Talk about a niche profession

This may come as something of a shock to my readers - it does to me - but I have never been to Walden Pond.

Sure, I read Thoreau way back in the way back. And I've been to Concord plenty of times. I've been (multiple times) to the Old Manse, where both Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne lived. (And where Hawthorne and his wife, Sophia Peabody Hawthorne, charmingly etched messages in the windows using Sophia's diamond ring.) Multiple times to the Louisa May Alcott House, where you can see where and how Louisa and her sisters - the O.G. Little Women - grew up. Multiple times to the North Bridge, my absolute favorite Concord tourist site, "where once the embattled farmers stood and fired the shot heard round the world." And multiple times to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, wherein lie the bodies of Ralph, Nathaniel, Sophia, Louisa - and Henry David Thoreau. 

But never have I ever been to Walden Pond. 

And if I were to rectify this and put a visit to Walden Pond on my bucket list - which surely I should - I would miss the opportunity to see Richard Smith, who had been Thoreau's resident impersonator since 1999. Smith, a historian, hung up his tall straw hat for the last time on Septemer 6th, fittingly commermorating the day in 1847 when Thoreau himself left the pond, saying:

...I feel I have accomplished all that I set out to do. I have discovered what living is all about. I have discovered a great deal about solitude, independence and self-reliance. (Source: The New York Times)

Having been Thoreau for 26 years, Smith pretty much dittos these words. 

Richard Smith didn't start out to be a Thoreau impersonator, where his work consisted of hanging out in the one-room cabin and educating all sorts of groups - high school kids, Thoreau buffs, and Unitarian church groups - about Henry David. All while in character. 

A history buff from his childhood in Cleveland, and a history major at the University of Akron, here's how Richard Smith tells the story:

“I got really involved in Akron’s punk scene and started singing in bands,” he said. “It was the Reagan ’80s, and we were standing up to who we thought was this immoral clueless leader. That’s when I started reading Thoreau.”

“Thoreau questioned everything, and that really resonated with the punk rock side of me,” he said. “I became drawn to the transcendentalists, their belief of nature being divine, and it’s still part of my spirituality today.” 

In his thirties, Smith worked at a living history museum in Akron, where he played a brickmaker and a schoolmaster. He took a weekend off and trekked to Concord. There, he was delighted that people understood what he ws talking about when he told them that he was a transcendentalist. He found his way to a job at the Minuteman National Park (home of Concord Bridge) and occasionally came to work dressed up as Thoreau.

The Walden Pond park rangers knew a good thing when they saw it, and soon enough Smith was spending his days there in his little cabin, or outside in his big straw hat. 

The gig had its challenges. Besides having to wear an itchy frock coat on sweltering summer days and forcing himself not to utter contractions, the job meant setting some Thoreau fans straight about certain things. He was not a hermit, for one thing. The cabin on Walden Pond was near train tracks, and he often visited his family in town, where his mother did his laundry for him.

I am not a big fan of historic impersonators. I find the staying in character - not uttering contractions! - cringe, and have always tended to avoid reenactors. I don't mind a guide dressed in period garb talking about whatever went on in whatever ye olde house. But once they start in on the I vouchsafe to impart to thee the receipt for button and wattle soup I tend to lose my shit. 

A while back, my sister Trish and I went to the Farmers' Museum (now the  Fenimore Farm & Country Village) in Cooperstown, NY. We were in Cooperstown for the Baseball Hall of Fame (of course). But we had very fond childhood memories of a visit to the Farmers' Museum (when our family took a long weekend vacation to Cooperstown for the Baseball Hall of Fame (of course)). So we went.

It was on the cusp on the off season, so all the houses didn't have impersonators present. But we looked in every window, and if we saw someone who looked hell bent on impersonating, we took a pass.

But even I might have enjoyed meeting Henry David Thoreau.

Seriously, what's not to like about fringies, eccentrics? And I suspect Richard Smith topples headlong into this category.

Congratulations to him on a job well done in his very niche profession.

Tomorrow is Halloween. I'll be at my volunteer job, doing my customary candy give out. I was thinking of going as an old lady, which doesn't require much of a costume, and maybe adding a witch's hat to complete the look.

But if I had a nice tall straw hat and an itchy frock coat I would consider dressing up as Henry David Thoreau. 

Happy Halloween to all who observe.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source:  Metro Daily News

Who in their right mind?

I don't typically use the word "magical" to describe a place I've visited, but taking the water taxi into Venice and seeing this beautiful city seemingly emerging out of the water, the word that tripped right off of my very tongue was "magical." Venice as you approach it is just drop-dead gorgeous. Is it any wonder that this magical city has been the subject of so many great painters over the years?

And, to me, Venice lived up to its magical promise.

I doubt I'll ever get back there. Unlike other places I've been - like Ireland, Paris, NYC - in these cases, been to many times - return trips aren't on my bucket list. But I'm so very glad I went to this magical kingdom. Magical plus unbelievably delish spaghetti alle vongole, which I had at least once a day the week I spent there AND the to-die-for home of Peggy Guggenheim, now a museum. (Even those of us with no desire to hobnob with celebs had a fantasy or two of arriving at the water entrance of Peggy's palazzo, looking just like Audrey Hepburn, stepping out of a gondola and into the arms of a fellow who looked just like Cary Grant...)

Other than getting lost in this fascinating little city - thank God for my sister, Trish, my less directionally challenged traveling companion; and the non-zero prospect of having an after-dark close encounter with a rat (nothing that as a city girl, I'm not used to) - the only thing that gave me pause in Venice was fear taking a mistep in or out of a boat, or slipping on a damp brick walk, and falling into one of the canals. Ah, those beautiful canals. Those murky, filthy, rat-infested canals. 

Oh, I've read that they're not all that dirty. Or not as dirty as they used to be. That they're cleaned all the time. That the wastewater, the sewerage, etc. is all processed out. But, other than to save my life, there's no way I would be taking a dip in any of the canals in Venice. 

There's the pollution, of course, but there's also the chance that a gondola, motor boat, or vaporetto, would plow into you. So, the waters of Venice are both dangerous and dangerous. And it's illegal.

As one couple from the UK found out recently found out.

The 35-year-old British man and his 25-year-old Romanian girlfriend were forced to return to their home in the UK on Thursday, the same day they arrived in the city, after gondoliers reported them to local police for taking a dip in the canal.

The pair were fined €450 ($529) each and expelled from Venice for 48 hours, marking the 1,136th such sanction to be handed down to badly behaved tourists in the city so far this year, according to the Venice City Police. 

The unnamed couple took the plunge near the Accademia bridge near St. Mark’s Square and gondoliers at the Rio San Vidal kiosk immediately called authorities, who removed them from the water. (Source: CNN)

Well, I suppose that, as far as being a bad tourist goes, it's not as bad as defacing a monument or trashing an antiquity. Most of the harm you're doing by taking a dive is to yourself. 

Of those 1,136 "orders of expulsion" (issued this year as of early September), only 10 were for swimming. Most of the expulsions from this over-touristed (irresistibly magical) city were due to "incidents of degradation and uncivilized behavior." (Would that every city take this up!)

But 10 were swimming-based incidents. (In past years, someone dove off the Rialto Bridge, and was caught because his buddies social-media'd him. A couple of French tourists went moonlight skinny dipping in 2023, and the previous year "a German man was fined and expelled for surfing in the canal." (Surf's up in Venice???)

Seriously, who in their right mind would jump into a canal in Venice? (Maybe that "right mind" thing is the answer to that question.) It's not as if the water is Bahamas tourquoise, or the cold blue crystalline waters of Cahoon Hollow beach in Wellfleet. Venice canal water is sketchy at best.

Many years ago  - okay, many decades ago - my cousin MB was taking a post-college trip to Europe with a friend. They were in Amsterdam, and her friend dropped something - a bracelet, I think (I'm too lazy to text MB and ask her about it) in one of the canals. She went to retrieve it and - unlucky for her - she had a minor scratch on her hand. Which got terribly infected, such that she ended up being treated in a Dutch ER. And that's what I think about when I hear about anyone deciding to go for a swim in a canal in Venice.

You'd have to be crazy.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source: iPaintings (It's a Turner, but the pic doesn't do it justice. Talk about a painter who knew how to do color and light.)

Who says there's no good news?

Babies (and puppies) aside, if there's a little critter any cuter than the axolotl, I don't know what it is. This pink salamander looks straight out of Pixar, but it does exist in real life. As well as in the videogame Minecraft. 

These Mexican amphibians have a lot more going for them than just their undeniable cuteness. Among other qualities: 

...axolotls have the remarkable ability to regenerate parts of their bodies. This includes limbs, eyes and even parts of their brains. Research labs around the world are trying to understand this incredible trait. (Source: Natural History Museum - UK)

One of those research labs is  the Harvard Stem Cell and Regenerative Biology. 

Harvard is, of course, both a major target of the type of personal animus that colors pretty much everything Trump does, and a victim of the profound research cuts his anti-science administration has aimed at researchers whether he harbors personal animus towards their organizations or not. 

Thanks largely to government cutbacks, Harvard is expected to cut its overall research initiatives by about 20%. But while donations may not cover the loss, Harvard is able to count on generous donors to help support its efforts. One of those is six-year-old Marianne Cullen of Springfield, Mass, who in September donated $1,000 to Harvard to use for axolotl research. 

“I knew they were trying to help the axolotls, that’s why I raised my money,” Marianne said during a special visit recently to the Harvard Stem Cell and Regenerative Biology lab. (Source: The Boston Globe)

Marianne learned about axolotls in kindergarten, and was drawn to them because they're "so cute."

But her reasons to support this Harvard lab went beyond the mere cuteness of axolotls. Marianne has a baby sister, Emmaline, who's been in and out of the hospital:

Doctors at Boston Children’s Hospital have treated Emmaline for immune and allergy response problems, and Marianne wonders if there could be a connection between axolotl regeneration and medical therapies for babies who suffer from autoimmune diseases.

So Marianne held a fundraising party, inviting family and friends to learn about axolotls. Then there was a Venmo fund-raiser via FB. And to top things off, Marianne chipped in $80 out of her own piggybank.

The timing of Marianne's donation was perfect, if only as a morale boost. It came in just as five of the lab's grants were being canceled. 

While the details are still being worked out, it’s possible Marianne’s donation could go directly to such a project at Harvard, linking axolotl findings to infant medical treatment.

As a benefactor, Marianne was recently invited to tour the lab, where she got to meet some axolotls up close and personal. Sounds like the lab was a fine place for a kiddo who's eyeing an eventual career as a scientist or NICU doctor. 

Who says there's no good news? That would be me, most of the time. So I was delighted to come across the news about Marianne Cullen's insight and generosity. What a great kid!

------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source: A-to-Z Animals

Next time, take the lump sum

It's been years since I got one of those big promotional envelopes from Publishers Clearing House. I remember bright yellow markings, but I don't quite remember what the plot was. Did you have to subscribe to one of their magazines to become eligible to win a big prize? I can't quite recall what mags were on the list. These days, my only print subscription is The New Yorker, and I get The Atlantic online. But over the years, I've subscribed to Boston, The Economist, New York, and a few others. Were any of them from Publishers Clearning House, or were their offerings more of the House & Garden, Good Housekeeping, Field and Stream variety? Who knows. 

I do know that I haven't been on the PCH mailing list for a good long while. But - of course! - I would have been delighted to win a prize. Come on! Who wouldn't want to be handed a check for a cool million? Guaranteed a thousand bucks, five thousand bucks, a week for life? Sure, in order to collect your loot, you would have had to go through the excruciating ugh-ness of having the PCH Prize Patrol show up on your doorstep with a clutch of balloons and a bouquet of grocery store roses, the indignity of having to smile pretty for the camera while you held an outsized fake check. (An introvert's nightmare!) The best part was that major PCH awards weren't insane enough (nothing like a Powerball billion) that you'd become the hand-out target of every long lost relative, every deadbeat, every poor soul, every sob story, every scammer in the world. Those PCH prizes were just plenty enough to make you happy and set for life. 

And then...

Earlier this year, Publishers Clearing House went bankrupt, and ARB Interactive, the company that bought PCH out, has "said it’s not responsible for past prizes, casting doubt on any further payments for those winners."

When PCH filed for bankruptcy protection, it listed:

... 10 prize winners among its largest unsecured creditors, according to federal court records. The filing stated that the company had liabilities between $50 million and $100 million, with assets estimated at only $1 million to $10 million. (Source: NY Times)

ARB, which - no kidding - operates an online casino has "said that it would pay only those who won after July 15, casting doubt on how much more money past winners will receive."

So who's left in the lurch, or, in the words of one of those past winners, who got "the shaft, on top of the shaft?"

There's John Wyllie who in 2012 won $5K per week for life. Sweet! Now 60, Wyllie was able to retire and buy property. With $260K coming in each January, he was sitting pretty on his six acres in the Pacific Northwest. So what if $260K in 2025 is worth a lot less than it was in 2012, it's still a lot of freakin' money. In January, no check arrived and Wyllie has started working part time. 

Then there's the Veatch family, a couple of disabled vets who've been raising their family of three on the $200K they received from 2021 up until this year. Which is a whole lot more than whatever disability payments they've been receiving.

Maybe Wyllie and the Veatches didn't spend their money all that prudently. Wyllie retired and bought property, but claimed to still have a mortgage on that property, even after receiving more than a decade's worth of $260K annual checks. 

And the Veatches said they were using their $200K per annum to pay their regular bills and "experiences for their kids." They were planning on using this year's payments for back taxes and debt. 

So maybe not the wisest of spenders in either case. 

But why not spend it? They were going to be getting it for forever. Until they weren't.

Publishers Clearning House used to protect winner risk through prepaid annuities purchased through legit banks and insurance companies. But they threw that practice out the window in the early aughts, leaving winners holding the risk bag, which has now turned out to be empty of cash. 

ARB is putting some money into the PCH asset account, but PCH's debt outweights its assets by an order of magnitude or two, and it's not clear where the past winners are on the who-get's-what creditor list. 

ARB has said that it wants to:

...rebuild P.C.H. as a brand synonymous with trust, excitement and long-term integrity, and to ensure that every future winner can have full confidence their prizes will be paid in full, no matter what,” the spokesman said in the statement.

Making those past prize winners whole would help with that rebuild, but whether ARB has the appetite to fulfill the promises made to those once-thought-lucky folks. 

“They have absolutely ruined people’s lives,” Mr. Veatch said. “We’re literally in a worse spot now than we were when we won.”

While I haven't been on the Publishers Clearing House good side for years - decades maybe - I'm not averse to prize-money wishful thinking. I play the lottery, regularly but irregularly, and enjoy the days leading up to a big money drawing fantasizing about what I'd do with my winnings. But those fantasies always involve taking the prize in a lump sum. Sure, the annuity might well end up being worth more in the long run. But at this point in my life, the long run ain't all that long. And who wants to take the risk of the money tap being abruptly turned off? Who wants to be left, like poor Mr. Veatch, in a worse spot than they started out in.

Next time, take the lump sum money and run.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source: Facebook

An eye for a tooth, a tooth for an eye

One of the most aggravating and disheartening aspects of the Trumpian elimination of so much medical research funding is that there will be all sorts of wonderful, seemingly miraculous outcomes that will be delayed or disappeared entirely when the research dollars dry up. Rsearch aimed at prevention, aimed at cure, aimed at making life more liveable for those with maladies that might or might not have been preventable or curable.  

I thought of this one-more-reason-to-fear-and-loathe-the-current-administration when I read recently about something called "tooth-in-eye" surgery.

This complex form of surgery wasn't developed through U.S. government research funding. It was created by an Italian opthalmic surgeon in the 1960's, and has rarely been performed. 

But for Brent Chapman, a 34 year old Canadian, "tooth-in-eye" surgery has been a life-changer.

Chapman went blind at the age of 13 after having a terrible (and obviously extremely rare) reaction to taking Ibuporfen - a reaction that left him blind in both eyes. 

Chapman spent his teen and young adult years trying to find a treatment that would restore his vision.  Then he ran into Vancouver opthamoogist Greg Moloney.

Moloney suggested the rare “tooth-in-eye” procedure on Chapman’s right eye. The surgery — which was developed in the 1960s and has only been performed on several hundred people worldwide — entails multiple steps.

The patient’s tooth is pulled and then flattened, and a small hole is then drilled in the center. A prosthetic lens is fitted over the hole, and the tooth is ultimately placed at the front of the patient’s eye, where they can see through the new lens.

Moloney explained to Today.com that a tooth from the patient is used because it decreases the chances that the body will perceive the object as a foreign body and reject it.

“Usually, the reaction is shock and surprise and frank disbelief that it [the procedure] even exists,” Moloney told the outlet while discussing the treatment. (Source: People)

Shock, surprise, frank disbelief? Yeah, that would be me. Brent Chapman's initial reaction was that it "sounded a little science fictiony." Crazy was a word Chapman used.

I wasn't thinking "science fictiony." For whatever reason, I thought of a James Bond villain - Eyetoother? - plucking out a tooth and screwing it into his eyeball. Am I the only one who can hear Shirley Bassey belting out the theme to Goldfinger? Only this time, the villain is Eyetoother.

Eyetoother, he's the man, the man with the screwball eye. Such a weird eyeball...Pretty girl, beware of his toothy eye, for you will die.

But Dr. Moloney is neither Bond villain nor sci-fi weirdo. He's just the fellow who looked at an old procedure and thought it might work for Chapman. Which it did.

No, eye tooth surgery has nothing to do with Trump. But there could be tooth-in-eye breakthroughs of the future that we'll never see. Drugs, treatments, procedures, interventions that help the deaf hear, the paralyzed regain mobility, save parents from watching their children suffer and die from something that could have been prevented, cured, treated. 

We will never know the totality of what we'll lose out on, thanks to the idiotically insane cutbacks to research funding now being made. And can't you see the idiotic DOGE bro seeing an application for something like tooth-in-eye surgery and chortling to his buddies as he clicks delete on it?

Meanwhile, we can celebrate with Ben Chapman, and laud Dr. Greg Moloney. Tooth for an eye seems like a pretty worthwhile exchange.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source: iStock

Title, schmitle. (Looking at you, Prince Andrew.)

Well, on Saturday I participated in the No Kings event in Boston. It was a beautiful day to be out and about with my fellow terrorists antifas violence-lovers Communists America-haters citizens trying to check the power of the power-tripping, immoral/amoral madman who revels in playing king. And celebrating the fact that, at least for the mo, we don't have a monarchy in our country. Bad enough that on occasion we elect someone who is manifestly unfit to be the person in charge, let alone get stuck with someone who lucked into the lead-dog position by accident of birth.

After returning home and putting my whiteboard sign away for the next protest, I caught up on the news. While there was scant news about the estimated 5 million to 8 million folks who showed up at over 2,500 sites across the country, there was plenty of news about Prince Andrew.

After so many scandals, Prince Andrew has given up the use of his titles and honours.

He can no longer sign off as the Duke of York, or put "KG", a Knight of the Garter, after his name, with a flourish of medieval chivalry.

The Earl of Inverness and Baron Killyleagh are also scratched off his list of titles, with "Andrew Inverness" a name he'd sometimes used in his business dealings. (Source: BBC) 

While the move was positioned as Andrew voluntarily elinquishing his hard-earned handed-to-him honorifics, it's pretty easy to see that he was pretty much forced to do so at the point of his brother the king's royal sceptre.

Questions about Andrew's links to sex offender Jeffrey Epstein were drowning out the work of the rest of the Royal Family. That was on top of unanswered questions about Andrew's finances and his connections to an alleged Chinese spy.

Although I lap up shows like The Crown, I'm not an obsessive  royal watcher. (Brit royals of course. Is there any other kind?) But I do keep up. And I know enough about them to know that, of the current batch, the crown prince of unprincipled uselessness has long been Prince Andrew. For many decades this spoiled man-baby - the spare to Charles before he had kids and back in the day when Princess Anne, as a female, could not have succeeded Charles as the monarch, even though she was older than Andrew - made headlines for inappropriate behavior. He was dubbed "Randy Andy," and he was often caught up in some minor financial corruption scandal or the other. 

Andrew was reputedly Queen Elizabeth's favorite child, but even she couldn't fully protect him once he was implicated in the Epstein scandal. She rescinded some of his military titles and a couple of hundred "royal patronages" (which are largely vague affiliations with charitable organizations; in Andrew's case, his patronages included the British-Kazakh Society, Greenwich Hospital, and the SickKids Foundation).

When the Queen gave him the royal Wellington boot, Andrew no longer was able to act in any official capacity at royal-ish events, and he had to stop using the His Royal Highness (HRH) style. 

Which, before Ma-MA clamped down, he was even using in his email signature. As in this from a note to his buddy Jeffrey Epstein.  A, HRH The Duke of York, KG.

And now, with the latest "voluntary" downgrade, Andrew can no longer use The Duke of York or KG (Knight of the Garter), either. (Andrew's good natured trollop-y ex-wife, Sarah Ferguson, is no longer able to use her Duchess of York honorific.) 

And there go the Earl of Inverness and Baron Killyleagh, too.

It's rumored that Prince William is going to further de-whatever his Uncle Andrew by giving him the Duke of Windsor treatment, not inviting him to his coronation once King Charles ascends to the Great Palace in the Sky. (One would think that even William would be hard put to deprive Andrew of attending the funeral of his own brother should A outlive C, which is likely given an age difference of twelve years and Charles' health issues.)

It's not clear what impact Andrew's detitling will be on his pocketbook. He lives rent free in a mansion that he can't be evicted from, and I'm sure his mother left him enough to survive quite nicely. But losing his titles - other than Prince, I guess - must be humiliating and galling, and may cut down on the number of royal sucker-uppers who loved swanning around with Andrew when he was still titled. HRH, KG, Baron Killyleagh...

Serves this absolute git, this complete wanker, right. 

Sure, it must be hard to have grown up in the House of Weird. To have been given everything in return for nothing. To have all sorts of gits and wankers falling all over you and your titles. 

But Princess Anne and Prince Edward seem to have kept their noses clean, to have sucked it up, to have shown up for all the ribbon cuttings, funerals, garden parties, and whatevers. It can be done.

And title, schmitle. One thing to be a King, a Queen, a Prince, a Princess. Or even the Duke of Earl. But all of these other title-eens. Honorifics? Who and what are they honoring exactly? Nothing honorable about this former HRH.

Meanwhile, this latest royal hoo-hah sure underscores why a lot of us Americans want NO KINGS.

---------------------------------
Image Source: AOL

What a remarkable woman

 

Stephanie 'Steve' Shirley. I'd never heard of her. But what a remarkable woman. What a remarkable life.

After a brief illness, Shirley died in August at the age of 91 in Reading, England. But she didn't start out in England. She was born Vera Buchthal in 1933 in Germany, 

the daughter of a Jewish father and a Christian mother. Her father having lost his position as a judge once the Nazi's took over, Vera's family moved to Austria, where her mother was from.

Once Hitler took Austria over in 1938, that country was no longer a safe place to be. Vera's father made his escape to Switzerland, hiking a la the Von Trapps of Sound of Music fame, over the mountains. Shortly after, Vera and her sister were put on the train by their mother and became part of a Kindertransport to London, a program that saved thousands of Jewish children from the death at the hands of the Nazis. 

The family was eventually reunited in England, but Vera had developed a strong bond with the foster parents who took her in. When she became a British citizen in the early 1950's, she changed her name to Stephanie Brook. And began working in tech for the post office, where she worked on the development of telephone exchanges and a lottery-number generator. (As an aside, the girls' high school she attended didn't offer math, but she was allowed to take math courses at a local boys' school. She opted out of going direct to uni, because the only STEM option open to her at the time was botany. She eventually got her degree by taking courses at night.)

After the PO, Shirley moved on to a small tech company, working on computer design.

But she found herself bumping against a glass ceiling, as her suggestions were often ignored. So in 1962, by now married and a new mother of a handicapped child, she formed her own company.

When she started her software business, Freelance Programmers, in 1962, British women could not work on the stock exchange floor or even drive a bus. Her initial financing was six pounds (roughly $16.85 then and about $220 today), but she needed her husband’s signature to open the company’s bank account and deposit her own money. (Source: NY Times)

And when she established her company - which she founded sitting at her dining room table - Shirley was driven by a very powerful and innovative idea: "create a place where women could find a work-life balance."

At the time, many educated women left the computer industry after marrying or having a child. Ms. Shirley provided them an opportunity to re-enter the work force while remaining at home, writing code part time with flexible hours.

When Shirley was getting her business off the ground, the letters she wrote to prospective clients often went unanswered. (Hmmmm. Why might that be?) At the suggestion of her husband, she started using the name Steve Shirley, which turned out to be a door opener. (Hmmmm. Why might that be?)  

Admittedly, when Steve Shirley showed up for interviews, those prospective clients were shocked. But her business took off and she experienced quite a bit of success. 

The company designed software for the black-box flight recorder on the Concorde supersonic jet, and for scheduling buses and freight trains. It also developed software protocols that were eventually adopted by NATO.

Ms. Shirley disguised the flexible, work-from-home nature of her business by offering clients fixed prices for projects.

...“Who would have guessed,” she said in a 2020 speech to the British Computer Society, that programming for the Concorde’s flight recorder “was done by a team of 30 women working in their homes?”

In 1993, Shirley sold her business for "150 million pounds, or $225 million at the time." Oh, and lest we forget her greatness, a few years prior she had restructured the company around share ownership, which turned 70 of her employees into millionaires.  

In her retirement, she wrote a memoir, gave talks (of course, she gave a TED Talk!), and became a philanthropist, giving away nearly $100M "primarily to support causes related to information technology and autism" (which her son suffered from). And she has received all sorts of British honors. She's Dame Steve, etc. 

Here's a picture of the travel document of the brilliant and beautiful little girl who survived the Holocaust thanks to the Kindertransport:

On BlueSky, I follow the account of the Auschwitz Museum, which regularly publishes the pictures of children who perished there. When I see the pictures of those bright and lovely children, I always wonder who they might have been. With Steve Shirley we get to know. 

“She was ridiculously ahead of her time,” Sue Black, a computer science professor at Durham University in England, said in an interview. “The thing is, we haven’t even got companies like that now, 65 years later, that really champion women in that way and are led by a woman.”

She should be “one of the best-known people in tech in the world, or at least in the Western world,” Professor Black said.

During her 2015 TED Talk, here's what Steve Shirley had to say:

“You can always tell ambitious women by the shape of our heads. They’re flat on top from being patted patronizingly.”

What a remarkable life. What a remarkable woman. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source for Shirley at work: Science Museum UK

Image Source for her travel document: The NY Times article.

An "unprovoked attack"? Not from the water buffalo's point of view

A couple of months ago, there was news out of South Africa that a big-game hunter from Texas was killed by a Cape buffalo he was stalking. Asher Watkins, a well-to-do Dallas real estate man whose speciality was pricey ranches was the fellow who ran out of luck. 

“Asher was fatally injured in a sudden and unprovoked attack by an unwounded buffalo he was tracking together with one of our professional hunters and one of our trackers,” Hans Vermaak, whose family runs [Coenraad Vermaak] Safaris said in a statement. (Source: NY Times)

It goes without blogging that I am completing lacking the inclination or temperament to go big game hunting. My idea of a challenge is keeping my DuoLingo streak going and reading 104 books (two books per week) this year. So far, so good on both counts. But just about as far away from big game hunting as you can get, as neither of my avocations requires wealth, travel, or guns. (None of those 104 books, by the way, will be authored by big game he-man Ernest Hemingway, by the way. I've never been much of a fan.)

No one I know hunts big game, but I've known some duck and deer hunters over the years (including my Uncles Jack and Bob, and my husband's Uncle Bill). To each his own. It's not as if I don't eat duck. Big game is less understandale to me. Why would someoe want to kill a magnificent giraffe, an elephant, a cape buffalo? It's not as if you're going to load up your freezer with giraffe steaks. At least I think not.

Many big game hunters - and Watkins was one of them - argue that big game hunting is good for conservation, which may be at least a quasi-valid point. But there's something more going on, the desire for the thrill of the chase, the thrill of the kill. 

For what it's worth,Watkins (according to his obituary; yes, I am a ghoul) was a fair chase hunter. Such hunters pursue their prey in the wild, in their more-or-less natural habitat, as opposed to those who go to one of those outlets where the animals have no escape hatch. The pen may be large, but the animals are penned in. The likelihood of success is high for the hunter; the likelihood of making a safe getaway for the animal is pretty low. This sort of hunter isn't interested in a fair fight. They mostly just want the lion's head and the buffalo horns to mount over their fireplace, the tiger-skin rug under foot in their den.

But Watkins wasn't one of those guys, so in memoriam props to this hunter for that. But he was one of the guys who wanted the trophy, who wanted to pursue his "dream buffalo." I guess if you're into going after your "dream buffalo" you kinda-sorta know what your're getting into. The safari company's website has this to say about the cape buffalo:

A fearless and capable fighter

No species on the planet has a more fearsome reputation than a cape buffalo! Responsible for several deaths and many injuries to hunters each year, the buffalo is regarded as the most dangerous animal to pursue in Africa, let alone the world. Crafty and belligerent, he seeks refuge in thickets when wounded or danger approaches! Buffalo are known to charge unprovoked...Buffalo hunting is thrilling and exhilarating, placing this formidable species at the top of every hunter’s wish list! (Source: Coenraad Vermaak Safaris)

(The nickname for the cape buffalo is "black death," btw. And they're apparently pretty smart, at least by animal standards - which, come to think of it, probably aren't all that far off of human standards, at least what we see about human standards these days. Cape buffalo reportedly will rememeber a hunter they've had a run in with and, years after the fact, ambush that hunter when they run into them again.)

Anyway, what I don't particularly understand is why the attack on Watkins was considered "unprovoked." He was, after all, trying to kill the beast. I wouldn't characterize that as "unprovoked." 

Given the current vibe, blood sports are on the increase, including - despicably - the lust for killing humans. Yet hunters and safari companies are well aware that there are plenty of folks who consider big game hunting amoral-immoral-postmoral etc. Coenraad Vermaak Safaris seems to hint at this when they write: 

Although we are hunters, we are actually in the memory making business and we thrive on seeing Africa through our clients’ eyes!

Ah, conservation, fair chase, and memory making. Memory making, that is, unless you're killed in an "unprovoked" attack. Mabye the safari outfits shoud start seeing Africa through the eyes of the animals they're killing. "Unbprovoked" my hoof!

--------------------------------

Image Source: BBC

Walking tall and carrying a big ol' stick made of BS

Imagine having the last name "Pusser." Bad enough, eh? But to look at your newborn baby and give him the name "Buford," seems like a recipe for disaster. Either little Buford Pusser is going to be bullied and/or he's going to grow up to be a bully, a meanie, a bad ol' boy.

But back in the early 1970's, American culture bought into the bullshit that a good ol' small-town vigilante sheriff carrying a big ol' stick to beat up on the bootleggers, pimps, and gamblers in his crime-ridden Tennessee county was jus' Walking Tall. Which was the name of the first of several ludicrous movies dedicated to the legend of Buford Pusser.

I don't recall seeing Walking Tall in a movie theater. It was released in 1973, when I was spending a goodly chunk of the year backpacking around Europe. The one movie I saw during our traipse was The Last Tango in Paris, viewed appropriately enough in a Paris cinéma. I wasn't a big fan of the movie, but most what I remember is that there was an attendant dressed like stewardess who accompanied us to the seats she chose for us. There were very few people in the theater and we were all clumped together.

If I didn't see Walking Tall in the theater, I've seen it (or at least snippets of it). And I've certainly made plenty of fun of the bludgeon-wielding Buford Pusser over the years. (That name alone. Talk about MAGA before its time! And, yes, I am a terrible snob, especially when it comes to those who actually are deplorables.)

Pusser, the cop-judge-jury in his anti-corruption campaign, became something of a hero, a legend, especially in the small town he hailed (heiled?) from. 

There's a Buford Pusser Museum in Adamsville, TN that's dedicated to good ol' Buford in particular and law enforcement in general. The museum has a shop that sells a lot of Buford commemorative wares, including replicas of his hickory walking tall walking and bludgeoning stick. (Still available for $30.) They run an annual spring carnival weekend with rides, entertainment (of course, there's an Elvis impersonator!), praise worship, and wrestling. Something for (almost) everyone, and all thanks to "the man who became the target of many assassination attempts – one of which took the life of his wife and left him emotionally and physically scarred."

I'm quite sure that Buford was emotionally and physically scarred, but it now appears that he was also a murderer. Of his wife. 

In late August: 

Mark Davidson, District Attorney for the 25th Judicial District, said the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has “produced evidence sufficient to create probable cause.” That means that “more likely than not,” if Buford Pusser were alive today, an indictment could be presented to the McNairy County Grand Jury for their consideration against him for the murder of his wife.

More than likely, Davidson explained, Pauline Mullins Pusser was shot outside the vehicle then brought into the vehicle. Davidson said there is probable cause that her death was “not an accident,” and instead an “act of intimate, deliberate violence.”

“It’s been said that the dead cannot cry out for justice, it is the duty of the living to do so,” Davidson said. “In this case, that duty’s been carried out 58 years later.”

TBI Director David Rausch spoke to key elements learned throughout the renewed investigation: inconsistencies in Buford Pusser’s story, recent statements provided by those associated with the investigation, Pauline Mullins Pusser’s autopsy and evidence examined by TBI personnel.

The agency had also received a tip about a possible murder weapon in 2023, although they would not disclose whether that tip connected them to the weapon during Friday’s press conference. (Source: WKRN)

Holy - or not so holy - moly! Talk about a cold case. Pauline Mullins Pusser was killed in 1967. 

Among other findings, Pauline was a battered wife. And the oh-so-righteous Buford shot himself at close range so that it would look like he was the target of an assassin who killed Pauline by mistake and only managed to wound Buford. 

The Pussers' granddaughter - their only child is dead - has said that her family's been through a lot, and she doesn't see the need to re-open old wounds and besmirch the memory of her before-here-time dead grandfather, who's no longer around to defend himself. Can't blame her.

On the other hand, Pauline Mullins Pusser's brother is happy to have those old wounds re-opened so that her family can get closure. Can't blame him.

Meanwhile, the folks in Adamsville are grappling with what to do, what to do. The town:

...will carefully review the implications of these findings and determine the appropriate course of action with respect to the Buford Pusser Museum and other related matters. This review will occur in a public study session, followed by a public meeting, in order to ensure that all decisions are made openly and with full accountability.

...While the legacy of Buford Pusser has been a part of our identity, Adamsville is defined by much more. We are a resilient and united community that prioritizes the well-being of our residents, the future of our children, and the continued growth and progress of our city.”

Not that I won't forget all about until and unless it pops up again in the news, but it would be interesting to see what happens there. Maybe they'll have to rename the museum and festival. Maybe they'll incorporate the not-so-good news into the museum. And for the festival, this being America the home of the most vulgar and crass imaginale, I can see a Buford Pusser Wild Ride. Maybe the museum and festival will go out of business, and Adamsville will be out one source of tourism.

Anyway, justice delayed is apparently not always justice denied. So let's end this with the words of the immor(t)al Buford Pusser:

"What's right is right and what's wrong is wrong. It doesn't matter who you are." - Buford.

Buford, we hardly new ya!

_________________________________

Image Source: Facebook

Just put your lips together and blow

One of the many pleasures of my pre-school days was meandering around the neighborhood with a small covey of my fellow three- and four-year olds. Unsupervised. (Those were the days!) We didn't stray far, but there was plenty to do on Winchester Ave, that's for sure.

Every few months, the sewer cleaners came by remove the dead leaves and whatever other gutter leavings had washed into the sewer. It was fascinating to watch the sewer guy maneuvering the claw thingy, and bringing up wads of dead, sodden leaves, and sometimes even a red ball that had fallen in. He would toss the ball over to us, and even though it did kinda-sorta smell of dead leaves and whatever else had ended up in the sewer, we were delighted to have it.

If someone in the hood had gotten a recent large appliance delivery, we would commandeer the box, stuff a couple of kids in it, and hurtle down the steep banks in front of the houses on our side of Winchester Ave.

If a delivery truck of some sort was parked on the street, we liked to scamper underneath it, always on the alert for someone turning the engine on. Whee!

We liked to go scrounging door to door, ringing doorbells to see if someone would give us something to eat.

Gladys "Chubby" Smith was a favorite port of call, because she always had candy and always welcome us into her living room, where she sat in a stuffed armchair chain smoking and eating candy, and where her obese cat Sylvester occupied the stuffed armchair opposite Chubby's.

And then there was the Anderson-Johnson house, where two of the three flats were taken by members of the Anderson-Johnson family.

The Johnsons were super kind. Super kind Bobby Johnson was in college, but when he was around, he'd always spend a few minutes tossing a ball - maybe even the little red sewer ball - with us. (Bobby went on to a career as a teacher and school principal. In 1984, his mother - the super kind Lillian Johnson was murdered. She was no longer living on Winchester when she was killed, but down nearer to Clark University. The cold case was solved in 2007 thanks to DNA evidence.)

Miss Anderson, the super kind aunt(I think) of Lillian Johnson lived on the first floor, and when Miss Anderson was at home, we struck it rich. She always gave us each a nickel or a Milky Way. And if she wasn't home, or if we'd already exhausted our weekly nickel or Milky Way allotment, we could always pick up the conch shell outside the front door, which had her spare housekey hidden in the shell's fold, and listen to the ocean.

There aren't many sounds that to me are lovelier or more evocative.

And now, it seems, there may be another use for the noble conch shell.

Blowing into a conch shell could help tackle the symptoms of a sleep disorder that affects millions of people across the UK, according to a study. Conch blowing, also known as shankh blowing, is an ancient ritual that involves breathing in deeply and exhaling into the spiral-shaped shell. The practice could improve sleep for patients with obstructive sleep apnoea (OSA), which usually needs to be treated with uncomfortable machinery, according to the research. (Source: The Guardian)

I don't know whether he was ever officially diagnosed with obstructive sleep apnea, but my late husband was a snorer. Wish this had been known back in the day, as we would definitely have invested in a conch shell. Or two. One for Jim to blow into, and one for me to listen to the ocean with. 

“Shankh blowing is a simple low-cost breathing technique that could help improve sleep and reduce symptoms without the need for machines or medication,” said Dr Krishna K Sharma, who led the research.

“The way the shankh is blown is quite distinctive. This action creates strong vibrations and airflow resistance, which likely strengthens the muscles of the upper airway, including the throat and soft palate, areas that often collapse during sleep in people with OSA.”

The most common form of treatment for sleep apnoea is a continuous positive airway pressure (Cpap) machine, which involves patients wearing a mask that blows pressurised air into the nose and throat while asleep. Previous research has also found that playing a woodwind instrument could help with the condition.

Although the machines are effective, they can be uncomfortable, leading the researchers to suggest that shankh blowing could be a promising alternative.

Sounds quite promising. And picking up a conch shell on eBay (or in a beach-side gift shop) is cheaper than a breathing machine or investing in a woodwind instrument. Plus easier to operate. Playing a bassoon or saxophone is hard. But we all know how to use a conch shell. It's just like whistling. Just put your lips together and blow.

Image Source: Wikipedia

Teddie's going bigtime

I don't remember when I discovered Teddie Peanut Brother. Although Teddie has been around for 100 years now, I didn't grow up with it. We were a Peter Pan PB household, and we ate plenty of it. 

Peter Pan was by no means the most popular brand back then. That was Skippy. But buying Peter Pan was definitely in keeping with parental preference for the oddball. Prince Spaghetti? Fuggedaboutit! We ate Mueller's. Why eat B&M baked beans when you could have Friends instead? Not that I liked baked beans in any way, shape, or form, but this was a particularly galling choice because B&M can labels could be turned in for mission money. Fortunately, the tea brand that worked was Tetley, so I did have an occasional Tetley box lid to contribute to saving pagan babies. 

I don't know if these brand choices were economically or personal idiosyncracy driven, but we also used Ipana toothpaste (not Crest or Colgate), played Easy Money rather than Monopoly, and Keyword rather than Scrabble. 

Of course, whenever we complained about some family weirdness in comparison to what "everyone else" could buy or do, my parents were quick to respond with "but you're not everyone else." Which was abundantly clear to the Rogers kids, that's for sure.

Today, Jif is the number one peanut butter brand in terms of market share, but Jif, the choice of "choosy mothers," didn't factor into my early childhood, other than for this one event. I remember that I was in third grade, so eight years old, and it was a cool early spring day and I was out of school, sick. But not so sick that I couldn't be out riding my bike around our empty street. I'm thinking this must have been when we'd been quarantined with chicken pox and, while I had pretty much recovered, the quarantine fatwa still applied to our house. (My sister Kath had what the doctor - who, by the way, made house calls - characterized as the worst case of chicken pox he'd ever seen.)

Anyway, while I was bicycling around, I met a man going door to door delivering small samples of Jif. My mother took at sample, but we did not convert. (I googled, and there was a nationwide launch of Jif in 1958, which foots with the chicken pox on our house.)

I didn't stay brand loyal to Peter Pan, but as an adult went over to Skippy and once in while to Jif. 

I did stay totally loyal to peanut brother, however. And somewhere along the line, 30+ years ago, I discovered a local brand, Teddie, and that was it for me.

Peanut brother is a staple chez moi, and you can pretty much guarantee that at any given time, there'll be a couple of jars in my cabinet. (Just checked, and I currently have four jars, once of which is pictured here.) 

Teddie is not, of course, to everyone's liking. (My sister Trish is not a fan.) For one thing, it's not homogenized, so you have to stir it up to get the oil mixed in, and you sometimes end up with dry clumps that are difficult to spread. And Teddie isn't sweet, either. Only two ingredients, peanuts and salt. No sugar or anything else added.

Teddie was the brainchild of Michael Hintlian, an Armenian immigrant who opened a candy shop in Boston's Quincy Market in 1925, and a few years later started making peanut butter. 

Now, 100 years after he started his company, that simple food, which he called Teddie Peanut Butter — it’s named after the son of an early employee — has fed generations of New Englanders, developed a cult following among foodies who love that its “all natural” ingredients list consists of just peanuts and salt, and become so in-demand that his grandsons are overseeing a hesitant expansion outside of the region.

After a century as a New England secret, Teddie, our Teddie, is going national.

Over the past two years — driven by an extremely loud insistence from New Englanders who have settled elsewhere in the country — that familiar glass jar with a green lid has made its way onto the shelves of Whole Foods and Publix.

 

It’s a cautious expansion, said Jamie Hintlian, the CEO who is part of the third generation to run the company (his son also works there). If anything, the sales team has found hundreds of ways to say no to retailers who want to carry the brand, Hintlian said, wary of straying too far from its core. (Source: Boston Globe)

I hope that Teddie's is successful in not "straying to far from its core." This is a brand that inspires local loyalty - tees, caps, hoodies, tattoos - near-equivalent to that of Harley-Davidson. And if the comments on The Globe article are any indication, the biggest fear among the faithful is that Teddie's will replace their glass jars with plastic. They did this for a short while a couple of years back, and it was not well-received, but if Teddie's starts shipping all over the country, there'll be pressure to switch to plastic to lower shipping costs. There's also concern that the company will be pressured to add sugar, as some folks/some regions prefer their PB on the sweet side. Not us tough New Englanders, but years ago my sister worked for a company that did marketing research for consumer products companies. I don't remember which specific brand of PB it was, but the formula for peanut butter used by this brand added more sugar than elsewhere to product sold in the South.

There is absolutely no reason to change the Teddie's recipe. The Wircutter, which does product reviews for the New York Times, has twice rated Teddie as the top creamy peanut butter (including a couple of months ago). My preference is crunchy, but I'm sure if they rated the crunchies, Teddie's would again be top of the heap. 

I wish Teddie's a successul nationwide rollout. I love seeing local companies make good. A few years ago, visting friends in Dallas, I was delighted to find Worcester's-own Polar Soda in the grocery store. 

As long as Teddie's keeps the same formula, and keeps its wonderous peanut butter under glass, I'll be happy.

Flutes 'r' Us. (Who knew?)

I knew that, with Zildjians being made here, Greater Boston is the hub of the U.S. cymbal industry. Kind of like what Pittsburgh once was to steel. Just lower scale in terms of the economic value it yields. But until I saw a recent article in the Boston Globe, I had no idea whatsoever that Boston isn't just the hub of the universe, the hub of cymbals. It's also the hub of the flute industry.

I do associate Boston with music - BSO, the Pops, Berklee - just not necessarily with flutes. Other than the fifes played by ye olde colonial reenactors. What's flutes got to do with us, do with us?

Plenty, it seems. 

The US auto industry isn’t what it used to be, but if it were, Greater Boston would be the Detroit of flute making — home to a host of world-class manufacturers. And unlike Detroit, the Boston area has retained its crown, as artisans trained at well-established companies have continually launched new firms of their own.

William S. Haynes of Acton begat Powell Flutes of Maynard, where Abigana, an award-winning flutist, works as sales manager. But the region is also home to Brannen Brothers Flutemakers of Woburn, Nagahara Flutes of Chelmsford, Levit Flute in Natick, Di Zhao Flutes of Westford, Burkart Flutes and Piccolos in Shirley, and Emanuel Flutes of North Andover. (Source: Boston Globe)

I began racking my brain trying to come up with the names of any famous flautists, and came up with three: James Galway, Lizzo, and Jethro Tull. (Or course, Jethro Tull isn't the name of the flute player; it's the name of the group. I was never a particular fan of this 60's-70's band. That would be my brother Tom. Given his incessant playing of the album, I was quite familiar with the innards of Aqualung. But I had to look up the name of the group's flute guy. Ian Anderson.)

My wandering took me to wondering whether James Galway, Lizzo, and Ian Anderson play Boston flutes.

Well, two out of three ain't bad.

Galway plays a Nagahara: Chelmsford, Mass. Anderson plays a Powell: Maynard, Mass. Lizzo mostly plays a Japanese-made flute, although she does have one from New Hampshire flute-maker John Lunn. Given NH's adjacency to Massachusetts, it's almost three out of three for the flute players I'm familiar with having local ties.

You might be thinking, just how much goes in to flute making. After all, isn't a flute a hollowed out metal rod (or wooden stick) with some holes in it? That and the thing you blow into (which is called a headjoint)?

The answer is, of course, of course there's a lot.

Local flutes, many custom-made, are available for a wide spectrum of prices, from a couple of thousand way up to the six figure range. And there's an awful lot of complex precision work that goes into the making of one. Plus technology.

There’s a lot of advanced technology in a modern flute. Powell Flutes invented a way of bonding sterling silver and gold to create a lighter, less-expensive flute that still conveys the warm, rich sound of a 14-carat instrument. Some companies use parts created at local machine shops. Here the parts are fabricated in computer-controlled milling machines to tolerances within a thousandth of an inch, much thinner than a human hair.

The technology angle is interesting, given that Maynard, Mass. (Powell) and Chelmsford, Mass. (Nagahara) were both tech hubs of yore. Maynard was the home of Digital Equipment, and Wang Labs was in Lowell, right on the Chelmsford border.

Anyway, there's a lot of detail in the Globe article on the history and the precise manufacturing process of local flutes, but one thing that struck my eye is that the making of a silver or gold flute produces a lot of dust.

Haynes recaptures gold and silver dust worth hundreds of thousands of dollars by sweeping the floors, benches, and chairs.

Thar's gold in them thar sweepings! 

“I’m surprised they let me wash my clothes at home,” [David Schipani, Haynes’s director of product design and development] said.

Well, I'm just a sucker for anything that's made in Massachusetts. 

Not that I know a damned thing about fluting, but YAY, MASSACHUSETTS FLUTES!

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Image Source: Emmanuel Flutes

Yet another unintended consequence of our errancy, our profound stupidity

I had the measles when I was 4 or 5. It was during the summer, I remember that. And my sister Kath, who would have been 6 or 7, had it at the same time. We spent the course of our illness in the double bed that we shared at the time. (A couple of years later, we graduated to twin beds.) Our bedroom was darkened for the duration, as at that point in time (1950's) it was believed that keeping light to a minimum lessened the likelihood of vision problems, or even blindness, associated with having had the measles. Most kids did get measles, and most kids didn't die from it. But hundreds of measles death a year were recorded during the 1950's. It wasn't a death warrant, like leukemia. And it wasn't as terrible as polio. But kids did die. 

I don't know if my brother Tom, who would have been 2 or 3 at the time, ever had measles. He doesn't know, either. But given how contagious measles is, and how we were living in fairly close quarters in a flat in my grandmother's three decker, he probably did.  

There was no cure for measles. Treatment consisted of isolation and bedrest. Maybe calamine lotion or cool compresses? St. Joseph's Baby Aspirin for fever? I don't think our family was quarantined when we had measles, as we were a few years later when we all got chicken pox. (My father could go out to work, but that was about it.) 

Measles vaccine became aailable in the early 1960's, so the younger kiddos in my family likely dodged that particular childhood illness bullet. Trish knows for certain that she never had measles; Rick isn't sure. 

Thanks to that measles vaccine, this disease was, by the year 2000, pretty much eradicated in the United States. 

But that was then and this is now, and the now is that more people are refusing to get their children vaccinated. And the now is that more kids are getting the measles. And the now is that some of those children are dying. Not many, but some. And some seems like an awful lot, given that the disease was once considered eradicated in this country. 

In the before times, as I noted, there was no particular treatment, let alone a cure. Measles ran its course. And then, thanks to the vaccine, measles ran out of steam. So there was absolutely no impetus to develop any treatment for it. In the before times, I have no idea whether - when millions of kids were suffering through house arrest in darkened rooms; or like the quarantined kiddos in the 1943 ad, were just stuck inside, not able to go out an play in their Red Goose shoes - there were pharma companies researching measles treatment. Everyone was more laissez faire back then when it came to things like childhood disease. 

But that was then and this is now. And the current regime's antipathy to vaccines means that there's an opportunity to work on treatment. So:

...as vaccination rates fall and infections rise, scientists are racing to develop drugs they say could prevent or treat the disease in vulnerable and unvaccinated people...

Scientists across the country including at biotechs Invivyd and Saravir Biopharma—and institutions such as Vanderbilt University Medical Center and Georgia State University—are in the early stages of measles-treatment development. The drugs are still a ways from becoming available to patients but could offer alternatives to people who are immunocompromised, don’t respond to the measles vaccine or are vaccine skeptics. Antibody treatments could treat someone who is sick or help prevent measles in people recently exposed to the virus. (Source: Wall Street Journal)

So if I've got this straight, because there are vaccine skeptics who for some reason believe that vaccines do more harm than good, because lunatics like RFK Jr. are in charge of our healthcare system, and when we're at a time when all sorts of research grants are drying up, pharma companies and academic institutions are investing in research on treatment for a disease that was already eradicated. Rather than investing in research for maladies - like, say, all forms of childhood cancer - for which there is no known prevention and cure.

Swell, just swell...

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Image source: eBay