Tinkering

To tinker [ting'kәr] (intransitive verb): to fiddle with something in an attempt to fix, mend, or improve it, especially in an experimental or unskilled manner; to repair or invent. 

Wednesday, rainy Wednesday. My official, no excuses day to do something out of my ordinary routine. My dedication of Wednesday to adventures began as a promise to myself to notice that it’s summer. But I think I’ll continue on with it no matter what the season. Anyhow, this Wednesday’s steady rain made the hike I had planned seem less than a great idea. So (as I did before when the hot weather and forest fire smoke interfered with my outing), I headed off for the Museum of Nature and Science in Denver. Earlier in the summer, the place was full of kids on summer camp excursions, all in their matching t-shirts. This time, the place was much less crowded, mostly old folks like me along with a significant number of  parents with their trailing tots—the preschool kids with nowhere to play but indoors. I wondered to myself why these parents would choose to struggle with managing a passel of small children while pushing baby strollers through the museum. Then my partner pointed out that a horde of kids trapped indoors on a rainy day likely looked even more daunting than a day chasing them around the museum. At least the museum is spacious and airy, and it really does provide a ton of hands-on activities for kids.

So, anyway, you’re probably wondering what this story has to do with tinkering. It all began earlier in the week when I set out to resolve a problem with my largely perfect, maintenance-free garden, created by the marvelous garden lady. During watering time, one of the sprinklers (“misters” mounted on “risers,” if I have the terminology right), sprays a serious torrent against a garden-level window that provides sunlight  and weather news to my partner’s downstairs study. I worry that over time, that window will protest its daily drenching with a slow leak that trickles into said study. So, I decided to fashion some sort of fix that wouldn’t interfere with the spray to the garden but would block it to the window … without, of course, looking tacky or blocking the sunshine coming into the aforementioned study.

Well, my father’s legacy to me is the pleasure of tinkering. I don’t have many tools now (I used to have more, back in my youth), and I never had great skills, but I like it and I actually manage to “fix, mend, or improve” stuff occasionally. On rare occasions, I even “invent.” This was an invention moment. So, I plotted a plan. Between the garden and the window is a huge window well, which is surrounded by a wrought iron fence. So I wondered whether I could arrange something against or on that fence that would keep the spray confined to the flowerbed and spare the window. After scouting around the house and the garage for a while, I spotted the garbage can lid. Worth a try, said I. If it works in principle, I can try to conjure up a more lasting (less ugly) solution based on this. Sure enough (or, as my dad would say, “sure nuf”), it worked.

Off I went to the hardware store. Now, you should know that there have been times in my life when I was forbidden from entering hardware stores. A hardware store is to me like a bookstore to bookworms, a flea market to hoarders, or a candy store to most of us. However, since I was alone, there was no one to intervene, so off I went. Sometimes when I go to a hardware store, I know just what I’m looking for, which is halfway fun, the knowing. But the really fun times are when I’m not sure. I rarely ask for help—partly because I’m vain and arrogant (and I learned tinkering from my father, who would never ask for help!), partly because the adventure lies in exploring, figuring it out. The stuff I tinker with can come from any department in the hardware store. For this project, I cruised slowly through plumbing, electrical, hardware (nuts, bolts, brackets, hooks, etc.), lumber, gardening … and places in between.

I’ll spare you the many steps and many minutes and cut to the chase. With a bit of wandering, I found the perfect piece of Plexiglas, and was trying to figure out how to attach it. I told this hardware store guy my thoughts, said I was looking for something like a "U"-bracket—but, I told him, it might not know it’s a "U"-bracket. He understood precisely what I meant, and we headed off together on the hunt. Short version of a long walk: after while, he suggested a fix, which I agreed would be perfect, and I headed home with my stuff. To my delight, this gizmo will work—and, bonus, I can take it down any time I want to.

  

Curiosity being lowered by the "sky crane"

Now, back to the museum. I was reminded of this tinkering experience by a video I saw at the museum. I was looking forward to visiting the space section, and I was especially interested in seeing simulations of the landing of the new Mars rover, Curiosity. In case you don’t know how amazing this is: this particular rover came to rest on the surface of Mars after being lowered by a “sky crane.” This apparatus was actually a little rocket ship in its own right that descended toward the surface, holding Curiosity in its huge embrace. Then, some distance above the surface, it released the rover (while still hovering!) and lowered it slowly to the ground. This maneuver has never been tried before, and I really wanted to see it (at least in simulation). The folks at mission control called this “7 minutes of terror” because that’s how long it took from the time this complicated contraption reached the top of the Martian atmosphere until it landed safely (or not). Here’s a (slightly blurred) picture of the video showing this simulation. (As it turns out NASA has now released a great short video that you can see online. But I suspect it was more fun to see it surrounded by screaming kids in fake space suits.)

So here’s the tinkering part … This Curiosity simulation was just one segment in a series of stories about space exploration. One of those stories included a video interview with an astronaut on the International Space Station. He had this problem: when he tried to type on his laptop, the pressure of his fingers on the keys would make him float upward. NASA had installed foot straps where he could tuck in his toes to keep from floating, but that made his feet and ankles tired long before his work was done.

His wife, Earth-bound and never having experienced weightlessness, but no doubt hearing his tale of woe, came up with an idea. She thought to herself, “I could tinker (in the sense of ‘invent’) something to solve this problem. What I need is a trip to the hardware store.” (I’m certain she thought this, even though no one told me so. I recognize a fellow tinker when I hear about one.) And off she went. She came home with some very lightweight bungee cord, long enough to reach from the floor of the space station up between her typing husband’s feet, around his waist, and back to the floor. Since it only had to be strong enough to compensate for the pressure of his fingertips on the keyboard, this lightweight cord was plenty strong for the task.



Here’s a blurry screenshot of this guy tethered to the floor by a bungee cord the diameter of a thick spaghetti noodle. It's the white cord coming up between his feet and around behind his waist. He’s in his “quarters” here. It's small because you don’t need room for a horizontal bed in space. 







To sleep, he just slips into a bag bungeed loosely to the wall (seen in the almost equally blurry picture to the right).

What a fine finish to my Wednesday adventure at the museum! I got to see a simulation of Curiosity landing on Mars, and I learned about an astronaut’s wife who also belongs to the little-known and totally unofficial tinkering society. 

Maybe she’d like to get together for an adventure some Wednesday. I wonder if she could get us tickets for a trip to Mars.

The circle game

And the seasons they go 'round and 'round

And the painted ponies go up and down

We're captive on the carousel of time

We can't return we can only look behind

From whence we came

And go 'round and 'round and 'round

In the circle game

- Joni Mitchell, “Circle Game”

In the past week or so, I wrote two blogs that now have follow-up stories. The original topics seemed to be on opposite ends of some continuum: one was about death and the other was about summer vacation. But there you have it, the two sides of retirement: the reality that it ends and the joy of being here in the meantime. 

So here goes: the circle game.

In the recent blog about death and dying, I talked about the odd ways we manage death—especially, managing to act like it isn’t really a part of life. Just a few days later, I went to a memorial service for a wonderful woman who seemed to so enjoy her life, and in the process, brought great joy to other folks. At the service, a couple of people mentioned how they had appreciated that blog entry. Only then did it strike me: Hmmm, I thought to myself, I knew this service was coming up before I wrote the blog. Maybe writing about death at this particular moment wasn’t just a coincidence. Of course, when I wrote it, I attributed my focus on death to Joe Klein’s Time magazine article. But I have to wonder if I was also thinking about death precisely because it was so close to my life at that moment—as close as a casual friend with whom I’d shared many potlucks, whom I often saw at the neighborhood movie theater before the cheap matinee so beloved by us retired folks, whom I’d seen at many LGBTQ events, always interested, always curious, always enthusiastic and earnest.

Seeing the connection was a reminder of how the reality of death floats around us all the time, how we keep it at bay, and how we find ways to process it when it insists on staring us in the face. We wrap the fearful future in the things we do every day to give meaning to our lives.

And in another domain entirely ...

Last week, I also wrote about my commitment to noticing the singularity of this summer—which is to say, to avoiding last year’s time warp when I realized that summer had passed, and I’d done nothing to appreciate it. I talked about how different summer vacations are now from when I was a kid—how today’s organized camps and outings have reshaped my generation’s unstructured time and neighborhood games. Well, this week, just to show how everything is connected to everything, retirement adventures and kids’ summer activities intersected.

I had planned to take another swell hike on Wednesday, but the smoke from the fire dissuaded me. (For those of you who aren’t in the Boulder area, there’s a major forest fire not far from here, and the result is not the clear mountain air we’re used to. It makes outdoor activities less enjoyable—and likely less healthy). So, I decided to visit Denver’s Museum of Nature and Science instead. 

Denver skyline from DMNS

        

There were lots of cool things to see, including a temporary photo exhibit on the Alaska Arctic (where I’ve been several times), and there's always lots to learn.  

But the best story is this: All around the museum were these swarms of kids in matching t-shirts. What a kick—these were the camp kids I mentioned in my blog! Here I am, an old woman, enlivening my summer vacation by exploring the museum, and I find myself surrounded by boisterous kids, enlivening their summer vacation by exploring the museum. Is this cool or what?

So much for the summer vacation “generation gap.” 

Welcome to the circle game.