 This particular meander began for me a number of years ago when Eric Clapton disassembled his screaming rock and roll classic Layla and lovingly rebuilt it and rearranged it into the hypnotic, folky, acoustic Layla that most people are familiar with today. That rearrangement was an amazing act of maturity on Clapton’s part - a confidence and\clarity that can only result from owning the song by having played it thousands of times. The resulting product was as smooth as the original was blistering. But this was coming from a man who was once equated to God and who penned one of the all-time heart-breaking ballads after his infant son fell to his death from an apartment window.  A young Robert Plant It further came together when Robert Plant, rock singer and former front man for Led Zeppelin, recorded an acoustic collaboration with country star Alison Krauss about five years ago. I had never been a big fan of Led Zeppelin but I was certainly aware of their tall, blonde, lead singer with the voice that could cut through cold steel. The Plant/Krauss recording, Raising Sand, was stunning. It was a beautifully delicate and thoughtful recording that cast Plant in a whole new light. His voice was still powerful but now subdued and restrained. He had aged like fine wine.  Robert Plant today. I became more interested in Plant and began listening to his recordings on YouTube. I was familiar with the Raising Sand work so I concentrated on the middle years and early Zep classics from the 70’s like Black Dog, Going To California, Kashmir and Whole Lotta Lovin. They were songs that I’d been hearing on the radio for years, but had never REALLY LISTENED to. When I did listen, especially to Plant’s voice, I began to more fully appreciate the power and the subtlety that that man was able to simultaneously project. This made his current work with Kraus all the more interesting. With Krause, Plant is holding back and channeling his fury into sterling vocal gems. It’s like using a shotgun to paint a small picture. Also popping up on YouTube, in stark contrast, were quiet, subtle acoustic versions of these rock classics from the obviously aging Plant. There was a mid-career solo version of Going To California, and a bluegrass version of Black Dog with Krauss, in which you could actually hear honey drip. The years and the life style had left their tracks on his face, but his voice was still as powerful and expressive as always. In my Internet travels, I came across an interview with Plant; I think it was a fairly recent appearance on the David Letterman Show. With Letterman, the aging Plant sat cross-legged on the interview chair and recalled a meeting with Elvis, back stage at one of Zep’s early shows. According to Plant, Elvis hung out with them that night, and later in their hotel room, curious about the logistics of a modern rock band and sharing stories of the road. Here was the sagging face of primordial rock and roll hanging out with the new darlings of Big Time Rock. Elvis saw the future and it had to have made him jealous. So naturally I began to wonder - had Elvis managed to survive the 70’s, and had he lived a long and productive life – like Clapton and Plant – what would he be doing today? What if he hadn’t died bloated on a toilet seat, preserving himself in our minds as that hideous, sweating Vegas/Disco character that he had become when he died? What if he had lived on to be an old man, and like Clapton, Plant, Willie Nelson, Paul McCartney and others, had aged gracefully and productively? What if Elvis had eventually taken Hound Dog, Don’t think Twice, Jailhouse Rock and Heartbreak Hotel and recast them, rearranged them, regeared them and sang them with new feeling? Can’t you just hear a Layla-esque version of Blue Suede Shoes? He might have ended up a sage old grandfatherly mentor to modern music. Maybe he would have collaborated with Maroon Five, Gotye, Nora Jones, Tony Bennet and k.d. lang. He might have become a regular in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood and had bit parts in CSI and Hawaii Five-0. In fact, can’t you just hear cackling old Mother Janis Joplin, gimp-legged Duane Allman and bald Buddy Holly sittin’ on Elvis’s porch on his farm in Tennessee, drinking V-8 and jamming and harmonizing way into the evening? I don’t know. It’s interesting to speculate. But I think that if Presley had been able to weather the hard times, he would have become a beloved and talented iconic figure like Clapton and Plant. I think he would wear it well. 
Elvis then and now?
© 2012, Jeff L. Howe, all rights Add Comment 
The dead baby doll that guards my bonsai garden is not a doll carelessly lost in tall weeds or dropped from a child’s arms on a walk through the yard. It was not blown there by the wind or deposited by a flood. It was not flung off the back of a bouncing truck or lost in a snowy drift. This doll was not misplaced in any way. This is a doll that was buried. I found it a dozen years ago when I first bought the house and was digging along the side to create a garden. My shovel struck something that made a curious thumping. Suddenly bright colored pieces of toy plastic came to the surface… almost the entire grave came up in one heaping shovel-full. The baby lay there motionless, grinning, beckoning me to pick it up. “Pa-Pa” it seemed to say, eyes twinkling, pudgy arms extended. I am powerless in those sorts of situations. As surely as a corpse, it was buried face up, with a small shard of blanket to wrap it. The Kleenex box-sized grave held small toys, trinkets, and doll paraphernalia – provisions for the dolly afterlife. The grave contents have been lost over the years but the baby has always remained, in a prominent place of honor. Darkened and peeling, the dead baby doll is now the commodore of the bonsai fleet. It is the wise old owl that lives in the rafters and watches over all. “Whooooo…. whooooo?” it is sometimes heard to moan. But most of all, the dead baby doll rides upon the wind chimes that hang from the trellis - the long chimes measuring the breeze and playing the melody that defines the day. Ding. Bong. Ka-ding. But it is the baby doll, not the wind, that is responsible for which notes play and in what order . When the dead baby doll feels a twitch of B-flat… it is B-flat that suddenly fills the air. Long live the dead baby doll. 
What exactly does a heat-packing, god-fearing, constitution-defending American have to do to vote around here? That’s the question that many were asking here in Pennsylvania’s Lancaster County last week after the City Fathers and Mothers of tiny Marctic Township moved to have the township polling places returned to the Methodist church from which they were relocated a few years previous. According to an article in the March 8, 2012 issue of the Lancaster New Era Intelligencer Journal, the elementary school that currently houses the polls offers better parking, better access and a more functional space than the church. It is centrally located and easy to find. In most ways it is the ideal location for a public gathering to be held. However, the problem lies in the fact that it is illegal to carry a gun onto school property – any school – with includes the school where the polls are located. This has the undies of some of the local citizenry in a considerable bunch because they would not be able to exercise their God-given right to carry a gun any damn where they please, any damn time it pleases them. Even into an elementary school. Even into a polling place. Even to vote. Think about that. And they are being denied that right. Obama HAS to be behind this. To Big Gun, this is tantamount to a canon shot across the bow. It is families being thrown from houses and the Constitution being ground beneath the jack boots of liberal storm troopers. It is reason to lock the family in the cellar, grab the long rifle and meet the enemy at the Concord Bridge. You pick your battles and this has gone too far. This is war. “It’s not really so much that I want to carry that day,”explains a City father (the Chairman no less,) “it’s that it’s another right that’s trying to be eroded.” “(Citizens) shouldn’t have to choose between one constitutional right over another,” offers a local politician thrilled to be representing his particular side of the issue. Big Gun vs. The Right To Vote. This is like King Kong vs. Godzilla; the winner meeting the winner of The Pledge of Allegiance vs. Freedom of Speech in a death match. So to smooth the situation over and return sanity and patriotism to voting, the Township officers declared a move back to the local Methodist church, even though parking and handicapped access was limited. They would turn to a house of God. God packs, everyone knows that. God would never stand for this. They knew on which side He stood. And He stood firm. The Methodist Church returned the volley and insisted that guns are not allowed on church property either. Methodist doctrine dictates that the Church maintain its traditional role of sanctuary and safe haven. The Church has always historically been a “weapons free zone,” said a local church official. The guns must stay at home. And suddenly Big Gun, rejected by both God and public opinion, was in fact forced to choose between packing their heat for everyone to fear, or compromising their principles and voting. They couldn’t decide. Let me offer a view point. Guns, in any form and of any sort, carried by any Tom, Dick or Yahoo simply because they can, don’t belong the polling place. A polling place is an influence-free zone. It is a reflective place that belongs to everyone. Carrying a gun constitutes intimidation, undue influence. It is selfish and it is dangerous. Mostly it is stupid and unnecessary. Even the B-movie cowboys like Ronald Reagan (genuflect) occasionally had to park their guns at the door. At the moment the City Fathers and Mothers have yet to work out a solution. My guess is that at the next election someone will be elected, the Redcoats will not storm the polling place while the good citizens are momentarily stripped of their guns inside, and that some redneck fool will shoot his thigh off trying to pack heat in the door anyway. © 2012, Jeff L. Howe, all rights. His real name isn’t actually Stanley, that’s just a made-up name to protect the innocent. And he doesn’t really look like an innocent cherub, although he does. In fact, it’s a stretch of the imagination to call him your average eight year-old kid because he’s not – he’s a special needs kid with very serious anger and behavioral problems. That’s why he’s here in this special school. But when it comes to nicknames, his real nickname is “Meatball”… a name lovingly bestowed upon him by his father due to their shared love for a certain food. He even looks like a meatball. So,“Meatball” it is. • • • Meatball is like a light switch. One minute he is warm and bright with a smile that illuminates everything around him. But in an instant, some diabolical hand reaches into Meatball’s world and throws that switch, turning his world suddenly and starkly dark. When this happens, anything not bolted to the floor is likely to be hurled across the room. On the particular morning in question, Meatball entered the cafeteria for breakfast. Seated at intervals were other emotionally-challenged eight year olds with similar diabolical hands throwing switches in their worlds. Anytime they gather in one place, the potential of individual dark clouds gathering into a sudden storm increases exponentially. As Meatball sat down at his place the dark cloud came over him. Something was wrong. The switch had been thrown and suddenly his entire breakfast was being launched in handfuls, directed at poor Ms. K., the young woman who worked with him and just happened to be sitting directly across from him. When the milk settled, the consequence of this action was that Meatball was escorted, kicking and screaming, down the hall to the “reflection room” - a spartan, windowless room padded from floor to ceiling. There, he pounded and screamed and bounced off the walls until finally he could bounce no more. The clouds cleared. The switched was again thrown and light returned to Meatball’s world. But before he could return to civilization, Meatball was required to take responsibility for his behavior. He was required to process what had taken place, by either drawing or verbalizing what had happened and deciding how he might better handle a similar situation in the future. Having a wealth of speech problems, but considerable art skills, Meatball elected to draw a picture and explain to a staff member (me) what had happened. This is Meatball’s story:  Picture #1 represents the “what happened?” part of this assessment. Meatball can be seen to the left, clearly unhappy – as indicated by the dark, downwardly scrunched eyebrows and viciously angry mouth. The eyebrows were the first thing that Meatball drew, representing how well these kids have learned how to draw emotion. Meatball is holding a mini-box of cereal and is obviously quite angry about something. Behind Meatball and to the right, is the surprised but ever-smiling Ms. K. The objects flying past her are a box of cereal, a carton of milk, and a packaged muffin. There is apparently a situation here which, to Meatball, is unacceptable. As it turns out, Meatball had been given Apple Jacks while expecting Cocoa Puffs and a banana muffin when nothing short of blueberry would do. And what wouid Meatball’s response be to this dilemma? What should Meatball do to smooth over this uncomfortable discrepancy? Obviously the remedy is to grab whatever is nearest, and to hurl it as hard and as far as possible… hopefully at someone.  How might a clearer-thinking Meatball have better handled the situation? Picture #2 indicates a noticeably distraught Meatball (note the even angrier eyebrows and pointy mouth.) But this time he has left the cereal on the table and is raising his hand. Progress. (Within fifteen minutes he was back to throwing chairs…)  Today was “Dress-Down Day” at the school where I work. For some benevolent reason, the Powers That Be occasionally allow us to come to school in blue jeans and casual attire. This time however, for the privilege of wearing jeans you had to hand over five bucks and wear a sticker that said that you paid. The money went, I’m sure, to a very worthy cause. Now in my mind, jazz music, fast cars and blue jeans are some of the last bastions of American creativity and freedom. They are not negotiable. To be told to pay money to wear jeans, and to wear a sticker… well, that’s just unacceptable… no matter how innocent the intent and how good the cause. Woody Guthrie, the great folksinger of the American depression, was once ordered to stop singing his protest songs on a radio show that featured local music. “If you want to sing,” they ordered him, “you’ll have to do it our way.” Guthrie was heard to say as he walked out the door: “I can sing while I’m walkin’”. You have to pick your battles. I may not be able to do anything about the economy, the war in Afghanistan or the pitiful state of American politics, but I can do something about the assault on freedom, expression and blue jeans at Dress-Down Day. Fuck ‘em all. I wore slacks and a tie. And I never wear a tie. The alarm went off and she awoke with a start. She was deep within the middle of a warm, pleasant, mid-winter dream about a sunny Caribbean cruise which seemed to linger in wakefulness rather than vanish abruptly as most of them always did. To her delight, she found that she could remain there – motionless, half suddenly awake, half still asleep – actively manipulating the dream from the cockpit of her consciousness. From this position, lying on her side facing the alarm clock, she continued to snooze and orchestrate her fantasy. She dug her toes into warm, white sand and felt the hot sun and tropical breeze on her face. She was in complete and absolute control of her fate. She decided to roll over and face the other way. The glare of the alarm clock was a bothersome reminder that she needed to get up. It interfered. She wiggled through the warm sheets, seeking a new, even-more-comfortable position. But when she rolled over, the chunks and pieces of her dream went tumbling across her brain like deck furniture and fine china crashing through the Grand Ballroom of the Titanic as it rolled and began to sink. It cart-wheeled and clattered and crashed and broke into a million pieces. And then it was gone. Just like that. The warm, pleasant dream vanished completely, leaving nothing in its place but grouchy, unwelcome wakefulness. The cold, icy waters of morning swirled around her ankles. The navel orchestral stopped playing and the players scrambled for what few life boats remained. There was nothing left to do but get up. There was a day in May of 1985 that was the single best mineral collecting day of my life. Leaving my campsite before dawn, I gathered perfect garnets from a mountain of rhyolite, culled barite and staurolite crystals from rocky outwash slopes and stumbled upon pegmatites so fat that they seemed to be pregnant. By late afternoon I found myself standing in front of a monstrous chain-linked fence topped with angry barbed wire. A black, yellow and red sign on the fence stated, in no uncertain terms: “U.S. GOVERNMENT MINERAL DEPOSIT. DO NOT ENTER. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.” Now the U.S. Government isn’t going to build a fence around a mineral deposit unless it’s really, really special… I was under that fence in 30 seconds. On the other side there was no sign of activity. Carefully I followed the narrow jeep trail over a small mountain ridge and up into a series of parallel canyons, keeping a constant eye out for a rock or boulder that I could jump behind quickly if some government agent came by. Government Deposit! What could it be? Could it be gold? There were minor occurrences of gold in the area. Or maybe a secret kimberlite pipe full of resinous, crystalline diamonds from deep in the earth. More likely, I reasoned, it would be a monstrous deposit of uranium and that I would be dead from radiation poisoning within forty minutes. Talk about a buzz kill… As I rounded the final turn, I saw that I was coming into a box canyon that had been the site of extensive mining for many, many years. The ground was covered with a sparkling layer of glittering sheets of mica and broken bits of glass-like quartz. But there was no sign of the other, more valuable minerals associated with such deposits: gold, silver, copper, lead, garnet, beryl, emerald, aquamarine, barite… Not as much as a crumb. I headed towards the obvious center of mining activity, a sheer face on the shady side of the canyon that had what looked to be a gaping black hole in it, as if a rough and irregular hole had been blasted into it. But as I approached nearer, I realized that it wasn’t a hole at all, but a pristine deposit of crystalline quartz so pure that you could see right into the mountain as if peering into a department store window at Christmas. The only problem was that the lights inside the store were all turned off. I walked up to the wall of quartz and, cupping my hands alongside my face to cut down the light, I peered inside. It reminded me of lying on the perfectly smooth ice of a Michigan lake as a boy and peering down into the depths, all the way to the murky bottom of the lake. The ice was a foot thick but so perfectly formed that only the occasional hair-line fracture or tiny bubble of air reminded me that it was even there. The quartz of this mountain had no bubbles or cracks. It was flawless. Consider the conditions necessary for this deposit to form… It was indeed a pegmatite, the tag-end, water-rich remnant of a mass of melted rock that has cooled slowly enough to allow all the dissolved minerals to have been deposited elsewhere: the gold and copper and beryl mentioned above. It’s like removing the constituents of a bubbling pot of chili one by one as they settle to the bottom: first the heavy irons and magnesiums (meat and beans), then the calciums and aluminums (onions and tomatoes). Next to be removed are the rare and valuable dissolved minerals like tourmaline and aquamarine. And finally all that is left is the water and the scum of grease on the surface containing the delicate dissolved spices and the acids of onions and peppers. These drop out as feldspar and mica… and finally all that is left is silica – pure quartz – the soup of the Earth. But our story does not end here. Under most conditions, the final stages of a crystallizing melt are chaotic, turbulent, and abrupt. The cooling quartz is subjected to any manner of disturbances, causing it to fracture and take on bubbles and imperfections. It slowly becomes opaque, milky, and imperfect. But as I stood there peering into my mountain of glass, I could see that this was an enormous deposit of pure crystalline quartz that was massive enough, and insulated enough to allow the quartz at the center of the deposit to crystallize slowly, perfectly, molecule by molecule. It had been a pot of chili grease, left undisturbed on the stovetop for a million years…. give or take. The government had been using it for years as “optical quartz” for lenses, mirrors and other applications. But as Silicon Valley technology had advanced rapidly, newer and much more efficient varieties of artificial silica had been invented. The government abandoned the deposit and left to build their fences elsewhere. I returned to my campsite after dark, loaded with treasures. I scrubbed my finds in the creek by the light of a candle lantern and then set them out on a rock in the dark to dry and to await me in the morning. And then I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell instantly asleep. The stars and the cold mountain air merged and I dreamed the dreams of a victorious rock collector. Until dawn, dodecahedrons of garnet, prisms of tourmaline, glittering nuggets of gold, and the cold, smooth feel of “Glass Mountain” danced in my head. ©2012, Jeff L. Howe, All Rights. When Big Novak went down, the first thing I thought about was her mother. Scanning the half-empty stands I spotted her on the other side, in the top row with a knot of other mothers, head in her hands, staring at the court in shock, concern and disbelief – waiting like the rest of us for some word. Could this possibly be happening? Again? Girl’s high school basketball is its own animal. As the players warm up and go through their pre-game drills there is a noticeable lack of the choreographed preening and NBA posturing of the boys. But there is also a lack of speed and fluidity. The girls are a little more awkward than the boys, but more outwardly exuberant. Braces flash and pony-tails fly from hair pulled back in every conceivable fashion, Odd, two-handed, chest-pump jump shots fly into the basket from all corners of the court with remarkable accuracy. The girls weave in and out on offense like professionals and stay completely focused on defense. It is a passing, ball-control game that plays the percentages. The mother has three daughters on the high school team – a senior, a junior and a freshman. I could recall their names if I really wanted to but I prefer to refer to them simply as “Big Novak”, “Middle Novak”, and “Little Novak.” They are not particularly tall girls – none is a six-footer - but all are fast and athletic. In many ways they form the core of the team. Mom drives them tirelessly to all of their practices and attends all of their games, in addition to the games of her junior high son. She is the epitome of the modern “soccer mom”. When the season started, Big and Middle were starters on the varsity while Little was a key member of the junior varsity. Big was a bona fide star. She wasn’t actually that big, but her natural athleticism and competitiveness allowed her to maneuver up and down the court amongst the other players with ease. Her skills in both soccer and basketball had attracted considerable interest from local and regional colleges, and it was rumored that a scout was in the stands that night. Middle was also beginning to gather similar notice. But a few weeks into the season, Middle went down with a serious knee injury. Further x-rays and MRI scans proved it to be a torn ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) – a horrible injury that is the dread of all athletes. She would need to undergo surgery and her season, if not her entire athletic career, would effectively be over. She gamely dressed in her uniform, wore a knee brace to the games, and served as the defacto team cheerleader, but she couldn’t play… so Little was brought up from the junior varsity as a freshman to get her first minutes as a varsity player. It was a tight game. There was a huge rivalry between the two schools and this game had far-reaching implications not only for the league standings but for the post season tournament as well. Both teams battled for every possession. While the big girls fought for control under the basket, smaller players, some barely five feet tall, continued to pump in long-distance three-pointers with deadly accuracy. When a loose ball bounced suddenly into the cheerleader’s seats, the cheerleaders scattered in sissy panic, afraid to touch the ball. The player who came over to inbound the ball looked at them like they are aliens. Meanwhile, Big Novak, showing athleticism and grace, continued to knife through knots of players, dropping in delicate lay-ups. The game was close. It would go down to the wire. Like most everyone else, I had seen the battle for the rebound and had followed the subsequent fast break down court in the other direction, not realizing that she was down until the referee blew the play dead. Suddenly all attention was directed to the other end of the court. Only then did I see Big Novak writhing in pain on the polished floor beneath the basket, her face contorted, rolling back and forth. She was holding her knee. For the longest time she laid on the floor surrounded by trainers and team doctors. They were working on the knee. Eventually she was helped to her feet, and with assistance, she hobbled to the bench. The gymnasium was filled with appreciative supportive applause, but the mother maintained her vigil. In all this time she had not moved, watching the court helplessly from atop her perch in the top row. On the bench the trainers continued to work on the knee, and to everyone’s surprise, Big Novak returned to the game late in the final quarter, although she wasn’t a factor and the game was eventually lost. Little Novak saw limited action. Later that night, Big Novak awoke with a swollen and painful knee. The symptoms were almost identical to those of Middle Novak. With her athletic career now also in jeopardy, Big Novak goes in this week for an MRI. Meanwhile, her mother continues to ferry her daughters (and sons) to practices, games… and medical appointments. ©2012, Jeff L. Howe, all rights On a crisp and frosty autumn day, the kind for which Vermont is famous, two friends pack day-packs and set out to traverse the Green Mountains from Underhill to Stowe. One is a botanist, a champion of all that is green and alive – the magical life forms that have learned to take the weak energy of the sun and transform it into sparkling sugars that power the living world. The other is a geologist, a seeker of the secrets of the unliving Earth. To the geologist, the world is a cathedral full of subtle and fabulous clues to ancient secrets just waiting to be discovered. The two begin up a narrow path through deep woods and giant boulders of schist that have fallen from above in some distant time. The trees are large and ancient, the woods are dark and sullen although beginning to thin with the falling autumn leaves. The two friends talk of politics, common acquaintances and the beauty of the day. At a point about ¾ of the way up the western side, the two scientists decide to divert from the trail to investigate an interesting glen formed by a fresh water spring emerging from the bedrock and pooling in beds of gravelly sediment. The life has changed greatly with altitude and the trees have become gnarled and stunted from bearing the brunt of the winds that build in the distant Adirondacks and then scream unbroken across the expanse of Lake Champlain. Hardy lichens and mosses cling to the rocks. Deciduous leaves have long-since been blown away. Everywhere the rock is smooth and rounded, the remnant of a mile-thick sheet of ice that pushed its way up and over the very top of these mountains during the Ice Age. Not even the highest point of Vermont’s tallest mountain escaped this grinding assault of ice. Near the top, the climbers encounter a rare, denuded alpine environment not unlike the sparse tundras of ancient times. But their trail has temporarily dead-ended and the climbers have no choice but to go up a smooth rock surface so finely polished by the fine sands at the base of the glacier that they can see their reflection in it. It is smooth and cold to the touch like a granite countertop in a new kitchen. It is covered here and there with delicate lichens and moss, grasping and clinging, who-knows-how, to the mirror-like finish. The botanist carefully avoids the green patches and scrambled perilously up the rock like a child trying to climb a playground slide. The geologist steps lightly on the moss for footing and works slowly up the slope. Stopping to rest, the botanist looks back and, seeing the path the geologist is taking, hollers: “Don’t step on the moss, you’ll kill it!” The geologist looks down and then looks ahead to the botanist. “The moss will grow back,” the geologist replies, “watch where you’re going – you’ll scratch the rock!” © 2012, Jeff L. Howe. All rights. “Jeez, it’s cold outside!” This time of year that’s a comment that you hear often, especially when the north wind rolls out of Canada and works its way beneath your coat, to your shoulders and the small of your lower back. But it’s NOT cold outside… not in the least bit. Mr. Science says that the temperature of an object is the measure of the heat energy that it contains. More energy equals a higher temperature; less energy equals a lower one. When heat is added or subtracted it causes changes in the physical properties of objects like thermometers, asphalt, bread baking in the oven, or the tip of your tongue. “Hot” and even“warm” are real and measurable quantities. Cold, on the other hand, does not exist. There is no such thing as “cold”. When you touch a piece of ice with your bare hand, the sensation that you feel is not the presence of “cold”, it is the subtraction of heat. The more rapidly you withdraw heat the more “cold” it feels. The ice has such little heat compared to your body that the heat rushes from your hand to balance things out. Your hand continues to lose heat rapidly until the ice is melted, then and only then can your hand warm back up. The sensation that you feel in your hand, through your brain, is that of heat being sucked from your body. Your brain detects this and calls it “cold”but in reality it is simply the profound lack of heat. Matter is composed of atoms, and atoms are aquiver with energy. There is a broad spectrum of temperatures that range from absolute zero (where all restless movement in the atom ceases) to a gazillion bazillion degrees where even atoms fly apart into their constituent pieces. But nowhere on that temperature scale does “cold” exist, even at absolute zero. Absolute zero isn’t really cold, it is simply zero heat. So next time the ol’ north wind blows through the crack under your door and causes your candle to flicker, don’t shiver and say “whoa, it’s getting cold”. Instead, say “wow, it’s really getting unwarm quickly”, and grab yourself another sweater to trap the heat. © Jeff L. Howe, 2011, All Rights | Click here to visit my blog and archives at Open.salon. I have been posting there for three years and have over 200 stories and essays. 
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