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Fee-fi-fo-fum. A Smelly Adventure

by Madeleine Kando

We are at our friends, the Millers’ for Thanksgiving. They live the super rural life in Northern New Hampshire, in what is called the Great North Woods. There is snow up here already. Just a dusting, but soon our friends will be buried under a thick pack of the white stuff which will remain until the spring.

 

There is a magic feeling about ‘the North Country’, even though it was declared poor enough to qualify for Federal Assistance. People live in trailers, old cars and rusting tractors strewn about on their properties. As we drive towards Canada, big posters with Trump’s grimacing face are visible from the road. This is Trump country through and through. Are they not aware that we have a new President?

This time, our friends had no room for us, so we booked a room online at a local B&B, which looked quite charming, with a panoramic view of the hills and valley. As we are shown our ‘suite’, the pungent odor of some kind of air freshener dampens my enthusiasm.

 

‘Do you mind if we crack a window?’ I ask the hostess. ‘Unfortunately the windows are winterized’ she says. ‘You could keep the door ajar, but make sure you lock it when you leave’.

We unpack and drive to our friends’ house to spend the rest of the evening. It is hidden amongst tall pine trees, at the end of a mile-long driveway. They slowly built a little kingdom on their 200-acre property, which they bought for a pittance many decades ago. There is the barn for their horses, a new building to house an indoor lap pool and a sauna and a structure to house a giant wood furnace. Nathan, the Lord of the Manor, missed his calling by becoming a psychiatrist rather than an architect. He just loves building things.

Late at night, as we drive back to the B&B, we see a large buck stand still in the middle of the road. It doesn’t move, so we slow down to a crawl. Our headlights show every detail of this magnificent creature, and I feel sorry for him. There is a good chance he will be shot the next day or the day after.

 

I can’t sleep because of the pungent odor in the apartment. My husband always says that I should work in the perfume industry because of my excessive sensitivity to smells. I leave my snoring husband’s side and start to comb the apartment. The small fake plug-in Christmas tree on the table looks suspicious, sitting in its metal bucket. A prolonged sniffing does not result in a guilty verdict, but I unplug it anyway and put it outside. I crawl back in bed, but the smell is still there. I get up again and wave my arms like a scarecrow to activate the automatic night light.

  

In the corner of the room, shamelessly emanating fumes, is an electric air freshener. I unplug it, put it in the bathroom and close the door, convinced that I found the source of my misery. I crawl back in bed, but the smell is still there.

 

Now, the gloves are coming off. They must have put a scent tablet in the small, humble looking vacuum cleaner. Out it goes, next to Christmas tree. Back in bed, but the smell persists. I get up for the third time.

 

I notice two empty trash cans next to the sink. Out they go into the dark, cold night, but the smell is still there. I am frantic by now, but have enough common sense to stop myself, before I dismantle the entire suite.

 

As the day breaks, I finally fall asleep, the nauseating smell filling my nostrils. I lost the battle, but not the war. Tomorrow is another day.

   

I dream that I am stuck in quicksand. My back is slowly sinking down, like in a hammock and soon my body will jackknife, my toes touching my nose. As I slowly bend into a giant letter I, I hear little gnomes in the ceiling tap dance and bang on pots and pans. They stand on a blindingly lit stage, their big faces grinning at me. The sound wakes me up and I find that my mattress, which has the firmness of a marshmallow is preventing me from turning on my side. My back is stuck in the dip in the middle. The clanging in the heating system gets louder and faster, until it suddenly stops. The blindingly lit stage in my dream must have been the two porch lights outside the bedroom window, which won’t go off until daylight.

 

It is Thanksgiving morning. I get up, groggy after a sleepless night, and as I drink my morning coffee, I glance out the window. The banned Christmas tree and vacuum cleaner stare back at me, but they don’t look worse for wear. The porch lights are finally asleep. I envy them.

 

We drive the short distance to the Millers’, ready for Joan’s fabulous Thanksgiving meal, which I will selectively participate in, since I have become a vegetarian. ‘How did you sleep?’ asks Joan. The bags under my eyes speak for themselves, but I don’t want to share my nocturnal adventure, for fear of everyone finding out how neurotic I am. ‘Not too bad’ I lie.

 

After dinner, we go for a walk down to one of the ponds. Since it is hunting season, we all wear orange or red, just to be on the safe side. Nathan tells us that it is not uncommon for hunters to drive their truck while they shoot at anything that moves. There is no comfort in knowing that it’s against the law, since hiring a lawyer after you are shot, is not very practical.

 

Nathan is hard of hearing, but he often pretends he doesn’t hear you, when he embarks on one of his long monologues and doesn’t want to get interrupted. He is a born story teller, but his rhythm is slow, with a lot of ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’. By the time he finishes a sentence, it’s hard to remember the beginning. I wonder how he manages to keep his patients awake, as a practicing psychiatrist. Still, his stories are fascinating and full of humor. He is a transplanted New Yorker who didn’t have to learn to be funny. He would have been a great stand-up comedian.

 

Joan, his wife, functions as his mirror. She is not flamboyant, a bit self-effacing, but when push comes to shove, you can tell she wears the pants at their house. She enjoys cooking, smoking dope and yoga. She swims daily in her indoor pool, goes in the hot tub and writes in her journal. She used to make wonderful paintings, but somehow, the creative juices stopped flowing.

 

Their horses, Patrick and Max, are part of the family. Patrick, the pony, is the undisputed boss. Max, a sweet appaloosa, does what he is told. They both look furry this time of year, their winter coats nice and thick. They require a lot of care and are included in Nathan’s will. He gave detailed instructions on by whom, how and where they will be taken care of when he no longer can do so.

It's time to go back to the dreaded B&B. My husband promised he would blow up our air mattress, so I wouldn’t have to spend another night in marshmallow land. He resigned himself long ago to living with a neurotic wife and I see his sleepy eyes follow my progress as I transfer the bedding from the marshmallow bed to the air mattress. I move it around in the living room, like pulling a row boat in the water, to find the best spot. Finally comfortably settled, I am confident that this time, the sandman will not pass me by.

  

I fall asleep and dream that I am sitting in a bar. A group of hunters in camouflage gear are smoking cigars, while they exchange stories about killing. I wake up coughing from all the cigar smoke, my nose filled with the smell of stale tobacco emanating from the couch.

 

I lug the blankets, the sheets and the pillow back to the bed. I am so tired by now, that no amount of marshmallow can keep me awake. Ok. So I lost the war, not just the battle. How was I to know that everything in the apartment was sprayed to mask the smell of tobacco? Even Napoleon would have lost this one, his infantry outnumbered by thousands of enemy soldiers suddenly sprouting out of the battle field.

 

Back home in Boston, I crawl into my king-sized bed, covered by a rock-hard futon. No hint of marshmallows here. No trace of any fragrance in the air. A blissful olfactory void.

 

My husband, who is really good at calling out my obsessive behavior, sets me straight. He likes to rub my nose in it, so to speak, sniff out the truth of the matter: ‘You never appreciate what you have’ he says. ‘What about all the times you prevented the house from exploding because of a gas leak that no one else smelled? What about the spoiled milk that everybody else happily drank? What about the dead rat in the shed? Stop being such a cry baby. Don’t stir up a stink where there is none.’

 

I read a story of a woman who suffers from Hyperosmia, a heightened sense of smell so severe that she can no longer live a normal life. Who am I to complain of a measly air-freshener in the Great North Woods? I should wake up and smell the coffee.

 

Still, it would be nice to give my nose a vacation. Send it to a nose retreat with meditation classes to learn to be accepting of odors. In the meantime, I have to remind myself to pack a clothes pin the next time I travel. leave comment here

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Cosmic Symphony

by Madeleine Kando


I am obsessed with the stars. Really obsessed. It’s not healthy. How can you love something that doesn’t love you back? Not just that, but stars don’t even know about my existence. It’s like being obsessed with the air, the ocean, the Siberian Tundra. That’s what we do, us humans: we become infatuated with things like that because it makes us feel more important than we are. If Jupiter and Mars are out there for us to see, doesn’t that mean that we somehow are part of it? Part of the vastness of space?

That obsession led to a conversation with my nine-year old grandson, Marshall. I told him that black holes sing. Not only do they sing, but they sing in B flat. It’s true. Go here, if you don’t believe me. Marshall and I had to first figure out what B flat sounded like. It sounds like this.

Black holes can generate enormous sound waves. They spew out vast amounts of material traveling at close to the speed of light. When that material slams into the hot gas that pervades the galaxy it is in, they beat a 'galactic drum'. The jet acts as the "stick," whereas the surface of the gas is the "drum”.

The problem is, that a black hole sings 52 octaves below middle C, or one million, billion times lower than the lowest sound audible to the human ear! But even if there were such a super-duper baritone-detecting creature, it would have to wait 10 million years between each sound wave (tone) to reach it. It would be a very slow symphony in B flat. (For a better explanation, see: Strange but True: Black Holes Sing).

We are so used to looking up at the night sky and marvel at the magic of it all. It is amazing how far our eyes can see. We see the moon at 239,000 miles. We have no trouble seeing the sun, at 93 million miles. Saturn, at 746 million miles, is visible in the night sky, and we can even see the entire Andromeda Galaxy, which is 2.5 million light-years away.

The Hubble Deep Field (HDF) image taken by the Hubble Telescope, shows galaxies so far away, that it allows us to travel back in time. It shows us the universe the way it was in the very beginning. Still, Hubble needs assistance to transpose those parts of the light spectrum that our naked eye can not detect, to give us a full picture of these stellar objects. Even the visual images we see, are always rendered in full color—converted from invisible X-rays or radio waves to visible light so we can see the universe in all its splendor. They might be a lot more boring if we limited ourselves to the visible range. Read more...

A Review of ‘Citadels of Pride: Sexual Assault, Accountability and Reconciliation’

by Madeleine Kando

The American philosopher Martha Nussbaum has written many books on the subject of Justice and Morality. The title of her book ‘Citadels of Pride’ made me curious, not only because of its subject, but the title itself. What does the word Pride mean in the Context of Sexual Violence?

As Nussbaum explains, pride, which is actually the first of the seven deadly sins in Christianity, (followed by greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth) is the inability to see others as real, because you feel you are above them. There are many kinds of pride: class pride, race pride, national pride and gender pride. Gender pride is so deeply baked into our society, that we are not even aware of it.

The central features of what makes for a ‘full human being’, are autonomy and subjectivity. Autonomy means that you can make your own choices in life. Until recently, women were denied voting rights, choice in marriage and access to education. Subjectivity means that everyone has a right to their own inner experience, their own way of looking at the world. That is why we have Freedom of Religion, Freedom of Speech and Freedom of Association.

When it comes to sexual assault and harassment both of these essential ingredients are violated. The victim is treated as an object and their autonomy is denied. Their feelings and emotions are treated as irrelevant compared to the need for gratification of the aggressor.

Not only do women suffer when their autonomy and subjectivity are denied, this denial has the power to transform a person’s self-image. If you never experience autonomy, how can you even know of its existence? If your subjectivity is constantly denied, would you not think that it really shouldn’t exist? It prevents a woman from ‘wanting’ anything more than what she has, like the fox in famous fable. The fox, unable to get at the grapes, finally decides that he didn’t want the grapes to begin with.

In many (if not most) societies, being born a male already guarantees your claim to an unearned privilege over half of the world’s population. You are proud of something that you did not achieve on your own merit. Isn’t that the worst kind of pride? Read more...

The Red Queen Effect

The Red Queen by Sir John Tenniel 

by Madeleine Kando

In Lewis Carroll's ‘Through the Looking-Glass’, the Red Queen and Alice are constantly running but remain in the same spot. 

They finally stop and Alice says, still panting a little: "Well, in our country, you'd generally get to somewhere else—if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing."

"A slow sort of country!" says the Queen. "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!" 

That is exactly how I feel about my life right now. Like being on a treadmill, running and running, just so I can stay in place.

My days are filled with exhausting activities like taking a shower so I won’t get lice, get dressed so I won’t freeze to death, eat so I won’t dwindle away and sleep so I won’t keel over during the day. All that just to stay in place!

The abyss called entropy is lurking behind me, threatening to swallow me up. Who wants to let their fingernails grow into claws, get scabs on their scalp for want of washing their hair, have their teeth fall out if they don’t brush them.

The Red Queen is right: ‘If you want to get somewhere, you have to run twice as fast’. But who has the energy these days? I am quite content to stay in place. It’s exhausting enough.

In evolution, the Red Queen Effect, means that species have to constantly adapt in order to avoid extinction. A rat race, if you ever saw one. That also applies to me and you.

Let me give you a brilliant example: If you are unfortunate enough to be born without dimples in your cheeks, you are never going to have a go at being on TV. I wrote about that before here. But since all anchors on TV have dimples, who is going to keep their jobs? The ones with the deepest and most disfiguring dimples. They are all running in place, dimples and all, to keep their job.

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Nature-Nurture: Are we born Intelligent or Stupid?

by Tom Kando

 The September 13, 2021 issue of the New Yorker has an interesting article titled “Force of Nature” by Gideon Lewis-Kraus. 

It describes the work of Kathryn Paige Harden, a University of Texas psychologist. Harden’s research is about the importance of genetic inheritability of intelligence. In other words, she addresses the age-old “nature-vs.- nurture” question: Are our behavior, our personality and our achievements the result of the environment and socialization (nurture), or are they the product of inborn and inherited genes (nature)? 

 As a sociologist, I have dealt with this issue in many of my classes. That nurture is more important than nature has always been axiomatic to sociologists. How successful you are in life depends much more on environment than on heredity. However, biological determinism (nature) has gained a lot of ground in recent years. Psychology’s holy grail is the identification of the PHYSICAL location of mental faculties, whether in the brain or in one’s genetic make-up. 

There appears every decade or so research that challenges the conventional wisdom that nurture counts for much more than nature. This research suggests that genetic inheritability of things like intelligence plays a much bigger role than we are willing to admit. 

For example, in 1969, Berkeley psychologist Arthur Jensen published an article in the Harvard Educational Review   in which he argued that there is an I.Q. gap between the races, and the reason for this is at least partly genetic. Nobel laureate William Shockley agreed with this, stating that “my research leads me inescapably to the opinion that the major cause of the American Negro's intellectual and social deficits is hereditary and racially genetic in origin and, thus, not remediable... by practical improvements in the environment.”  Read more...

Kauai

by Madeleine Kando

We are on Kauai, my husband Hans and I. It is the oldest and most beautiful island of the Hawaiian chain. If you could wave a magic wand and wish for a total sensory experience, you would certainly conjure up Kauai. The trade wind coming from the vast ocean, softens the harshness of the blazing sun. The sound of the surf is better than any lullaby. The foaming crests of the waves lapping on shore puts one in a trance.

Then, there are the clouds. They turn pink at sunset, slowly moving across the horizon, like slow motion ballerinas in pink tutus. The coral shines through the turquoise water while the feral chickens strut about, totally indifferent to the beauty around them, getting impertinently close to get fed. All of it is so intoxicating that our life back in Boston seems like it is on another planet.

Is it pathological to be infatuated with an island? Isn’t that feeling reserved for teens and film stars?  But I cannot help it. Since we first came here, almost 20 years ago, Kauai has captivated my heart.

Today, we are taking a helicopter ride. It takes us over the interior, the jungle where Jurassic Park was filmed. We approach the ‘five sisters’, a group of waterfalls on Mt. Waialeale, the second rainiest place on earth. The pilot is having fun with us. He flies straight into the huge vertical wall of jungle, but at the last minute, veers up to the top, to avoid a fatal crash. It is an exhilarating ride, plunging into the center of the volcano. It has been dead for millions of years and is now covered with green, a deep gaping hole, where all the rain from the swamp plateau above, accumulates.

Over 5 million years ago, Kauai was born, when magma spewed from a hot spot beneath the Pacific Tectonic Plate, creating a volcanic island. Like dragging the links of a chain away from the hotspot, the island moved away and Kauai’s volcano slowly became extinct. A new island moved in its place, creating another one of the Hawaiian Islands. A map of the ocean floor shows this long chain called the Emperor Sea Mount Chain, which reaches all the way to Alaska.

It is hard to imagine that for most of her life, this beautiful island was nothing but black rock. Everything that we see, blew in with the wind, on the waves, or in the belly of a bird that lost its way. Then, millions of years in the making, as if the island was ready for inhabitants, the Polynesians came in their canoes, fell in love and established a society.

The older Kauai gets, the more beautiful she becomes. But one day, she will sink into the ocean and only an atoll will remain, like a gravestone to mark the spot. How many of these gorgeous islands have sunk beneath the waves over the past millennia?

Kauai has only one road that hugs the coastline and does not connect to itself, which protects it from the worst damage that tourism creates. On the north shore, where we are staying, there are small, funky towns, like Kapa’a and Hanalei, reminiscent of the 60’s. There are shops that sell designer rash guards and other fancy beach attire, overpriced restaurants and shave ice stands. Read more...

Afghanistan

by Tom Kando

This week, the crisis is Afghanistan. Last week it was the Haitian earthquake. For a year and a half, it’s been Covid. Things are not going well on planet Earth, or in the US. 

I don’t mean to trivialize what’s going on in Afghanistan. It’s a mess, a tragedy, and it was inevitable. 

First, let’s be clear about one thing: The Taliban are the equivalent of the barbarians that were held at bay for centuries by the ancient Romans. 

There are in the world, always, advanced civilizations that expand their sphere of influence and bring progress (as well as exploitation) to outlying regions. And then there are tribal societies that are several hundred years behind in their historical and moral development. Their treatment of women alone puts the Taliban somewhere at the beginning of Europe’s Middle Ages. 

The 14th century Arab sociologist  Ibn Khaldun  described the relationship and inherent conflict between advanced urban civilizations and more primitive nomadic groups, and the cycle of rise and fall of the former at the hand of the latter. 
Now don’t misunderstand me: I am not saying that the Taliban is about to take over the White House (although a Taliban-sponsored group did “take over” the New York World Trade Center in 2001). 
What Biden just did is the equivalent of decisions made two thousand years ago by intelligent Roman leaders such as the emperor Hadrian: He abandoned his predecessors’ expansionist policies. Instead, he invested in “defensible borders and the unification of the empire’s disparate peoples. He built Hadrian’s Wall, which marked the northern limit of Britannia.” As Voltaire said, one must cultivate one’s own garden.  Read more...

Worrying

by Madeleine Kando

It’s really hard to be me. I slept for four hours and woke up wondering what came over me when I bought a $100 bathing suit. I am on Maui, and I see all these fancy bathing suits prance about on the beach, so I figured I need one too, instead of looking like a blue sausage in my racing suit.

I saw one on a mannequin at the mall across our condo and I was sure it would make me look like a film star, but when I came home and put it on, I looked more like a flower pot with arms and legs.

So, I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. There is no stopping it, once I get the worrying bug. It’s like a virus, infecting every nook and cranny of my already neurotic mind. I worry about my daughter back home, about spending too much money, about the bags under my eyes from not sleeping because I worry about not sleeping.

 
Why some people don’t worry is a mystery to me. There must be something seriously wrong with them. People like that let the worriers do all the worrying for them. They get a free ride in this valley of tears, going about their business happy as clams, while us worriers do all the heavy lifting, leading us to an early grave.

They will say stupid things, like: ‘worrying does not do anything. It’s a useless, self-destructive habit.’ But they don’t really know, do they? Since they never worry. It’s like saying: ‘I know what it’s like to be poor. My grandfather was poor. He told me all about it’.

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Which are the Best and the Worst Olympic Countries?

by Tom Kando

Halfway through the recent Olympic Games, I came across  an article by a Dan Wetzel, titled

Sorry, America: China’s leading the real Olympic medal count.

Dan complained  that most of our media  rank countries by their TOTAL number of medals, regardless of whether they are gold, silver or bronze. This puts  America on top and China second. However, Wetzel  felt that  countries should be ranked by the number of GOLD medals they win. He claimed that the entire rest of the world agrees with this.

As it turned out, America ended up with BOTH the largest number of total medals AND the largest number of gold medals. So Wetzel’s gripe is moot.

Nevertheless, I want to point out  that Wetzel was wrong. The differences between gold, silver and bronze performances are often in the milliseconds. It’s often absurd to dismiss   silver and bronze  performances as far inferior to  gold performances. The three  are often extremely close. So the total number of medals is more meaningful than just the number of golds.

Furthermore, I have long used a compromise between Wetzel’s position and mine, one which I think is reasonable and could satisfy both sides of the argument: We can WEIGH the three colors by awarding a country 3 points for every gold medal, 2 points for every silver and 1 point for every bronze.  Then, rank countries by their total  number of points.

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