Nov 25

Another Mischaracterization of Autism

An article entitled “The Gene Hackers” appeared in the November 16, 2015 issue of The New Yorker. It attracted my attention because it touches on neuroscience and other topics that interest me. I always worry when I read an article like this that autism will be mentioned in an unfavorable light. I didn’t have to wait too long to have my fears confirmed. On the second page of this 9-page article (3 of 17 in the pdf version), the word appears.

A few well-known disorders, such as Huntington’s disease and sickle-cell anemia, are caused by defects in a single gene. But most devastating illnesses, among them diabetes, autism, Alzheimer’s, and cancer, are almost always the result of a constantly shifting dynamic that can include hundreds of genes.

Ouch! Autism is not a “devastating illness” — in fact, it’s not an illness at all. Why does this mythology persist? (That is a rhetorical question, since many reasons are well known.)

And the word appears again several times later in the article.

The lab employs a similar approach to studying autism. Recent experiments suggest that certain psychiatric conditions can be caused by just a few malfunctioning neurons out of the trillions in every brain. Studying the way neurons function within the brain is difficult. But by re-creating, in the lab, genetic mutations that others have linked to autism and schizophrenia Zhang’s team has been able to investigate faulty neurons that may play a role in those conditions.

“Genetic mutations” have been linked to blue eyes, red hair, and lefthandedness, but to my knowledge people are no longer considering these conditions to have been caused by “faulty neurons.” It is true that until very recently, being left-handed was considered the work of the Devil, but I would hope we are beyond that by now.

Autism and schizophrenia are examples of what we call neurodivergence. Although these two conditions may appear similar to outside observers, they are really quite different. Schizophrenia is a degenerative condition that seldom shows up in childhood. Autism, on the other hand, is a stable personality type that is evident from the beginning of life.

 Last year, the National Science Foundation presented Zhang with its most prestigious award, saying that his fundamental research “moves us in the direction” of eliminating schizophrenia, autism, and other brain disorders.

Again, “ouch!” or “oy!” or any number of other exclamations. Autism is not a brain disorder. And, “eliminating autism”? I don’t want to be eliminated, thank you very much. I’m sure my brain could use some training to do certain things better, but who couldn’t say the same thing?

Although I don’t recall seeing the word “eugenics” in the article, there is mention of a nightmare had by one of the researchers profiled. She dreamed of meeting Hitler, and said:

 I woke up in a cold sweat. And that dream has haunted me from that day. Because suppose somebody like Hitler had access to this—we can only imagine the kind of horrible uses he could put it to.”

referring to the technology that could come out of the research mentioned in the award.

The good news is that the article points out that such uses are years away, and the ethical issues need to be studied. Let’s hope that by the time this technology becomes reality that science (and society) will have a more positive view of the value of differences.

The author concludes:

CRISPR technology offers a new outlet for the inchoate fear of tinkering with the fundamentals of life. There are many valid reasons to worry. But it is essential to assess both the risks and the benefits of any new technology. Most people would consider it dangerous to fundamentally alter the human gene pool to treat a disease like AIDS if we could cure it with medicine or a vaccine. But risks always depend on the potential result. If CRISPR helps unravel the mysteries of autism, contributes to a cure for a form of cancer, or makes it easier for farmers to grow more nutritious food while reducing environmental damage, the fears, like the many others before them, will almost certainly disappear.

This is a much gentler view of autism. Understanding is a good thing. Elimination, not so much.

Oct 22

My Round of Golf with Bob Hope

On a hot summer day, many years ago, I spent an afternoon with Bob Hope on the golf course.

Hope was born in 1903, and he lived to be 100. The day I met him, he was in his mid-70s, and he was still very much a part of the entertainment scene and the celebrity golf circuit.

Hope’s life and career spanned most of the 20th Century. For me, he was one of those people who had always been around. Although many in my crowd perceived him to be out of touch with our social mores, for most of his working days he was immensely popular.

I read a very thoughtful, sympathetic, and detailed book review in The New Yorker by Adam Gopnik, who confesses that, as a youngster, he had been a Hope-hater.

Hope” is the name of the biography; and it is subtitled “Entertainer of the Century.” The author, Richard Zoglin, makes the case that Hope may not have been given enough recognition for his groundbreaking work. Hope is credited with, among other things, being the originator of stand-up comedy as we know it today.

All of this brought to my mind that sunny afternoon in Hartford in the late 1970s when I spent several hours walking the links of the Wethersfield Country Club with Bob Hope and his entourage. Admittedly, it was not just Bob and me out for a stroll, or even a friendly game of golf. Bob played golf that day, but I did not. His partner that day was one of his best golfing buddies, Jerry Ford.

“Shortly after I started playing golf with Jerry Ford I thought it was time to take some lessons. Not golf lessons. First aid.”

True to form, one of Jerry’s shots whacked a spectator on the head that day. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how I came to be a part of their entourage.

In those days, I worked for a large insurance company in Bloomfield Connecticut that was one of the major sponsors of the Sammy Davis Junior Greater Hartford Open. In addition to their financial contribution, the company encouraged employees to donate their time, and gave people paid time off to volunteer at the tournament.

As it happened, my good friend Bill M was in charge of the marshals for the several-day event. Bill played soccer with me on the company team I had started, and he was a computer operator for one of the machines I programmed (an RCA 501).

One day, Bill approached me about being a marshal.

“I don’t know, Bill, I really don’t much like golf, and the idea of standing around all day directing spectator traffic just doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

“No, you don’t understand!” he countered. “I make the assignments, and I can make you a Roving Marshal. You just walk the course with the players and make sure no one bothers them, and you help them out if they have special requests. There really isn’t all that much to do. Believe me, there are people begging me to let them do this.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll give it a try.”

So that is how I came to walk the course with celebrities and top-ranked golfers. One of the golfers I accompanied that weekend was Johnny Miller. He was a year younger than I, and was probably the hottest golfer of the mid-1970s. He was also very personable and relaxed. I tried not to bother the golfers on the course, since they were trying to concentrate, but there was one shot Miller made that astounded me, and I had to comment. On one hole that had a dogleg to the left, with many trees lining the sides, I watched as the other golfers drove their tee shots as far down the fairway as they could, to be in view of the pin. Miller, on the other hand, shot straight at the (invisible) pin, which meant he hit his ball into the woods. If I had seen only the result, I would have thought that he made a very bad shot and was in trouble. But I had watched him deliberately point his body in that direction, study the trees, and he smacked the ball hard; it went straight and true.

As we walked to the next shot, I couldn’t contain myself, and asked him, “You know, it looked to me like you were deliberately shooting your ball into the woods.” He laughed, “Oh, yes! It’s a little bit risky, but not much, since the trees are pretty widely spaced. I figured there was a very good chance I’d have a clear shot to the green.” Sure enough, he did, and he picked up a stroke or two on the other golfers with his aggressive play.

On another memorable outing, I was with Lee Trevino. At the time, someone told me that Lee had been hit by lightning twice in (then) recent years. As I read his biography now, I see only one mention of that happening. In any case, it was still fresh in everyone’s minds, so it created quite a buzz (so to speak). On the day that I went out with him and his golfing partner (along with the inevitable collection of caddies, officials, marshals, and media people), the sky began to cloud up. As the sky darkened, Lee occasionally gave a worried glance skyward. Sure enough, after a couple of holes, we saw lighting flashes on the far horizon. It hadn’t started raining yet, but it was clear the storm was headed in our direction. At that point, Lee’s game fell apart. It might have been amusing to see if it hadn’t been so heart-wrenching; here was a world-class champion golfer totally unable to focus on anything but the distant rumble of thunder. His knees went wobbly, and his shots sent the ball in random directions, not necessarily anywhere near the fairway. Mercifully, after a couple of holes of terror, the announcement came over the PA that the day’s round was being cancelled and all golfers should return to the Clubhouse. Lee visibly relaxed, and he was probably inside before the announcement had been completed. It was quite a sight to see, and a poignant reminder that even these seemingly invincible athletes were, after all, just as human as the rest of us.

Ah, where was I? Oh, yes, Bob Hope. The spectators were out in force that day, and the regular marshals were doing their jobs quite efficiently, so there was very little for me to do other than to follow the golfers and their support crews. Because of the presence of the former President, there were a couple of Secret Service agents tagging along, continually scanning the crowd for possible threats. They were very formally dressed, with suits and ties, in contrast to the rest of us, who were wearing comfortable shoes and slacks and golf shirts. In my case, I had been given a nice green polo shirt that identified me as a marshal. As the temperature soared into the 80s, I felt sorry for the agents, who were obviously over-dressed. I struck up a conversation with one of them, and told him he should feel free to remove his jacket; that no one would mind, given the heat and humidity.

“I can’t!” he laughed, and opened one side of his coat to reveal a radio in the inside pocket, with a wire to his ear. On his waist was a holster containing a handgun. He then turned a bit and opened the other side of his coat to show me a set of handcuffs and a billy club. “Wow!” I said, “that’s a lot of hardware!” He smiled, “Yup. Just doin’ my job!”

It was a very enjoyable day all around, and I felt like I had a front-row seat at a Bob Hope show as he reeled off one wisecrack after another. He would deliver his one-liners for maximum effect, amidst a crush of onlookers, and not so much along the way to the next shot. At the time, I couldn’t help thinking that he was trying too hard; that it must have been difficult for him to feel he had to live up to his reputation as a comedian, rather than just relaxing and enjoying a day on the links.

I was rather taken aback, then, to read in Adam Gopnik’s review that

He became a cue-card comedian—“Stay on the cards, kid,” he warned the improvisational young Jonathan Winters—and could be seen to be reading off them even when you wouldn’t think he had to. Even when he was playing golf with C.E.O.s, his writers would provide him with one-liners.

So, I had thought I was seeing a genuinely funny personality, even if it did seem a bit strained to me, as if he were joking because he knew it was expected of him. And now I find that it was just a continuation of his long-running performance. I wonder if the man ever got to relax, or even knew how.

And then, about halfway through the course, as if on cue, came the Jerry Ford errant ball. He had managed to get fairly close to the green, but unfortunately his ball was in a sand bunker. He sized up the distance to the pin, and gave the ball a good whack. It soared high into the air and well past the green, into the crowd on the other side. The startled spectators scrambled to get out of the way, but in such a thick crowd of fans, it was inevitable that someone was to get hit. Sure enough, the ball landed squarely on some poor fellow’s forehead and bounced back in the direction of the green. I’m not sure how they ruled on that shot, but I do remember the President dropping his club and rushing over to the scene of the accident. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?” The man was a little stunned, but then began smiling as the President offered to autograph the ball for him.

All in all, my afternoon with Bob Hope and Jerry Ford was a very delightful one, and the memories of it are vivid for me, nearly forty years later.

Sep 11

Kudos to a Harrington’s driver; some other drivers, not so much

A big thank you to the Harrington’s driver this morning who stopped when he saw our horses in distress, very near my house, on East Road in Alford.

He turned off his engine and waited patiently while we got the horses settled down, dismounted, and led them down my driveway.

We of course thanked him profusely at the time, but I thought he should get some public recognition. His quick action saved us from what might have been a very dangerous situation.

My friend Alice and I had set off a couple of hours earlier on what turned out to be a lovely ride (except for those tense moments at the end). We headed south along the road, at my suggestion, to check out the new trails at what I fondly call “Louise’s” — the Hardy land now owned by the Alford Land Trust.

As we went down the hill from my house, Bill and Lois drove up behind us, heading home. Although we had the horses walking on the grass (off the road, in other words), Bill kindly pulled over into the left lane as he passed us, and was nearly to his driveway when a large truck came barreling toward him. He had to quickly pull over the the right to avoid a collision, and the driver of the truck never slowed down one iota, as if the didn’t see the vehicle in front of him or two horses on the side of the road. He must have been doing at least 50. I yelled “Slow Down!” as he passed, so loudly that my horse jumped.

As we continued our ride, at least a couple of other drivers passed us at high rates of speed. “What is wrong with these people?” I asked myself. Maybe they have never ridden a horse, and don’t realize how quickly they can spook and do unpredictable things. We are fortunate that our horses seem pretty indifferent to traffic noise, but ya never know!

On the plus side, at least a couple of (probably local) drivers did slow down as they passed us. Many thanks to them for their consideration. We tried to wave and smile to show our appreciation.

As we passed John Oliver’s house (about a mile down the road), we turned into the pasture there. Alice looked back at me and remarked that, as much as she likes riding in the woods (which is what we usually do), she really liked being out in the open field on such a bright sunny day. We are fortunate to live in a place where we have to choose between such pleasures.

After going through the first pasture, we did turn into the woods, and I think the temperature fell at least 10 degrees. It is lovely and peaceful back there, moving alongside stone walls, among various growths of trees, including some sections of tall pine forest.

Although I had walked parts of this trail, I had never been to the end. I expected it would turn back toward the house and come out near the road. But, no! Surprise, it emptied us out into another pasture, where we have ridden in the past. We made our way through that one and the next one and another one (below the small cemetery on East Road), finally getting back to near the house, where we were able to pick up the path that brought us into the woods, thence to retrace our way home.

The ride back along the road was rather uneventful until we got almost to my house. When we left, the herd of heifers that sometimes hangs out in the pasture next to me were all settled in the shade of a large pine tree that grows in my yard. As we approached my house, Spot (Alice’s horse) noticed that a couple of them had come up the hill to the edge of the road to forage, and that seemed to make him nervous, being that close to them.

I could see that Alice was about to cross the road quickly to get past them and to my driveway, but I heard a large truck coming down the hill, out of sight. I said something to her so that she wouldn’t walk out in front of the truck. She stopped, but (as she told me later) Spot saw some holes by the side of the road, up ahead a little way, in the direction we had been moving. Nothing strikes terror into a horse more than the sight of a hole (stepping into one and breaking a leg can be fatal to them). So Spot, already nervous at the nearness of the heifers, began to back up in a rather disorderly way.

At that moment, the Harrington’s truck came into view, and I signaled to the driver to stop, because I was afraid Spot might step in front of him. The driver immediately took my suggestion, and when he saw the horses acting up, he turned off his engine. I was very grateful for that, because by that time my horse, Stewart, had begun to get nervous, too (panic can be contagious in herd animals).

I turned Stewart around and moved back down the road a bit, but by now the whole herd of heifers had come up to the road to see what was going on. And they were following Stewart down the road! Which, of course, made him even more nervous.

I could hear Spot doing a little dance behind me, and he was slipping on the pavement. Alice managed to get off before she was thrown.

By this time, Stewart was only slightly agitated, and I managed to calm him down and dismount. We walked the horses past the herd, and thanked the driver on our way past the truck, and headed down the driveway.

All’s well that ends well…

Jun 07

Exciting news! My final symptoms are fading away

Exciting news! My final symptoms are fading away.

According to this Harvard website,

The ideal blood pressure is 120/80; as it rises above that threshold, the risk of heart attacks, strokes, and other health problems steadily rises. At 140/90, doctors generally recommend blood pressure medication.

I have a new cuff at home that I am using to check on my readings once or twice a day. My doctor recently recommended that I cut my medication in half, and monitor the results. She said that if my numbers continue at recent levels, she’s comfortable with me cutting out the medication altogether. So far, my results have been hovering around the “ideal” levels identified in this article.

That is wonderful, yes it is. A dozen years ago I was deathly ill (literally) with an unknown condition that turned out to be celiac sprue. [see my note below the line]

So, for the past 12 years, I’ve eliminated gluten from my diet (I have been a vegetarian for over 52 years), and tried to keep my weight under control and get adequate exercise (lately, mostly hiking). All of that gradually cleared up all of my symptoms and blood levels (low everything from B-12 to cell counts to hemoglobin, etc.), but the blood pressure continued at elevated (though not extreme) levels.

In the past year or so, my blood pressure readings started to come down, and have stayed there. With any luck (and a lot of hiking) I’ll have one less thing to worry about…



Addendum: About 15 years ago, I began to develop strange symptoms of fatigue and other uncharacteristic problems. I discovered my gluten-intolerance only after undergoing every test known to medical science without finding anything wrong. In a way, this was good news, but I was still very sick!

There are several websites (including the one I linked to above) giving a reasonably clear description of celiac sprue, although I do object to it being called a “disease.”

In my opinion (uninformed by any scientific evidence — in other words, I’m just making this up), it is more likely that the inability of the immune system to tolerate gluten is a throwback to a pre-agricultural condition when people (especially in northern climes, where it is most prevalent) had very little in their diets of the grains that contain gluten. As wheat, rye, and barley became more common, many people developed (and passed along to their offspring) the ability to cope with the elevated levels of gluten that came with the new reliance on cultivated grains.

People who did not develop this tolerance did not produce as many offspring, since they probably died of malnutrition at a relatively early age. Celiac sprue is so called because it is an auto-immune condition in which the immune system attacks and destroys the celia in the small intestine, thus (eventually fatally) compromising the body’s ability to absorb nutrients. That is where I was headed.

But perhaps the adaptation was imperfect, and there are those of us who, later in life, lose the ability to tolerate gluten. People like that could still produce and raise healthy children, but might themselves die prematurely. I won’t bother to link to the articles here, but in the past few years there has been much written speculating that JFK (in particular, but probably many others, famous and not) might have suffered from an undiagnosed case of celiac sprue. In JFK’s case (and he was, like me, of northern European descent), if he did have the condition, it might have contributed to his many ailments, including his back problems. One author went so far as to speculate that he was so ill he might not have lived to see the end of a second term, had he not been assassinated.

The condition has been known to medical science for the past couple of hundred years, but it is only recently that an appreciation has developed as to how widespread is celiac sprue. When I first started my gluten-free diet, only a dozen years ago, it was difficult to eat out and even to find gluten-free products such as pasta. Now, every restaurant seems to have a gluten-free menu and every supermarket has a gluten-free section. Some people go gluten-free because it makes them feel better, but for people like me it is literally a life or death decision.

May 09

Two identical very different trips through the Alford Valley

Alford this past week was a string of turquoise days. Dry air and golden sunshine combined into a perfect backdrop for a couple of ambles through the Alford Valley.

On two different days, I took identical routes with different forms of transportation. The first was a walk with my friend Bess, as we surveyed winter damage and restored the trails to passable condition. Along the way, we treated ourselves to a visit to the Devil’s Den. The second outing was with Alice (Spot’s Mom), on horseback.

Here is a crude map of the ground we covered.

[All of the pictures here can be enlarged by clicking on them; return to the post with the “back” arrow on your browser.]



The orange square indicates our starting point (Thyme Hill) on East Road. The green square has no particular significance other than to mark the point south of which I had cell coverage in only one direction. Although our routes out and back were identical, the app I was using seemed to be only approximately accurate. Still, it’s a nice picture of the ground covered that would be hard to map any other way.

I’m very appreciative of having neighbors who generously allow passage over their trails. From my house, heading north, I traverse over the land of the Haas’s, and thence into the property of Frank & Mary Wilcox. When Frank was alive, he took his small ATV out on his trails and kept them open. He was always delighted to hear that I had been using them for hiking, skiing, or horseback riding. Along the ridge (on the westerly dogleg just above the green square), we come to Ray Wilcox’s property. His is the large pasture to the west of all that. The route then jogs north into Henry Flint’s large network of trails. The Devil’s Den is above one of his trails. At the top of the lollipop, we skirted the edge of a pasture used by the Scribner Brook Farm, which is clearly visible to its west. The westernmost loop turns south along the Alford Brook, and takes an old road with an impressive stone wall, overlooking a large beaver pond. Although the beaver dam is mostly intact, we did not see any signs of recent activity.

The entire route was nearly 4 miles. On foot, what with flower-watching, wrangling downed trees, and taking a break in the coolness of the Devil’s Den, the trip took us nearly 4 hours. On horseback, the same route took about an hour to cover.

Along the way, we saw many ephemerals and other items of interest. Bess and I had the pleasure of stopping to enjoy them and to tour the cave, but the horses were not interested in any such distractions.

Here is the first trillium we saw:

Devil's Den 0001

And then, a triumvirate of trilliums (no, “trillia” is not the plural of trillium!):

Devil's Den 0002

There were many trilliums flowering on the hillside below the Devil’s Dan. There were also large patches of ramp and blue cohosh; the latter being nearly a foot tall at this point. We headed up the rocky slope to reach the hidden Den.

Devil's Den 0003

Bess admired the moist colors above the entrance, and beneath her was a large residual block of ice.

Devil's Den 0004Devil's Den 0005

As we carefully made our way down into the interior to inspect the Alter Stone, we could look back to gauge the thickness of the ice.

Devil's Den 0006

We looked back at the entrance as we turned to head back down the hillside by a different path. Devil's Den 0007Devil's Den 0008

While taking care not to slide too fast on the slippery oak leaves and hemlock needles, we noticed leavings of a porcupine winter feast. Evidently, they like to eat the tender needles at the ends of small branches, but doing that on the tree is a little tricky, so they gnaw off the branches and let them fall to the ground, where they are easy to munch on. It may be hard to tell from the photo, but this was quite a pile of such hemlock branches, with clear teeth marks where than had been cut.

 Devil's Den 0009

On the way back to the trail, we saw another trio of trilliums. We figured we could say we saw (at least) a troika of triumvirates of trilliums.

Devil's Den 0010

On horseback, it was a bit difficult to take pix. On the way past the beaver pond, I wished I had taken some on the previous trip, because we were moving too rapidly to be able to grab a photo without stopping, which didn’t seem to be the thing to do. By then, the horses realized we were heading home, and if they had shown any signs of tiring (which they really hadn’t, despite this being their first long outing of the season), that was all forgotten in their eagerness to get back to the barn.

The first shot is how the world looks to someone on Stewart’s back. He is patiently waiting for Spot to get ready. The second picture is of Alice as she finishes tacking Spot in my yard. Then come a couple of photos taken along the trail.

All in all, a glorious pair of days!

First Ride of the Season 0001First Ride of the Season 0002First Ride of the Season 0003First Ride of the Season 0004

May 09

There are 10 types of people in the world…

Those who understand binary, and those who don’t.

In my early days as a computer programmer, I studied the RCA 501, a 2nd generation computer (in the days of vaccuum tubes, before transistors). It was an octal machine. If you ever saw any of the original Startrek TV series, the console of the Starship Enterprise was actually the console of an RCA 501. Its console made for a very dramatic display, and it was for real (although I’m not aware of any 501 actually going into space!).

Our programs were keypunched into paper tape, which was fed into the machine. There was a primitive Operating System, but that did not include error handling. If the computer read a bad instruction or otherwise hung up, it would come to a halt (which was the purpose of the lighted console — to be able to read the location of the stop and what was in all the registers).

When the machine hung, the operator called the programmer to come to the computer room. Our job at that point was to figure out how to write memory to get the machine going again. Then, a patch (literally) needed to be made to the paper tape so the same thing wouldn’t happen again. We coded up the correction, had it keypunched, and in order to fix the tape, we had to hold it up to the light and read the instructions so we would know where to cut out the offending code and insert the new strip of paper tape. So I got pretty good at reading octal (which is base 8 — three binary digits strung together).

I like the joke about 10 types of people. Hadn’t heard that one before.

Apr 12

Not just attention to detail, but fascination with detail

I guess you don’t have to be autistic to collect stamps (or coins, or bills, or anything else), but I’m sure it helps.

For many years (and long before I figured out that I’m autistic), I collected stamps. More than collected, I accumulated.

In the past few years, I’ve been gradually selling off my accumulation of philatelic material on eBay. It’s been fun. What remains is not of much value, but I am still enjoying this aspect of the hobby — I think of it as reverse collecting, and I get to enjoy looking at my stamps all over again as they go out the door.

I’ve recently come across an accumulation of glassine envelopes all marked “528B” containing a bunch of carmine *2 CENTS 2* stamps that were issued in 1920, a few of which are illustrated in this picture. (Click on the graphic to see an enlarged version so that you, too, can be fascinated with the details!)


I bought these in the hope of being able to go through them to find varieties worth more than the one I nominally paid for. There are literally 43 varieties of stamps that look exactly like this. What distinguishes them from each other are several different features of their printing and post-printing production. Without getting into all of the detail, I could mention such things as paper (whether it is watermarked or not), type of printing press (flat plate, rotary, or offset), perforation (number of perforations — if any — within 2 centimeters), released as sheets or coils, and certain engraving varieties. And of top of all that there are many, many printing errors which are collectible, such as double impressions or plate defects that are easily spotted. There are also color variations, sometimes several within each variety.

The reason I still have all of these is that I never fulfilled my ambition of closely examining them. I found that looking at each one under a magnifying glass was too tedious (even for me), and often yielded ambiguous results. So I set them aside for a future project. Well, the future is now! Through the modern miracle of digital scanning, I am able to scan these (at much greater resolution than is shown here) and determine (with some exceptions) which variety they represent. The exceptions include stamps where the cancellation obliterates distinguishing features, in which case I have to assume that the stamp is the less valuable of two or more possible varieties.

The stamps illustrated here represent but 5 of those 43 varieties. They are all offset printings, perforated 11 on both top and sides, and can be distinguished from each other by “Type” of engraving.

  • 526 type IV has a broken line at the top of the toga and the toga button looks like the letters DID, with the first D reversed
  • 527 type V has a complete toga line (as do all the other varieties here), and 5 vertical line in the toga button, with a thin/broken line in the left “2”
  • 528 type Va is the same as type V except that there are two dots missing in one of the lines of dots in the nose
  • 528A type VI is the same as V but has a very heavy line in the left “2”
  • 528B type VII is pretty much the same as V but the line in the 2 is between V and VI in thickness, and an additional row of dots has been added to the upper lip

The numbers are from the Scott catalog, which is pretty much the Bible of stamp collecting. Plate types I, II, and III were used in earlier printings of flat plate and rotary press designs.

These are not valuable stamps. The Scott catalog lists their retail prices (which assumes stamps in good condition, which many of these are obviously not) as ranging from 40¢ to $4.00. I feel lucky if I am able to sell a stamp for 20% of its Scott value. So, their worth to me is somewhere between 8¢ and 80¢. I have not discovered a gold mine. Still, it’s fun for me to go through them. And to blog about them.

On this particular page (which does not represent my entire accumulation by any means!), I found that only 11 out of the 49 here are actually the 528B stamps I paid for. I did not find any of the most valuable (526) but the other varieties are all well-represented.

How I will manage to sell all of these on eBay, I have no idea. But I’m on a mission!

Apr 08

It May Be that Young People have been Paying Attention

This interesting report by NPR challenges the speculation that we may be moving to a cashless society.

“People seem really wary of the mistakes of their parents,” Shahani says. “There is something relieving about, you know, that it’s not lost on them that their parents were deep into debt. And people seem to carry that maybe in the way that their parents’ generation didn’t.”

Many young people, it seems, prefer to use cash rather than plastic.

“The perception that young people rarely use cash is just not correct,” [Doug Conover, an analyst with the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco] says.

The Federal Reserve Bank put together a study asking people to keep a diary of their spending. Compared with their elders, young adults (ages 18 to 24) reported using cash more, for nearly half of all purchases.

In the end, of course, it’s an empirical question, not one that can be answered by anecdotes or surveys. The per-capita use of currency has been declining for many years now.* Will that usage level off, or even increase? Time will tell.


* [update, later in the day] My assertion about per-capita decrease was challenged by some of my fellow Georgers. I based that statement on some reading I had done lately on the new epayment systems, and articles which cited a trend to less and less currency being used.

This is something that I need to research, because it is fairly complex, but one thing that is clear is that my statement was wrong. At least on the surface. The number of bills in circulation, according to the FRB, has increased at an average annual rate of 6.4% over the past 10 years. Population growth in the US is about 1% per annum.

Apr 01

Hope for the world

At first light this morning I noticed a grazer enjoying the newly revealed fodder. Spring may be on its way after all!


Feb 16

Segregation in the Berkshires in the Civil Rights Era

An article today in the Berkshire Edge reminded me of my experience in the summer of 1961. I guess my heightened sense of social justice came to me early in life. Within a couple of years, I would become a vegetarian, a pacifist, and a draft resister.

What was it like to be an African American in South Berkshire County Massachusetts in 1961? Couldn’t get a haircut in Lenox, Lee or Great Barrington.

Stockbridge is not mentioned, for a reason. I was a high school student at that time, working at the Red Lion Inn for the summer. One of my co-workers was black. Or perhaps he was a Negro. The language was starting to change. In any case, a small group of us, hearing about discrimination in nearby towns, decided to form our own sit-in at Billy Pierce’s barber shop on Main Street.

The plan was to have our black friend enter the shop, and one by one the rest of us would filter in and take up all the available chairs in the waiting area. If Billy declined to provide a haircut to our friend, we would all refuse to be next and simply take up all the space in the shop, effectively closing it down.

When the time came, Billy simply said, “Next!” and our black companion sat in the chair and the haircut started. At that point, I got up and said, “I’ll come back later when you’re not so busy!” and I left.

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