A Light in the Forest

Posted on 2025-10-03 by The Narrator

A girl with a doll, named Jubilee,
Dreamed of the jungle, wild and free,
To Africa’s shore, her spirit took wing,
With no fancy credentials, but wonder to bring.
She walked into Gombe, where shadows descend,
A novice observer, a steadfast friend.

She sat in the silence, beneath the green shade,
A bond with the primates was silently made.
She gave them the names of the people she knew,
For their complex emotions, she knew to be true.
There was Flo and Fifi, their struggles and joys,
More than just numbers or simple decoys.

Then came the moment, the knowledge so profound,
When David Greybeard scraped sticks along the ground.
He stripped off the leaves, with a careful touch,
A tool used by chimps, who could do so much.
The line was dissolved, the barrier was gone,
The kinship of species from that day was drawn.

From student to scientist, her fame quickly grew,
With patience and kindness, her insights broke through.
She showed us that chimps knew both war and delight,
That love and compassion were also their right.

But the forest was fading, the crisis was clear,
The whispers of loss began filling her ear.
She left Gombe’s deep green for the wide, dusty roads,
To lighten the weight of the planet’s hard loads.
For humans to flourish, the wild must endure,
Her mission expanded, becoming so pure.

The Jane Goodall Institute and Roots & Shoots,
Planted the promise in young, vibrant roots.
She gave the great apes a voice, loud and strong,
And showed us exactly where we all belong.
Not above the wild creatures, but right by their side,
She was a Guardian of the Jungle, our tireless guide.

Now the green forests re-echo her songs,
A gentle, strong melody where she belongs.
Her loving spirit walks where the wild heart will call,
Her timeless light shines brightly within us all.

In memory of Jane Goodall.

In memory of Jane Goodall.

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The Language of Law Enforcement: Talking About Law Enforcement with Respect

Posted on 2025-10-02 by The Narrator

As a Public Information Officer with a search and rescue team, I spend a fair amount of time speaking to community groups about what we do and how we work alongside our served agencies. My job is to be the friendly face of our team and help the community understand our mission and capabilities and that means a lot of presentations. Most of these talks are smooth sailing, until they aren’t.

There are many misconceptions we have to clear up. We don’t charge for recue. It’s always free. We can’t take you to the grocery store when the weather is bad. That’s not a legitimate life safety emergency. We won’t arrest you for having a lapse in judgment and walking off a cliff. People make mistakes. The sheriff wants us a to solve a problem and that’s what we do.

I was recently presenting to a group of elderly amateur radio operators. At one point, I referred to our law enforcement partners as “cops”. The next thing I knew, one gentleman’s eyebrows shot up so high, I thought they might file a flight plan. He was deeply offended, convinced I had just disrespected the badge. Suddenly, my talk on search and rescue protocols turned into an impromptu history and language lesson.

The Old-Timers: “Copper”, “Flat Foot” and “Gum Shoe”

Let’s start with what is disrespectful.

  • Copper – While some people now consider this an old-fashioned synonym for “cop”, its origin is a bit different. The term “copper” originally came from the verb “to cop”, which meant “to catch” or “to seize”. An officer was a “copper” because that was what they did — they caught criminals. However, like many slang terms, its meaning and tone could vary widely, depending on the speaker’s intent.
  • Flatfoot – This one is pretty straightforward. Early law enforcement officers, particularly in the big cities, were known for walking long, repetitive beats for hours on end. This kind of work, especially with poor footwear, often led to physical ailments like flat feet. The term became a slightly mocking, physical descriptor for police officers, highlighting their long hours and tedious work.
  • Gumshoe – This term is specifically for detectives and private investigators. Back in the day, these sleuths often wore soft-soled rubber shoes, “gumshoes”, to move quietly and listen in on conversations without being detected. It was a nickname that captured their stealthy, methodical nature, but it often carried a certain cynicism, portraying them as shady or sneaky.

These terms are relics from the days of speakeasies, trench coats and black-and-white crime dramas. They’re fun to read about, but not great choices in polite conversation.

So, What About “Cop”?

Here’s where things get interesting and less controversial.

The term cop is not inherently disrespectful. In fact, its most accepted origin is as an acronym from British policing history: Constable on Patrol. Our American legal and policing systems are heavily influenced by the British model, so the term actually tips the hat to our shared historical roots and professional honor of the job. While slang can sometimes shift meaning, “cop” in modern usage is widely considered a neutral, even affectionate, shorthand for “police officer”.

That said, context matters. A smile and a tone of respect go a long way toward making sure the word is taken as intended.

The Takeaway

When we talk about law enforcement, whether in a briefing, a presentation or a casual conversation, it’s worth remembering that words carry history. Some names have baggage. Others have heritage.

  • Avoid outdated nicknames like “copper” or “flatfoot” unless you’re telling a story about 1920s Chicago.
  • Recognize that “cop” is rooted in professional history, not insult.
  • Above all, remember that these are people doing a critical, often dangerous job, and they deserve our respect in both word and deed.

Language evolves, but respect never goes out of style. The “cop” comes from a place of respect and homage to the historical roots of our law enforcement system. By showing respect through our language, we can build stronger relationships with law enforcement and the communities they serve.

A lot of my friends are cops. Two cast off their sidearms and body armor on a regular basis and volunteer on my team. I am always inspired to stand shoulder to shoulder with them.

 

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The Undiscovered Country of Stupid Questions: A Guilty Confession

Posted on 2025-09-28 by The Narrator

Many years ago, when planning a trip with my wife to Missouri’s cave country, I connected with a member of the National Speleological Society. He was a great guy and helped me with the information I needed. He was so helpful, he even offered to take us on a private tour of some of his favorite caves. It turned out that he worked at a large commercial cave in the area and we arranged to meet him there after his shift.

The plan was simple: we’d meet him after his shift, but it went sideways when we showed up an hour early. On the morning of our tour, my wife and I were running well ahead of our schedule. We asked for our host at the front desk and were told he had just taken a group into the cave. Naturally, we bought tickets and jumped in on the tour, having missed just the introductory entrance talk.

Our host, completely unaware of who we were, was doing a fantastic job. He was a seasoned guide with a wealth of knowledge, sharing fascinating facts about the cave’s history and geology. He was, frankly, too good. He had the whole group hanging on every word. Which, naturally, made me decide it was the perfect time to play the part of that guy, the tourist with the impossible questions.

Our host talked about the size of the cave several times. I used this hook as an opportunity to squeeze in a question. “How many miles of the cave are still undiscovered?”

He looked at me. A long pause hung in the air. I could see him mentally shuffling through his well-practiced tour script, trying to find a polite way to respond without calling me an idiot. I could see him silently weighing: Do I correct this fool or bury him in a rockfall? He handled it beautifully.

“That’s a great question!” he said, with an earnest smile. “The thing is, if we knew how many miles are undiscovered, well, they wouldn’t be undiscovered anymore, would they? What we can say is that cavers are still mapping new passage all the time.”

Nicely done. I had to wait for my next opportunity. It came not long after as our host was telling the tour group how far below the surface the chamber we were in was.

“Is the entire cave underground?” I asked.

I got that same look. Another pause. He was eyeing me suspiciously now, hoping I wouldn’t open my mouth again. I could almost hear him thinking, Really, dude? You’re asking me this? But he kept his cool.

“Yes, caves are underground by definition,” he explained patiently, as though speaking to a small, exceptionally slow child. “Though the entrances might open on cliff faces or hillsides. Think of it like a house: the front door is on the side of the building, but once you’re in, all the rooms are inside.”

At this point, I knew I was on the suspect list. He was watching me.

My final opportunity came as the tour was ending. He reminded the tour group that everyone was welcome to enjoy the park’s grounds and trails until dark. The facility closes at sunset.

“Do you close at sunset because it’s too dark to go into caves then?” I threw out.

I’m sure he had had enough of me at that point. “Caves are dark 24/7. They don’t have a sunrise or sunset. We close at sunset for people’s safety and because our staff needs to go home, not because the cave gets any darker.” Delivered with professional calm and a saintly amount of restraint.

When we finally met up after his shift, he gave me the critical side-eye and said, “I knew you had to be a caver. No one else would come up with questions like that.”

Guilty as charged. We laughed about it for a long time and then had a fantastic day touring wild caves in the area.

 

Asking the Question

I tell this story because September 28 is National Ask a Stupid Question Day, a holiday invented by teachers in the 1980s to encourage students to ask questions without fear of sounding silly. It’s a day to embrace our most ridiculous curiosities and, perhaps, get a little laugh. This holiday is a reminder that curiosity is never dumb and sometimes the best conversations start with the most ridiculous questions.

So go ahead, lean in. Ask something astonishingly absurd, obviously obvious or wonderfully weird. The world could use more laughter and besides, someone just might surprise you with a brilliant answer.

And if you need a starter, ask if a tomato is a fruit, does that make ketchup a smoothie?

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The Sirens of the Drive-Thru: America’s Fast Food Odyssey

Posted on 2025-09-24 by The Narrator

Back in ancient Greece, sailors were said to be lured off course by the Sirens’ song, an enchanting melody so irresistible that men would throw themselves into the sea just to get closer.

Fast forward to modern-day America. Our sirens don’t perch on rocky shores, crooning deadly ballads. They perch on every street corner, glowing neon, crooning: “Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese…”

The American eater, it is said, remains undefeated. But at what cost?

The tempting call of the fast food sirens.

The tempting call of the fast food sirens.

The Call of the Combo Meal

It’s not exactly a state secret: fast food isn’t good for you. Calories, salt, trans fats and enough sugar to keep a hummingbird buzzing well into next week. One meal won’t kill you, but a steady diet of double-bacon monstrosities will turn your body into a science experiment you didn’t sign up for.

Need proof? Look no further than Morgan Spurlock, who in Super Size Me (2004) ate only McDonald’s for 30 days for every meal. His health drastically deteriorated and he was warned by doctors to stop the experiment. He gained weight, experienced depression and liver dysfunction and proved that a habit of fast food meals certainly will do you in.

The Three Ages of Fast Food Love

  1. Childhood – The Honeymoon Phase
    A Happy Meal is the pinnacle of human achievement. Your parents, exhausted, declare it a “treat”. The toy is treasure. The fries are magic. Life is good and you look forward to those nights your parents are too exhausted to cook. You even suggest that getting some takeout will let them get some rest. Like a budding used car salesman, you learn to manipulate the people to believe that nuggets are a form of self-care, that a cheeseburger is an act of mercy and that nothing says “family bonding” quite like eating in silence while staring at the toy prize that comes with the meal.
  2. Teenage Years – Jedi Training
    Fast food becomes the cornerstone of your social calendar. Pre-game fuel, post-game snack, late-night survival kit. You convince yourself that fast food is brain fuel before your tests. You know the exact number of onion rings that fit in a cupholder and the proper wrist technique for stabilizing a collapsing taco. Truly, the Force is strong with you.
  3. Adulthood – The Co-Dependent Relationship
    The drive-thru is no longer adventure. It’s necessity. You’re late for work, the kids are howling and the idea of chopping an onion makes you want to cry harder than the onion itself. You order “the usual” and the cashier finishes your sentence. That’s not customer service. It’s a long-term relationship. You and the cashier have a partnership built on efficiency and the mutual understanding that you’re both just trying to get through the day.

Why We Can’t Quit

  • Speed: Burgers in minutes, faster than you can boil water.
  • Price: A cheeseburger cheaper than an apple. (That’s not a metaphor. That’s America.)
  • Marketing: Clowns, jingles, toys. Fast food companies recruit younger than the military.

It’s no wonder Americans treat fast food like a patriotic duty.

The Cost of Answering the Call

Too much fast food is like dating someone who looks great in selfies, but empties your bank account. Fun in the moment, but long-term? Not sustainable.

Fast food is a recipe for disaster. Diets high in processed meat, salt and sugar are strongly linked to serious health problems, including obesity, diabetes and heart disease. Science backs it up: one study even suggested that fast food may contribute to more than one in ten preventable deaths. Yikes!

Escaping the Sirens’ Song

Odysseus tied himself to the mast to survive the Sirens. You don’t need rope, but you do need a plan:

  • Eat vegetables that aren’t deep-fried.
  • Drink water instead of the gallon-sized soda bucket.
  • Save the double-bacon monster burger for a treat, not Tuesday lunch.
  • Rely on your crew (friends, family, coworkers) to keep you accountable.

The Takeaway

The Sirens of antiquity lured sailors to their doom with songs of longing. Today’s Sirens lure us with milkshakes, fries and promises of “limited-time offers”.

So next time you hear the call of the glowing arches at midnight, remember: a salad may not come with a plastic toy, but it also won’t make your arteries file a restraining order.

Sail wisely, my friends, past the combo meals and onward to healthier shores.

Sirens tempting Odysseus with fast food, with all due reverence to the original 1867 painting Ulysse et Les Sirènes by Léon Belly

Sirens tempting Odysseus with fast food, with all due reverence to the original 1867 painting Ulysse et Les Sirènes by Léon Belly

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Shiver Me Timbers, It Be Talk Like a Pirate Day! And Our Motto? Well…

Posted on 2025-09-19 by The Narrator

Ahoy, ye landlubbers and salty dogs! Today be the one day o’ the year when we cast off the shackles o’ proper English and embrace the glorious tongue o’ the buccaneer! So hoist the Jolly Roger (metaphorically, unless ye got one handy), grab yer grog (or yer lukewarm soda, we ain’t judgin’) and let’s delve into the truly enriching lifestyle and profound philosophy o’ the pirate!

Now, many a romantic tale paints us as swashbucklin’ heroes, fightin’ for freedom and buried treasure. And while the treasure part ain’t entirely wrong, the “freedom fighter” bit… well, let’s just say our definition o’ freedom usually involved not havin’ to answer to anyone with more cannons than us.

Now, let’s hoist the sails and talk serious pirate philosophy — the timeless wisdom of salt-soaked philosophers like Cap’n Jack Sparrow, who once declared the Sparrow family motto:

“Take what ye can, give nothin’ back.”

Is it selfish? Perhaps.
Is it efficient? Absolutely.
Is it morally bankrupt? Maybe, but look, we pirates didn’t sign HR’s Code of Ethics. We pirates, bein’ practical folk, just call it good business!

Think about it, savvy? We’re the ultimate disruptors o’ the maritime supply chain. We identify a valuable asset (shiny gold, rum, the occasional bewildered nobleman) and we facilitate its… redistribution to our own coffers. It’s a bold economic model, really. One where the “invisible hand” is usually wearin’ a rather conspicuous cutlass.

And the “give nothin’ back” part? Well, that’s just sound fiscal policy! Why dilute yer hard-earned loot with unnecessary generosity? Unless, o’ course, “givin’ back” involves a hearty round o’ celebratory cannon fire… in the general direction o’ yer former benefactor. That’s just good manners, see? Letting ’em know ye appreciated their… contribution.

Our lifestyle, too, is one o’ pure, unadulterated freedom! Sleep in ’til noon (or whenever the lookout yells “Sail ho!”), eat whatever scurvy-ridden biscuit hasn’t grown legs yet and settle disputes with a good ol’ fashioned sword fight (winner gets the last swig o’ grog). What’s not to love? Sure, the hygiene might be questionable and the career advancement opportunities are somewhat limited (usually endin’ with a hangman’s noose), but the autonomy! The sheer, unbridled joy o’ causin’ mild to moderate panic in coastal towns!

Though ye gotta have a plan.

  • Negotiatin’, Ye Say? Bah! Why parley like a lily-livered merchant when ye can just bellow, “Prepare to be boarded, ye scurvy dogs!” (Aye, a fair word o’ warnin’: this here tactic be more fruitful on the high seas than in them stuffy boardrooms, savvy?)
  • Life Goals, Eh? Blimey! Forget yer fancy five-year charts! Pirates don’t plot, they plunder! If yer career’s got a treasure map, mark me words, ye’re already halfway to the captain’s cabin, or the brig, dependin’ on yer aim with a cutlass.
  • Fancy Duds, Ye Ask? Arrr! Them tricorn hats be makin’ a comeback, I tell ye! Likely as a kraken in a bathtub. But look ye here, matey: confidence be ninety percent o’ yer style. Strut like ye just commandeered a galleon and they’ll think yer rags are royal velvet!
  • Settlin’ Disputes, Ye Want? Shiver Me Timbers! We pirates settle our squabbles with a good ol’ sword duel! Them landlubberin’ HR types frown on such spirited displays, so maybe try a lively game o’ rock-paper-scissors. Show ’em yer inner swashbuckler!
  • Retirement, Ye Dream Of? Heave Ho! Buried treasure! Aye, ’tis not insured by no fancy government FDIC, but at least it comes with a jolly good map and the chance o’ a few booby traps to spice things up! Dig deep, me hearties, and may yer golden years be truly golden!

And don’t even get me started on our impeccable fashion sense! Layers o’ questionable fabric, flamboyant sashes, enough buckles to secure a small galleon and a hat that screams, “I’m here to plunder and I look fabulous doin’ it!” It’s a look that says, “I might smell faintly o’ saltwater and stale ale, but my accessories are on point.”

Listen up, ye scallywags! At the heart o’ this here pirate life, ’tisn’t just ’bout pilferin’ gold and bellowin’ “Arrr!” every time a landlubber opens a locker. Nay, ’tis ’bout freedom, a grand adventure, aye, and a touch o’ questionable hygiene, livin’ each blessed day like ye just swiped it right from under the nose o’ the Royal Navy!

True pirates, we be livin’ by our sharp minds, navigatin’ waters as murky as a kraken’s inkwell and, now and then, wakin’ up with a goat on deck. (A long tale, that one. Rum had a hand in it, ye see.)

So on this most holy o’ days, clap on yer eye patch, speak like ye’ve swallowed a whole flock o’ parrots and remember the true pirate’s creed:

“Why be a cog in the blasted machine when ye can be a peg in the leg?”

Now get out there and take what ye can, give nothin’ back — unless ’tis yer dear ol’ mum’s Tupperware. She’ll hunt ye down like a bloodhound on a scent, she will!

So today, as ye stumble through yer day speakin’ like a barnacle-encrusted buffoon, remember the true spirit o’ the pirate. Embrace the “take all ye can” (within reasonable legal limits, o’ course. We wouldn’t want ye walkin’ the plank into actual trouble). And the “give nothin’ back” part? Well, maybe just skip that bit at the coffee machine. Unless someone’s hoggin’ the last donut, then all bets are off, savvy?

Aye, Talk Like a Pirate Day ain’t ‘bout gold nor squawkin’ parrots. Nay, it be ‘bout lettin’ go, actin’ the fool, an’ rememberin’ that life needs a fair bit o’ swashbucklin’ tomfoolery in its sails! Arrr!

Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I hear the siren call o’ a half-eaten bag o’ chips and a suspiciously unguarded office supply cabinet. Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day, ye scallywags! May yer plunder be plentiful and yer parrots surprisingly well-behaved. Arrr!

A Pirate’s Creed

Hoist up the sails, ye scallywag crew,
This day we be speakin’ like buccaneers do!
With “Arrr!” on our lips an’ a mug full o’ cheer,
We toss out the land talk and bellow it clear.

It ain’t ‘bout the gold, nor the parrots we keep,
Nor maps full o’ treasure that sinks in the deep.
It’s lettin’ go proper, it’s laughin’ away,
It’s swashbucklin’ nonsense, the pirate’s own way!

We dress in odd layers, with buckles galore,
Sashes that flap as we stomp on the floor.
A hat on me head shouts, “I’ve come here to plunder,
But look at me style — ain’t it fashion asunder?”

Our motto be simple, as Jack Sparrow said:
“Take all that ye can, give nothin’ instead!”
Efficient, perhaps, aye, and selfish, it’s true —
But HR’s code o’ conduct be not for our crew!

So grab ye a cutlass, or rock-paper-scissors,
Tell tales o’ the sea to yer friends an’ yer missus.
On this day o’ pirates, we’re free as the tide,
With laughter our compass, adventure our guide.

So here’s to the scallywags, bold and carefree,
To freedom, to folly, to bein’ at sea!
Why be a cog in the landlubber’s scheme,
When a peg-leg an’ nonsense can power yer dream?

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Are Artificial Sweeteners Stealing Years from Our Brains?

Posted on 2025-09-15 by The Narrator

Back in July, I explored the ongoing debate around artificial sweeteners — substances that promise all the sweetness without the calories. At that time, most of the discussion centered on cancer risk, metabolic effects and the gut microbiome. Now, a new study published in Neurology (September 2025) adds an important and sobering dimension: the potential impact of artificial sweeteners on brain health.

A New Link: Sweeteners and Cognitive Decline

Researchers in Brazil followed more than 12,000 middle-aged adults for an average of eight years. They found that people consuming the highest amounts of artificial sweeteners — especially aspartame, saccharin, acesulfame-K, sorbitol and xylitol — experienced faster declines in memory and thinking skills compared to those who consumed the least.

  • The rate of decline was equivalent to about 1.6 years of extra brain aging.
  • The effect was most pronounced in people under 60 and those with diabetes.
  • Tagatose, one of the sweeteners studied, did not show a link to decline.

Importantly, this was an observational study, meaning it shows association, but can not prove cause and effect. Still, the large sample size and consistency of the findings make it a signal worth paying attention to.

How Could Sweeteners Affect the Brain?

Scientists don’t yet have definitive answers, but several theories are emerging:

  1. The Gut–Brain Axis
    Artificial sweeteners can alter the gut microbiome, which in turn influences inflammation and brain function. Disrupted gut bacteria may set off a cascade of low-grade inflammation that eventually reaches the brain.
  2. Insulin and Glucose Regulation
    Even without calories, the taste of sweetness can trigger insulin responses. Over time, this mismatch may contribute to insulin resistance — a key risk factor for cognitive decline, especially in people with diabetes.
  3. Vascular Health
    Chronic inflammation and metabolic stress can damage small blood vessels in the brain, reducing oxygen and nutrient delivery. This so-called small vessel disease is a recognized driver of memory problems and dementia.

Putting the Findings in Context

Before anyone panics and swears off diet soda forever, a few caveats:

  • The study measured consumption levels, but participants self-reported their diets, which introduces some uncertainty.
  • The differences in brain aging, while meaningful, were modest — equivalent to roughly a year and a half over the study period.
  • More research is needed to confirm these findings and determine whether certain sweeteners are more problematic than others.

Still, this is not the first time artificial sweeteners have raised red flags beyond simple calorie counting. Together with earlier research on metabolism and the gut, the new cognitive angle underscores that these compounds are not necessarily “free passes” to sweetness.

What This Means for You

For most people, occasional use of artificial sweeteners is unlikely to cause harm. But if you’re relying on them daily, especially in multiple servings, it may be wise to rethink the habit.

  • Moderation remains key. Too much of anything is bad for you.
  • Whole foods first. Opt for naturally sweet foods like fruit, rather than highly processed alternatives.
  • If you have diabetes, pay particular attention, since the study suggests you may be more vulnerable to these effects.

The Bottom Line

Artificial sweeteners were once seen as the safe solution to cutting sugar, but the science is evolving and what seemed like a simple swap now looks more complicated. The latest research hints that while they may protect your waistline, artificial sweeteners could come at a cost to your brain over the long run.

As always, balance wins: reducing both added sugar and artificial substitutes, while focusing on nutrient-dense, minimally processed foods, is still the most reliable path to long-term health for both the body and the mind.

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The Space Between Us

Posted on 2025-09-12 by The Narrator

I don’t really like talking about politics.

I have my own opinions, leaning off-center, but I won’t say which way, because it shouldn’t matter. What I care about more than declaring my political lean is holding space for honest conversation. What matters more to me are the people in my life. I have friends who lean the opposite way from me and that’s okay. They’re my friends. When they say something I find disagreeable, I’ll push back. I’ll debate back. We don’t physically fight. We spar. Verbally. No one’s mind is ever changed, but the verbal jousting clears the air. Then we go out for a beer and laugh about the dumb things we did when we were younger.

That’s a healthy conflict. It’s frustrating, but it’s safe. Nobody bleeds, nobody goes to jail, nobody gets buried.

What astonishes me about our world today is how much activism has become fused with violence. The recent assassination of Charlie Kirk isn’t the reason I’m writing this, but it is one of the reasons. Among the many others: the June assassination of Minnesota legislator Melissa Hortman, the April firebombing of Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro’s residence. And those are just this year.

The list of political violence from the last decade is staggering. The 2017 Congressional baseball game shooting. The 2020 kidnapping plot against Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer. The 2020 attempted assassination of Judge Esther Salas. The 2022 attempt on Brett Kavanaugh’s life. The brutal attack on Nancy Pelosi’s husband. The shooting spree against New Mexico officials in 2022–2023. Two attempts on Donald Trump in 2024, just weeks apart.

This isn’t a partisan problem. This is both sides of the aisle. And this is the United States of America.

Voting with your gun is not a new thing in the United States. The assassinations of Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy are among the best known. The assassinations of presidents James Garfield and William McKinley are almost forgotten in our common lore. Reagan was shot and lived. Teddy Roosevelt took a bullet in the chest and went on to deliver a 90-minute speech. We romanticize the frontier, but do we really want frontier justice back in the public square?

Is violence a legitimate means of expressing one’s political opinion? Is it free speech? Protected speech? Think carefully about the world that would create. A nation where assassination becomes routine is not a democracy. It is a battleground and battlegrounds don’t host elections. They host wars. Is this what the highest levels of democracy embodies for us?

What unsettles me most is not just the violence itself, but the creeping sense that it is becoming ordinary.

Some say that the United States has not been this divided since the Civil War, when conflict became state against state, neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. I have two friends, brothers, whom I’ve known since high school. One is a year ahead of me, the other is a year behind. We grew up together — ate in each other’s kitchens, annoyed each other’s mothers, survived adolescence in the same small circle. Their bond was unbreakable. Except, it was broken. One brother wrote a politically themed book in 2024 and that created a conflict with the other brother, a conflict so bad that they have not spoken since.

I am still friends with both, but they are not friends with each other. I agree with one. I don’t understand the politics of the other. But the question that nags me is this: does politics really have to decide our friendships? Couldn’t we skip the ideology and still be friends, challenge a mountain, challenge a bar, dare each other at the zoo’s lion exhibit? (Spoiler: it’s never the lion who blinks first.)

Their broken bond feels like a mirror of the country. We are one people split down the middle, daring each other to cross the line. So where does this lead? Do the parties pick up arms and settle it by force? Do we fracture into two nations, the Liberal States of America and the Conservative States of America? Or do we rediscover that democracy is not about dominance, but about coexistence?

There aren’t many paths. We could double down on violence until no one feels safe. We could retreat into echo chambers until the other half of the nation feels like foreigners. Or — harder, slower, but better — we could work at rebuilding trust. That means listening without planning our rebuttal. It means remembering that the person across the table is still a neighbor, still a parent, still a human being who laughs at dumb jokes.

Perhaps the most thoughtful path is to acknowledge that the middle ground isn’t a political compromise, but a social one. It’s the space where we can recognize that the person on the other side of the aisle is a human being with their own fears, hopes and beliefs. The path forward might be less about changing minds and more about restoring trust and shared values, not just in our political institutions, but in each other. It means finding the humanity in our opponents, treating them as neighbors rather than enemies. It’s about remembering that the verbal sparring we once enjoyed can still exist without the risk of bloodshed.

The middle ground is not glamorous. It doesn’t trend. It doesn’t draw clicks or campaign donations. But it is where trust lives. It is where values can be shared again. The middle ground isn’t about politics. It’s about friendship, civility and a future where our disagreements don’t threaten our existence as a society. The middle ground is the neighbor who disagrees with your vote, but still shows up with a shovel when your driveway is snowed in. Political assassination may be making headlines, but it doesn’t have to write our future. We can. And if my two friends ever find their way back to each other, maybe the rest of us can, too.

America can’t lead the free world if we can’t even manage ourselves.

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There Be Dragons Here: The Secrets of the Deep

Posted on 2025-09-03 by The Narrator

Among the many hats that I wear, one of my favorites is a caving helmet. For many years my wife and I have been members of the National Speleological Society, an organization dedicated to the study, exploration and conservation of caves and their environments. The NSS is more than just a group of adventure-seekers. Its members are not just hobbyists, but rather a diverse group of speleologists — a scientific term for those who study caves — who are passionate about protecting these fragile underground ecosystems.

The NSS is at the forefront of American caving, working to advance our understanding and appreciation of caves. The society is involved in

  • Conservation — actively working to preserve caves from damage
  • Education — teaching new generations about safe caving practices
  • Research — conducting scientific studies on cave geology and biology
  • Cave rescue — training skilled teams to assist in emergencies

Caving was one of the first passions my wife and I dove into together, right alongside bicycling and search and rescue. Over the years, we’ve done it all, from conservation to cave rescue, but the things that stand out the most are the trips involving exploration and mapping.

As members, my wife and I have experienced all of these facets of caving. But you may have noticed that I deliberately left one item off that list: recreation. That’s because there’s a world of difference between a recreational thrill and true exploration. Most recreational cavers are thrill-seekers looking for an adrenaline hit. Adrenaline is produced when the brain perceives danger or stress, usually meaning someone has gotten themselves into trouble. But I’ll save the topic of adrenaline for another article.

Thrill seekers tend to get themselves into trouble. In the insuring medical emergency, formations are broken, rare lifeforms destroyed and rescue teams are left scrambling to save the day. Caves are too ancient, too fragile and too unforgiving to treat them like an amusement park ride.

Caving is not an activity for the faint of heart. It requires a deep respect for the underground environment and a commitment to preserving its delicate balance. Unlike thrill-seekers who might damage formations and disrupt the ecosystem, we approach caving with a sense of reverence and responsibility.

Exploration is something altogether different. For me, exploration is the most captivating aspect of caving. It’s the thrill of locating a passage no human has ever seen before or finding a cave that no one knew existed. Think of it this way: you are entering a world millions of years old, untrodden by human feet. It’s like Neil Armstrong setting foot on the Moon, with the knowledge that he is the first person to ever walk there. Caves don’t get as much coverage as the Moon landings, but sometimes getting through them is equally challenging.

Unlike the surface of the Moon or a remote mountain peak, caves don’t come with maps. You can’t just pick up a guidebook to an unexplored cave system. While National Geographic loves to talk about remote caves, they follow us into them. Cavers have to make their own maps and that can be an adventure in itself. That curve in the passage might lead to a dead end or it might open into ten miles of borehole. More likely, though, it’s hiding a series of nasty narrow squeezes, at least one of which is tighter than what my chest can manage.

Recently I took part in an expedition into a commercial cave that has been open to the public for more than a century. It has a lot of mapped passage and multiple commercial tour routes and while most of the cave’s passages are well-traveled, some remain closed and mysterious and there are still leads that remain unexplored. Our target was one such lead, a tight squeeze noted on the map, where moving air hinted at more cave beyond. In caving, a “breathing” passage is a sign of a barometric pressure difference, signaling hidden chambers. This means the cave “breathes” with the outside world, a potential hint of something interesting beyond.

Our team of six set out loaded with gear. Going into the unknown means being ready for anything: gear to get you in and gear to get you back out, equipment for potential research, the readiness not to return the same day and everything needed to survey along the way.

 

The squeeze was the kind where you decide which way you want your head to be facing and slide in, pulling yourself with your fingers and pushing with the toes of your boots, hoping not to hit an obstacle that will end your trip. Luck was with us. The squeeze opened into a small room, followed by another squeeze and another. The squeezes tested our resolve and physical limits. It was a challenging task, but one that allowed me to appreciate the spirit of exploration.

A horizontal squeeze, as icky as it sounds, is infinitely preferable to a vertical slot. In a vertical slot, you’re inadvertently lying on one of your arms or pushing it ahead of you like an awkwardly placed tree branch that does nothing to help.

But we had cave! New cave! Our travel was impeded not just by the series of annoying squeezes, but also by the need to map as we went. It’s an unspoken code in the exploration world: don’t “scoop” passage. Map it and leave what you couldn’t get to for someone else to explore.

 

Just after midnight came the real test: a vertical crack so narrow that each inhale wedged you tighter, each exhale freed you to move. I want to say it’s sexy, but my washing machine would never agree. A lot of caving trips send you home looking like you’ve been wrestling pigs in the mud. Not elegant, not comfortable, certainly not laundry-friendly, but that’s caving.

My job on this trip was surveying. I was “lead tape” or “back tape” depending on who was leapfrogging whom. Surveying requires you to be detail-oriented. You have to set good survey points that are in useful locations and won’t be destroyed by time or clumsy cavers. And you have to be dead-on for your azimuth and inclination readings or your map will be no better than a five-year-old’s crayon drawing.

We worked late into the night, carefully logging a few hundred feet of new passage with a few small rooms and a lot of squeezes. No breathtaking formations, just aragonite dustings and moonmilk, basic sedimentary deposits. It was a tough night, but a night well spent. The satisfaction was immense. At the end of the trip, as we gathered around the draft map, our sketcher (cartographer) scrawled a note in the margin: “There be dragons here”, a nod to the medieval cartographers who marked uncharted territories with mythical creatures. It was a fitting metaphor for our own quest, which had taken us into the unknown and pushed us to our limits.

As I looked at the map, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. We had uncovered new passage, documented our findings and contributed to the ever-growing body of knowledge about this incredible cave system.

Caving is not just an adventure. It’s a journey of discovery, a test of physical and mental endurance and a chance to connect with the natural world in a unique way. It’s a world that requires patience, respect and a willingness to push beyond your comfort zones.

For those who are drawn to the underground realm, there’s no shortage of excitement and challenge. Whether you’re a seasoned caver or just starting out, the world of caving has something to offer. So, if you’re ready to embark on an odyssey of discovery, join us in the underground world of caves. Just be prepared to get a little dirty. I doubt my washing machine will ever forgive me, but I wouldn’t trade these muddy, exhausting nights underground for anything.

Exploration underground is a quest, as much about patience and persistence as bravery, every bit as mythic as chasing dragons. Because sometimes, the real adventure isn’t in slaying dragons. It’s in finding where they live.

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The Neighborhood Menu: Tales from the Wetlands Edge

Posted on 2025-08-27 by The Narrator

Content Warning: This post deals with the difficult topic of pets and wildlife and uses dark humor to discuss the food chain. It may not be suitable for all readers.

 

If you live on the edge of a wilderness wetlands reserve like I do, you’re probably familiar with the annual ritual of posting “Missing Pet” signs in the neighborhood.  Every summer, the same thing happens. Signs start popping up on street lights and mailboxes:

“Missing Cat! Reward!”
“Lost Dog! Please Call!”
“Have You Seen Fluffy?”

The rewards are always enticing, but let’s be real, those signs are just a formality. There’s an uncomfortable truth that no one wants to say out loud: no one ever collects the rewards.

We all know the truth. Little Fifi didn’t “wander” off and accidentally end up living with another family down the street. She didn’t get lost in the next cul-de-sac over and made camp under someone’s deck. No. Fifi made the unfortunate mistake of starring in her own episode of Predators of the Wetlands and ended up as the main course at the local wildlife café, an appetizer for the ecosystem. She’s a cautionary tale written in talon marks.

My neighborhood borders a wetlands reserve and is a bustling hub for all sorts of magnificent wildlife. We have the usual suspects — rabbits, deer, skunk, the occasional Canada Goose and a few raccoons with highly suspicious résumés. But we also have the hardened carnivores and they are not shy. These guys don’t knock on your door looking for a cup of sugar. They’re here for the meat selection.

The foxes and coyotes are our four-legged patrols, always on the lookout for an easy meal. The skies, however, are where the real danger lies. No fence will restrict approach from above. Cats and small dogs are on the menu and if you’re not careful, your furry friend might become an unwitting participant in the local food chain.

Hawks, the silent ninjas of the skies, can pick off a rabbit without breaking a sweat. Coyotes run coordinated raids like a well-trained special ops team. And raccoons? Let’s just say they have no moral objections to stealing lunch. Yours, mine or the neighbor’s. They’re the ultimate opportunistic diners, feasting on whatever crosses their path. The eagles are strategic hunters. If you’re not paying attention to what’s happening above you, whether you’re on the ground or in a tree, well, you might just be the special of the day. The wetlands is an all-you-can-eat buffet and your pets are sometimes the main course.

Now, some folks like to comfort themselves by thinking their cat or small dog is “too big” to be carried away by a hawk. Maybe so. But let’s be clear: carry-away size is not the only criterion for ending up on the menu. Even a predator that can’t fly off or run off with your pet can still take a sit-down meal right there on the spot.

Living in this beautiful, wild place requires a certain level of vigilance. While the natural world is a wonder to behold, it’s important to remember that it doesn’t operate on suburban rules. So, how do you keep pets — and let’s be honest, small children — safe in this neighborhood? It’s simple: be smart, be vigilant and remember that you’re living in their backyard. They were here first.

To ensure your smallest family members don’t become part of the food chain, a few simple precautions are in order:

  • Supervise Outdoor Time: Never leave a small pet or child unattended in the yard. It only takes a second for a predator to make its move.
  • Keep Pets on a Leash: Even in your own yard, a leash can be the difference between a safe walk and a frantic dash for safety.
  • Be Aware of Your Surroundings: Get in the habit of scanning the trees and the skies. If you see a large raptor circling overhead, it’s not looking for a scenic view. It’s scouting for dinner.
  • Fence It Up: A secure, high fence can deter most ground predators, like coyotes and foxes. It won’t stop the birds, but it’s a good first line of defense.
  • Stay Informed: Know which animals are in your area and what their habits are. Knowledge is power and, in this case, it might just save you from putting up a “Lost Cat” sign.

And if that fails, keep your furry friends indoors or in secure, escape-proof steel-reinforced bunker, preferably with a bulletproof roof, surrounded by motion-activated sprinklers and maybe a moat. In short, living on the edge of a wetlands reserve means embracing the wild, but also being smart about it. So, let’s enjoy the wildlife from a safe distance and keep our pets and kids off the menu.

Out here, the circle of life isn’t just a song. It’s a takeout menu.

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Life on the Edge … of a Wetlands Reserve

Posted on 2025-08-24 by The Narrator

When people talk about a quiet, peaceful neighborhood, they usually mean low traffic, polite neighbors and the gentle hum of suburban life. I have one of those, but with a twist. Living on the edge of a wetlands reserve sounds peaceful and idyllic and it is, in that “National Geographic meets suburban living” kind of way. My street is blissfully quiet, mostly because there’s little automobile traffic due to it being the “edge of civilization”.

On the other hand, my backyard is like Grand Central Station for wildlife. I’m not complaining, though. It’s like having my own personal nature documentary playing out in my yard. My street’s unofficial Neighborhood Watch includes a hawk, a fox and at least one raccoon with questionable morals.

Like everyone, I have squirrels in the backyard. You know, those little furry daredevils who think the bird feeder is an obstacle course built just for them. I’m positive they’ve unionized. I’m convinced they hold strategy meetings to plan new ways to bypass the squirrel-proof bird feeder. (Spoiler: “squirrel-proof” is just marketing code for “squirrels will take this as a personal challenge”.)

The supporting cast out here gets a bit more dramatic. Some mornings I glance out the window to see a hawk perching on my fence post, scanning the neighborhood for scurrying snacks. A bald eagle flies overhead once in a while too, just to remind everyone who’s the top dog — well, top bird — around here. It’s beautiful, impressive and a stark reminder that the food chain is very much an active outdoor dining experience.

The four-legged crowd is a whole other story. Rabbits hop through like they’re late for a tea party. They’re basically our furry lawnmowers. The raccoons are the night shift, conducting their secret business under the cover of darkness. They come in wearing their little bandit masks, rummaging through my trash like they’re looking for clues. The fox is smooth, charming and clearly up to something. We’re still trying to figure out the plan. The skunks? They make their grand entrance with zero warning and leave behind a fragrant reminder that the world belongs to them. And the coyotes? They like to hold their howling jam sessions at 2 AM, because apparently that’s when their muse strikes.

Canada Geese show up in rowdy mobs, treating my lawn like it’s the dance floor at a wedding reception. They honk, they waddle, they leave “party favors” everywhere. Once in a while a deer wanders through, looking politely confused, as if to say, “Excuse me, is this the salad bar?” before giving me that “oh, sorry, wrong yard” look and trotting away. I’m pretty sure I’m being judged on my lawn care skills. Once a family of field mice tried to move in, until other animals decided the lease terms weren’t in the mice’s favor. The ensuing turf war was more of a rapid, one-sided evacuation and I haven’t seen a mouse since.

Down in the wetlands pond, there are fish and turtles, living their best aquatic lives. Thankfully, the water stays low enough that they don’t visit me personally. I like them from a distance, the way some people like their in-laws.

Living here is a little wild, literally, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My back yard neighbors may not always be human, but they’re far more entertaining. Out here, the HOA meetings involve actual squawking, chittering and howling and the fines come in the form of Canada Goose droppings on my driveway. If nothing else, I’ve learned that life is more fun when you share your backyard with a bald eagle, a fox and about 42 squirrels. I’m grateful for the quiet and I’ve accepted that my backyard is a never-ending nature documentary.

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