Three days ago I wrote a letter to the local newspaper. I was proud of the message. It described my feelings and thinking about a town controversy. This dispatch could play a small part in moving decision-makers toward the right outcome. But should I send it to the editor?
Because I mentioned a friend by name in the letter, I sent him a copy asking whether it was OK to make it public. A day later, I received his reply. He thanked me for being sensitive to his position, stated that I did not need his permission to publish the letter, and asked if we could discuss the pros and cons of this act. Here is my reply.
I’ve thought more and decided I don’t want to write anything public regarding this situation. It’s always good to let time pass. I can’t add anything other than my frustration. That’s heat and not light.
Too often, I’m more of a heat than a light person. My decisions can come before the thoughtful part of my brain has time to kick in. I imperfectly manage this tendency by building pauses into my life. Asking my friend for permission to publish a letter that refers to a decision he made in a positive light was not only the right thing. It gave my brain time to reflect. This pause habit came from an unusual source.
I ran the men’s and women’s basketball shot clock for the local college for 20 years. Basketball rules require teams to launch a shot within 30 seconds each time they possess the ball. In the photo above, the shot clock shows eight seconds.
Shot clock officials sit at a table on the sideline halfway between the two basketball hoops. The shot clock is reset with a click of their index fingers. In my first season, I clicked the reset button too fast. That’s easy to do when the ball is tipped around close to the basket. During that first season, one referee gave me this invaluable piece of advice: when in doubt, pause for one second by saying, “One hundred one.”
Accordingly, asking my friend for permission came from this count one-hundred-one mantra. When I pause, I give the frontal lobe part of my brain time to work its magic. It’s the thinking part of the brain, weighing pros and cons. Of course, designating part of the brain as thinking needs to be more complex. For a clear explanation of how the human brain blends thought and emotion, read Social Psychologist Jonathan Haidt’s The Happiness Hypothesis.
Here’s a way I visualize this pause process. The photo below shows the water filter under our kitchen sink.
The unfiltered water representing all the world throws at me each day comes into the filter through the hose on the left. The filter, my pause strategy, cleans out the contaminants or decisions made in haste. The clean water, more thoughtful decisions, are sent through the top hose into a faucet.
The shot clock metaphor and water filter image help cue me to manage my propensity to act too quickly.
Those around my age of 73 might remember the Coca-Cola ad, “The Pause that Refreshes.” The pause that enlightens me has been added to my mental arsenal.
We all need strategies to respond to those vexing situations life confronts us with daily. Haidt defines emotional intelligence as the “ability to understand and regulate one’s feelings and desires.”
The shot clock and water filter have helped my emotional IQ tick upward a point or two.
The most famous athlete in America today may be Caitlin Clark, who plays basketball for the University of Iowa.
Two days ago, she made the front page of The Washington Post. You’ll be able to read the article here.
When I graduated high school in 1967, my female classmates had no organized sports teams.
I don’t recall ever thinking there was anything wrong with that.
What we didn’t see then that seems so obvious now is incredible.
I was born in 1949.
That America was a different country than the one I live in today.
Jackie Robinson became America’s most famous athlete two years before my birth.
Last year, Aliyah Boston, the Naismith Women’s College Basketball Player of the Year, led South Carolina to the national championship.
Fifty years after the first African American was admitted to The University of South Carolina.
Clark’s Iowa and Boston’s South Carolina meet tonight in a semifinal, with the winner advancing to the national championship game.
You can read here an article that compares these two phenomenal American athletes.
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I grew up with the phrase America was the land of opportunity.
It was not a lie for me, a white, male, middle-class kid.
But it was for Caitlin Clarks and Aliyah Bostons of mine and previous generations.
For this story, I focused on one corner of American athletics.
The images of those included tell a story of how America has improved.
Truer to its ideals.
A story of progress.
Pick any facet of American society and conjure images of those on the inside.
Those images shout a similar story.
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But nothing good comes without a cost.
When new people show up, they make new demands.
The best statement about this phenomenon comes from Jennifer Richeson, a Yale psychologist.
My lab is in an old engineering building and there’s exactly one women’s bathroom. No one noticed. And then slowly, Yale began adding women to the department, and they noticed it. They complained. Now there was friction. What had gone unnoticed by those in power in one era was unacceptable to those gaining power in another. When new people show up, they notice things and begin making demands.
From Ezra Klein’s Why We’re Polarized
The United States Women’s National Soccer Team has just won a demand for equal pay. You’ll be able to read about it here.
Alex Morgan, a captain on the 2015 & 2019 Women’s World Cup championship teams, said this about the settlement.
What we set out to do was to have acknowledgment of discrimination from U.S. Soccer and we received that through back pay in the settlement. We set out to have fair and equal treatment in working conditions, and we got that…And we set out to have equal pay moving forward for us and the men’s team through U.S. Soccer, and we achieved that.
Andrew Das, U.S. Soccer and Women’s Players Agree to settle equal pay lawsuit, Washington Post, May 18, 2022
But it looks years.
And struggle.
America was easy to run when only white males were in charge.
No one with power gives it up easily.
New voices with power make everything so much more complicated.
But my brain, mouth, and stomach were frozen on The Chocolate Malt.
Whitey’s Malts obligated Capital Letters.
And a gold star.
Unlike Dairy Queen’s upside-down performance of its blizzards, Whitey’s malt masters needed no tomfoolery.
The Culver’s Concrete Mixer? Truth in advertising.
At every Whitey’s, the customer witnessed this behind-the-counter miracle.
After scooping the ice cream into the metal-topped paper container, the teenage artisan pumped once at the chocolate station; and caressed the vessel onto the agitator. No milk was added.
Strong hands maneuvered to the perfect spot before flipping the start button. There were five seconds of turbulence before the first pause. More ice cream was layered in. Further grinding was required until the torment ended. The receptacle was placed on the counter. You’ve already paid.
A stand-at-attention straw and spoon handle awaited.
I’ve been quaffing Whitey’s Malts for 50 years and have never understood the straw. Why is it there?
It’s Ed McMahon to Johnny Carson.
Mr. Green Jeans to Captain Kangaroo.
A sidekick, but not necessary.
The thought of a Whitey’s Chocolate Malt ignited my hippocampus.
Distant memories overwhelm thought.
Mom, dad, my brothers Peter and Pat. 1950s Sunday lunches at the Iowana Farms Dairy in Bettendorf, Iowa. Under the Memorial Bridge.
Where we ate the Silver Star Chocolate Malt.
But back to the then present.
We turned off Highway 61 into the familiar parking lot.
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It was February 2015.
I’m driving; Rebecca’s shotgun.
We’d been on the road for three hours.
Lunchtime.
The van passengers were five Luther College students.
The destination was Bloomington, Illinois, where the students would present papers at a Human Rights conference hosted by Illinois Wesleyan University.
I volunteered to chaperone because my hometown, Davenport, Iowa, was halfway between Decorah and Bloomington.
I had four Whitey’s to choose from as we motored through the Quad Cities, three in Davenport and one in Moline, Illinois.
I selected Davenport’s 53rd street location because, after ice cream, we could detour past my childhood home.
“We’re finally here,” I announced as I navigated the van toward nirvana. You can see our view from this photo.
Image from Google
The students came alive
Sans earbuds, books, and sleep.
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The barrage hit Rebecca and me full force.
I don’t believe it.
It’s 2015.
Whitey’s, seriously?
Oh my God
How could they name it Whitey’s?
Rebecca and I looked at each other, dumbfounded, for a moment.
I explained the Whitey’s name came from the original owner, who was nicknamed Whitey, because of his blond hair. When he sold the business in the 1950s, the new owners kept the well-known name,
I thought about telling my young friends about my dad’s favorite gas station, Whitey’s Standard Oil. Or my favorite childhood baseball pitcher, Whitey Ford.
But I’ve learned when to fold with college students.
They listened politely.
And eased into the Subway next door.
I could have told them of my high school homecoming date at the most famous 1960s Quad City restaurant.
And jotting ideas in a Moleskine, 5″ X 8.25″ ruled/lined, black 240-page notebook
Using a Pilot Precise V5 pen.
If you could read the Bose Radio clock, it would say 4:35 AM.
I’m usually up at 4 AM.
Rebecca follows a few hours later.
That’s her Scandinavian Stressless Recliner you see. She selected white.
My choice was grey.
Those silver Bose headphones on the ottoman are Rebecca’s.
Mine are black.
I’m a lifelong Democrat.
She’s independent.
I was raised Catholic.
Rebecca, Protestant.
From beginning to end, our days are filled with particularities.
Our own and those of others.
It is the peculiarity that makes each of us unique.
And gives us a particular perspective.
Also unique but limited.
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One of my favorite movies is Miracle. It is the story of America’s 1980 men’s Olympic Hockey Team that defeated the heavily favored Soviet Union Team. Every time I see this film, I cheer again for my side and this miracle victory.
I just watched Of Miracles and Men. This film tells the story of that Soviet Team and another kind of miracle.
Two teams, two films, two miracles, and two perspectives.
I know the story of The Crusades from European and Roman Catholic perspectives.
Two weeks ago, at London’s Tate Modern Museum, I saw an art display by Wael Shawky that enlightened me with an Arab Historian’s perspective on The Crusades.
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My world is big enough to include your point of view.
What a dull world it would be if all I could see was me.
Photo of Victor Tan Wee Tar’s Passing of Knowledge, from Wikimedia Commons
My week has been bursting with gifts.
My knowledge bowl is running over.
Tuesday
“It was magic realism, with an All-American twist.”
Enlightened Susan to 35 of us gallery-arraigned on a Zoom link.
Our book club was reading Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River.
Wednesday
“Draw the lines you see in this painting.”
Coached Bob at 20 of us sitting at desks in the darkened room.
The Life Long Learning class was American Scene Painting: From Ashcan School to Abstract Expressionism.
Thursday
“Neither Luther nor Bach was a good student. That’s why they became great teachers.”
Edified Jim for 15 of us sitting comfortably in cushioned chairs.
The Emeritus lecture was The Luther–Bach Nexus.
Early Friday morning
In a dream, I’m preparing to defend my Ph.D. dissertation.
It is my second Ph.D.
I ask myself, do I need a second Ph.D.?
A heap of papers lies before me.
On the first sheet, words were crossed out in red.
I flip to the second page and scratch out and replace words.
And wake-up.
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This week I learned
Magic realism includes a miracle element in an earthy story.
Painters don’t look at lines. They focus on the mass inside the lines.
Theologian Luther wanted to be a musician. Musician Bach yearned to be a theologian.
But choo choo ing down the track after these experiences came that second Ph.D. dream.
What was I teaching myself?
Dreams sometimes begin an internal conversation.
Until I went to graduate school at 27, I had never been a serious student.
When I became a teacher at 22, I thought it was only because I needed a 5th year of college to stay out of the Vietnam war draft. I used the extra year to get a teaching degree.
Then, I thought I was making it up as I went along.
Now, I think I was born to want to know.
It was a gift from my parents.
My mother’s parents–her mom graduated from high school and her father from the 8th grade–put their four children (Florence, June, Dorothy, and Albert) through college in the late 1930s and early 1940s.
My father was the only one of four siblings and parents to graduate from college.
I believe there is often a first cause, a simple answer to why.
My comfort, no, my need to extend my arms for knowledge, is my parents’ greatest gift to me.
And the weather during our mid-January 8-day stay. Sunny and cold, with no precipitation until our Delta ride lumbered to the runway.
Rebecca and I were two of the 30 million visitors London will welcome this year.
It is an open-arms kind of place.
Even for two seventy-year-olds.
Here are some idiosyncratic highlights, and one lowlight, that might help you plan a visit or recall memories.
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Itinerary
We studied Rick Steves’ London guidebook about a month before departure to sketch a tentative day-by-day plan. We used his excellent maps, including the Underground, and extensive descriptions of tourist sites. One strategy emerged from this preliminary work. We decided, with one exception, to use nights for plays, musicals, concerts, and films to free up more daytime for London sites.
I put our actual London schedule at the end.
Our London Digs
That’s Rebecca outside The Celtic Hotel, pronounced Seltic, not Keltic. My bad for seven days.
Photo by author
The Celtic is located in north central London, two blocks from the Russell Square Tube Station.
It’s within walking distance (1.5 miles) of major tourist attractions such as The British Museum, the British Library, the National Gallery, Trafalgar Square, and many theaters.
The breakfast was hearty, with porridge the highlight, which allowed us to skip lunch. The staff was friendly and accommodating. During a 2018 stay, Rebecca left a pair of shoes. We contacted the hotel, and the shoes were in the post soon after.
Getting from here to there
We walked about four miles a day. No rain or snow helped. As did the clear sky you see over Big Ben in the first photo.
On day two in the morning, we walked a mile to The National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. Then we hiked a few blocks to see the matinee play Best of Enemies. The Noel Coward Theatre was a stone’s throw from Chinatown for dinner. With new SIM cards in our phones, we navigated the 30-minute walk back to our hotel arriving at 10 pm. There were plenty of people along the way, the streets are well-lit, and we felt safe.
When we weren’t on foot, we used London’s Underground. After arriving at Heathrow Airport, we purchased Oyster cards ($100) and took the Tube to a station two blocks from our hotel. The Underground doesn’t service Gatwick Airport, but trains do. In 2018, we flew into Gatwick and took a train to St. Pancras Station, about a mile from The Celtic.
Photo by author
Most central London Underground stations included escalators and steps. About a third are step-free. Every car had designated seats for those who could not stand long.
Eight days on the Tube and one delay that we were warned about well in advance. We had a problem making our Oyster cards work at the turnstile on two occasions. Both times, a friendly public transportation worker fixed the issue.
The London Underground was not art, a play, or a museum. But it is a living testament to human creativity. Five million people bustle through it each day by following three rules. They mind the gap, keep right, and pay attention to the signs.
It’s my favorite part of London. And it does have a terrific museum, The London Transport Museum, that honors its history.
Three More Things I loved
Food
While Rebecca clicked away to produce this photo, I ate more than my share of St. Martin in the Field Café in the Crypt’s apple crumble with vanilla cream.
Photo by Rebecca Wiese
Greedy sod.
St. Martin’s is across from the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. You enter the cafe through a glass door to the left of the church. It’s one of London’s hidden gems.
Rebecca kindly did not take photos of me eating Pappardelle alla Bolognese at Prima Sapori D’ Italia, Chicken Tikka Masala at Punjab, and Fish & Chips at Friend at Hand Pub.
The British Library
I have a soft spot in my heart for William Shakespeare. Father Kokjohn’s Shakespeare class in 1972, my 5th year of college, forced me to become a serious student.
The British Library has a funky little room with an unfunky title, The Sir John Ritblat Gallery. That’s where I took this photo. It is the first book (folio) of Shakespeare’s plays, published seven years after his death in 1623.
Doesn’t he look like someone we should still be looking at 600 years later?
Photo by author
The Tate Modern
Four years before I took that Shakespeare class, I earned a D in Art Appreciation.
Now, I’m doing penance.
And loving it.
We saw lots of art in London, including two visits to the Tate Modern, which occupies a former power station across the Thames from St. Paul’s.
One of my favorite paintings was René Magritte’s Man with a newspaper.
Photo by author
You can find many interpretations of this piece of art. What do I see?
Absence. The room continues without this man with a newspaper. The Celtic’s breakfast room exists without Rebecca and Paul sitting in their corner spot.
When my father died thirty years ago, I remember driving around the streets of my hometown thinking Davenport was now without my dad. It’s not quite the same. Look carefully at the curtained windows in Magritte’s painting. The perspective changes just a little. Genius.
One thing I hated
Harrods
Photo by author
Rebecca did, too.
Hate is too strong. And probably unfair.
One hundred thousand people visit every day. It presents itself well, as you can see.
It wasn’t just the $29,000 watch.
Or the private toilet stall locked and waiting for some Poobah.
Or the counter waiter in the Food Court who told us we could have these stools for 45 minutes.
Or the sullen wait staff who served lukewarm and weak hot chocolate.
Or the bland and perfectly formed scone
It was the feel of the place.
We couldn’t get out fast enough.
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We visited Harrods on our 5th day.
By then, London had worked its magic.
Opened its arms.
Expanded our horizons.
Harrods was anti-that London.
With arms closed.
Thank goodness we had more time.
To visit the Tate Modern. Twice.
The Anti-Harrods.
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This photo captures our sense of delight with our eight days and nights in London.
Photo by a kind stranger
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Our actual itinerary
Day 1: Arrived at 7 am Heathrow; British Library; British Museum
Day 2: Trafalgar Square; National Gallery; Play: Best of Enemies
Day 3: Courtauld Gallery; Victoria and Albert Museum; Musical: Hamilton
Day 4: Tower of London; Vivaldi Concert at St. Martin in the Field Church
Day 5: Harrods; Parliament; film in Leicester Square
Day 6: Rabbie’s Oxford & Cotswold day tour.
Day 7: Tate Modern; London Transport Museum; Musical: Mama Mia
Day 8: Wiener Holocaust Library; Tate Modern; Play: The Unfriend
