first word they should type is T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

    Travis Tritt also wrote “T-R-O-U-B-L-E “, one of his country music hits from the 1990s.  The song’s chorus starts out with Well hello, T-R-O-U-B-L-E, Tell me what in the world, You doin’ A-L-O-N-E.  Kind of describes kids and their smartphones, doesn’t it?  They let their fingers do the talking instead of their voices.  It’s hardly a personal relationship with whoever’s on the other end, but more like the one you and I’ve developed through our back-and-forth blog comments.

    If you’re an adult with kids who have smartphones, you’ve probably had the following conversation at some point in their lives: Daughter: I talked to Jacob today.  Dad:  Did you actually TALK to Jacob?  Daughter: Well no, we were texting but you know what I mean.  Sigh…

    Telephones in transition

    In a sense (or several senses), smartphones weaken our human connections instead of strengthen them.  Think about it: before the traditional telephone our default means of communication was face-to-face (sight).  Then the telephone comes along and we go ear-to-ear instead (sound).  Then the smartphone replaces ear-to-ear with typing (touch).  On the one hand it’s technical evolution; on the other, social regression.

    Have a conversation with most members of Gen Z and you’ll want to type A-W-K-W-A-R-D.  The dialogue (if there actually is a dialogue) doesn’t flow.  They’re hesitant to offer insights or ask questions because they can’t back up the cursor and retype to get their words just right.  There are moments of uncomfortable silence; lots of them.

    Moments of silence used to be a good thing.  Flashback to my teens, when a relationship with a girl meant spending a lot of time on the phone, defined as a corded handset held up to the ear (instead of a speakerphone where you multi-task).  Those conversations were priceless to a young person.  Phone calls helped to overcome shyness, and were practice to express feelings or ask a girl out on a date.  Sometimes we’d just stay on the line in silence, enjoying the fact we were the only person in each other’s moment.

    The style I grew up with

    Phone calls also helped me learn to talk to adults (and credit to my parents for not making them for me).  I still remember those first few dials to people or businesses, nervous over the fact it was me initiating the conversation.  What do I say?  Won’t I sound stupid?  I hope my voice doesn’t crack.

    Texting absolutely has its merits, as a recent article in The Atlantic argued.  When exchanging brief, useful information, texting is dreamily efficient because there’s none of the “water cooler” effect.  As they say, get in, get out, and move on.  But when it comes to opinions, recommendations, or more detailed information, phone calls are essential, if only to allow the voice to add emphasis and/or emotion.  The Atlantic article made several arguments in support of the “gauche” phone call but surprisingly, “developing conversational skills” didn’t show up until the final paragraph.

    Budding conversationalist

    When I moved away from Colorado after almost thirty years, I left behind a particularly close friendship, one where we’d see each other weekly for an outdoor jog together.  But thanks to Zoom, I didn’t really leave it behind.  Once I got to South Carolina we looked at our calendars and booked a monthly videocall, where we could have the same conversations we had on the trail, with added ability to share photos, links, and documents in the moment.  Our conversations are as spontaneous as they were when we were face-to-face.  It’s a great way to keep in touch and maintain a relationship because technically… it’s a phone call.

    Maybe Gen Z will figure this out before Gen A takes its rightful place as America’s youth.  If you can’t be face-to-face, at least pick up the phone and have a voice call.  Keep the topics light and spontaneous.  Let the conversation flow, and don’t get distracted by typing, emojis, or multi-tasking.  Build the relationship.

    Dare I say it, there’s another word to be spelled on this topic: A-I.  I can envision a day when you’re talking to a friend, only you really aren’t because he or she has created an avatar who looks, talks, and thinks just like they do.  Heck, maybe their avatar is talking to your avatar, and you’re not even around to witness the conversation!  I’d call that another way to spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

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    Setting Little Booklets Free

    In Breaking Away, the charming little movie about bicycling and broken dreams, there’s a scene where Barbara Barrie talks with her son about her passport. She’ll never really use it, she says, but she carries her passport all the time so she can present it proudly if ever asked. With newfound hindsight, I should’ve held onto my wife’s passport as tightly as Barbara Barrie held on to hers.

    If you have a passport, you know the drill.  Every ten years you have to renew the little book.  The process is cumbersome, even online, because the authorities ask for almost as much information as they did the first time around.  Everything goes into the (re)application except a copy of your birth certificate.  Three pages of personal information later, you print, date, and sign, attach an unflattering black-and-white selfie (no smiling!) and mail it in together with your expiring passport.

    So far so good with the hindsight.  But as soon as I went to the post office last October I made a big boo-boo; the so-called fatal error.  The desk clerk convinced me to send the application through regular mail.  “Save your pennies”, I remember him saying. “After all, you’re sending through one government entity to another government entity.  What could possibly go wrong?”  So I saved my pennies… and that’s the last I ever saw of my wife’s passport.

    Did this machine eat my wife’s passport?

    Okay, maybe not ever.  Perhaps the little booklet eventually finds its way home after completing whatever misguided tour it’s been taking.  Or maybe, as our travel agent was quick to suggest, it was mangled and shredded by the sorting machine of an automated postal facility.  Or maybe #3 – the one that has me staring at the ceiling into the wee hours of the night – it’s the latest identity of the head of an international drug cartel.

    Laugh or feign horror at my expense, but you can’t blame me for wandering to the worst case scenario these days.  The outside of the mailing envelope said “National Passport Processing Center” while the inside contained what obviously feels like a passport.  Easy pickings, especially for an enterprising minimum-wage postal worker.  My recurring thought: why didn’t I fork over the fifteen bucks for a secure, insured, overnight envelope?  Because I’m cheap, that’s why.  Ah hindsight, thee be a cruel character.

    Where o’ where did you go, little book?

    Not that you’ll ever need it (because you’re learning from me) but there’s an easy process to report a “lost or stolen” passport.  You provide as much information as you can and if you’re lucky the authorities identify and “decommission” the missing booklet, reducing it to mere paper and plastic in the hands of another.  But that still left my wife with no passport, which meant filing a new (not “re”) application.  Dig out the birth certificate, take another photo, make an in-person appointment with the local post office, and pay another application fee.  Mercifully, I watched that application get sealed into one of those secure/insured mailers before disappearing down the conveyor belt.

    My first inkling of identity theft hit when our credit card company informed us of a $500 charge from a merchant in Germany, a company I didn’t recognize (and couldn’t begin to pronounce).  My second inkling hit when our travel agent tried to make charges for the trip we needed the passports for, and our other credit card was rejected.  One inkling makes you pause, but two inklings?  That pushes the big ol’ panic button.  But the god of credit cards must’ve been looking down on me favorably because the first charge was cancelled while the second charge was only denied because our travel agent had an old card on file.  In other words – to my knowledge – we’re talking random events instead of identity theft.

    There’s a happy ending to this story. (Actually, it’s more like an intermission since the authorities sent me a letter saying my wife’s passport is still lost or stolen until it’s not.)  We have new passports now, which means no renewal process for another ten years.  Our compromised credit card was cancelled and replaced.  And we froze our credit in case a “new wife” out there tries to open accounts.  I’m not convinced that’ll ever happen but I’m breathing easier as the months pass by.  And rest assured, I’m keeping our little booklets secure so nobody can, you know, “break away” with them.

About Me

The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.

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