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.

Late summer, comin' on fall

I love this time of the year. Cool mornings and evenings, super-hot days mostly gone, the smell of vegetation reaching the end of its summer cycle. The prairie dogs look fat and happy, their coats starting to lose the darker summer color and morph into the winter version. You know it could, hypothetically, snow any day, but the feeling in the air is more like this will go on forever. Late summer, comin’ on fall.

Every year around this time, my partner and I are all excited about how colorful the meadows get during this season—tapestries, we call them. I was taking some pictures of those for a project of hers, and that started me noticing all the distinctive things that happen in the world in late summer. Here’s a smattering of snapshots of such things: tapestry meadows, late summer grasses in mowed fields, cottonwood turning gold—branch by branch, thistle going to seed, late summer flowers surrounded by summer-dry grass, branches weighed down by seedpods, green apples, ripening tomatoes … and a couple months’ growth in one corner of my spectacular new maintenance-free garden!

                        

    

  

       



 

Worth a leisurely walk, for sure!

Happy surprises

The other day, my anticipated trajectory got disrupted by a series of happy events. It turned out totally different than I had expected, but who can complain about a day like this:

To start the day, I spent some time with my partner’s grandson, hanging out with him while he ate breakfast and then driving him to his skateboard camp. I’ve barely seen him while he’s been here—so many things to do, so little time. I like talking with him, so I really enjoyed having this piece of time. This was not actually a surprise, but the happy part is right.

Then, I headed for CU to start my gig as a subject in a research study on sleep and speech. I get intrigued by things like this, and it turned out to be way more fun than I expected. For starters, I got to take a flock of “tests” that I have read about for years but never actually took. Some were cognitive tests—not IQ tests, but measures of cognitive functioning, like how quickly do you switch from one sort of symbol to another or how many digits can you repeat backward (this one left me totally bamfoozled, laughing and stumbling over the numbers at the same time). Those were also fun because they were challenging, one of my top 10 signs of “fun.” Next I did some questionnaires about sleep habits and sleepiness. Of course they’d ask these things in a study of sleep, but it was interesting anyhow—who knew there were standardized measures of sleepiness and a.m. versus p.m. personality (that one is called the “Lark–Owl” test. Very cute).

Then we came to the speech part. I got to listen to and repeat strings of nonsense syllables, followed by reading a passage about John James Audubon. These don’t sound too fun, but I was so into the whole process by this point that I enjoyed it a lot. And then, best of all, they gave me this watch-like instrument to wear on my wrist for a week. It measures ambient light and movement. In other words, it keeps track of whether I’m wide awake and moving my arm around, nodding off amidst falling-asleep jerks, taking a nap in the middle of the day, or lying still in the dark because I’m actually in bed. I love techie “stuff,” and getting to wear this for a week is just too much fun.

Then, unexpectedly, the garden lady came by. There’s a backstory here. Earlier this spring, we got a consult from a friend of my partner, a gardening expert who helps her friends plan their gardens. We have a yard (actually, a small patio area in front of a town house) that we pretty much ignore. OK, we totally ignore it. Despite the fact that I have (or can create) a ton of “free” time, I have no interest in gardening. I find the idea of tending to plants—watering, weeding, dead-heading, trimming back, all of it—about as appealing as darning socks. But still, I want to be a responsible citizen of our little townhouse neighborhood, so I don’t want the yard to look totally tacky. I wouldn’t even mind if it looked beautiful and well planned, as long as that doesn’t require anything from me.

Among many other helpful tips, the consultant friend referred me to the sprinkler guy so I could get that system straightened out in anticipation of doing something with the garden. Or rather, finding someone else who would do something with the garden, with the idea that it would subsequently tend itself. So, the sprinkler guy came over to take a look last week, and he referred me to the garden lady (who, as chance would have it, was also on the list of names given me by the consultant friend). On the day in question, the garden lady called to see if she could come by to take a look. I explained the depth of my interest in gardening and my fantasy of a beautiful but totally labor-free yard. We took a walk around the neighborhood to get ideas and see how thing look in the ground instead of on the shelf at Lowe’s. Each time I said I liked something, she would look at me and either nod or shake her head—the former indicating a care-free choice, the latter promising unwelcome labor.


By the time we got back, she had planned a yard that sounds really nice—and really care free. To my great surprise, I realized that I was actually excited about this emerging yard. Not excited like “I can hardly wait to work in my garden!” (“get my hands in the dirt,” as I hear ardent gardeners say), but like, “It’ll be very cool for the yard to have some character and some color—and I won’t have to tend it!” So now, the garden is happily underway. The garden lady and the sprinkler guy are working together and have plans beyond my comprehension. I can hardly wait—truly!

Of course, all of these happy adventures took me to mid-afternoon, with nary a moment spent on the job that keeps me in socks. But heck, that’s one of the joys of retirement—plenty of time to fill with happy surprises, and plenty left to do what must be done.

I got to bed late that night, and my sleep study data-logger will pass that news on to the researchers. But that’s OK. I got to hang out with a very neat 10-year-old, I had a kick trying to remember digits backwards, and I’ll soon have a garden to not tend!