No nuts please! (By Linda Hovland, Summer 1979)

(This is a fictional story written by my mother Linda when I was 4 years old)

Linda in 1978

The fact is, although it's not documented in any scientific journals, that if you take an average, healthy, energetic 6-year-old child into a woman's clothing store, that child will instantly and infuriatingly turn into a dead body. In fact, that very same child, the one who just one hour ago consumed two granola bars, a yogurt push-up, and a glass of grape juice and couldn't possibly be hungry, the one who can play with his friends all day and as they're walking out the door to go home for dinner ask, "who can I play with?", the one who has the patience to watch a marathon showing of cartoons on Saturday morning without changing positions, that very same child has been known to put on the dead-body routine upon setting even one foot in a department store, a shoe store, any store that doesn't have toys or motorcycles.

Not that he will actually fall on the floor. No, at six years of age he's been socially programmed out of that behavior. He simply becomes a mound of Jell-O held together solely by the fibers in his clothing. The sturdy, limber frame that yesterday afternoon was leaping off the playhouse roof a la Superman, is sud­denly transformed into arms and legs connected by overly cooked spaghetti. The head droops down on the chest, sometimes over to one side; the tongue often protrudes slightly; the eyes are fixed and glazed over. The shoulders sag and the arms become lead weights. The legs still move, but with a forced, irregular jerk; the knees do not function. A high-pitched whine is emitted from the lips, audible especially to the mother. This solitary vocalization evolves, usually at about 40-second intervals, into a pseudo-word which sounds something like, "MA-A-A-AH-AHM!"

Amazing as this dead-body syndrome is, the equally incredible phenomenon is that, if there is another child along, even though that child may be the sweetest 3-year­ old born to date, even though she may be the essence of cooperation and cheerfulness nap or no nap, even though that other child was a bubbling bottle of good humor a moment ago, once the dead-body syndrome sets in, that second child immediately contracts it. There is no re­versing the simultaneous contagion process. The attempted errand in the store is doomed.

This was the condition of Susan's children as she did an about-face and retreated through the open doorway of the store into the blinding sunlight of the shopping-center mall. Even as her eyes squinted against the bright light bouncing off the long stretch of concrete and rebounding against the storefront windows, the frantic expression in them was evident. She was beginning to notice a troublesome little ache in her back.

Once outside the store, Susan stopped for a moment trying to keep hold of her senses, her offspring, and her parcels--two pairs of shorts, four T-shirts, and sneakers, sizes 8½ and 2. (Foolhardy for you to try to fit in hosiery on top of all that, Susan. Courageous, but foolhardy.)

A faint although definite glimmer of panic washed across Susan's face, but she still had enough control left to try to energize the two limp bodies beside her. Her eyes darted down each side of the mall while her mind clicked off the options open to her and the consequences of each.

"Record shop, maternity clothing, Hallmark. Stop. Alternative One--bribe each child with a Snoopy concoction. Action: requires entering store with glass objects on dis­play shelves (risky); requires decision process for each child (stressful); possibi­lity of substantial dollar investment (neg­ative). Alternative One rejected."

Continuing on her eye search, she transferred her tunnel vision to the other side of the mall.

"Fabrics, jewelry, cafeteria. Stop. Alternative Two--when in doubt, feed. Action: requires lifting 3-year-old over counter to see food (back already hurts); 6-year-old may want an entire dinner (ugh!); requires eventual bal­ancing of tray while maneuvering to table (courting calamity). Alternative Two rejected."

With a look of strained determination, Susan stretched her eyesight to its limit along the shady side of the mall and a little cheese shop sign sparked a fuzzy recollection in her mind.

"Isn't there an ice-cream counter in that cheese shop? Granted, it's a strange place for an ice-cream counter, but just strange enough to stand out and definitely made to order for this dilemma. Don't even bother to analyze Alternative Three--proceed in direction of cheese shop!"

The lure of ice-cream was enough to get the children transported down the mall to the cheese shop where they peered in through the window and witnessed ice-cream treats under assembly: Out of the freezer comes a package on a stick. The paper is zipped off the pack­age revealing a yellow-white ice-cream bar. The bar is dipped into dark brown syrupy chocolate, held up to D-R-R-I-P, then quickly plunged into a mound of finely chopped peanuts, rolled over, and presented to the customer.

As Susan and the children watched the procedure, one ice-cream bar slipped through the fingers of the girl-behind-the-counter and was lost in the liquid chocolate. After a surprised exclamation and a fren­etic search, the girl-behind--the-counter used a long ladle to retrieve the sunken bar. She then fished a newly wrapped bar from the freezer and began the dipping process again.

Eager to get their energy and spirits up to standard, Susan nudged the children into the store. Once inside, her senses immediately went into a gym­nastic work-out, all busy at one time taking in the full situation. Her eyes focused in on the menu: "Hand-dipped ice-cream bars, frozen bananas, cones (vanilla, blackberry, peach, chocolate), sodas (same flavors), carrot cake (carrot cake??)", while her hands held onto children, purse, parcels, while her ears picked up on the verbal exchange between the second customer ahead of her and the girl-behind-the-counter. "Oh! Remember, I said that I didn't want nuts on my ice-cream bar," from the customer.

"Oh yes. Sorry about that," from the flustered girl-behind-the-counter as she started preparing a new bar for the customer. Susan filed a mental memo: "Girl-behind-the­ counter is new. Be very specific about order."

With menu and memo in mind, Susan's eyes scanned the store. A handful of shoppers shuffled about the cheese section; seats surrounding several little round tables were filled with cone crunchers and soda sippers; the store manager polished the cash register as she nonchalantly checked on the ice-cream assembly and the girl-behind-the-counter.

The children meanwhile were squirming and poking and tugging at Susan's arms. The sight and scent of ice cream had neutralized the dead-body syndrome to the point that the children were at least standing erect, but their whine volume was increasing and the delay ahead of them was causing tension. Susan felt the familiar but troublesome little ache in her back increasing. She turned her full attention to the children, explained the options available, noted their orders, and turned back to the girl-behind-the-counter.

"We'd like one single-dip vanilla cone and one chocolate bar, without the nuts, please."

"Okay.  One single vanilla, one bar without nuts."

The girl-behind-the-counter began the motions on the cone while four weary eyes watched her. Finally, the cone went up and over the counter and down into the grasp of the 6-year-old. "Y-U-U-CKI This ice-cream tastes awful!" His comment erupted at above-normal conversation level.

Susan, her antennae momentarily diverted as she was ordering the ice-cream, abruptly became aware of the line of people forming behind her and the turned heads of the crunchers and sippers. The panic expression flitted swiftly across her face.

"That's not ice cream, that's frozen yogurt. The vanilla does taste a little strong at first. We have frozen yogurt cones and ice-cream bars," enlighten­ment from the manager expressed at a pause in her polishing and in a 'what-else-would-you-expect-from-an­ ice-cream-counter-in-a-cheese-shop' tone.

Susan's ounce of control was dwindling faster and faster as the store became more crowded and the children more desperate and her back more tense. Ever mindful of the slim wire the three of them were walking, she consoled the offended 6-year-old and reordered.

"That's okay, I'll eat the cone. Will you make that two ice-cream bars, both without nuts, please?"

Perhaps sensing the urgency of these two particular ic-cream bars, the girl-behind-the-counter hustled through her assembly routine. Both children had their noses pressed against the glass, closely observing the process, anticipating receipt of their treats. Susan kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.

The girl-behind-the-counter took two bars from the freezer and quickly unwrapped them. She then grasped one bar in each hand and simultaneously submersed them into the chocolate bath. Mouths watering, the children watched as the two bars emerged and D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D.

And then, in the same speck of time, three separate actions occurred. The children's faces froze in horror, the two chocolate bars were unwittingly guided into the pile of peanuts, and Susan, whose control at last had completely vanished, shrieked, "NO NUTS!!!"

Susan's shriek succeeded in attracting the attention of the girl-behind-the-counter as well as everyone in line behind her, all of the crunchers and sippers, and the shop­pers. The manager even missed a stroke in her polishing.

There was a short passage of time that didn't regis­ter with Susan. Her finely attuned sensory system clicked off and a protective cocoon settled over her mind, block­ing out all of the eyes that were on her.

After a few murky minutes, Susan found herself out­side the store and seated on a bench, the 6-year-old to her left, the 3-year-old to her right. Clutched tightly in the fist of each child was a nutless chocolate-coated vanilla ice-cream bar.

As her trance-like state slowly faded, Susan's mind recognized that the ache in her back was gone and her eyes gradually encompassed two cherub faces grinning up at her. Susan's mouth twitched a little at the corners, then spread into a wide smile, and the three of them headed for home, giggling.

Mom died this past weekend. The memorial for mom will be held Saturday, December 2, 2017, Crown Hill in Wheatridge, CO, 10:30am - see here.

Visiting Magnolia: A deep water off-shore oil and gas rig

The fog was heavy at the New Orleans airport. Sitting low and dense. Giving 5:30 am an eerie feel. We were a bit sleepy, but excited about this once in a lifetime trip to see up close and personal an off-shore deep-water oil and gas production rig. Back at MIT, I had taken a class on energy where we visited a coal power plant, a nuclear plant, and a wind site. Combined with my direct experience with helping build a solar-powered vehicle, this trip to the oil rig was about to complete my personal experiences with the range of how we power and run our lives in today’s world.

After waiting for a few hours, letting the sun burn off the fog, our group of ten (including two representatives from ConocoPhillips) was ready to board the helicopter and start our hour and a half ride out to Magnolia.

Who were we? We were a group of philanthropists and consultants who are interested in minimizing the harmful effects of carbon dioxide emissions and climate change. We spend our days figuring out how to pass tighter fuel efficiency policies or support re-designed cities to be friendlier toward biking, walking, or taking public transit. We were there to get a sense of the immense scale of the oil industry. We were duly humbled.

The night before we had seen a map showing the huge number of off-shore oil wells that dot the Gulf of Mexico. Around 4,000 in total. It looked quite crowded. As we left shore, however, the sea showed its vastness. Close to shore you could see several rigs, sometimes a few near each other, but after ten minutes of flying you had to wait for a while before another might come into view. You get the feeling that when on a rig, it is a bit lonely. And it reminds you of the safety videos you watched twice before getting on the helicopter – the one that showed you how to hold onto the window with one hand and onto your seatbelt with the other if you were going down into the sea. You happily wear your life vest, which reminds you of another trip across (or down) an ocean, sailing from Newport via Bermuda to Saint Martin in a 44 foot sail boat. But that is another story.

The 1.5 hour ride to Magnolia offered our group the chance to pepper our ConocoPhillips hosts with all kinds of questions about the rig, about offshore drilling, about schedules, about statistics, about money. How far off shore is the rig? (around 165 miles) How deep is the water? (around 4,700 feet) How does the rig stay put? (with tension legs anchored to the sea floor – it is, in fact, the deepest tension leg oil platform that exists, as of 2013) How deep do the wells go underground? (over 15,000 feet) How long do people stay on the rig? (two weeks on, two weeks off) What is the capacity of Magnolia? (currently producing around 5,500 barrels of oil per day, though its capacity is much higher around 50,000 barrels of oil per day) How much did it cost to build? (around one billion dollars and it took 10 years) [Doing the math, these statistics mean that the rig was paid off already and earned roughly $100 million a year in profit at the time]

When we finally arrived, the sheer size of the platform began to sink in. The helipad was five stories above the main level, perched above living the quarters for the 22 operating staff, dining facilities, meeting rooms, and workout area. The stairs getting down (and all around) the rig were skinny (you wanted to make sure and hold on to the rail) – but the coolest part was that they were metal and open so that you could see the ocean below – way below. Later we saw that below the gentle waves there were huge jellyfish and shoals of even bigger barracuda that liked to swim around the rig.

After attending the safety orientation, eating lunch, donning fire-resistant suits and hard hats, and checking out our assigned muster area and life boats (primary and backup), we were ready for a full tour of the rig. It was impressive. Percy was our expert guide, who had been on Magnolia since it launched ~2004, and had 25 years of off-shore experience. There were the two (redundant) control rooms monitoring the production flows and levels, temperatures and pressures, with multiple levels of potential warnings to make sure things were running smoothly. Up came a mixture of oil and gas through pipelines from six wells – and the connection to each well was flexible, so the rig could move in the waves quite a bit and things would be okay. The oil and gas was separated in multiple stages, water removed, and the two streams were pressurized to start their way through two pipelines on the sea floor, eventually making the way to land. There was the ‘pig’ launching setup to put in cleaners for the underwater pipes. We even got to go 85 feet underwater in the yellow supports to see the many pumps that can move massive amounts of sea water to balance the rig, especially useful when there is a drilling platform installed above. The mechanical engineer in me was happy.

So why were we there? What was a group of folks who are focused on reducing oil use globally going to learn? From my view, I saw the ingenuity and creativity of man to meet the needs that society has. Right now that means that if there is a demand for oil, we can be extremely creative in going to the ends of the earth or depths of the sea to get it. The economics of it all are extremely powerful. Though there are concerns about safety and environmental protection from spills and blowouts, over time and through increased regulations, many systems can be put in place to (mostly) address these concerns. However, these rules and regulations do not stop oil production.

The good news is that this same ingenuity and creativity can be applied to other areas, addressing the ‘newer’ concerns of carbon dioxide emissions. We have to reduce our demand and consumption of oil. Improving efficiency of cars, creating electric vehicles, improving cities so we don’t have to drive as much…these are all ideas that need time to be realized, but they are real options. As a society we can be extremely innovative and put in the effort to make it happen. But we need to get going now.

 

My new way of focusing the mind (from November, 2011)

Thanjavur Temple

There are many ways to focus the mind. It is a useful skill in our world of many demands, constant emails, and potential distractions from what is at hand, what the present is. Some do yoga, some meditate, some take a bath. And on occasion I will do all of these things. But my latest form that I have found to focus the mind is this: riding a motorcycle through the often crazy streets of southern India.

Mamallapuram

Now I am new to riding a motorcycle, in fact I learned less than two months ago in a process that took a few tries and included a few bumps along the way to get my license. But I did it, and put over 500 miles under my belt in Colorado (on my cute red Honda Rebel) before heading out to India, specifically to Chennai in the state of Tamil Nadu.

I came prepared with tips from my dad, long a motorcycle rider. I had heard his story of riding around Lake Michigan when he was 16, and how was faced with two cars moving toward him in two lanes on a two-lane highway that didn’t see him; he moved to the white line to give them enough space. As it turns out, I employed this strategy a few times in India when, for example, a bus would be passing in my lane, passing the small car who would be passing a bicycle rider. Only one time did I actually need to go off of the pavement (to avoid the bus passing the bus).

Val on a Royal Enfield Bullet

I had many tips from my motorcycle safety class instructors. Looking very far ahead (12 seconds) and always anticipating what could happen and forming a plan to implement should things get crazy. Knowing how to stop very quickly, employed when you thought the road was just fine, then a very rough section comes up and you put on all the brakes hard (only squealing just a little bit). Raising up to lift off your seat when going over a bump – or in the case of the toll road two-wheeler free bypass in India, going over 5 tightly spaced bumps.

But back to the mind. Riding a motorbike in India is intensely mental. It requires 100% of your attention. There are the busy streets. There are nine lanes of traffic on two lane roads. On the road there may be (in generally increasing speeds): groups of school kids, single walkers, bicyclists carrying heavy loads, bicyclists carrying just themselves, ox-driven carts, slow-moving auto rickshaws, fast-moving auto rickshaws, slow-moving motorcycles (often the 50 or 100cc versions), motorcycles with two to five people on them, small cars with their mirrors folded in, buses loaded down with 50 people or so, motorcycles with one person on them (now 250 or 500 ccs), bigger (sometimes taller) cars with loud horns, fast buses in a hurry to get where they are going. And of course any one of these might be stopped at a given point.

Light and interesting traffic

Now, add to this vision that any one of the modes of transport may decide to change their pecking order and pass another, sometimes on a blind curve, sometimes when they can actually see.

Traffic rules are not exactly followed in India. As a result, there is a cacophony of horns (generally the bigger your vehicle, the more elaborate or loud the sound) that communicate your intentions. Now there is the occasional traffic light, but that is taken as more of a suggestion. Our chosen roads (roads along the ocean and curvy ones and ones with trees lining the tops and ones through smaller towns and not the newest multi-lane highways), these chosen roads were sometimes good and sometimes quite worse for the weather (rain).
One thing that made me feel better was the motorcycle with a family on it in the midst of city traffic - chances were that the dad carrying his wife and baby son wouldn’t be too reckless.

* * *

A few other views of my first visit to India are below in photos: many World Heritage sites and temples (such as Mamallapuram and in Thanjavur), tea estates in the Western Ghat mountains, local lunches, the wedding of friends, and the inspiring Taj Mahal.

Local lunch

Temple elephant in Thanjavur

Tea estate in Western Ghats, Kerala

Madurai

Taj Mahal

Chief Guest in Nepal

There were several moments that brought me to tears. Tears of joy and gratitude and love. The first was near the beginning. I had been to the home of Sita Tharu already, the 16-year-old Room to Read girl scholar whose home was humble, but clean. Where she lived with her brother and younger sister, but not with her mother who had died of stomach cancer, and not often with her father who worked for most of the year in India to support them.

We had flown half way around the world in a big plane, flown in a small plane to western Nepal, driven 1.5 hours north (passing through Bardiya National Park), driven to the small city of Kramala, off the paved road, and up the dirt road a few minutes. That is where the school was. But more importantly, that is where the kids were.

We stopped the car just outside of the gate, I got out, and that is when I saw all of them waiting. Not just a few students, not just a few dozen, not even just a hundred students. Sita was there, but she was just one scholar of almost Nine Hundred students who were there waiting, waiting to receive me. Waiting along-side the road to their school, with their school uniforms of light blue-green shirt and darker blue skirt or pants on. I was excited to begin to walk down this road. First, two came up with a lei of hand-picked flowers. The next gave me a single flower, which I received in my hand. I smiled back the biggest smile I could give them, and said Namaste. Left and right, more and more beautiful faces, continual exchanges of Namaste and smiles between us and flower upon hand-picked flower were given. They were young and older, from kindergarten through ninth grade. Moving slowly, my hands were soon filled up with flowers and I received a hint to hold the bottom of my shirt up like a makeshift basket, surrounded by my arms to receive more flowers. I tried to look into the eyes of each and every one of them. What seemed like forever, but was a few minutes into this slow procession and exchanges of light between our souls, this was the first time (of many) in which I felt tears of happiness. Truly the light in me greets the light in you.

This magic continued through hours of singing and dancing and music and speeches (by the school heads, Room to Read representatives, and a short one by me as well!) and dancing and ribbon cutting and more dancing. I even had a pinned-on broach labeled “Chief Guest.”

I have tears in my eyes now, remembering it all, which was now almost one month ago. This is what life is all about.

Quick update from Nepal

Had an amazing time at my Room to Read school in Bardiya Nepal (southwestern): imagine being welcomed by over 900 students, waiting in line with flowers that were hand-picked and sometimes sewn into leis, greeted by infinite smiles and Namastes, then a reception with kids singing, multiple different traditional dances performed by the kids, speeches with hope, and tokens of love given. The school building itself was also very well done, complete with a Reading Room library that was literally our shelter from the storm: a dust storm blew in just the minute the ceremony had ended and we took refuge in the library, shoes off, sitting on the comfortable cushions at the low desks looking through all of the books and learning about the library.

Now, I am sitting with Ralph in Pokhara, Nepal after a trek around most of the Annapurna circuit. My favorite part was the pass day (Thorung La): a good steady trail to over 17.5k ft, beautiful views of the surrounding high mountains, a late lunch with yummy veg noodle soup, and finishing the day in lush Muktinath, visiting a few Buddhist temples and being calmed by the flowing waters. 

More to come later!

The Plan...

It has been three years since I was on my way to Kathmandu, but in some ways it feels like yesterday. Telling your body that it is 'wrong', and that it is really the morning and not the middle of the night is always met with some resistance; I think I am about half way there to being adjusted. I am sitting in the Bangkok airport, remembering the very first time I came through Bangkok in 2003, in a different airport and searching around the airport for a place to sleep through the night before we found an open hotel transfer room. Now, the airport is a new one, bright and shiny, with even a place to take a shower to boot, which helps a little with the jet lag.

 

So... what is the plan? The plan is to be in Nepal for two weeks and China for one. I am meeting my boyfriend Ralph in Kathmandu in a few hours, he having already been in eastern Nepal for a week photographing the cutest red pandas with the Red Panda Network (a grantee of Green Grants back in Boulder). 

 

In Nepal, the first priority and first thing on the list is to head to southwestern Nepal to visit the new school that I and many donors (over 185 to be specific) helped build with Room to Read. We fly to Nepaljung (a city) in Bheri (the state), and Room to Read has set up a great visit that includes visiting the school, students, and teachers, and visiting the home of one of the Room to Read girl scholars. There is even supposed to be a welcoming ceremony at the school!

 

Next, we head to the Annapurna circuit in middle-northern Nepal. This will be a beautiful trek covering around 130 miles (or so, depending on side trips or decisions along the way), going through some of the deepest gorges on earth, seeing some of the biggest peaks on earth, covering multiple ethnicities across many villages, exploring monasteries and getting some good air all the way up to the pass which is over 17,000 feet.

 

The final leg of our journey will head to the Yunnan province of China, spending a little time among the rice terraces and ethinic villages and tea plantations of Xishuangbanna, exploring the town and some work of water quality advocates in Lijiang, then making our way back to Kunming (I'm hoping to see the Bus Rapid Transit there, as it was something I worked on a little for work).

 

Since I'm not supposed to have my tea next to the internet computer, I think I'll go have a sip. Till next time.

 

Val

 

Kindling the fire in your heart

What are those things in your life that when you think about give you the shivers? The really good kind that make you know we are connected in this world, the kind that make love pour out of your heart?

Like when Lisa who had been running with the kids in the running club (the kids in flip flops) goes back to New York with the idea to use her connections at Nike to see about getting running shoes for a whole lot of them, maybe pursuing a commercial to help convince them.

Like when Marc, squatting on the ground taking in a ‘heated’ discussion, calmly interjects a directional comment that “each and every volunteer here is giving 100%. One hundred percent.” Of their time, thoughts, and effort.

Like when my boyfriend Ralph says he decided to raise and match money to build a school in Haiti, sitting in the dry sun at Cafe Sole one afternoon and then working side by side with him seven weeks later at the site in Leogane, under the hot humid sun, next to fields of sugarcane on one side and locals building their homes on the other.

Like when Chris at a meeting takes a routine ‘task’ of returning an empty glass coke bottle to its correct owner to the higher level of how that one bottle really influences the livelihood of the Haitian business owner, influences his family.


Like when Marc takes ‘rubbling’ to its higher level - what in one sense is simply collapsing and crushing concrete and moving a pile of rocks from one place to another, in another sense is a critical step to rebuilding the life of a family - the first stage in allowing them to move out of a 10 foot by 10 foot tent in an IDP camp back to the site of their home, to set up a transitional shelter as they rebuild their house, their home. The literal translation of Haiti, or Ayiti, is home, mother of the earth, or homeland. With the removal of the unwanted, homes can be rebuilt, Haiti can be rebuilt.

It is the same sun that lights our way - whether dry in Boulder, hot and humid in Leogane city, or great Eastern from the top of Everest. The fire in our hearts that is kindled with these thoughts and sayings and actions for others, this internal fire is a gentle nudge for our brains to connect the thoughts that we are one body, under one sun. Vraiment.

Where is the suffering in your life? Who do you know who is suffering? And how can you help them, bring the light inside of them out, and lift the spirit of all?