I time travel quite a bit.
No, seriously, I do.
It’s cheap and you can do it whenever you want, really.
So long as you have photographs..
Sometimes, when I take stock of how many photographs I have, it’s alarming. There are albums and albums which my father put together as I was growing up. The earliest one I have in my closet, a precious thing, is the old fashioned kind with thick gray pages on which you pasted the photos, and Dad did this, small old black and white pics to begin with, of my mother pregnant with me and then my first baby pictures (yes the obligatory bare-ass one…) and then me, growing from a shapeless papoose into a chubby toddler – and then, over a series of other albums, into a long-legged pre-teen and then a rangy adolescent, and then a young woman…
At some point the albums peter out and cross over into something more chaotic, just loose photos, hundreds of them, THOUSANDS of them, from four continents, with occasional efforts being made to sort them and categorize them. Most of the time nobody wrote down anything on the back so actual times and dates and locations are sometimes probably literally known to only one viewer – me – because I was either in the shot (at an identifiable age from which I can then map the rest of the details) or, later on, I was the one behind the camera and remember taking that shot.
By the time my father stopped taking pictures and making albums I had my own camera – but my pictures are different from the ones that came before. I take pictures of landscapes and animals and clouds in the sky and flowers in my garden and butterflies and the ocean and snow. My pictures are of the things I have seen and preserved like a solid little memory square in full Technicolor.
But I don’t have many pictures of people. With my dad’s abdication as photographer and archivist, the long line of the family record really all came to a sputtering end, with a few explosions at a handful of times – a bunch of shots from my graduation(s) from University – a bunch of pictures on which I feature from our sojourn in New Zealand – a couple of shots of me from my South Seas adventure – and then one or two here and there, just as proof of life, I am still here and I am still walking this Earth, but nothing like the sustained record that there was when I was young.
A similar chaos exists from the era that was pre-me.
The older pictures, the black and white shots filled with faces I do not know, my grandparents’ generation. Pictures I cherish because of their age and their testimony – shots of my grandparents as young parents, one particularly affecting one with them weeping over the tiny coffin of their second daughter who did not survive her babyhood – my great-uncle’s high-school graduation photo (he was a handsome young devil) – pictures of my mother as a ten-year-old with her hair in wheat-gold braids. But many of these older pictures are already lost to me because I can no longer identify their subjects. Some of them actually have dates on the back – semi mythical ones, to me, like 1936 and 1945 and 1950, the days before I existed – but the people who might know anything more about those pictures are beginning to vanish.
My father, the great photographer and organizer, died last year. While he was still with us I did a time capsule of sorts for him, combing through that chaos of loose photos for ones in which he appeared, putting them all together in a coherent timeline in a separate album.
Here was my father in a rare early picture when he was seventeen. Here he was in his twenties, and then in his late twenties and a soldier in uniform (they had obligatory military service in those days, and he was in uniform for a while, was in one when he met my mother, and it was horrifying, shocking, for her to be seen being squired around by one of the soldier boys, according to the accepted laws of propriety her culture lived by….), and then in his early thirties holding toddler me in his arms, and then in his forties still young and full of gung-ho optimism about the world flying out into adventure under the flag of the United Nations into Africa with wife and daughter in tow – and him in his fifties, and then his sixties,, and then the later ones, in his seventies, thin and spare and white-haired…
I do not have any of him from the last three months of his life. I did not want to remember him like that (as if I could ever forget, seeing it in real life, holding his skeletal arm in my hand as I supported him as he tried to walk…) But there it is, in front of me, pure time travel, me at my father’s side as he traversed the years of his life, the pictures bringing to life this moment or that one, conversations that started with “Do you remember…?”
It’s a time travel that can go in one direction only, into the past, into the things that were, that had been. Into memory. And photos can take you straight there – take a good look at one, and then close your eyes, and you can live the moment again as though all the years in between never were. You can be young again, any time you choose. You can look at a picture and remember joy, or sadness, or triumph, or awe. Time vanishes into a line, into a dot, and it’s all one continuum, and you and your older self hold hands like ghosts and dance across the story of your life.
It did occur to me, when I was putting together Dad’s albums, that it all ends with me.
I don’t have anyone to come after me. No young eyes are looking at these photos, no young eyes that share the histories that the pictures represent. I discovered already, the hard way, how fast those pictures can become just a pile of paper, in the end – when my father died, my mother culled his own vast mess of uncategorized and un-albumed photos, and she only kept a few, a precious few. Somehow the rest of them – the vast majority of them – lost all meaning when Dad went. A handful were useful as pointers… but photos… are a very personal time machine. Without the spirit to drive them, they become dead letters, a dead story, a vanished history, no longer of interest to anyone except someone who might have cared about the smiling face on the pictures in some capacity, or possibly, if that face had been a public figure of some sort, a dispassionate archivist putting together a collage for a museum exhibit, a cold static display.
This is a time machine for the soul. And it looks back, only back. And when the spirit withers, so does the ability to make sense of the time travel, and meaning, and memory.
I still have photos of my grandparents, dead now these twenty years and more. But for me, their meaning lies in the shreds of personality that still cling to them, the ghostly sound of remembered laughter, or a whispered word in their voice.
Dad’s images are still too young, too fresh, I remember him too well living – some of the more lasting images I recall of him are not recorded by camera but indelibly imprinted in my own mind, and these will be the things that cling to his own photos eventually, like my grandparents’ But for now it’s all still too close, too real. The time machine still sputters, fitfully. His hand is not in mine any more but I can still go back in time with him, he is still close enough for me to do that with.
But it will be a year since he left me, very soon. A YEAR. It’s hard to believe. Another year or three or five and the time machine will come to a final stop, somewhere, and everything will be just dust and ashes and memories.
But not yet. Not yet.
There are still a few journeys into time I can take with my father’s soul as my guide.
This essay might be of special interest to writers of detective and mystery novels who would like to enrich their stories by providing their readers with a gift of extra details. It might also be of general interest to many other readers, especially those who are CSI and NCIS fans.
Although the outcome of some criminal cases are decided by one crucial piece of evidence. many are based upon a combination of supporting pieces of evidence. Such a case was one involving a murder in Texas. A major factor was provided by a friend of the murderer to whom the latter had confessed. Supporting evidence was provided using a unique method that promises to be applicable in many other situations.
Moises Sandoval Mendoza had recently turned 21 when he strangled, stabbed and assaulted a 20-year-old mother and school acquaintance named Rachelle O’Neil Tollesone. Mr. Mendoza was a Mexican national living in Farmersville, Texas. Ms. Tollesone also lived in Farmersville At the time of the murder, Mr. Mendoza was awaiting trial for aggravated robbery with a deadly weapon. He was accused of having been involved in the commission of several robberies at gunpoint in Dallas. He had also been charged with misdemeanor assault for allegedly having attacked his own sister in the front yard of the Mendoza home.
According to court documents filed by police, Mendoza had hidden Ms. Tollesone’s body in brush behind his house, but, after having been questioned by police about her disappearance, he had moved it to a remote area and tried to remove her fingerprints by burning her body. Mr. Mendoza later revealed details of what he had done to a friend, Stacy Marie Garcia. Since the information she provided to authorities included details that could not have been known by anyone not somehow connected to the murder, a judge signed a warrant for Mr. Mendoza’s arrest.
Police and volunteers searched areas around Farmersville for Ms. Tellesone’s body, but it was ultimately discovered in another county by a man looking for arrowheads. A medical examiner was able to identify the burned body by comparing the body’s teeth with Ms. Tellesone’s dental records.
Although the information provided by Ms. Garcia was compelling, the sheriff’s office did not halt its investigation at this point. They contacted a dendrochronology expert with hopes of finding supporting evidence using annual tree rings in what appeared to be partially burned fireplace logs used to burn Ms. Tellesone’s body. Mr. Mendoza had been seen putting similar logs in a fireplace at a social gathering. Unfortunately, the expert found the logs to be of mesquite, a wood that grows so erratically that tree ring analysis would not provide dependable information.
Eventually, a physicist used a Laser Induced Breakdown Spectrometry (LIBS) technique to analyze logs from the scene where Ms. Tellesone’s body was burned and from those Mr. Mendoza had been seen putting in the fireplace. Trees extract metals and other trace elements from soil, and their presence reflects what metals and other elements reside in soil in their location. Using the LIBS technique, a strong, pulsed laser was focused onto a sample of the wood, breaking it down to form a plasma. As the plasma cooled, atoms of different elements in the sample emitted energy in the form of light. Each element emitted light having a unique wavelength. Each wavelength was used to identify a specific element. The intensity of emitted light was used to identify an associated element’s concentration. The information provided by the technique has been referred to as a chemical “fingerprint.”
Burned and unburned portions of the logs were specifically tested for the presence and concentrations of aluminum, calcium, carbon, iron, magnesium, manganese, nitrogen, silicon, sodium and titanium. The resulting spectra of the mineral contents of both burned and unburned portions of all the tested logs were found to be identical. That indicated they were all from a single tree or from trees in an immediate vicinity.
The combination of the testimony provided by Ms. Garcia and the LIBS data resulted in a death sentence for Mr. Mendoza.
Thirty-two US states have death penalties; eighteen do not. Six have abolished it during this century.
The term, dendrochronology, refers to the dating and study of annual growth rings in trees. It has often been used to discover ancient climate patterns.
Tree ring comparisons have had a place in forensics since at least 1932, when tree ring patterns in boards used to make a crude ladder were found to match rings in boards found in one Bruno Hauptmann’s attic. Hauptmann was believed to have used the ladder to gain entry to the Charles Lindbergh home to kidnap the Lindberghs’ 20-month-old son.
As an added bit of trivial nostalgia, the superintendent of the New Jersey State Police during the Lindbergh kidnapping affair was the father of the late General “Stormin Norman” Swartzkopf. Those readers alive during the 1930’s or who are fans of recordings of “Old Time Radio” programs might recall Stormin Norman’s father narrating a popular, true-crime radio program named “Gang Busters.”
Our world is always full of unexpected lacunae, gaps and hollows that we don’t know are there until we step into one. We twist our ankle, and sit down and examine ourselves for injury… and instead find a gift.
One such gift was a book I received this Christmas, “What The Bee Knows: Reflections on Myth, Symbol and Story” by P L Travers. Yes, THAT P L Travers. Mary Poppins’s literary mother.
I have to admit that I never read the original literary edition of Mary Poppins. My entire acquaintance with that august nanny came from the Disney movie, and for me she will always wear the rosy-cheeked face of the young Julie Andrews. I never knew that Travers, Poppins’s creator, was not at all happy at the idea of Disney’s adapting her work, and was certainly less than happy with Disney’s interpretation of the story. I was a child when the movie first came out. I remember going to see it with my mother, in an ancient and venerable movie house in the Old Town across the river in the city where I was born. I distinctly remember the cinema, with its red plush seats and fading scarlet curtains on either side of the screen, and most emphatically the movie itself, and its songs, and its marvelous nanny, and the story… and it all stuck with me, labelled “Disney” instead of “Travers”.
It was only relatively recently, with the release of the movie which purported to deal with the relationship between Travers and Disney, which apparently (I never did get to see it) portrayed that relationship as frankly iffy and Travers herself as a bit of a pompous and cold selfish so-and-so who was all but willing to scuttle that great and glorious movie of my own childhood because of her own disapproval of Disney’s vision of it, that I really knew that there was anything here that came before the Poppins movie.
I knew nothing of P L Travers herself before I tripped over this recent movie interpretation of her, but somehow… somehow… I don’t know. I took a step back and thought, ‘Really? That was the way it was?’ And it was about this time that it came to my attention that there was a book out there called “What the Bee Knows”, and the things that it contained. And I desired it. And heaven and earth were moved so that it might be obtained for me.
And oh, the treasure I received.
I kept on reading passages and nodding violently, or feeling my eyes tear up, or simply stopping reading and staring out through a window while my thoughts rearranged themselves into a new and different and yet ever so recognizable pattern.
In one of the essays, ‘The Interviewer’, first published in a New York journal called ‘Parabola’ on the theme of The Creative Response, as recently as 1988 (that jolted me; I saw the Poppins movie back when I was seven or eight years old, which meant in 1970 or so – 1988 seemed WAY too modern a dateline to belong to the woman who wrote the book!) Travers speaks about a reviewer who corners her and says to her, ‘[These books] are not invented, that is why they are so interesting!’ – and she responds, delighted at the journalist’s apparent epiphany, ‘How could they be? You invent motorcycles and atom bombs.’ And then he disappoints her by saying, yes, but so where did you get your ideas…? And he WILL have his answer, and if he does not get it then he will make it up because of course an idea cannot come from nothing or nowhere or everywhere at once – because for men like him, with tidy minds, things must go into labelled boxes, and there HAS to be a specific concrete discrete SOMETHING in the box labelled ‘Ideas, Beginnings’.
But Travers knows better. And has recognized the truth, in other writers, in those that came before her. In an earlier essay, published back in 1967 in the Quarterly Journal of the Library of Congress, she says, ‘These men [AE, Yeats, James Stephens, and the rest] had aristocratic minds. For them, the world was not fragmented. An idea did not suddenly grow, like Topsy, all alone and separate. For them, all things had antecedents and long family trees. They saw nothing shameful or silly in myths and fairy stories, nor did they shovel them out of sight in some cupboard marked Only for Children. They were always willing to concede that there were more things in heaven and earth than philosophy dreamed of. They allowed for the unknown.’
The Idea is the World. The World is the Idea. How gloriously simple an answer to the perennial question that has dogged the heels of writers and other creators over years, decades, centuries. How simple, how elegant, how wonderful.
But Travers doesn’t stop at Beginnings. She tackles Endings too – like, in the same essay about that hapless interviewer, this: ‘…nothing in life is ever really finished. A book for instance is no book at all, unless, when we come to the last page, it goes on and on within us.’ And oh, amen to that too.
She speaks of the process, too, in that same wonderful essay – of the middles, if you will – and how the story is irretrievably tangled with its teller: ‘CS Lewis, in a letter to a friend, says, “There is only one Creator and we merely mix the elements He gives us” – a statement less simple than it seems. For that ‘mere mixing’, while making it impossible for us to say “I myself am the maker” also shows us our essential place in the process. Elements among elements, we are there to shape, order, define, and in doing this we, reciprocally, are defined and shaped and ordered. The potter, moulding the receptive clay, is himself being moulded.’
And yes, this, too. No story I have ever written – no good, true, valuable story – has left me, its writer, unchanged, unshaken. If it does leave me that way then it is not a good or true or valuable story. Again, a simple truth but one which waited for a Travers to put it under the magnifying glass of her insight for its truth to leap at me. Yes, my stories have written me every bit as much as I have written them. How else could a world be?
And then – wonderfully – she picks up on a theme that I myself have written on, before I met her in these pages. The story, as river.
Here’s what she says, in another essay published far later (in 1981) than I had chronologically placed her, in that same journal called ‘Parabola’ from New York, which seems to be a treasure house of these Travers pieces:
‘For, true to its multisidedness, what myth takes with one hand it will give with the others. Anyone able to sit and listen to the bees will constantly find himself reminded of the turbulent groundswell of ancient lore; of what, as St Augustine said, ‘Was, is and will ever be. Ever, yes, and everywhere. The rivers of the world, the planet’s bloodstream, commune with other underground for, in fact, they are all one river – Ganges, that flows out of Shiva’s hair, Shenandoah and the wide Missouri, the trickle of liquid history with London on its banks – all have the same story to tell.’
As a comparison, here’s what I had to say about it, in my introduction to the anthology called “River” which I edited a couple of years back – part of an earlier essay, entitled “There Is Only One River”, which I wrote for the e-zine ‘St Petersburg Gazette’ on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of Mark Twain’s death. This is what I wrote:
“I was born on the banks of the Danube – when it is already an old river, muddy, treacherous, full of shifting sandbanks and sucking mud and terrifying whirlpools. This was the river that held my own imagination.
I was told stories about it when I was barely a toddler, of the years when the winters were so diamond-hard that the ice on the river was thick enough to bear sleighs and horses and they had sleigh races, complete with thundering hooves of iron-shod horses, up and down the frozen river. The river which ate life during the war, when the invaders took the local residents out onto the ice and pushed them under, sometimes still alive, for the crime of being who and what they were. The river which threw out bright glints when the summer sun hit the water lapping at the muddy banks, or the deep green depths where sometimes the clear water lingered; the river whose bottom was trawled by great bewhiskered catfish whose smaller representatives you could see moving sluggishly in a large tank at the marketplace and you could walk up to it, point to the fish you wanted, and it would be expertly extracted and brained and decapitated and wrapped up for you while you waited – but I, even as a child, knew that there had to be bigger and wiser catfish in the river who had lived there for a century or more and were far too canny to get trapped into that death-tank.
I was told that when my grandfather was a child the river was still clean enough to drink from. When my mother was a child it was still clean enough to swim in (and you probably wouldn’t catch anything too bad if you swallowed a mouthful or two). By the time my time came, you’d probably catch seven different kinds of dysentery from the thing, and it smelled of diesel, closer to the main quay where the boats tied up, and, further down the embankment, of soft squelching ripe river mud, the kind that would suck the shoes off your feet if you wandered too deep into it. The mud hid things that were known as bikovi, a kind of seed pod which was distinguished by sharp spikes – three of whom at any given time served as a steady tripod on which the thing rested and the fourth pointed straight up, sharp and solid and sturdy enough to drive through the sole of a shoe. One didn’t walk barefoot on the shore – at least not where there wasn’t open sand – without paying close attention to where one stepped.
I loved my river with a great love. The Danube which was not blue, not here, and never was. It does not matter. I worshipped the great brown water flowing swiftly by. I loved the ramshackle fishing boats pulled up on the sandbanks out where the river was not constrained by concrete or great levees. I loved the forests of cats’ tails and other water reeds that crowded its shallows, wading out into the stream. I even loved the sharp seedpods which I took such care to avoid. I loved the way it looked, the way it smelled, the way it flowed through my own veins, like blood and memory.
I was, still am, in a sort of superstitious awe of the thing. When I returned to the city of my birth in the aftermath of the NATO bombing campaign in 1999, the one that had taken out ALL the bridges that bound together the parts of the city on the river’s two banks, the only way across was by crowded ferries which often had standing room only and were stuffed with as much humanity as they could carry… or by cockleshell boats plied by private enterprise, which would take you across for coin, like the ferryman across the Styx. We did that, my mother and my aunt and I, one time, and sat in the little wooden boat as it was flung across the river by the good offices of a tiny outboard motor. I remember sitting on the wooden seat in the boat, next to the edge, with the boat low enough in the water that I could, if I wanted to, reach out a hand and trail it in the water as we crossed the river.
And I tried.
I put out a hand and spread out fingers that trembled… and I could not make myself touch that holy water. Holy, to me, for so long. I had been warned against its whirlpools as a child and now there they were, swirling brown and oddly innocuous right next to my boat… and I could not touch them. Because the legends I carried in my heart and in my spirit told me that there really WAS a river god living here, and that he was drowsing, and that my touch might wake him, and I would pay the price.
The great river. The old river. The river of dreams, and of power, and of eternity, flowing like time.
[Mark Twain’s] gift to me was to realise eventually that there was a way to make something into an archetype that transcended the mere quotidian. My Danube would have been a stranger to a Twain riverboat, or a black slave running away to freedom; the Mississippi would have equally been a stranger to sleigh races on ice, or to the specific kind of water reeds that grew on its banks. But I like to think that the catfish of both rivers would have found a common tongue between them as they slipped past the archetypical waters of all rivers and of all time. And I like to think that some day, if I find myself with my toes curled into the mud of the banks of the old downstream Mississippi of the Twain stories, I will instinctively be watching out for sharp seed pods which could not possibly be there.”
I can’t help thinking – hoping, perhaps – that P L Travers might have picked up a copy of my own essay and found something to recognize in there, just as I found hers to be treasures of the familiar made strange and the strange made familiar.
As I said, I have never read the actual story of Mary Poppins, in print, in P L Travers’s own words. Perhaps I really owe it to her, after all these years, to go back to those words, and hope that they carry the same kind of richness that her essays have given to me over the last couple of weeks that I’ve been dipping into this collection.
Nothing, as she said herself, is ever finished. And now that I’ve closed the cover of this book… it only means that I am urged to go on, go further, and find other books that speak to me, books by this literate, insightful, amusing, poignant, wise sister in words whom I found between these particular covers.
I am learning to listen to bees.
This essay might be of special interest to writers of detective and mystery novels who would like to enrich their stories by providing their readers with a gift of extra details. It might also be of general interest to many other readers, especially those who are CSI and NCIS fans.
It was a warm April day in 2007. Smoke drifted lazily from open windows of a parked patrol car as Michele, a 22-year-old policewoman, sat enjoying her favorite cigarette, a Gauloise. Apparently on a lunch break, she had driven to a park in Heilbronn, Germany and parked under a shade tree. Sitting beside her was her partner, Martin. It was the first time he had joined Michele on patrol. It was also his last. While parked, both officers were shot in the head. Martin barely survived. Michele did not.
Police found little evidence to help with their investigation of the shooting, only bits of DNA lifted from the car. The only information it provided was that the DNA had been deposited by a woman. It was ultimately discovered, however, that the DNA matched that found at the scenes of a number of previous crimes. The crimes included the strangling in May 1993 of a 62-year-old woman with wire used to hold a bunch of flowers. Matching DNA was found on the rim of a teacup. Matching DNA was found in March 2001 at a house belonging to a 61-year-old antiques dealer. He had been strangled with garden twine. In October 2001, matching DNA was found on the remains of a cookie in a trailer that had been broken into. During the same month, matching DNA was discovered on a syringe found by a 7-year-old boy in a wooded area. This led the authorities to think the woman they sought might have been a homicidal drug addict.
Within the period between finding the DNA of interest on the syringe and finding its match in 2007 at the scene of the shooting of the two police officers, it was discovered at the scenes of a series of crimes including bank robberies, home invasions, vehicle theft, a bombing or two and burglaries in France and Austria as well as Germany. Interestingly, Bavaria, which comprises a fifth of the area of Germany, reported no crimes believed to be related to the unknown woman.
In February 2008, the bodies of three Georgian car dealers were pulled from a river near Heppenheim, Germany. DNA matching the DNA of interest was found in a car used to transport the three bodies and driven by a suspect involved in their deaths.
Meanwhile, the unknown woman suspected of being the source of the DNA of interest had become known in the media as The Phantom of Heilbronn and The Woman Without a Face.
Altogether, the DNA of interest was found at some 40 sites. A hundred or so police officers had become involved in the woman hunt. By January 2009, a reward offered for information leading to her arrest had risen to 300,000 euros. One optimistic police chief even announced in April 2008 that they were “closing in on her.”
Efforts to find the Phantom of Heilbronn suffered a jolt when the French discovered a charred body believed to be that of a man who had sought asylum and then disappeared back in 2002. His fingerprints had been taken when he had applied for asylum. In an attempt to identify the body, a DNA sample was taken. Surprisingly, it was found to match that of the DNA of interest. A second test was performed using fresh testing implements, and no matching DNA could be found.
That, and especially the fact that the charred body was that of a male, finally led authorities to conclude that the female Phantom of Heilbronn was just that: a phantom. They determined that a woman in a factory that made the swabs used to take DNA samples had apparently touched them, leaving her DNA upon them. Reportedly, the cotton swabs used to collect DNA samples during the hunt for the Phantom of Heilbronn had been sterilized, and that removes bacteria, fungi and viruses. Unfortunately, it does not destroy DNA. With one big poof, that left some 40 investigations dangling in midair.
A case semisimilar to the foregoing case involved the murders of two women that also had investigators scratching their heads.
Autopsies of bodies of persons whose deaths are caused by foul play or unknown means are naturally more rigorous than those performed on bodies of persons that died from natural causes. They include scraping and clipping fingernails and analyzing material found beneath them. Such an autopsy of a woman brutally murdered in London yielded biological material that might have been clawed from the murderess by her victim.
DNA from the material was found to match that of DNA archived in the National DNA Database. Given the information provided by a DNA comparison, it seemed apparent that the woman whose DNA was in the archive had most likely murdered the “victim” under whose fingernails the biological material had been found. What made investigators just a bit suspicious was the fact that the woman whose DNA had been archived had herself been murdered some three weeks before the victim she was suspected of murdering had been murdered.
The victim’s nails had been painted in a unique, leopard-skin pattern and her nail clippings and those of her suspected murderess had never been taken out of laboratory storage at the same time. Furthermore, the nail analyses had been done several weeks apart and by different analysts, so there was little chance of the clippings having been intermixed.
Although the autopsies of the two women had been performed at the same mortuary, they had arrived weeks apart. The body of the suspected murderess had been kept in a freezer for a few weeks while detectives completed an initial investigation. It was then removed from the freezer so that a pathologist could take additional nail clippings. The nail clippers used had been cleaned and then used again to clip the nails of the victim the following day. They were eventually found to have DNA traces of three different persons.
A lesson having been learned, the recommended nail clipping procedure is now to clip nails with disposable clippers and to place them in an evidence bag with their associated clippings to ensure they are used only once.
The service weapon and handcuffs of the murdered policewoman, Michele, were ultimately found in a camper van used by two supposed neo-Nazi terror cell members to flee following a bank robbery. They reportedly committed suicide as police approached and were subsequently held responsible for shooting Michele and her partner, Martin.
In early January 2009, one euro was reported to have been worth 1.3946 dollars. 300,000 euros would thus have been worth 418,380 US dollars.
Reportedly, more than 99 percent of DNA in a human is identical to that in other humans. It is the remaining DNA that provides us with our individuality. The probability of identical DNA being found in two unrelated persons has been estimated to be less than one in a billion.
For readers who enjoy large numbers, average humans have an estimated three billion DNA bases in their genomes.
Just yesterday, flapping around the Web as you do, I tripped across this article
It’a about “anomie”, and they define the term like this:
Anomie, which literally means “without law” in German and French, was defined by Durkheim to be a state of “normlessness.” ….in times of social change and upheaval, clear societal standards and expectations for individuals vanish. Without “clear rules, norms, or standards of value” people feel anxious, rootless, confused, and even suicidal. Life in an age of anomie can often feel empty and meaningless.
A little further down, we get this:
I have a friend who is endlessly lamenting that he wants his life “to be extraordinary.” But when I ask him what that means, he shakes his head, and says, “I don’t even know-it’s just this feeling that haunts me all the time.”
Life is a search for meaning. Sometimes, all too often in fact, we don’t even consciously realise that this is what we are doing – but we pursue things, and accomplish things, and aim for things, and want things, that will *add meaning to our lives*. We search out mates we believe will complete us in some deeply esoteric way that we never fully understand (and therefore many of us fail to succeed at this, long-term; the contemporary solution is divorce and a going of separate ways but not THAT long ago divorce was a social stigma one could not easily admit into one’s life and manner of existence and lots of our forebears stuck it out in failed relationships which lasted DECADES…) We choose careers we believe will fulfill us – but for many of us the major choices come at a time when we are still too young to know our own minds, and some of us will wind up going to college, getting multiple degrees in a discipline, and then chafe for years at working under the constraints of that discipline until we either drop in the traces or else find the courage to change horses midstream, as it were, and begin to pursue an existence more congenial to what our adult and fully formed selves find fulfilling as opposed to the callow young things we were at 16 or 18 or even our early twenties.
I don’t completely agree with everything that the article which started me thinking about this actually says. For one thing, it’s from a site which is blatantly called “The Art of Manliness” – and the female experience begins to diverge from that “art” almost immediately. If our grandmothers and great-grandmothers fought for votes, and our sixties-mothers (or ourselves) fought for freedom, those of us walking the Earth today are far from able to bury the weapons and declare the fight over. Far too many of us are still stuck on the “lesser human being” level. Far too many of us are dismissed or denied, our achievements buried, our prospects far less stellar than those of our male counterparts no matter HOW good we are in a discipline shared by both minds.
Take science. How many pre-21st century female scientists of high achievement can you name, off the cuff, just like that, RIGHT NOW? (No, OTHER than Marie Curie…)
Here’s a short list. There have been other worthy candidates added in comments, if you scroll down. How many of those names did you know? How many did you, as your eye slid over them, actually recognise – an “Oh, YEAH” moment – but would not have thought of yourself if you had been asked to give a list of ten names without looking at at encyclopedia or, well, a website?
How about space exploration? How many people know who the Mercury 13 were, and what their aspirations were, and how they ended up? How many female astronauts can you name, even today…?
Take literature. There was ONE Jane Austen. Before they became famous in their own right, the Brontes wrote under male names (Currer Bell, anybody…?)Male names were used to make sure that publishers took their works “seriously” and that the reading public accepted them as being written by the kind of human being who was thought, at the time, to have an actual MIND. Having one of those was frowned on, for a little while at least and in the right circles of society, if you were a girl. Some other 19th century examples of this were Mary Ann Evans (whom you might know better as George Eliot) and a lady who rejoiced in the mouthful of a name that is Amandine Aurore Lucile Dupin, Baronne Dudevant (better known as George Sand). Isak Dinesen, who wrote the sublime “Out of Africa”, was actually Karen Blixen. And if you think that we’re past this in the 20th century and even the 21st, we’ve just changed the nature of the beast a little. The Harry Potter stories may or may not have sold like the hot cakes they did if the author’s name on the cover was JOANNE Rowling rather than J.K. – and there are lots and lots of examples of those “ungendered” author names out there (D.C. Fontana, S.E. Hinton, J.A. Jance… I’m sure you can add to this list without too much trouble…)
All of these women wanted their lives to be… well… extraordinary. And all of them were to a greater or lesser degree tramelled by the “normalcy” of their times.
It is far more acceptable today than it has ever been before in herstory (the female version of HIStory) that a woman has a vocation which she can turn into a career – that a woman can work at a job because she wishes to do so and not because it’s a minimum wage sloggery thing that she is forced to do because her children are starving – but even so there are invisible strings attached, and the glass ceiling has a nice hard crack on it, perhaps even large enough for a few to crawl through, but it is very much still there for the rest. And a woman really DOES have to be twice as good and work twice as hard to be considered half as good as a man, in many disciplines. I’m lucky enough, myself, to be born into a time where the idea of a woman writing a book is not as actively foreign as it used to be – if I had been born in the times of an Emily Bronte I too might have put my hair up under a cloth cap and found a boy’s name and soldiered on incognito. My life might have been extraordinary, in those terms, but it would have been a life that would not, in a certain sense, have been my own. It would have been borrowed, it would have been stolen, it would have been faked.
But it doesn’t have to translate into a stellar accomplishment of any sort at all, really. If I say I want my life to be extraordinary… well… I just mean that I want it to touch other lives, in some meaningful way. In my own case, I may do this through the books I write, and my life is filled with extraordinary moments – every time I get someone walking up to me at a con, or writing me an email, and telling me that they loved something I wrote and that it had changed them in whatever small way it was able to do this, that’s a luminous and extraordinary moment for me, and I string them down my days and my years like pearls and wear them proudly. But some people are gifted enough for their mere presence, for the brushing past of another’s existence in whatever minute manner that might be, to be extraordinary – for them to be remembered, for them to be loved. I could not go to my grandmother’s funeral – it was in another country from the one where I was living at the time that she died, on another continent. But I saw the pictures from it. Her casket was surrounded by people, by people who mourned her loss, the fact that she was no longer amongst them. Everyone came, everyone whose lives she had been even the tiniest part of. People whose only link to her might have been a conversation. But she was that kind of woman. She existed, and her mere existence made her life extraordinary.
I would do well to accomplish half that much.
I want my life to be extraordinary. I’ve filled it with love, and with rich experience, and with books and with a sense of wonder; it now remains to translate that, to transmute it, to leave it behind in some tangible or intangible form – a book, or a memory – and to enrich someone else’s life with a sliver of it, a kernel, a piece of grit, something around which they can build their own pearl.
I want my life to be extraordinary.
I guess I will never know if I fully succeeded in achieving that. Nobody is given to do that – the verdict on a life well lived often comes way too late for the one who did the living of it to know. But some day, somewhere, I want somebody… to remember my name with love. THAT would make for an extraordinary life. That alone. Right there.
In my previous piece (FORENSICS 175: MASS SPECTROMETERS), I mentioned that, if enough readers wished to tread on the probabilistic terrain where dwell atomic electrons, that I might consider exploring their actions from a perspective of quantum theory. I saw no hands go up until shortly after I had published the piece. Our very own Thomas (Sully) Sullivan then waved his hand.
For those who might not have read my previous piece, I have included the following three paragraphs from it.
Fans of the forensic investigation dramas on television have probably noticed various instruments used in crime laboratories to analyze evidence. One has likely been used to identify constituents of various substances and is known as a mass spectrometer. Such instruments appear to be quite complicated, but their ability to perform their duty basically hinges on the simple fact that electrically charged particles moving through a magnetic field are forced into a curved path. Measuring the radius of the curvature provides information used to identify the constituents, and that is basically what the instrument does to earn its cost.
Readers who have had the good fortune to have had classes in physical sciences might recall that molecules are formed of two or more atoms. Classical physics describes most atoms as comprising nuclei containing positively charged protons and neutral neutrons. Negatively charged electrons dwell outside the nucleus. According to classical physics, electrons live in orbits and revolve around the nucleus much like planets circling a star. Quantum theory paints a different picture of electron actions that is more complex. If enough readers wish to tread on the probabilistic terrain of quantum theory, I might consider exploring it. (I don’t see any hands going up, so I will put that subject aside.)
Readers might also recall that, in addition to electrically charged particles, there are such things as electric and magnetic fields. An electric field may be thought of as being a force created per unit of electric charge. A magnetic field may be thought of in terms of a mathematical description of the magnetic influence of electric currents and magnetic materials. The fields might also be thought of as the source of action at a distance.
Be prepared to open your mind, because we will be dipping a toe tip into the atomic and subatomic world of quantum mechanics. Quantum mechanics has been defined as being a branch of physics that deals with the structure and behavior of molecules, atoms, subatomic particles and their interactions with light. It is a world where, for example, two particles that once interacted can remain linked even when moved light years apart. This “entanglement” is what Einstein referred to as spooky action at a distance. Additional, apparently impossible actions include particles appearing and disappearing and tunneling through matter. Particles can also behave like particles and also like waves. A common laboratory experiment has an electron pass through two parallel slits simultaneously, thus displaying its wave property.
Nobel-Prize-winning, theoretical physicist Richard P. Feynman, held to be one of the top ten physicists of all time, reportedly stated that nobody completely understood quantum theory. In spite of this, quantum theory provides extremely accurate predictions of subatomic-scale phenomena.
The word “quantum gained popularity not too long ago and has been used in many ways. In the world of physics, the word “quantum” usually refers to the smallest, discrete amount of a physical property, for example, matter or energy.
As a brief review, an atom comprises a nucleus containing one or more positively charged protons and zero or more uncharged neutrons. A standard-model atom includes one or more electrons circling the nucleus in orbits that are specific distances from the nucleus. Neutrally charged atoms are those whose positive and negative electric charges are equal. Those that are not equal are known as positive or negative ions. Forms of elements that differ from those having the same number of protons, but a different number of neutrons, are known as isotopes.
As mentioned in the second, italicized paragraph, quantum theory does not describe electrons revolving about an atom’s nucleus in specific orbits. This would allow certain pairs of physical properties, known as complementary variables, such as position and momentum, to be known at the same time. Knowing the two variables simultaneously would also allow future positions to be determined. Such knowledge is prohibited according to what is known as the uncertainty principle. As the accuracy of knowing the location of a particle, such as an electron, increases, the accuracy of knowing its momentum decreases and vice versa. As mentioned in the second italicized paragraph, the terrain of quantum theory is probabilistic. For example, one can know, at the same time, only the probability of an electron being in a certain place and having a certain momentum.
Due to the wave nature of quantum objects as presently interpreted, it follows that the uncertainty principle is a fundamental property of quantum systems.
In a quantum world, closely disposed around each atom’s nucleus, rather than specific orbits, are volumes of space within which are points each of which bears a probability of being the location of an electron. The volumes represent the probabilistic terrain mentioned in the second italicized paragraph. The volumes are often referred to as electron clouds. They are more formally known as orbitals.
That particles can also behave like waves is known as wave-particle duality. Its significance resides in the fact that the behavior of light and matter can be described using a differential equation representing a wave function. Differential equations are means of expressing the laws of nature mathematically. A wave function is a variable quantity that mathematically describes the characteristics of a particle. The mathematical square of the wave function can be used to calculate the probability of finding an electron of an atom at a specific point and time in any specific, localized region.
Although most atomic electrons live fairly close to their nucleuses, if you want to be 100 percent certain that an electron is in an orbital, be aware that the orbital must be the size of the Universe.
An electron is a subatomic particle having a negative electric charge. Since electrons have no known substructure, they and their electric charges are considered to be elementary. Protons are small, only about 1.6 to 1.7 x 10^-15 (1.6 to 1.7 times 10 to the minus 15th power) meters in diameter. They have a mass of only 1.6726 x 10^- 27 kilograms, but that is some1836 times the mass of an electron. Neutrons are just a bit more massive than protons. They have a mass of 1.6749 x 10^-27 kilograms.
Quantum mechanics is not merely an academic exercise. It has practical applications that are familiar to nonscientists. Among these are the electron microscope, the laser, the transistor (including diodes) and magnetic resonance imaging (MRI). Quantum tunneling is used to erase memory cells of flash memory chips.
This piece addresses quantum electron orbitals, but Quantum theory also relates to the following subjects and more:
Quantum electroweak interaction
Quantum field theory (within which a number of the other subjects reside)
By the way, the title of this piece is but a play on a few of Shakespeare’s famous words. Some who have read or seen a production of the play, Romeo and Juliet, think that, by asking the famous question, “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” Shakespeare’s character, Juliet, is asking where Romeo is. Actually. she is more accurately asking why he must have a last name (Montague) that is the name of a family feuding with her family, which has a different last name (Capulet). Juliet later states that “Tis but thy name that is my enemy” and “O be some other name.” and “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.” The title of this piece, of course, asks where an electron might be.