Karin Fisher-Golton

Inspired by this article, my 7-year old son and I began candy science experiments in our kitchen this morning. Whatever prompted me to suggest this possibility before school, when usually just getting out of the house is a challenge, must be part of the magic of this time of year. We filled four test tubes with water. At his direction we put two green Skittles in one, two green M&M’s in another, two brown Skittles in a third, and two brown M&M’s in the last. What happened next I’ll leave for you to discover, because it was fun—lots of fun. And it was fun because it surprised us.

I asked my son if he wanted to keep a scientist’s notebook. Changes were happening in those test tubes much quicker than we’d expected, so we were scrambling around his room, knowing he’d been given notebooks, and soon we found the perfect one—an end-of-school-year gift from his first-grade teacher who bases many of her lessons around science topics. Then my son, a person who rarely writes more than a few words on his own at home, sat down and recorded a half a page of notes.

Finally we’d pushed leaving as long as we could if we were to have a hope of getting to school on time. I was entrusted with the responsibility of adding more notes over the course of the day. And we were off…part running, part walking. I loved the irony that he might get his first late slip because he was absorbed in science. But fleet-footed, we arrived in his second-grade classroom with a bit of time to visit with his teacher. I caught myself blurting out a report about what we had done and interrupted myself so my son could be the one to tell her. Those candies can pump you up one way or another. I’m very pleased with their new role.

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Here’s a web site with specific candy experiment ideas by the author of the article I referenced at the beginning of my post: http://www.candyexperiments.com

My alma mater, Carleton College, has a fitting graduation tradition for a school that so values its instruction. New graduates walk through an aisle lined by professors on both sides. In addition to its symbolic significance, the moment offers an opportunity for graduates to say a few words to some of the men and women who impacted their education. One such person for me was Professor Paul Wellstone. I shook his hand that day, looked in his eyes, and said, “Thank you for inspiring me.”

As I reflect back on that moment, it is striking that he had already inspired me at that time even though it was before some of the outstanding moments I think of when I remember him. My graduation was seventeen months before he was first elected to the U.S. Senate, despite his campaign being outspent seven to one. And it was thirteen years before he was the only senator running for reelection to vote against authorizing the war in Iraq.

He did not live to find out if that vote would cost him his senate seat, though he was ahead in the polls at the time he died, twelve days before the election. Ten years ago today on October 25, 2002, Paul Wellstone, along with his wife, his daughter, three of his campaign workers, and two pilots, died in an airplane crash. That was shocking news when my father first told it to me by phone, and it is still shocking when I think of it today.

Professor Paul Wellstone had a big reputation at Carleton. Even people who didn’t agree with his politics were impressed with his dynamic style and the impact he had. It was sometime during my junior year when I realized that due to my late declaration of a major and my decision to study abroad for part of my senior year, there was no room for a class with Paul Wellstone in the plan. I didn’t want to miss the experience, so I decided to audit his Poli Sci 10 course.

Despite a very full schedule of regular classes, I sat in the lecture hall week after week and watched Paul speak passionately about politics and real people. I remember that he used his whole body when he spoke, pacing and gesturing to underscore his points, and sometimes sitting on the edge of the stage, close to us students. He was the antithesis of every cynical rumor about politics. He believed people’s actions ought to fit with their beliefs. He believed that was not only possible in politics, but he had the personal stories to prove it. He had a way of bringing out the simple in what seemed complicated—probably because the truth tends to be simpler than lies. I remember him repeating, “Always ask where the money comes from.” That was the quick way to discern the intent behind a movement or campaign.

Paul really loved people and knew how to connect with them. I saw it in how he spoke of others, and I experienced it myself. One day after class I found myself walking the same direction as he was. We got in a conversation about Berkeley, my hometown. From then on he always remembered me and would take the time to say at least “hello” when our paths crossed, even in situations when others might not find it necessary. The people were important to him.

When I heard the news of Paul’s death, I had been equivocating about making the drive from Oregon, where I lived at the time, down to San Francisco to participate in a demonstration against the Iraq war. The decision became clear. The next day, as I marched up a jam-packed Market Street, there were dozens of people holding signs with images of Paul. I had gotten used to the happy thrill of seeing his familiar face when senators would file into the House chamber for the State of the Union address, and when he was pictured in newspapers and magazines. Several times that day I had that happy moment of recognition and then remembered I was seeing his photo because he died. But I also saw that he had impacted people way beyond Carleton and Minnesota with his message of standing up for one’s beliefs.

I wish there was a happier reason to remember that message just before elections, but I can’t think of a better time to remember it. Paul Wellstone won a campaign against all odds because he spoke and acted based on what he thought was right, and that resonated with people. May we do no less than that in this coming election and in all else.

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Here is a good video to see and hear Paul Wellstone in action. It is produced by Wellstone Action, an organization that works to forward Paul and Sheila Wellstone’s beliefs.

I saw the space shuttle Endeavor fly by my house this morning. Actually, it wasn’t flying itself. It was on the back of a very large plane. I could tell that plane was very large because it was so much larger than its military jet escort. Even though seeing a shuttle being carried rather than flying itself might seem somehow “less than,” it was not. It is not every day you see an airplane carrying a sizable object which also happens to be a recognizable object and one which you recognize as something that has been in space. And those things are going by your window in a very fast and loud manner. It was impressive. Afterward I saw the entourage winding around my familiar Bay Area sky, much farther away. It was still amazing. It was also beautiful.

As you may know Endeavor was on its way to Los Angeles where it will become a museum piece at the California Science Center. Here’s a Seattle PI summary article with stellar photos from the Associated Press. Here’s a San Francisco Chronicle article with the excited Bay Area perspective.

My perspective was that I was on the phone with my Mom, also at home a few miles south of me in Berkeley. We were scanning the sky and sharing information that I was gathering from the internet, and she was gathering from my Dad who was checking the television. We had the fun realization that we could see the same planes. Eventually we learned the shuttle had passed over the Oakland Hills so we knew to look towards the south. We scanned more. I was starting to suspect that we had missed that which turned out be un-missable in the misty fog hanging over the bay…when…there was my mother’s excited voice telling me the shuttle was flying right over her house, and then telling me it was heading north towards me. Again there was a pause long enough to wonder if I’d missed it…when…first I heard the loud noise, and then there it was, right over a familiar tree-lined hill and coming towards my back yard. It was at that moment it occurred to me that a photo for my husband and son would be nice. I grabbed the thankfully nearby camera, snapped a photo, saw the shuttle and planes right outside my window, and then saw them fly past my neighbor’s roof.

Though I’m interested in space, it’s a minor interest. I’m not a person who has made a trek to see the shuttle before. Even this morning I didn’t bother to leave my own dining room. So I am amazed how exciting this was. Hours later, I’m still hyped up. I’m starting to think it was the enormous convergence of miraculousness that’s put me in this state—the ability of large things to fly at all, the ability that they can also fly from our Earth into space, the idea that I can see these things from my home, the reality that my mother can see something in the sky and tell me it’s coming my way via a small device and then it does, the every day beauty outside my window mixed with this unusual thing, and the notion that I was one of multitudes witnessing this. It’s all thrilling.

This is a shout out for Mary Pope Osborne. Last week, during my son’s last week of summer vacation, we savored one of those last home days by reading A Perfect Time for Pandas, the 48^th installment in Osborne’s Magic Tree House series, all in one day. Forty-eight is a big number. It is the number I get if I count all my fingers and my toes two times over and then count my eyes and ears two times each as well. It is a long time for two characters and a lot of repetitions of the same story structure. But 110,000-in-base-two books in, Osborne is still writing Magic Tree House books worthy of that special end-of-summer day. Her characters are still learning and surprising us, while also being wonderfully familiar. She found another fresh setting, and once again she touched my heart.

Part of my experience of being “still in awe” is that my heart is open. I let things in. I’m a crier. My son is used to Mom choking up often when we read books. Sometimes tears flow because something is sad, sometimes because something is so beautiful. This book had both. I had sad tears when I read that there are only 1600 pandas in the world. Think of that—seven billion humans, 1600 pandas. I had happy tears when her characters spoke so beautifully about the meanings of the objects they had collected in this and the previous three books. For keeping her series engaging and fresh twice-the-number-of-hours-in-a-day books into her series, Mary Pope Osborne has my admiration and appreciation.

Welcome to my new blog. Several bright people have suggested that one’s blog ought to have a theme. I’ve chosen a theme inspired by words one of my grandfathers once said—something that touched my spirit, something I saw in him that is in me too, and something that I believe enabled him to live, really live, for nearly ninety-nine years. It is especially fitting that this theme comes from my grandfather because he loved playing with words. He was a punster extraordinaire, and he showed me how delightful choosing words can be.

This grandfather lived in an apartment in New York City, originally with my grandmother, then, after she left the world, by himself, and later with some help.

The way my grandfather told it, my grandmother found the apartment in 1960. I loved that he used the word “found.” It indicated his acknowledgment of how clever she was and what good taste she had. The apartment was not lavish. The rooms were modest and comfortable, except for the kitchen, which was smaller than some closets I’ve had. I’m not talking about one of those modern closets that could be used as a small office. I’m talking about a kitchen so narrow that if you wanted to get to the far end and someone else was already in there, you’d have to ask them to step out of the room. But what was extraordinary about the apartment was that it had an expansive view and an ideal place to enjoy it—a terrace that spanned the apartment’s entire width.

As my grandfather was fond of mentioning, when my grandmother first showed him the apartment she expressed concern about the size of the kitchen. My grandfather’s response, and what I believe was his favorite part of the story, was: “The kitchen is small, but the terrace is large.” And so my clever grandparents moved into the apartment, my grandmother figured out how to work in its kitchen, and they enjoyed many fine occasions on its terrace.

I eventually came along and spent time on that terrace, first as a baby probably clutched closely on someone’s lap, then as a child peering through the frustratingly semi-opaque glass railing, and then as an adult. In those more recent years I found it an exceptional place to sit on a warm day, to listen to taxis, sirens, and chatter far below, and to enjoy city vistas, breezes, and good company. On one such day, when my grandfather was about ninety years old, we went out there for a sit and to admire the view. It was then he said to me: “I’ve lived here 35 years, and when I go out on the terrace, I’m still in awe.”

May we all keep our sense of awe as long as we are here. To me, noticing the awe-some is the joy in life. It impacts all my writing for children, it is powerful enough to get me out of most any funk (when I remember to look for it), and it is what I look forward to sharing here. And so I dub this my “Still in Awe Blog.” Thank you, Grandpa.