Din Of Iniquity

Here they come, then they’re gone again — sprouting like the exotic summer insect that might live for a week, then evanescing like a flash of summer lightning.

Sizzle … pow!

“More Roman candles, please.”

Pop!

“OK, I’m back for more.”

The fireworks stand: the den and din of all that is invigorating and unsettled and fleeting about summer.

Where menacing pyrotechnic assortments named Pit Bull, Artillery Shell, Firestorm and Mad Dog Fountain are juxtaposed against the splendor of Ground Bloom, Butterflys & Flowers, Southern Night and Glittery Fountain.

They are depots selling fun: the promise of trails of sparkler light going ’round and ’round and children sword-fighting in the cloud of a smoke bomb.

They’re here, and then they’re not. And then they go … somewhere.

Only to return again.

“It’s so busy,” says Alison Standridge, a Simpsonville Church of God youth pastor helping operate a stand in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Simpsonville. “Then, it’s just like, boom! it’s over. Kind of like a firework, it’s over.”

***

For these precious few fleeting days leading up to the Fourth, Hunter Moss the professional photographer is Crazy Hunter the mad fireworks tycoon.

Crazy Hunter has put up no sign that says “Crazy Hunter’s Fireworks Stand.” It’s just the name he penned on the business license because he figured it was somehow appropriate.

Crazy Hunter dresses in an Uncle Sam costume, waving American flags to passersby along Haywood Road and clicking his heels mid-flight every now and then for some extra attention.

He’s made a mock commercial on his video camera — in true hyperventilating, used-car-salesman form.

He plans to sleep in an air-conditioned tent next to his temporary enterprise, with some willing friends on hand who think this whole selling fireworks thing is a party worth throwing.

And when he closes shop on the day after the Fourth and turns in his unsold product, he’s taking his 20 percent commission and boarding a plane to the Dominican Republic to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Why bother with a fireworks stand?

The better question, Crazy Hunter says, is why not?

“It’s just right up my alley,” says Moss, whose day job is a mercurial profession that depends on the whims of whoever might need a family portrait or a wedding photographer that weekend. “I didn’t have anything else to do. I might as well just be out here selling fireworks. It’s a good time, like a Visa commercial or something.”

***
The temporary fireworks stand business is a lucrative one — and a particular boon to the nonprofit groups that typically run them.

A church youth group’s entire budget can be met with a little more than four weeks of work a year. Most of the money is made (and the more than 250 million pounds of fireworks sold nationwide) over the Fourth of July, with the rest in the days leading up to the turn of the New Year.

Charitable groups operate as many as 80 percent of the 200 fireworks stands TNT Fireworks sets up in South Carolina each year, says John Johnson, regional sales manager for TNT.

“Instead of going out here and having to sell hot dogs and hamburgers and having pizza parties and all that,” Johnson says, “they just work with us twice a year and do one fund-raiser and have their whole budget for the year.”

The formula is simple: Fireworks companies such as TNT provide the product, building and land, and the temporary owners provide their labor.

The business model is one centered on a maelstrom of business concentrated tightly around two holidays.

It’s like a bride spending months planning a wedding that will last one day.

“We work all year getting permits, leasing properties and making sure our stands are fixed up for the next season,” Johnson says. “It’s a full-time job for me, but the groups only come in for about 10 to 15 days.

Prospects are checked for good credit and given training in safety, securing permits and the products they sell.

TNT sets up the stands, helps facilitate the permitting process and provides the fireworks based on how well it expects a certain location to attract traffic.

The stands open about two weeks before the holiday. Business is a trickle at first, but the early opening lets people know the stand is there for when the frenzied rush ensues.

When the party’s over, usually the day after the holiday, the workers clear out the stands and board them up. Within a few days, the fireworks company carts the stand off for storage.

Fizzle.

“It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it,” says Standridge, the Simpsonville Church of God youth pastor. “We really depend on this for our budget.”

The church has had a lock on its location for years and operates a total of three stands on the Simpsonville Wal-Mart site. Most sales take place the day before and the day of the Fourth of July, Standridge says.

Each year, she says, the church brings in about $20,000 from its fireworks sales — enough to pay for youth trips to Florida and to help keep up facilities.

The New Harvest Church of God in Gaffney travels to the Woodruff Road Wal-Mart to help raise money for its Revolution Teen Ministries youth group. The money from last year helped turn a church garage into a youth room.

Michael Perry, the youth pastor, used to run the Woodruff Road location when he worked for a Greenville church. The location is so busy, Perry says, he requested to move into it when his old church gave up the spot.

The hours are tough — 9:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. each day leading up to the holiday, then until midnight the night before and the night of.

Shifts are spread among volunteers, Perry says, and those who work are credited with a discount on their next youth trip. For the most part, parents work the stands for their children, who must be 18 to legally dispense fireworks.

The rush of activity is fun, Perry says, but exhausting, too. He sees bottle rockets and sparklers in his sleep.

“My wife woke me up one morning and asked me what time it was,” Perry says. “I told her, ‘$9.99.’”

***

There’s a distinct culture to the fireworks stand — one of fascination, mirth and the occasional odd characters who explain in great detail what they plan to do with the fireworks they’ve bought.

Fireworks speak to something primordial, drawing us in and turning our eyes upward. The phenomenon is as old as the ancients, dating back to the Han Dynasty and the world’s first bamboo firecracker and the hope an aerial display gave our Revolutionary War forefathers before they knew they would win the war.

To stand behind the counter and hand out smoke bombs and bottle rockets is to attract conversation, like the cashier at the newsstand who spends his entire day talking to customers about the news, whether he’s read the newspaper or not.

“The people who come up here, man, it’s a trip,” Crazy Hunter says. “Just random people, man. All walks of life. People just come up and here and tell me random things.”

For Angel Butler, the fireworks stand is a social event.

For 14 years, Butler has worked or owned a fireworks stand. Her location on Anderson Road in the Big Lots parking lot has brought the same faces back each holiday.

“I look forward to seeing people,” Butler says. “They’re like extended family. You learn a lot. A lot of characters.”

All kinds, she says, step up to the stand and squint at the buy-one-get-one-free specials — rich and poor folks, church groups, neighbors chipping in on a big package for a block party, kindly people who buy fireworks for the disadvantaged kids in nearby neighborhoods.

Butler’s family spends holidays at the stand.

Angel’s Fireworks is even open on Christmas.

“We have breakfast Christmas morning, then everybody comes down here and just hangs out,” Butler says.

This Fourth of July will be no different, she says.

Family both near and distant.

Then … until the next the holiday … poof.

Published in: on July 2, 2006 at 4:26 am Leave a Comment

‘Big A’

TO MY DAUGHTER

Be encouraged, my daughter

The victory is mine,

My race, I have won.

I am home now with Jesus

He talks taily with me,

My journey has ended,

My soul has been set free

Let the life that I have lived

Be a testimony to you.

Hold steadfastly to Jesus

He brought me through.

Whenever you need me,

Remember this day.

I am resting in heaven

Not too far away.

Always look up,

Don’t tarry, you see;

Call faithfully on heaven,

That is where I will be.

When your time has come,

To do what you must do,

I will be at the River Jordan,

To see you cross, too.

I am happy now, Leigh,

Don’t fret over me;

All my troubles have ceased,

My soul has been set free.

*****

Aaron Debnam had spent his life fighting.

He crushed tailbacks as “Chickenhawk,” the fearsome South Carolina State linebacker. He stamped out infernos as “Big A,” the Greenville firefighter.

Aided by an imposing frame, a cool demeanor and an unending confidence, he welcomed these challenges, volunteered for them.

But the fiercest battle the 46-year-old husband and father would face would be far from a choice, and it would require a new identity A<3> an unfamiliar acceptance of physical vulnerability that only an immeasurable spiritual strength from within could undergird.

Cancer isn’t a disease of victims, it’s a disease of fighters. Living on borrowed time that doctors had predicted he wouldn’t have, Aaron staked out his ground to stand in defiance of death, to see his daughter, Leigh, graduate from Easley High School.

“That was the only thing he would talk about,” says Wanda Debnam, Aaron’s wife of 23 years. “He would say to me, ‘If I can just make it to my baby’s graduation.’”

On May 27, dying of brain cancer, struggling to stand and speak and at least 100 pounds lighter than he’d been since he was a child, Aaron would see his daughter, in her green gown, walk across the Littlejohn Coliseum stage.

He stood to congratulate her after the ceremony. Afterward, he fell to the ground.

A little more than a week later, on June 7, Leigh sat alone with her father in the downstairs of their Easley home. She helped hospice caretakers put him in an ambulance, knowing she would never see him again.

Over the course of the night, at his own request out of his beloved family’s sight, Aaron succumbed to the disease that had made him a shell of himself — but that so, too, helped define the life he led.

* * * * *

Aaron’s nickname was “Chickenhawk” at S.C. State — apt for a linebacker, whose job description entails methodically and precisely striking his prey.

But on the field, Wanda says, he was the one who led team prayers. He was the encourager, the teacher, the glue that formed togetherness.

Aaron and Wanda met their freshman year at S.C. State in 1977 and dated right through school, to graduation and up until their holy union in 1983.

Aaron had always been a helper. He majored in sociology, but while his wife would go on to become the social worker, Aaron ultimately found his calling in a different kind of rescue mission.

In 1985, he was laid off from his job at Duke Power. Not one to simply wait for a job, he got in his car one day and drove down to a Greenville fire station to apply. He worked for the department almost until he died.

His assertiveness and leadership earned him the rank of lieutenant and the respect of his comrades.

In 1988, his only child was born — Erin Leigh Debnam (named after her father, as her parents had always pledged to do, boy or girl).

“Big A” was what firefighters call “a door buster:” By the time a colleague would come back with a crowbar to pry open the door of a burning building, Aaron would have bulled through it with his body.

He carved out a humble, selfless figure of steadiness in the fire department.

“It was always, ‘I want to go work for ‘Big A,’” says Doug Henson, a firefighter who battled flames with Aaron for two decades.

Aaron led the charge, both with his brawn and a keen awareness of when and when not to go into a burning building, says Jack Gillespie, a firefighter who served under him.

“Big A” would never put a colleague in a situation he wouldn’t be willing to be in himself, Gillespie says.

“It was an honor to be behind him, backing him up,” Gillespie says. “If you wanted to have a firefighter at a fire, he’s the one you’d want to be with.”

At home, Aaron engrossed himself in the welfare of others. If he had a flaw, Wanda says, it was that he cared too much. He was a worrier.

He was also a doer, a studier: He water-skied when they bet him he couldn’t; he bowled 10 strikes without having tried the sport before. If you were on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” and needed a lifeline, Wanda says, he was your guy.

And he loved his baby girl.

“We both loved tennis shoes,” Leigh says. “He’d take me out and buy me a pair of Jordans. Mom would be like, ‘What are y’all buying $150 shoes for?’ And he would say, ‘This is my only child; this is my girl.”

* * * * *

It was a Tuesday at dawn in February 2005, and Aaron was on duty when he fell and began to convulse in a seizure.

The Saturday before, he had run eight miles (he had weighed in at 320 pounds months earlier, Wanda says, decided he was fat and dieted and exercised to get down to a healthy 248 pounds for his strapping 6-foot-3 frame).

The guys at the department — thinking of a stroke or heart attack — rushed him to the hospital. Shortly after his examination, Aaron was getting dressed, ready to go home. Then, Wanda says, the neurologist walked in:

“Aaron, where are you going?” the doctor asked.

“Well, I figure I’m fine now. I feel great. I’d like to go home.”

“Well, Aaron, I don’t think we’re going to be able to do that.”

The coming days would reveal an awful truth: Aaron — despite the outward perception of being a healthy, fit person — was suffering the most-advanced stage of cancer. It had begun in his lungs (he wasn’t a smoker) and spread to his brain and spleen and liver and lymph nodes.

The doctors told him he had a year to live.

“He was devastated,” Wanda says. “We were devastated.”

Aaron underwent chemotherapy. The tumors shrank. There was hope that, because of his physical strength, he might be able to fight off his cancer and extend his life.

He went on maintenance drugs for remission. But by December 2005, the tumors grew again. Back to chemotherapy in January. This time, the chemotherapy couldn’t stop the advance.

By April, his body began to shut down.

One day at the doctor’s office, Wanda noticed a nurse’s pained glance toward the doctor. Outside the room, Wanda asked the doctor the question she never wanted to ask.

“He’s dying, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

* * * * *

In his last weeks, Aaron would take his wife outside to wash the cars the couples owned (including his beloved vintage 1967 Ford Mustang). She needed to learn how to do it herself — the right way.

“He said, ‘You see what I’m doing, Boo?’” Wanda says. “This is how you do it. You’ve got to section off and do a little at a time. You try to do the whole thing all at once.”

When he wasn’t washing cars, he was reporting for work at the fire station — nearly up until Leigh’s graduation.

Through most of his chemotherapy Aaron worked at the station, says his battalion chief, Clark Farmer, who describes Aaron as “one of those quiet kind of guys who made things happen.”

He could no longer enter buildings because of the smoke, so instead, he worked as an “incident safety officer.”

He drove himself to work.

Aaron had accumulated “gobs” of sick time, Farmer says, because he rarely called in ill. The chief had tried throughout his battle with cancer to get him to use some of his days.

“Even when he was doing chemo, we had to make him go home,” Farmer says.

But on his last day at work, it wasn’t quite such a struggle. He had come in on May 23 — a Tuesday — on his day off because of a misunderstanding about when he was supposed to work.

“I said, ‘Big A, what are you doin’ here?’ You’re supposed to be taking a labor day,’” Farmer says. “He told me, ‘Yeah, I was talking to one of the guys, and he said, ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday,’ and I didn’t want to hold out on you, so I came on in.’”

Farmer told Aaron he didn’t look like he was feeling well. Aaron agreed. The chief told him not to worry about work and to go home and get strong for the graduation on Saturday.

His firefighting career was over.

* * * * *

Family pictures cover the walls in the Debnam household. Downstairs, Aaron’s treadmill sits still next to a memorial picture of him, displayed on an easel.

Aaron stayed here until his last hours.

Two days after Leigh’s graduation ceremony, he was admitted to the hospital, where he stayed for five days. The staff encouraged Wanda to let them handle the burden.

They told her he had five days to live. She took Aaron home.

Five days later, his body failing, Aaron asked his wife to call the hospice.

“Boo, I told you I wasn’t going to take you anywhere.”

“Listen, listen, don’t be so hard-headed. Wanda, just take me to the hospital. Take care of Leigh. I don’t want you to be burdened with anything.”

Leigh came downstairs and asked her mother if she was going to work.

“No, baby.”

Wanda told Leigh to go downstairs and spend some time alone with her father, and then she walked upstairs.

“I looked at him,” Leigh says, “and I knew he wasn’t going to come back home. I told him that I wanted him to be really sweet. He told me that he loved me, and that’s the last time I ever saw my Dad.”

Wanda planned on spending the night by her husband’s side.

Aaron could barely move. He spoke in long, breathy whispers. He didn’t want his wife to have to see him die.

“Go home.”

Wanda told him she was staying. He showed as much agitation as he could muster.

“You go home.”

“You’re going to heaven, Aaron. I love you.”

He couldn’t talk, so he winked.

“Aaron, God, I wish you could talk.”

Then, he emerged from his stupor. He took his eyes off his wife and looked to her right and spoke clearly.

“Wanda, I love you. Take care of Leigh.”

Before leaving, she took his hand and pressed her cheek against his: “God, if it’s your will.”

He passed in his sleep.

* * * * *

Aaron’s loved ones see his life as a testimony. He left an impression: at least 900 people attended his funeral, and his co-workers continue to give Wanda and Leigh help.

“I’m wondering,” Wanda says, “Now what’s going to happen me? As I look back over our lives, God had a plan for us.”

Leigh’s plan is to begin nursing school in August at Greenville Tech (to help people, she says, just like her mother and father).

“It makes me happy,” Leigh says, “that he was there to see me complete a chapter of my life as I go on to do something else now … but there’s so many things he won’t see.

“People think they’re going to live forever. You don’t know what time you have.”

Published in: on June 25, 2006 at 4:17 am Leave a Comment

Dumb Ol’ Dad

Dumb Ol’ Dad.

Our beloved caricature, defiantly unembarrassed, singing out of key on purpose.

We buy him a grilling spatula shaped like a golfing wedge and proudly give him a “Kiss My Bass” baseball cap that’s about as funny as all the bad jokes he tells over and over and over.

We scale his shoulders, punch his belly, roll our eyes at his incessantly long stories and needle him as he suffers to fix the toilet.

We treat him like we’d never treat our mom (who herself seems to enjoy getting her licks in).

We aim our arrows at him because we know he is impervious (or at least he is committed to thinking he is): After all, he tells us, if we think the pun is bad, it’s only because we didn’t think of it first.

He revels in his Dadness, for he is a member of a distinguished tribe: secure enough to be the butt of jokes, willing to take the blame whether guilty or not, OK with Father’s Day cards that point out just how over the hill he is, etc., etc. …

We love him more than we feel comfortable telling him.

And he, well, loves us back … and all that stuff.

* * * * *

Bobby White is splashing water on his 4-year-old grandson, Luke Hebert, as the two sit at the edge of the fountain at Falls Park at the Reedy.

Bobby is visiting from New Orleans. He’s in town for the Father’s Day weekend to keep his grandson while his daughter, Wendy Hebert, and her husband spend the weekend at a music festival.

The dutiful grandfather and father just got his Father’s Day present early A<3> a T-shirt from Mast General Store that reads, “I’m Not Right In My Left Brain And I’ve Got Nothing Left In My Right Brain.”

He saw it in the store and liked it. Wendy hadn’t bought him a gift yet, so she bummed some money off her Dad and bought him his Father’s Day present with his own money.

How sooo Dumb Ol’ Dad.

“That’s about right, really,” Bobby says of the shirt’s message.

It would have been OK if he hadn’t gotten anything for Father’s Day, he says. You know, it’s just a day when greeting card companies and cologne makers get rich, anyway.

Sure Dad wouldn’t make a big deal if he were forgotten, Wendy says, but be careful scratching too close to the surface.

“He’s not like all dads,” she explains. “He’s hypersensitive.”

“Wellll …”

“No, you are. Real sentimental.”

“I don’t know, I guess I am.”

* * * * *

These days, a brave new world awaits each man thrust into the duty of fatherhood.

As the flood of women entering the workforce redefined the structure of the World War II-era nuclear family, the definition of being a father took on a new meaning, says Dr. Paul Kooistra, a Furman University sociology professor versed in family sociology.

Enter the birth of Dumb Ol’ Dad, spawn of the modern-day economy.

The notion of the stoic, distant father returning after a day of bread-winning separated from his children has faded over the past handful of decades, Kooistra says.

Fathers play a more intimate role in child-rearing as more mothers venture outside the home. Duties once reserved for a housewife are now shared — and dads are left to feel their way into a role they have little experience in.

And even if the father works and the mother stays home, the expectations of what it means to be a father have entered into a new realm.

“Almost by necessity there’s become a forced closeness between fathers and their kids,” Kooistra says. “There’s kind of an awkwardness.”

The notion of Dad as a loveable, bumbling, ever-culpable buffoon is ubiquitous in American culture.

Call it the Homer Simpson Syndrome.

Never on Mother’s Day would newspaper ads market a Superman T-shirt for both child and mother as they did for dads this week leading up to Father’s Day.

There’s the ever-present “Dad at Leisure” (pictures of a khakied man baiting a fishing pole and resting his golf-gloved hand against a shade tree) and “Dad the Fixer” (obscenely bright flashlight, sleek air compressor, big hammer).

“Go to a store and look at what kind of greeting cards there are for mothers versus fathers,” Kooistra says. “Maybe that has to do with a little bit of hesitance about showing emotion to fathers. Whereas you might gush your love for your mother, you may feel this emotion for your father but it just seems goofy to express it. So it gets expressed in humor.”

* * * * *

“Madison, why do you girls always pick on Daddy so much?” Matt Jerabek asks his oldest daughter, 6-year-old Madison, as his family of four skips rocks along the Reedy River.

“Becaaaause. …” she answers.

And there it is. Simply … because.

“What’s your favorite toy?” Elise Jerabek asks the couple’s youngest daughter, 4-year-old Karli.

“Daddeeee.”

This dad is the one who puts the girls’ clothes on backwards — who, the couple agrees, teaches all the bad habits.

“It’s quite entertaining,” Elise says. “I’ll go put them in bed, we’ll say our prayers — and his idea of putting them in bed is to shake them up, throw them around, toss them up and then they’re ready for bed.”

And for this, he gets what he deserves. A father under siege.

“They say, ‘When in doubt, blame Daddy,’” Matt says. “They gang up on me all the time. ‘Mommy’s No. 1.’ You know.”

John Eric Sullivan has earned his Dumb Ol’ Dad I.D. card through years of hard work.

John is here at the Cleveland Park playground with his 4-year-old daughter, Chinnesey, who normally would be in preschool if it weren’t for her father’s insistence on spending as much time with her as he can.

She’s been with him all afternoon and won’t let him leave. John has been doing this dad thing for two decades now. His two other children are much older (he has a 22-year-old son and a 20-year-old daughter).

John’s oldest daughter, Nora, refuses to go out with him to the grocery store when he wears his sandals with socks (a classic Dumb Ol’ Dad fashion statement). Her Father’s Day card for him this year is titled “Old Fart.”

“A mom would never get that card,” he says.

And somehow, he knows why.

He’s a second-generation dad with gray-sprinkled hair who builds tents on the bed and when he puts his preschooler down for the night lets her paint lipstick and eye shadow on his face and tie bows in his hair.

Nora captured the Dumb Ol’ Dad moment for posterity.

“I’m on video,” he says, “and I can’t wait until she grows up so she can see what she did to me. My wife thinks I’m crazy. But a child’s only going to be around you so long.”

ou’re right, Dumb Ol’ Dad.

But don’t worry: Long after we’ve left your home and your bear hugs, we’ll remember your sacrifice.

With a tie, a bottle of cologne and one of those bouncing-ball thingies that are supposed to relax you.

We know you’ll like it, whether you do or not.

Published in: on June 18, 2006 at 4:00 am Leave a Comment

To Send Or Not To Send?

Ding.

And there it appears on the screen with a subtle chime – that peculiar cultural phenomenon brought to us courtesy of good ol' reliable dad/sister-in-law/co-worker/next-door-neighbor.

"FW:OMG! U will sooooo love these hilarious pix!!!"

"FW:FW: Female drivers …"

"FW:FW:FW: Proof that Courtney killed Kurt. NOT A HOAX!"

The forwarded e-mail is the modern populist media of mass gossiping.

The forward reaffirms our belief that the world is against us and that karmatic justice will prevail through the power of a mouse click.

It ignites the da Vinci Code inside us, bamboozling us to believe that on May 5 we mustn't allow our tires to touch the white intersection line at the traffic light, lest gang members shoot us as part of a nationwide initiation ritual.

With each ding! it renders the art of joke-telling obsolete. We no longer need concern ourselves with the delicate blend of pacing, memory and exaggeration required to deliver a successful punchline at the dinner table.

It misleads us at the Photoshopped sight of a Great White shark lunging toward a rescue worker aboard a helicopter, leaving us skeptical about what is actually real, like the NASA photograph of the Helix Nebula that depicts the "Eye of God."

We are both honored and annoyed – more one than the other depending on our mood that day – to be on the list of 120 friends, pseudo-friends and vague acquaintances.

We love our habitual forwarders like Fred loved Barney, like Cramden loved Norton.

They are the unabashed people-persons we aren't, the ones who before finding empowerment with a keystroke were intimidated enough by technology to swear that they just weren't one of those "computer people."

Scroll. Giggle. Send.

Congratulations, you are now in on the joke.

Scroll. Gasp! Send.

You must be outraged, and you must forward this prayer to 10 people to ensure good luck and to save yourself from sure eternal damnation.

Yes, the serial forwarders: Join them or not; it doesn't matter. They have your e-mail address.

Confessions of a forwarder

The profile of the forwarder is simple, really: We are them and they are us.

We all do it – even if just once – whether we admit to it or not (and we like some of what we receive).
Within us all is a degree of self-centeredness that convinces us that if we think something's interesting, others certainly must, too.

The serial forwarder is an entirely different curiousity.

Shannon Schmutzok is your everyday habitual forwarder: curious, skeptical but generally trustful, and ready to share just about whatever might pop onto the computer screen.

She admits to her habit with a self-deprecating awareness, like a grown man who might admit that he reads "Superman" comic books.

Her forwarding ritual manifests itself at work, where about 10 people, give or take, engage in a conversation of forwards that helps add a little levity/inspiration/outrage to the monotony of a work day spent on the other side of a computer screen.

"I don't really have time to sit down and type out a long e-mail saying, 'Hey, how are you doing? How's your morning?" says Schmutzok, 33, of Taylors. "I know when they get something interesting, they'll e-mail it to me. It's a way to communicate, but not on a personal level."

That might go over well at work in a network of the willing, but not with her friend Richard.

Richard is that friend.

You know, the guy who takes a little too much pride in his disdain for a forwarded e-mail. The guy who lives an hour away who wonders why you don't just come see him or at least send him something only for him. The guy who not only bursts your urban-legend bubble with a little Internet research, but sends the rebuttal to all 120 on the forward list.

Richard has requested to be taken off the list. Schmutzok says she fully understands where he's coming from, and something about his indignation is endearing. But like other serial forwarders, she is blithely convinced that she has the ability to filter out the sappy and the suspect so that her forwarding habits aren't that annoying to others.

She knows the picture of the tsunami wave isn't real, but she'll send it on anyway, if only because she thinks it would be so interesting if it were true.

"I try not to forward too much junk to my friends, because they get a little frustrated with me," says Schmutzok, 33, of Taylors. "They're like, 'I don't have time to read all this crap!' I understand. My father-in-law sends me all kinds of stuff."

All kinds of stuff. There's always a more prolific forwarder.

Like when her father-in-law sent her an e-mail — forwarded five times from its original source — that implored her (and everyone else) to "delete this if we aren't friends."

"A lot of times when I receive stuff, I wonder what behavior I display that would make someone think I would enjoy that and send it to me," she says. "It's a bunch of sappy stuff. Of course I'm going to delete it, but it doesn't mean I don't like you. It's just that it's crap."

Better to give

Central to the vitality of the forwarded e-mail is trust in your friend Bill, says Barbara Mikkelson, who with her husband, Dave, runs Snopes.com, considered the foremost authority on urban legends in the cyberworld.
Bill is the arbitor of what is and what isn't true or funny or galling (because, you know, we trust Bill, and he's a lawyer and all).

But, Mikkelson says, what happens if Bill's wrong?

"Bill could be honestly mistaken," says Mikkelson, who started Snopes back in 1995. It was a hobby then; now it's become a nearly full-time job. "Folks always think their friends are going to be 100 percent trustworthy, but the same reliance of trust they place upon their friends, their friends have placed upon others."

The site has blossomed into a worldwide database where people both submit questionable e-mails for scrutiny or act as resources to help debunk myth or confirm odd reality. It takes less than a minute to load Snopes, type the key words of an e-mail in the search engine and almost always find a piece the Mikkelsons have addressed.

For each piece of research posted on their Web site, the Mikkelsons provide a copy of the e-mail in question, assign a value to its truthfulness and write an explanation with links referencing how they reached their conclusions.

"Otherwise, we'd be putting people in the same position as they started," Mikkelson says, "which is going from trusting the unsigned, reckless e-mails that arrive in their inboxes to trusting what we have to say about them."

There's something natural, within all of us, that wants the ordinary to be fantastic, to possess unique information that will change the world.

Even if you're the Snopes party poopers.

When they first started researching urban legends, Mikkelson says, her husband believed half of what he heard and she believed all of it.

"These are either expressions of our fears, our concerns, that which is troubling us, or they are confirmation of how the world should be run if I were running it," Mikkelson says. "Because these stories resonate so deeply with people, they don't look at them as critically."

Over time, she says, she learned, after extensive research, how many stories simply aren't true … and how sappy even the most cynical friends can be.

A virtual community

A particular favorite for her is the e-mail forwarding behavior she refers to as "slacktivsm."

"It's the joy of feeling that you've done good in the world and struck a blow for right," Mikkelson says, "without having moved your rump off the chair."

Slacktivism manifests itself in the delusion that sending an overwrought inspirational prayer/poem/completely made-up story — a "glurge," it's called — will convince someone to swear off his vices and live a life of pure spiritual perfectness.

The reality is, you might just be disconnecting yourself even further from the real world, becoming a victim of information overload and victimizing others, says Barry Markovsky, a University of South Carolina sociology professor.

"Having all this information so available sort of devalues it," he says. "In parallel with real society, you have a virtual society going on. It's far too easy to sit at home alone and participate in a virtual community without any real human contact."

Urban legends aren't a phenomenon born of the Internet. They're as old as mankind's ability to speak — and write on papyrus, orate in the temple, talk on the telephone, use a fax machine or send an e-mail.

Even if they know it isn't true, the age-old fascination with wanting the unbelievable to be believable compels people to spread urban legend, says Robert Thompson, a Syracuse University pop culture expert.

The only difference between now and, say, more than a decade ago is that word travels almost instantaneously, Thompson says.

"The Internet has become an absolute bonanza for the urban legend," he says. "The Internet doesn't have any editorial control, so everything can just go circulate around. Virtually everybody who's got an e-mail account has at least one or two people who, the minute they see it in their inbox, they know what it's going to be."

This is what happens when you become old, predictable Bill: People can't bring themselves to tell you to take them off the list, because, hey, you sent them the "forward-this-to-your-five-best-friends" e-mail.

Predictability can be lovable, but it also can be a problem.

"The more people make their messages seem worthless, the more they're going to be impacted by things like spam filters and people who deprioritize these messages," says Chris Williams, an analyst with San Francisco-based Ferris Research, which regularly studies how e-mail behavior affects businesses and consumers.

A recent Ferris study found that workers spend an average of three minutes of interruption per e-mail message.

Time to attend to e-mail is steadily dwindling, Williams says, as about 80 percent of work e-mail these days is spam.

And while the forwarded e-mail might get through the filter, it doesn't take long before the "FW:" begins to resemble a spam alert in the eyes of the recipient, he says.

Add to that how long it takes to figure out who the five best friends are who must receive this message to ensure eternal life, Williams says, and that all-important change in company policy might get overlooked because of a prolific forwarding history.

"You might not go all the way to, 'Well, I'm going to delete everything they send,'" Williams says, "but certainly you could adjust it in your priority — like read it at the end of the day."

Published in: on October 2, 2005 at 7:43 pm Leave a Comment

Group To Mark Library Protest

Six of 'Greenville Eight' to remember day they tried to use 'white' facility

The wave of rebellion was beginning to swell across the American South. They were young, idealistic and passionate, hungry to mold a lasting, more-dignified history for their race and culture.

And they no longer wanted their black skin color to deny them the right to read.

On July 16, 1960, eight college and high school students swallowed their fear and marched on the "white" Greenville County public library then located on North Main Street. On July 16, 2005, six members of the "Greenville Eight" — including the most celebrated of them, the Rev. Jesse Jackson — will gather in prayer at the jail they were locked into for refusing to leave a segregated library on that Saturday afternoon 45 years ago.

An afternoon, Jackson says, that was a defining moment in the fight for civil rights in Greenville — whether the students realized at the time the importance of it or not.

"It was the beginning of a certain dynamic in Greenville for rebelling against that system," Jackson said in a recent interview with The Greenville News. "I didn't realize just how pregnant the moment was for change. It was an historic moment, a scary moment and, yet, a beautiful moment."

Jackson and five others of the eight members of the protest group will devote the weekend to honoring the library sit-in.

The group will meet at 6:30 p.m. Saturday at the old Greenville Police station behind City Hall for a reunion.

On Sunday, Jackson will speak at 11 a.m. at the Evangelistic Temple in Greenville across from the Cherrydale shopping center and at 4 p.m. at Springfield Baptist Church on East McBee Avenue — the church from which the protesters marched to the library. In his speeches, Jackson said he will focus on honoring past bravery and looking to how far the country still has to go to shed the veil of racism.

It was Christmas break 1959 when Jackson returned home to Greenville from the University of Illinois — four years since Rosa Parks first refused to give up her seat at the front of that bus in Montgomery, Ala., and a volatile time when blacks who spoke out would find crosses burning in their yards.

Jackson was a college freshman and walked down to the segregated "colored library" in search of research materials for some school work he wanted to do over the break.

The black library on McBee Avenue was woefully small. The librarian, Jeanette Smith, worked hard to stock the library with as many books as possible, but oftentimes it took as long as a week to receive books requested from the white library.

The librarian told him that she couldn't get the reference materials he wanted for another six days. That would be too late. He would have to return to Illinois before the books could come.

Jackson says he walked to the white library on North Main to get the books himself. As he made his request inside those forbidden walls, Jackson says only he, the librarian and two police officers were in the building.

It was yet another in a long line of insults, rekindling the sting of when the Sterling High School football team he played on was forced to sit on cinder blocks to watch the Greenville High team that refused to play them.

"Before I left, I told them, 'I intend on using this library this summer,'" Jackson says.

And he did, along with seven of his peers playing their parts in the legacy of the civil rights movement.

The protesters were not the incorrigibles that those who resisted desegregation at the time would have liked to make them out to be, said Davida Mathis, a Greenville attorney and steering committee member of the local of the Rainbow/PUSH Coalition that Jackson founded. The eight: Jackson, Elaine Means, Benjamin Downs, Hattie Smith Wright, Dorris Wright, Margaree Seawright Crosby, Joan Mattison Daniel and Willie Joe Wright.

They dressed in suits and ties and floral dresses, all model citizens from good families, she says.

Mathis remembers the buzz of the sit-ins when she was 4. "It set the black community on fire," she says. "It was a very revolutionary and forward-thinking stand at the time."

The eight gathered at Springfield Baptist Church, which at the time was a magnet for civil rights activism, led by a charismatic young pastor, the Rev. James Hall. On the morning of July 16, the eight marched to the library and were told they would be arrested.

They left, Jackson says. When they returned to the church, Jackson says Hall asked them why they had come back. He sent them back, instructing them that incarceration was OK and, in fact, expected. "When you're a teenager and you're taken off to jail," Jackson says, "knowing how brutal society was at the time, I think it was more terrifying for the parents than it was for us."

The group was not locked up long. Activist Tony Shelton had already gathered the money to bail them out, Mathis says.

The sit-in and lock-up was just the beginning.

The group's defiance, Greenville historian Judy Bainbridge says, was a significant piece of Greenville history, a demonstration that marked a busy year in the local quest for equality.

On Jan. 1, 1960, hundreds of activists marched on the Greenville city airport to protest segregation. The October before, Bainbridge says a woman helping escort baseball legend Jackie Robinson to his flight was told to leave the white-only waiting room.

A.J. Whittenberg, a black activist and gas station owner in town, and the Rev. Hall and his wife, drove Robinson to the airport. As the three men bought a plane ticket, Hall's wife was ordered from the waiting room.

Young blacks who had come to the airport to meet Robinson were incensed, calmed eventually by the three men. Amid the library sit-in, blacks in Greenville began taking seats at the forbidden dining counters of Woolworth's, following a nationwide trend first made famous in Greensboro, N.C., in February 1960.

The library sit-in was a salient mark on the struggle for equality in Greenville during that time, Bainbridge says, though she believes it often gets overlooked in today's reflections on Greenville's past.

"I don't think it's remembered particularly well locally," Bainbridge says, "but I think people try not to remember a lot of things that happened in the early 1960s. The significance was that it came so early. It wasn't about swimming with whites. Here, it was a matter of reading."

Published in: on July 15, 2005 at 10:49 pm Comments (1)

Show Me The ’90s

The decade that brought us 'Forrest Gump' and clear soda is so over, and already we miss it

We Americans are known for our short attention spans, our oftentimes myopic obsession with ourselves.

So it should come as no surprise that in our state of ADD – appropriately the fad diagnosis of the 1990s – we readily engross ourselves in the nostalgia of the bubble decade, like opening a can of Crystal Pepsi before it's had a chance to age.

Consider that VH1 has launched its "I Love the '90s" deconstruction of pop culture, the third in a series of minutae-driven retrospectives that also helped us to relive the '70s and '80s.

And picking up on the trend, Hasbro is marketing a new Trivial Pursuit game dedicated to '90s nostalgia.

Suddenly – a mere five years removed from the New Year's Eve when we panicked over Y2K being the end of the world – the '90s are all up in our collective grills.

Ummm, hellooo … like, whassup with that?

Robert Thompson, a pop culture guru at Syracuse University, says the decade of the '90s has been able to jump the nostalgia gun by about 10 years because the cultural climate changed so drastically after 9/11.

What we consider the '90s begins, he says, with the fall of the Berlin wall in 1989, signaling America's victory in the Cold War, and ends on what was otherwise a nondescript Tuesday morning nearly three years ago.

"It's a really distinct period when the cloud of nuclear destruction goes away and we have these sunny skies until the cloud of terrorism comes in," Thompson says. "While it hasn't been that long since we left the period of the '90s, a lot of stuff has changed in dramatic ways."

Yes, life was like a box of chocolates.

The Internet seemed to make the world smaller, until we learned once again how big the world really is.

A war in Iraq was a Desert Storm, an in-and-out affair that took less than two months to complete.

Money management was like a magic show: Putting $20 into a mutual fund turned into $200 almost overnight.

Was Tinky Winky the "gay Teletubby"? Oh, the scandal of it all.

No wonder we're straight trippin' to relive America's decade of blithe narcissism.

The '90s were all that and a bag o' chips. As for the dawn of the new millennium … well, talk to the hand, we don't even want to go there.

So what, exactly, is it that we remember?

In preparing the new Trivial Pursuit (could any decade be more trivial?), marketing suits conducted a survey in mid-June of 1,033 people of diverse backgrounds and ages.

Here's what they remember from back in the day:

– Cooking shows like "Emeril" were the third-most-impactful trend of the '90s, topped only by the Internet and the cell phone.

– Four out of 10 Americans surveyed named Forrest Gump's "box of chocolates" bit of pop philosophy as the most memorable movie/TV line, followed by "Show me the money!" of "Jerry Maguire" fame.

– Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" stuck most in the minds of one-third who participated in the survey, with MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This" and Vanilla Ice's "Ice, Ice Baby" trailing behind.

– In the category of non-sports sporting moments, Roseanne Barr's irreverent rendition of the National Anthem before a Padres game tied with George Foreman's introduction of the George Foreman Grill.

Kevin Griggs, a 22-year-old Greenville native enlisting in the Army, remembers when the '90s decade was in its infancy.

He remembers TGIF on ABC, with "Full House," "Step By Step," "Boy Meets World" and "Family Matters" (you know, the one with that nasally Urkel kid).

At recess, Griggs and his friends played Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A few years later, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers would seem so wack, like Pokemon compared to SpongeBob SquarePants.

But, he wonders, is it too soon say buh-bye to yesterday?

"How will we look back on all this 20 years from now?" he says. "What seems normal now might be funny years later."

Stephanie Adamson says she sees a certain demarcation line drawn in the mid-90s, separating what seems ancient (MC Hammer's genie pants) from what seems too recent to pine over (cell phones).

Adamson remembers watching MTV's "The Real World" in middle school, when "we were watching MTV when we weren't supposed to."

That self-indulgent '90s precursor to today's surplus of reality TV (remember surpluses?) feels out of step now, she says, like some kind of outdated vanity overkill.

So very dope when things should no longer be dope.

Robert Meek, a 41-year-old country music fan from Mauldin, heard a lot of rap music in the '90s — thanks to his kids.

Admittedly, Meek never was much of a playa and he never wore much bling-bling. He spent more time listening to what he considers the pop-ification of country music, "when singers changed what country music was into what it is today."

Something about all this '90s nostalgia is unsettling, he says. First the '70s and '80s. Now this?

"For us older people, it makes us feel so … old," he says.

Carol Phillips can feel that.

Phillips, 47, has worked for the Furman University post office for 13 years. In 1996, the post office made the switch to e-mail. That's about the time when all those who weren't "computer persons" learned the painful lessons of evolution.

"I called the computer many, many bad names," says Phillips, of Travelers Rest.

You could say she almost went postal.

Ahh, yes. Going postal.

For 29-year-old Tuan Tran, the '90s weren't all bulging 401(k)'s and "Friends" chatter over comfy coffee in its comfy cups. In other words, as Chuck D said, "Don't believe the hype."

For certain, Michael Jordan was indeed superhuman and the evil commies didn't appear to want to nuke us anymore.

But then again, there was Michael's little baseball escapade and the Los Angeles riots were the genesis of what would become sustained presence of brutality depicted in most every form of media.

"The '90s kind of numbed us to violence," Tran says. And oh yeah, he says, O.J. did it.

Nevertheless, our appetite for reliving recent history doesn't show signs of going the way of the grungy flannel, says Thompson, the pop culture expert.

"You go through most of your life and you play dumb games and eat Count Chocula cereal, and nobody ever brings that stuff up," Thompson says. "This is the stuff that was really part of your daily life."

Word, professor, word.

Published in: on August 8, 2004 at 10:45 pm Leave a Comment

More Tooth Than Fiction

Payment for gaps in their smiles burning holes in their pockets

That tooth fairy is such a secretive little nymph; a winged, magical, late-night barterer conducting her business under the cloak of darkness.

Why, exactly, does she want so many teeth? What does she do with them? Why only the baby teeth? And, most importantly, how does she settle on a price?

There seems to be a protocol, an innocent faith that if you put your little tooth under the pillow, the compensation will be to your satisfaction.

When it comes time to explain the tooth fairy – and settle on a price – so many new parents are at a loss.

For most, there is a 20-year … er … gap between the last time they stuck a tooth under a pillow and the day their kindergartner's mouth starts resembling that of a hockey player's, and they become the tooth facilitator.

The tooth trade

It would appear that parents are the middlemen, but when it comes to answers, oftentimes they don't have a whole lot.

Kimberly Bailey isn't sure how she will explain it to her son, 5-year-old Cameron, when he starts to lose his teeth. He'll probably get $3 a tooth, but the rest is murky.

"I'll tell him that she has a collection," says Bailey, 32. "Why? I don't know. I hope he doesn't ask."

But those children … you know they surely will ask.

In Andrea Sharpe's household, the contract between tooth fairy and parent stipulates a relationship of mutual benefit — a sanitization service, if you will.

"The tooth fairy cleans them and gives them back," says Andrea, 6. "She gives my mama the money. Mama just says, 'Give the money to me, and I'll make sure to give it to her.'"

And, apparently, Mama meets with the tooth fairy regularly and can give a general description — wings, magic wand, about the size of a first-grader's hand.

The tooth fairy, it seems, is a shrewd businesswoman.

That is, if Jaylon Tolbert's suspicions are correct. Jaylon has lost eight teeth all told, his upper row virtually nothing but gums. For each tooth, he gets a dollar.

Jaylon says his understanding is that the tooth fairy sells teeth (possibly, he says, to help make clocks) at a whopping price of $100 per tooth.

When asked about whether he should be due a little kickback on the profit, Jaylon doesn't know whatever in the world that means, but, he says, smiling, "yeah, sure."

The price ranges differ. Some kids get a silver dollar, others $2 and some upwards of $5, says Sangrita Vakharia, a Greenville dentist.

But what children might not understand, as they see their classmates getting two to five times more than they got from the tooth fairy, is the economics underneath it all.

Tooth fairy inflation

In 1979, when he was a 6-year-old kindergartner, University of South Carolina research economist Don Shunk says he got 25 cents a tooth.

If you were to apply that 25 cents in 1979 into today's inflationary terms, that quarter would be worth about 54 cents, Shunk says.

He has settled on $2 a tooth for his 7-year-old son, and the same for the three younger children yet to lose their teeth. That means Shunk's son is getting nearly four times the amount his father did versus inflation.

While not quite as volatile as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or even Mom and Dad on a birthday, the tooth fairy claims no immunity from inflationary pressure.

When it comes to gift giving over the years, adults have tended to round up in whole dollars, so much so that Grandma is paying $20 when she used to pay $1. The inflation involved there is off the charts.

So why is the price going up when the supply-and-demand equation doesn't play out?

"As the population grows, there's an ever-growing — and apparently endless — supply of teeth," Shunk says. "You would think that would put downward pressure on price. But I guess you have to think about what exactly the tooth fairy is doing with all these teeth."

That leads the young economist to only one conclusion: There must be a demand for teeth that either meets or exceeds the supply.

Carley Calhoun thinks it's simple: There is a never-ending demand for tooth necklaces.

"She puts them in her bag, then she makes a necklace," says Carley, 7, who always gets a crisp paper dollar bill in return.

Actually, that would be in keeping with the history of the tooth fairy, whose roots are traced back to medieval Europe.

In Viking culture, warriors believed that children's articles held a certain value for strength and luck. Adults would pay children for their teeth and string them onto necklaces to wear into battle.

In English culture, it was believed that teeth, like fingernails, held much power when in the hands of a witch, so parents would have children drop their teeth into a fire.

Throughout the rest of Europe, the teeth would be buried, both as a symbol of hope that permanent teeth would grow in and a means to keep them away from the witches.

The tooth fairy, however, as manifested in the miniature, winged, sprite figure, first emerged in America.

A truly capitalistic beginning.

Baby teeth only, please

No matter her origin, one thing is clear: The tooth fairy has no desire to enter the permanent-tooth market.

If anyone would know, Ryan Stewart would.

As a hockey player manning the left wing for the Greenville Grrrowl, Stewart has lost two teeth. Actually, he didn't lose them. They were right there on the ice after an opponent knocked them out.

The tooth fairy, he says, is never happy that he refuses to wear a mouth guard, despite the fact that he has trouble breathing through it while playing.

The tooth fairy entertains no excuses, leaves no money. And she's quite the proactive, Victorian lady.

"She always leaves me a scolding letter about not wearing my mouth guard," says Stewart, 29, insistent that he's never tried to put a knocked-out tooth under the pillow.

And then, too, there's the other tooth person to face.

"We always get in trouble at the dentist's office, walking in sheepishly, trying to explain how you lost another tooth," he says.

It's not surprising that the dentist and the tooth fairy would be of like mind, says Dr. Vakharia.

Both are dogged champions of proper tooth care, whether it's a lecture on the benefits of preventing cavities or on avoiding insanely high-contact sports where teeth are referred to as "Chiclets."

"The tooth fairy would prefer that you take care of your teeth and keep them in your head for the rest of your life," Vakharia says.

Published in: on March 21, 2004 at 10:37 pm Leave a Comment

Is Anyone Giving Cupid A Shot?

How far Cupid has fallen in majesty and dignity, perhaps a sentence ordained by the gods for all the little archer's mischievous plots of unrequited love.

Once a stately, fully matured, celestial Greek god — the incarnation of all that was masculine beauty and passionate love — Cupid today is a toddleresque, bare-bottomed matchmaker.

How did it come to this, oh venerated son of Venus and Mars?

When did the esteemed, paradoxical god of love and war become a spokesman for a commercial holiday? And when did he cast his lot with the lower-tier of holiday mascots, the likes of Baby New Year and (gasp!) the Groundhog?

"If I saw a little naked baby flying around with wings and arrows, I'd call the cops," says Matt Cantrell, 18, of Walhalla.

How hard the mighty fall.

Once upon a time, an arrow from Cupid's bow was sufficient explanation for the mystery of unquenchable romantic passion.

But in today's world of online computer matchmaking and assessing your five-year plan before making a commitment, Cupid has gotten the shaft.

"I don't believe in Cupid," says Dannyalle Houston, 23, of Mauldin. "I just think the right person comes at the right time and you choose him."

Indeed, Cupid's fall from popular romantic theory — he was exalted in Shakespeare's sonnets, but rap duo OutKast sings that Cupid gets no respect — mirrors how society's view of love has changed.

Too often these days, lonely, would-be lovers are trying to pick when they will fall in love, shunning Cupid in favor of a modern-day contrived formula for partner procurement, says Hadley Mullen, a marriage counselor at Compass of Carolina.

"The whole dating thing has completely changed," Mullen says. "It appears to be more methodical and planned."

Tradition has taught us about love at first sight and happily ever after, and that isn't entirely a relic, she says. But people seem more these days to try to force love and commitment rather than leave it up to chance and fate.

So many seekers, she says, are overly committed to the mission of acquiring a mate, which oftentimes seems a commando raid carried out at a properly designated time.

People are becoming increasingly creative in how they seek out a mate, Mullen says, going to civic clubs and shopping online for love.

Cupid is not allowed to work his magic, she says, and the overzealous and overprepared often find that "when you look too hard, you don't find it."

But Cupid?

Beth Davis just isn't buying it.

Whatever fate there is in the grand scheme of amore, says Davis, 18, of Walhalla, it lies in the hands of a power much higher than a frisky cherub. To find a lover is to find a soulmate, she says, citing a far more spiritual outlook on love.

And that divine love includes looking at Valentine's Day differently than the ancient ideas of passion. The notion of Mom and Dad and Little Sister being struck by Cupid's arrow for your sake on a day like today is kind of … well, weird.

"It's important to share Valentine's Day with all the people you love — and not just in a romantic way," Davis says.

This is not what Cupid once represented, classical literature historians say.

"We view him today in one facet, when really he's multifaceted," says Noelle Zeiner, assistant professor of classics at the College of Charleston.

Cupid's beginnings are found in early Greek mythology and under a different name, Eros, Zeiner says .

At first, she says, Eros was an abstract universal incarnation of the powerful, life-giving force of procreation.

As the story goes, she says, Eros was the son of Aphrodite (the goddess of love and desire) and Aries (the god of war).

When the Romans adopted the Greek gods and changed their names, Eros became Cupid, Aphrodite became Venus and Aries became Mars.

Cupid, the embodiment of masculine beauty, was an indentured servant to his mother, carrying out her will to inflict love on those of her choosing, far from the free-willed assassin of today.

By the 4th century B.C., the harsh, militaristic undertones of imperial Rome transformed Cupid into a winged warrior of love replete with arrows.

Love, in Roman terms, was a force to be feared and reckoned with, one in which raging infatuation could mean disaster, says Alan Miller, professor of classics and comparative literature at the University of South Carolina.

"Desire can be violent, hence the arrows," Miller says. "That's the way the ancients thought of desire."

Romanticism went on hiatus in the Middle Ages as church leaders shunned such vagaries, he says.

But with the revival of romance and the rediscovery of love poetry during the Renaissance, Cupid returned to his rightful occupation: a playful image of winged desire.

This image is carried on into classic literature, with the likes of Shakespeare, who pulled from archetype of Cupid to create characters such as the mischievous, match-making Puck in "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Today, in modern American culture, Cupid has lost his once-glorious luster and has instead become a gimmicky, marketable caricature to sell Valentine's Day gifts.

"In Greek myth, he's not the kind of baby Kewpie doll thing," Miller says. "The resonance of the image has lost its meaning."

Even if Cupid is a shell of himself, his arrows still may penetrate, at least in metaphorical terms.

Though love may no longer bow to the whims of a winged archer, says Houston, the unbeliever, the spirit of Cupid isn't entirely lost in commercial oblivion.

"In a way, you are Cupid," Houston says, "because you are the giver and you make the choice."

Not quite a naked cherub with wings and a bow, but perhaps enough.

Published in: on February 14, 2004 at 10:35 pm Leave a Comment

French Accent

Stroke changes Southerner's speech Patterns into something a bit more exotic

Berley Stabler had always fancied himself something of a romantic, a fighter in the world of sales, but more so a lover of the trumpet.

These days, though, the home-theater sales rep, a Simpsonville resident born and bred in rural St. Matthews, S.C., is no longer a lover.

He's a "lah-vah." And, playing the "trom-PET" is his "lahv."

Stabler went to bed the week before Christmas a Southerner, and by the time he came home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, he had become a Frenchman.

Or at least, a Southerner with a French accent.

Stabler's sudden change in accent is the result of what he learned later was a stroke.

His new speech pattern is described by doctors as an extremely rare condition known as "foreign-accent syndrome," a phenomenon that has been documented only a little more than 20 times worldwide since 1919, experts say.

So, when Stabler talks about grits and lightnin' bugs, he sounds like an emigrated Frenchman learning alien Southern terms.

And, despite the difficulty in getting strangers to believe he is a native South Carolinian or convincing family that it's not all a joke, his new dialect is fine by him.

"I feel like one of those European romanticists," says Stabler, 45. "I enjoy things more. It doesn't particularly bother me. At first, I couldn't speak, so I'm glad the good Lord allowed me to."

Overnight, a stroke

Indeed, at first, Stabler was speechless.

He had finished an evening of reheasal with the Hosanna Brass, a small orchestra he plays in as a hobby and an expression of his love for music.

He had suffered headaches off and on for a week, and that night it was particularly bad. He went to sleep only to awaken at 5 a.m. with a strange feeling in his face.

His wife, Shari, told him he was simply tired and needed to go back to bed. At 7 a.m., he awoke again and stared into the mirror in amazement. His speech was nothing but indecipherable slurring.

His wife called an ambulance, and as paramedics treated him, he noticed that his speech was returning but sounded different. By 9 a.m., his speaking pattern was completely transformed. Those who knew him before were baffled.

When Stabler's family practice physician, Dr. Larry Berglind, first saw the patient he has known for more than 10 years, he asked, "Berley, why are you talking like this?"

It wasn't until his neurologist, whom Stabler hadn't known before his stroke, asked where in Europe Stabler was from that he was diagnosed with foreign-accent syndrome.

Although the accent has presented challenges, Stabler knows he's lucky. Stroke is the third-leading cause of death in the United States, behind heart disease and cancer, according to the American Heart Association.

In Stabler's case, stress from the holidays, a death in the family and beginning a new job after a layoff had contributed to high blood pressure, 218 over 146. Stabler also had a history of hypertension, and it didn't help that he has diabetes.

He is working to strengthen muscles on the right side of his face, but otherwise, his accent is about the only noticeable sign of the bullet he dodged. Doctors termed his stroke "mild."

Six days after his admission to the hospital, Stabler was back home, with a new way of speaking … and a lot to explain.

A new Berley

"The way he was talking just flipped me out," Shari says. "So many people think it's a put-on, because it's such a good accent."

His longtime friend, Brian Beam, owner of Cinema Quest, where the two now work together, says he wasn't sure at first if the whole thing was a practical joke.

The two have been known to call each other when one is at a house installing a home theater, playing the part of an angry homeowner who questions why someone is in his house.

The accent, Beam soon learned, was no joke.

"It's this new accent with the old way of saying things," Beam says.

The easy part for Stabler was convincing those closest to him that his French accent was real. The challenge has become selling it to those strangers he meets and the old clients he comes in contact with.

"When I call old clients, they have no idea who I am," he says. "I find myself trying to speak distinctively with my old clients, but then I just have to let it go."

Speech therapy has done little to change his accent. Rather, it serves more to help strengthen the muscles on the right side of his face.

He hasn't suffered major paralysis of the face and limbs as many stroke victims do, but he does have a little trouble playing the trumpet, though that is improving.

"Speech therapy is 'TOHR-cha,' I tell you," Stabler says.

The mysterious brain

The accent — and possibly the heightened senses of vision, smell, hearing and taste he reports — are a result of the brain reorganizing its circuitry to heal and perform old tasks, says Jack Ryalls, a professor of neurolinguistics at the University of Central Florida who has taken a lead role in studying foreign-accent syndrome.

Ryalls likens the way a brain works after a stroke such as Stabler's to that of a lamp that flickers: It still illuminates, but in a different way than when the circuitry was wired correctly.

"The brain reorganizes after a stroke, tries to find new pathways to accomplish old motor tasks like speech," he says. "Sometimes, it overcompensates or does it imperfectly."

Ryalls, who recently worked with a woman in Sarasota who awoke with a thick British accent, says speech impediment in stroke victims is a mysterious hurdle, as are many phenomena of the brain.

Therapists, he says, have been known to hold up a card with the word "blue" on it, only to have the patient unable to speak it and give up trying.

However, when the patient gets upset, oftentimes he will blurt out: "Darn it, I can't say 'blue.'"

Since 1919, about 20 cases of foreign-accent syndrome have been documented, Ryalls says.

Stabler's case is the first that Berglind, the family physician, has ever seen.

"It's probably something I will never see again," he says.

After recent media exposure of the Sarasota woman with the British accent and a Philadelphia woman who appeared on numerous television talk shows, Ryalls says 10 more possible cases have come to his attention, which he says demonstrates that the syndrome is woefully underreported and seldom diagnosed. In so many ways, the medical community doesn't fully agree about what foreign-accent syndrome is, how to diagnose it or why exactly it happens.

In many cases, he says, doctors are simply shooting in the dark.

However, there are four basic criteria — simple criteria — that neurologists follow to diagnose the syndrome: the patient must sound foreign, have suffered a brain injury, sound unlike his or her previous accent and have no background or significant exposure to a foreign country.

And, Ryalls says, there seem to be, in the limited number of cases reported, more women (68 percent) diagnosed than men.

Those who exhibit symptoms have damage to the left side of the brain (where the mind performs speech functions); left-side brain damage affects the right side of the body.

In Stabler's case, a lesion on the brain caused by the stroke affects his speech pattern. Stabler's particular lesion is small, Berglind says.

In trying to break down the various accents that manifest themselves through the syndrome, experts are finding that the accents might be nothing more than a listener's perception.

In other stroke cases in which speech is affected, the same part of the brain is damaged. The only difference, says Jennifer Tooley, a speech-language pathologist with the Greenville Hospital System who is working with Stabler, is that most stroke victims' slurred speech doesn't sound "normal."

It's more likely, she says, that a foreign accent is only a particular kind of slurred speech — a sound that is picked up by the listener as an accent when it is nothing more than a change in pattern unrelated to culture.

"It's very exciting to study," Tooley says.

From German to Greek

Sometimes, Stabler's voice sounds German, other times Greek. One person told him he sounded like an Iraqi.

But for the most part, he's told he sounds French ("oh-kai" for OK; "BUH-lay" for Berley).

"I tell people I'm working my way across the continent, back to America," he says.

In describing what he thinks a German accent sounds like, he seamlessly alters his accentuation to sound distinctively German.

He's at a loss for why he can force himself to speak a convincing German accent and not speak common American English.

Speech therapists seem to agree that Stabler's accent is German. When he's tired, and his speech slurs more than during the morning, Stabler's voice sounds more Greek, his Greek clients say.

Ryalls says that French accents are more common, and he believes the sound is a result of timing and irregular accentuation on syllables.

When such aberrant accents are broken down to their smallest parts, linguists find that the speech pattern is more an odd mixture of sounds than anything else. Stabler, in some sentences, unconsciously speaks a few words that sound Southern.

"If you look at the detail of it," Ryalls says, "it's not really a French accent. Some people believe it's partly in the ear of the beholder."

A Frenchman at heart

The ear of the beholder is all that matters in the world of Berley Stabler, because that's why he must answer question after question about his new voice.

No matter how hard he tries, Stabler can say only two words in his native, Southern vernacular: "Marvin" and "aunt" (pronounced "ant").

He has no idea why those two words come to mind.

To speak them, he must concentrate, closing his eyes for about five seconds before he blurts out an eerie "typical-Southern-white-guy" accent.

His change in speech has had one particular side effect that has helped him: His singing voice is purer.

As he sings in the Simpsonville Methodist Church choir, Stabler has amazed choir director and voice coach Elaine Fowler.

In working with most Southern-accent speakers and those from the Northeast, Fowler says, she must train them to enunciate "pure vowel sounds."

People with distinct regional American accents need coaching to sing differently than they talk, she explains.

However, Fowler says that Stabler suddenly gained the ability to speak and sing pure vowel sounds almost flawlessly.

While his speech pattern will fade over time, Berglind says, his odd, blended European accent likely will never disappear. If his speech hasn't cleared up in two weeks, the change probably will be permanent, he says.

Ryalls, however, believes that because Stabler has recovered so quickly thus far, his accent eventually may fade.

Either way, Stabler has begun a new regimen of walking — both to improve his cardiovascular health and to create endorphins to help his brain heal. Doctors tell him the exercise will help immensely with health and speech.

Even so, Stabler's not sure he's ready to yield his exotic brogue just yet.

While his wife quips that her husband's appetite for French or European cuisine isn't any different than it was before, Stabler says he can't help but think his trumpet playing will take on a more romantic tone.

He says he will embrace whatever voice he's left with, as long as he can talk … and play the trumpet.

And if the voice that speaks to his romanticism is to fade, well, he says, that's life. Or, as his newfound countrymen might say, "c'est la vie."

February 28, 2004 

Scientists study stroke victim's brain

Berley Stabler's stroke-induced venture into the French dialect has taken the good ol' country boy on an unlikely journey.

First, it was waking in a hospital with a French accent, then convincing family and friends he wasn't faking, and all along the way enjoying the novelty of it all.

Now, Stabler – who, as the result of a stroke, has been learning to deal with an extremely rare condition called "foreign-accent syndrome" – is contributing his experience to science.

The home theater sales rep from Simpsonville recently traveled to Charleston to undergo a brain scan that experts say reveals groundbreaking information in determining what causes foreign-accent syndrome.

"What everybody is trying to figure out is, what is this?" said Dr. Julius Fridrikson, a communication and disorders scientist in the University of South Carolina's public health department who headed the research effort.

"What we found, nobody has ever found," said Fridrikson, who along with colleagues is rushing to get the findings published in medical journals.

Using functional magnetic resonance imaging – a type of MRI used to determine brain function – Fridrikson said he was able to confirm finally, what researchers have long thought about the syndrome.

Scientists have theorized that a lesion on the brain caused by stroke, and the location and severity of the brain damage, is what causes someone like Stabler to suddenly develop a foreign accent.

Now, Fridrikson said, that has been confirmed, and with more study, he and collaborators from Nottingham, England, who were present for the scan, hope to gain more insight into exactly how victims recover and why some don't.

A new way of talking

Stabler suffered a stroke the day before Christmas.

While he escaped some of the more debilitating after-effects of stroke, such as full-scale paralysis and memory loss, the stroke immediately affected his speech pattern. His normal Southern drawl was replaced by what sounded like a French accent.

The accent is actually a mix of the typical slurred speech stroke victims suffer and a change in verbal accentuation.

Since 1919, only about 20 such cases have been reported in the United States, said Dr. Jack Ryalls, a University of Central Florida neurolinguistics professor who is a nationally recognized expert on the syndrome.

Ryalls, who learned about Stabler during an interview for a story that appeared in The Greenville News last month, encouraged him to undergo the scan.

Brain 'working overtime'

During the MRI, Stabler was asked to identify pictures and to recite words on command. The test showed how increased blood flow to a certain section of the brain helped him speak.

Fridrikson said he found that the section of Stabler's brain that helps control motor and speech function is "working overtime" to compensate for brain matter that was destroyed as a result of the stroke.

Much like an inexperienced runner receives more blood flow to his muscles than is required for a marathon runner, the speech section of Stabler's brain is receiving markedly more blood flow than in people with normal speech.

"This process can tell us which telephone lines are in place," Fridrikson said. "His brain is compensating for this stroke by increasing its effort."

The functional MRI scan has been used in brain research to study everything from schizophrenia to blindness. This is the first time it has been used on someone with foreign-accent syndrome, Fridrikson said.

Recovery coming, slowly

In the time since his stroke, Stabler's voice has gradually begun to return to normal. His voice sounds, here and there, more akin to his background as a lifelong South Carolinian.

Fridrikson said Stabler is recovering well because his lesion is small and because, at 45, he is relatively young for stroke victims.

Because Stabler is recovering so well, Fridrikson said a follow-up scan in late June could make headway in determining exactly how those with foreign-accent syndrome recover.

Stabler said he learned something valuable.

During the testing, Fridrikson showed him a scan of a woman who had suffered a similar stroke in the same part of her brain.

But instead of a change in speech and mildly decreased motor skills in the face, as Stabler has, her injury has left her severely debilitated.

The change in accent has been kind of fun, Stabler said, but "this made me really take hold not only how precious life is but how fortunate I am to be showing good recovery. I guess it hit home even harder."

 —

February 18, 2005

Berley Stabler strives to stay fit while battling new obstacles

Berley Stabler is a Southerner once again; his flirtation with life as a Frenchman is but an exotic, bittersweet memory.

A "trom-PET" is again a "TRUM-pet"; "JEH-zus" is "JEE-zus."

Stabler has returned to his native South Carolina accent after a strange, yearlong odyssey during which he spoke with a French accent as the result of a rare, stroke-induced condition known as "foreign accent syndrome." Only 20 cases of the syndrome have been reported since 1919.

Rarely does Stabler miss the French accent he acquired after suffering a mild stroke in December 2003 and the attention it brought him initially from friends, family, the media — and physicians across the globe who were fascinated at the prospect of studying his case.

Soon enough, the novelty wore off.

After all, the Simpsonville salesman is still, at the core of the whole ordeal, a stroke survivor.

He had to endure rigorous speech and physical therapy, reverse a lifetime of poor eating habits and take a daily cocktail of medicine for the purpose of lowering his blood pressure (medication he no longer has to take thanks to improved health through exercise and diet).

But his trying experience could provide a substantial benefit for other stroke patients.

Stabler's foreign accent syndrome has now faded almost completely as a result of his brain's successful mending, and doctors hope that the studies they have conducted on his brain over the past year will yield new knowledge about how to help other stroke victims recover.

A University of South Carolina neurology professor has been studying Stabler's brain with a powerful MRI device in Charleston, tracking how the brain heals the damage a stroke inflicts and how that healing process could lead to better treatment methods.

And a British medical journal is set to publish Stabler's case history to document the rare syndrome.

Two British neurologists as well as a foreign accent syndrome specialist from the University of Central Florida will meet Stabler in Charleston in March for one last scan.

A trying time

Where once he quipped about a latent romanticism unlocked and reveled in the new-found ability to sing whole vowel sounds in the church choir, Stabler now is ready to put the whole accent thing behind him.

There was something intriguing at first about waking up after a nighttime stroke with what sounded like a French accent.

Of course, it wasn't actually an accent of any nationality, but rather the ear's interpretation of a distinct form of the slurred speech that most stroke victims exhibit.

Either way, Stabler says he soon tired of speaking so slowly.

"It was fun at first," he says in an unmistakable Southern drawl. "But it started getting frustrating."

Eleven months after his stroke and the onset of the French accent, around Thanksgiving, Stabler's voice began to return to normal.

Today, he is a man determined to avoid another stroke. That means a regimen of walking — three miles each day at the Simpsonville Activity Center — and weightlifting to build on the past year's rehab work.

He's lost 46 pounds since he suffered his stroke Dec. 18, 2003, and his blood pressure readings are right in line with what defines a healthy cardiovascular system. He's found himself renewed — and the stroke isn't the only force that has driven him.

In April, Stabler's wife, Shari, passed away suddenly. About the same time, the home-electronics business he helped run with a longtime friend folded.

It was a difficult, painful time, a period in which he says he had to reach deep down for faith in order to press on.

Over the summer, Stabler decided to honor Shari's life by working in a nursing home, remembering how fond of the elderly she had always been. Just before Christmas, he was laid off from that job.

Out of work, Stabler entered 2005 hoping for a better year than the one that had just passed. Yet, only a few days into January, he found himself suddenly paralyzed.

 Steadily throughout that day, Stabler lost feeling in his limbs and soon had trouble breathing.

The doctor told him he had a burst blood vessel on his upper spine (not the result of a stroke) and gave him a choice: life-threatening surgery that might or might not work, or spending the rest of his life as a quadriplegic.

He had two minutes to decide. He thought of the late Christopher Reeve. He prayed: "I said, 'God, if you're ready to take me, I'm ready to go.'"

His decision is clear in the thick, 6-inch-long scar scaling his lower neck and back and the furious power-walking he engages in every day.

Lying in the hospital bed, though, he got a call on his cell phone. It was a job offer to get back in the home-entertainment business at Tweeter Home Entertainment Group. Stabler told the prospective employer he was in the hospital, that it might be a few weeks before he could clock in. They held the job for him.

This week, he started his new job … just as he returned to work mere weeks after he suffered his stroke.

The Hosanna Brass ensemble Berley plays trumpet in has joked with him that he should change his middle name from Jacob to Job, says Terry Layne, who has played tuba with Stabler in the brass band for five years.

"I've never met anyone like him," Layne says. "How many people do you know who could do or would do what he's done? For someone who has lost as much as he's lost, he's retained the very best human traits."

An opportunity

Stabler's recovery from the stroke was an opportunity that researchers couldn't pass up, not only because of the rare chance to study a patient with foreign accent syndrome, but also because of the ease with which they could watch how his brain recovered.

The stroke left a small, conspicuous lesion on the part of the brain that governs speech, making healing easy to monitor, says Dr. Julius Fridriksson, a neurology professor at the University of South Carolina's Department of Communication Sciences and Disorders.

Stabler's peculiar side effect — the accent — was the type of symptom that was easy to compare alongside the improved blood flow in the damaged area of the brain, Fridriksson says. That made it so that doctors could distinctly link healing to improvement.

"It's a clearer picture," Fridriksson says.

Dr. Jack Ryalls, a professor of neurolinguistics at the University of Central Florida who has taken a lead role in studying foreign accent syndrome, says Stabler's is the first case that could be studied in such detail.

What researchers found, Ryalls says, was that Stabler's brain was routing blood flow to the damaged area of the left frontal cortex (where speech is generated), overcompensating so that he could speak.

Over time, the damaged area healed and blood flow began to work more conventionally.

Ryalls recently has studied a Sarasota, Fla., patient whose stroke led her to speak with what sounds like a British accent. Her damage was more extensive, and her speech hasn't recovered at nearly the rate Stabler's has, making his case all the more rare, Ryalls says.

In the last brain scan in March, Fridriksson says he and British doctors expect to find Stabler's brain has reorganized its circuitry and reached equilibrium. Studying Stabler's recovery, Fridriksson says, is a valuable piece of the puzzle in trying to develop new drugs to heal the damage from strokes.

Stabler couldn't be more pleased.

"That was the whole reason I participated in the study," he said. "It was all worth the effort if other people are helped. We made lemonade out of a lemon."

Published in: on January 24, 2004 at 10:33 pm Comments (1)

Seeing Red?

Our celestial neighbor is closer than ever

For those of us who still cling to the possibility that Martians could attack at any moment, the coming weeks will be revealing.

Look at the southern pre-dawn sky, and the steadily brightening red light is ominous: If an invasion were ever going to happen, Aug. 27 would be the day.

On that date, Mars will be closer to Earth than at any time in recorded history — 34,649,589 miles away, to be exact. If the Martians are energy-conscious, it would make perfect sense.

So, you might think the astronomers who spend much of their time with their heads in space would be freaking out right about now.

Nope. Try decidedly underwhelmed.

Mars will be a significant display, they say, but nothing that will be marked in the annals of history.

In astronomical terms (which, in this case, is not meant to sound overwhelming), Mars won't be a "disc," like the moon, but neither will it be just a "point," like a star.

"It's not maybe so dramatic as some people have made it sound," says Mark Leising, a Clemson University physicist and astronomer. "It is closer than we've been in some tens of thousands of years, perhaps 60,000 years, but only by a little."

The truth is, Earth and Mars meet every 26 months when our planet laps its closest neighbor on the orbital inside track around the sun.

The two worlds meet for their predetermined neighborly wave at "opposition," an astronomical term for when the Sun, Earth and Mars form a straight line. But how intimate they get is different every time, because their orbits are elliptical, not circular.

On other dates throughout history — Aug. 23, 1924; Aug. 18, 1845; and Aug. 13, 1766, to name a few — Mars and Earth came about as close as they will come to each other later this month, about 35 million miles.

The next meeting will be Halloween 2005, when about 43 million miles will separate the two planets. So, in effect, Leising says, "Every 2.2 years is a good time to look at Mars."

The last time Mars came anywhere near this close to our planet, the Neanderthals were scratching their heads at that strange red dot in the sky.

Then, Earth and Mars were about 150,000 miles farther apart than they will be on Aug. 27.

When the two meet again in 2005, Mars will be about 8 million miles farther and about 70 percent dimmer than it will be on Aug. 27.

And not until the year 2287 will Mars be closer than it will be in a few days.

Forgive us unscientific, naive Martian-invader/abduction theorists who learned what we know about Mars from those Bugs Bunny cartoons, but 150,000 miles and 8 million miles sound a long ways away.

As do mention of "Neanderthals" and "the year 2287," let alone Halloween 2005 and the prospect of what crazy new costume some eccentric party crasher will come up with by then.

When we talk about outdoing the Neanderthals, it doesn't seem like any great accomplishment. But this shared event is a tie to a long-gone age, and the next-best living thing we've got is Meatloaf or Neil Young.

Wild ride

For the vivid imagination, the absolute precision of a mathematical formula charting the night sky is so … inconvenient.

Forget Copernicus. No good celestial event, not one, is worth mentioning unless it can be cast in a completely homo-sapien-centered spotlight.

It's times like these that we pay just a little more attention to Martian conspiracy theorists, the Richard Hoaglands of the cyberworld.

In these times when mystery meets possibility, the circular, so-not-elliptical thinkers of our planet become sages of the cosmos, a tradition dating back to the ancients.

Mars is the planet that, when its red hue painted the dark sky, convined the Greeks a horrible, bloody war was on the horizon.

In 1877, Italian astronomer Giovanni Sciaparelli observed what he called "canali," or channels, on the surface of Mars, which was mistranslated into English as "canals."

The Suez Canal in Egypt, then a recently completed modern marvel, was fresh on the minds of everyone, and some concluded that the surely advanced Martians must have played a hand in its construction.

In 1938, the day before Halloween, a radio broadcast based on H.G. Wells' "War Of The Worlds" — performed by Orson Welles in the form of a news bulletin — actually whipped the nation into a Martian-invasion frenzy.

Those were the days, when an incredibly irrational Martian theory was no grounds for commitment to a mental institution.

But, alas, robotic modules have set down on Mars, and the little green men never showed their little green faces.

There were no intricate "canals," though there was a creepy, Sphinx-like face in the dirt, reminiscent of the occasional Virgin Mary sighting in a steamed-up window or a bagel.

Room for beauty

Still, the world of scientific precision has room for beauty and wonder.

Aside from the moon, Mars will be "the most brilliant thing you see in the southern sky," says Doug Gegen, an astronomer at the Roper Mountain Science Center. "Mars is accessible to even small telescopes this year."

In fact, a good pair of binoculars might get you a good glimpse of the planet, and with a decent telescope and favorable viewing conditions, the melting south-polar ice cap will be particularly visible.

From now until Aug. 27, amateur sky-watchers can check each dark morning as Mars gets brighter, and through September as it steadily wanes.

Now, Mars is most visible in the predawn hours. In September, viewing will be possible at a more reasonable hour, beginning around 10 p.m.

"Most people don't get the chance to see something like that, except for maybe watching the phases of the moon," Leising says.

In September, Roper Mountain Science Center will point its 23-inch telescope toward the red planet for the public to see, Gegen says.

The good thing about predictability, sometimes, is its predictability.

"If it's pouring rain that night (Aug. 27), then you're good for another several weeks anyway," Gegen says. "Start looking now and keep looking on through September."

And just because this isn't the only time Mars comes close to Earth, and just because we haven't seen the little green men, doesn't mean the mystery is gone.

Mars, Leising says, is our nearest neighbor, most similar in environment and still our dream of extraterrestrial colonization, a dream NASA considers as "not completely crazy."

And this current Mars approach is not without its possibilities to discover the incredible.

In anticipation of the shortest journey so far in human history, an armada of NASA space probes, which include two ground rovers, are on a mission to Mars.

"From a scientific point of view, this is actually important, because it's easier to get there," Leising says. "You're a little late if you want to leave now, though."

So, if that's the way it is, are the Martians also taking this opportunity to, say, mount a massive, cataclysmic invasion?

"They would have left some months ago," Leising says. "They would be arriving already about … now."

Finally!

Long-unanswered mysteries can be solved: Is Cher really a Martian, debunking the "little green men" myth? Why, in almost every alien abduction, is there the obligatory cavity probe? Can we give you California and call it even?

Published in: on August 15, 2003 at 10:29 pm Leave a Comment