Distractions and Pleasures

 It's a world you can't control, where the big things on big stages demand your attention. Competing with that is a fool's errand. Rather, the only way to survive is to carve out some space of your own. Routines help: having the same breakfast every day or a morning workout helps to get you started with your feet firmly under you. Keeping in touch with family and friends, even if only by Zoom or Facetime, also helps to keep us sane and centered. Organizing the basement, making bread, binge-watching "The Crown": each offers its own sense of control and peace. But it's also the little things, the unexpected distractions and pleasures that make a difference. To wit, some of mine.

As the air turns cold and the trees drop their leaves, the view out our back window gets less dense and the sky more open. And the while the brown is less preferable to the green, the clear blue starts to become deeper. Even better, as I look up from washing out my coffee mug at the sink, I see three hawks lazily riding the thermal updrafts. They glide effortlessly in circles, seemingly just tilting this way and that. Were they jets, their contrails would trace a Pollock in the sky.

I am a lover of all things sweet. Cookies, candy, honey roasted nuts, and on and on. Doesn't need to be fancy, and indeed some of my favorites are mass market edibles that would make a 5 year-old happy. And so along with Nutter Butters and Peanut M&M's I will occasionally score some Swedish Fish. These red gummy candies look like their namesake, and taste vaguely, well, red. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But my wife, knowing my penchant for new treats, stumbled across an offshoot. She was at Trader Joe's, a grocery chain that carries no familiar names but instead markets its own matching brands. And so when I reached into my treat bin I pulled out an unfamiliar bag marked as "Scandinavian Swimmers." Inside were Swedish Fish-esque creatures with the same consistency but different aquatic shapes, such as dolphins and seahorses. I can attest that the lobsters taste particularly red.

As written here previously, much of our socializing has been moved to outside venues in recognition of the risk that interior spaces present. As part of that we added a small firepit to a patio along with four chairs as a place to gather with friends. While it's wonderful to sit and sip and visit with others while bundled up outside, the fire is the capper. There is something hypnotic and calming about the flames rolling and the logs crackling that transcends the same experience were it indoors. Maybe it's the smoke that drifts this way and that, or maybe it's the warmth you can draw close to. Either way, it draws me in, and I could watch for hours.

One of the benefits of my change in schedule is that the lack of travel means I am home far more, and have time to volunteer. And so I spend several hours a week working at a food pantry. It means lugging 50-pound bags of potatoes or flats of canned tomato sauce, but I am happy to be able to do something tangible for others as opposed to just writing a check. One task is restocking the shelves so other volunteer "shoppers" can more efficiently make bags for the those in need. And while I gladly restock the canned peaches or bags of rice, I am always happy when the canned meat section needs help. That's because stacking tuna fish cans is like working with Legos. They fit together with a distinct click, and you can make a tower a dozen cans high. Alas, my modern skyscraper arrangements don't last long as the cans are picked and packed for grocery bags, but that just means I get to rebuild the next time.

In a year filled with mind numbing challenges, we have all had to find comfort where we can. There are more for me, and I'm sure you have your own. But we have to keep looking and finding those outlets, however small and inconsequential they may be. It's the difference between simply trying to ride out the storm vs. finding a reason to smile. And we all need to keep smiling. 

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Marc Wollin of Bedford tries keep his eyes and ears open. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

On This Date

Certain dates carry outsized significance, and are remembered as major waystations in the course of history. Often it is because of a particular outrage that occurred at that time: the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 and the destruction of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001 come most readily to mind. Yet others are memorable not because of tragedy but because of triumph: man walked on the moon for the first time on July 20, 1969, and the Wrights' first flight at Kitty Hawk was on December 17, 1903.

Beyond those monumental moments are millions of much smaller milestones that reflect events that occur on a more individual basis. It might be the date you got married or started your business, the date your father died or your kid graduated from high school. No less significant to you than those previously mentioned happenings, their resonance affects a much smaller universe. And yet you can argue that their import is just as meaningful in the sphere you inhabit, and perhaps even more so.

November 20, 1930 is one of those dates for me. Punch it into a search engine and you won't get a whole lot of hits. On that date in Birmingham, Alabama, the Bank of Berry was robbed of $115,000. Tornadoes swept the plains, killing 18 people in Oklahoma. And in Marion, Ohio, the mercury hit 77, the warmest it had been on that date in 27 years. But while those events surely made a mark on some, none lit up my world as did one that took place on this coast. For on this date in Newark, New Jersey, my mom was born, and so this year celebrates her 90th birthday.

Born in the early part of the Great Depression, Nan led a very traditional life for a woman of the time. She and her brother were raised by a mom and dad with a local extended family of aunts and uncles. She went to college where she met my father, and got a degree in education. After graduating they married and she started work as a teacher, eventually having myself and my sister. After a period as a full-time mom, she went back to the classroom, first as a substitute and eventually returning to the work-a-day workforce. As my sister and I departed they moved a bit for my dad's job, eventually returning to settle back in New Jersey. If not the stuff of legend it was certainly the stuff of life.

Through it all she cultivated friends and kept in touch with family, traveled a little and hosted a lot of Thanksgivings. Pets and grandchildren were added to the mix, and she kept teaching, feeling most at home communing with little kids in the second grade, retiring from the classroom only after many decades of nurturing young minds. In fact, her love of little children, whether hers or anyone else's, is immediately apparent and continues unabated whenever she encounters one: she can't pass a toddler or baby without stopping to chat and smile.

Relentlessly sunny, she surely has her moments of gray, though you would be hard pressed to catch her in one. To be sure, there were some health scares and setbacks, and the death of my father a dozen years ago that have tested her resolve. But these days she's game for whatever comes her way, whether it's dancing at her granddaughter's wedding in the center of the circle, having her nails done with glitter, or wearing a blowup crown as we gather to celebrate her 90th a few weeks early in a local park. And she ends most calls with the admonition to "give my love to everyone and keep some for yourself" and signs her cards and notes "peace, love and chocolate."

Our current predicament has tested us all, and seniors like her who live alone more than most. The simple social interactions she has with others where she lives has been sorely curtailed, and with good reason: they are a most vulnerable population. And so our celebration of her completing nine decades has to be at arms' length, and hugs and kisses will have to wait. But in no way does that diminish the milestone. Mom, I can wish you no better thoughts than you do for me: may you continue to live a life filled much peace, all my love, and even more chocolate. 

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Nan Wollin turned 90 years young on November 20. Her son's column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

Social Outsiders

We all have routines and habits that we are comfortable with, whether it's what we have for breakfast or the route we take to work or the order in which we read the Sunday New York Times. But should something disrupt that pattern, while we may grouse about it ("How can we be out of orange juice??!!") we somehow manage to survive. We have Raisin Bran instead of Cheerios, go left on Cherry instead of right on Maple, read the Week in Review until the Arts and Leisure section gets delivered later in the day. 

For all of us this past year has tested that concept in the extreme. There are few aspects of life that haven't been turned upside down and inside out. School, work, travel, communications, food, sports, entertainment, family: the list of things that have been disrupted is far longer than those that have stayed the same. That said, in each area there have been those instances where the pivot have been successful: all the major sports leagues figured out a way to finish their seasons and crown champions. Other areas have not been able to make the turn: the travel industry is in a deep funk and wounded to quick. In many more cases it's a mixed bag, where a combination of ingenuity, nimbleness, and a certain amount of luck have kept the lights on even if they aren't shining as bright as they might have been.

And then there're our social lives.

The watchword of the day says it all: "social distancing." Right up there with deafening silence, old news and jumbo shrimp, it's an oxymoron born of the times, first making an appearance in 2003. That said, it's not a new concept. The Bible contains a reference in the Book of Leviticus: "And the leper in whom the plague is - he shall dwell alone; without the camp shall his habitation be." In fact, the continuation of that very passage goes on to describe a seven-day quarantine for disease, not unlike the CDC guidelines. But before we fawn too much over the prescience of the Good Book, it should be noted that to be released from our isolation you just need a negative PCR test vs. the biblical prescription of the sacrifice of a lamb and a turtledove.

But social distancing is not isolation. Rather, it's just keeping others at a few arms' lengths. By now we have all seen the various simulations showing how the virus droplets are most likely to fall to the ground within a six-foot radius. This is especially true when you are not in an interior space where limited air circulation keeps it airborne. And so without being too pedantic about it, it would seem that it's OK to be social as long as you keep your distance, hence the mantra. 

That means that experts say it's best to stay outdoors at an appropriate remove when you visit with others. And so in yet another feat of adaptation you see parks with what look like scores of crop circles or giant games of connect-the-dots that offer guidance as to how close we may safely get to one another. Closer to home, if you are like us, you gather in yards and on decks and patios at opposite ends of the picnic table to visit and chat, with each group having their own nibbles and drinks. It has turned us all into friendly if slightly hard of hearing seniors as we listen keenly and keep asking of those over there "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

Now that cold weather is upon us it's necessary to shift direction yet again. Loath to give up the modified human interaction to which we have grown accustomed, we adapt once more. Sales of space heaters are going through the roof as people cast about for ways to maintain that distance when the temperature is edging closer to freezing. In our case we repurposed an old unused patio space, added a small fire pit and some battery powered lights to create an outdoor living room where we can gather with friends. Once again it requires some changes, and though we have no Eskimo blood in us, we are learning the ropes. We provide the chili and blankets: you bring the wine and the mukluks.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is learning to entertain in layers. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.

When Seconds Count

If I asked you to tell me the day of the week, you might hesitate for a moment. That's because our sense of time has been warped by the upending of our normal rhythms. Your usual markers for the passage of minutes and hours and days have been disrupted by of lock-outs and shut-ins. With school, work and social activities all jumbled up in unfamiliar patterns, it's hard to distinguish if it's three days till the weekend or if it's been a month since you saw your sister. Sure, you can look at a calendar or your phone or your watch and get a definitive answer. But time seems to pass differently than it did before March. Maybe like dog years, we need to recalibrate and use a new system of measurement called pandemic time.  

In some sense that's what researchers at Goethe University did, though they went the other direction. As reported recently in a study published in the journal Science, they were trying to track time in an experiment involving what's known as the photoelectric effect. Without getting too into the Einsteinian weeds, that phenomena is what happens when you hit a material with some kind of radiation, including light. The result is that a part of the original is ejected in the form of electrons. Measuring how fast those electrons get kicked out is the kind of useful info that makes things like night vision goggles and CAT scans possible. And the more precise that measurement, the more accurate those devices can be.

The scientists in Germany were working on clocking on long it takes a particle of light to cross a single molecule of hydrogen. Needless to say, they weren't using a regular stopwatch, but the quantum physics equivalent. And that's because the duration we're talking about is seriously fast. Just how quick? In the past they would have used a scale based on a period of time called a femotosecond, a unit of time used by Ahmed Hassan Zewail in his Noel prize winning work using lasers in 1999. For the record that is one millionth of one billionth of a second. Put another way, a femtosecond is to one second as one second is to 31.71 million years. So yeah, we're talking short.

But it turns out that it wasn't short enough: that darn electron popped out before they could double click the button. So they had to move to a different unit of time. And what's smaller than a femtosecond? To capture that tiny an increment they had to go down two orders of magnitude, bringing them into the realm of zeptoseconds. That unit of speediness is equal to a trillionth of a billionth of a second, a number written as a decimal point followed by 20 zeros and then a 1.

As it turns out it took 247 zeptoseconds for the electron to make its dash across the atom. And even then scientists note that there is still some wiggle room. Said physicist Reinhard Dörner, "We observed for the first time that the electron shell in a molecule does not react to light everywhere at the same time." That means they may have to drop down another level to capture that subtle difference, into the realm of yactoseconds. Unfortunately, that's just a theoretical guess, as they have no way of measuring anything that fast, other than to say it might be faster than Amazon Prime.

Theoretical or not, it makes sense that you can always go up or down one more. I was tracking an important delivery sent via FedEx and was surprised to get a notice that it got there on the same day I sent it. I called in to make sure there was no problem, and that my package hadn't been lost. When the agent punched it up, she said that no, it was still in transit, that the notice related to another delivery sent by someone else. When I queried her about the alert, she said that it happens sometimes, as they had to reuse some numbers as they were running out. I paused before responding: "I'm pretty sure that's impossible. You can't run out of numbers. Just add one more." I'm no mathematician, but as confirmed by the work of Dörner and his colleagues, I think I was standing on pretty firm ground.

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Marc Wollin of Bedford is fascinated by time and numbers. His column appears regularly in The Record-Review, The Scarsdale Inquirer and online at http://www.glancingaskance.blogspot.com/, as well as via Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter.