Meet the Neighbors: The Dinosaurs Next Door

Soon after our arrival in Ithaca a month ago, Frank and I began our exploration of the Finger Lakes area of New York state.  Knowing that winter can come early here we’ve taken advantage of the many pleasant late summer days to poke around and get a better sense of the place we’ll call home for the next couple of years. 
  
On one of our treks along Highway 96, I was excited to catch a glimpse of the Paleontological Research Institute.  Could it be – a dinosaur museum less than a mile from my new home?  I’ve been fascinated by dinosaurs since childhood and here they were in my backyard!  Sort of.  PRI is home to the Museum of the Earth, which sponsors numerous educational exhibits and events, including the History of Life series that kicked off last Wednesday, September 21.  The free classes begin promptly at 5:30 p.m. and continue weekly through October 26.

Sixty minutes isn’t much time to cover 4 million years of Earth’s geological history and complex theories of the origins of life, but Dr. David Campbell gave it a good shot. (link to his chapter in The mollusks: A guide to their study, collection, and preservation)

Armed with that hour’s worth of information, I returned to the museum on Saturday to take a look around.  PRI boasts one of the largest fossil collections in the United States, numbering between 2 and 3 million specimens.  The collections are especially rich in invertebrate fossils, for example trilobites.  Those particular organisms give me the willies – too much resemblance to some creature once seen in an old horror movie, I suppose – but PRI has them in abundance, ranging in size from the barely visible to almost 3 feet long. Learn more about the region’s former denizens of the water in Trilobites of New York: An Illustrated Guide (2002). 

Land-wise, New York was once home to dinosaurs and mastodons – though not at the same time, and much later than the tribe of trilobites.  The museum’s mascot is a coelophysis nicknamed Cecil, represented in bronze sculpture at the entrance to the grounds.  An early dinosaur, coelophysis was a small, carnivorous biped with hollow limb bones.  Don’t confuse this guy with the velociraptors that terrorized the cast of Jurassic Park; coelophysis was a fine little hunter but not nearly as advanced in development as velociraptor.  Still,  Cecil looks pretty ferocious...I wouldn't want to meet him alone in a dark jungle!

The Museum of the Earth is also home to the mastodon of Hyde Park, the first of two largely intact skeletons recovered through collaboration with Cornell University in PRI's Mastodon Project.

The excavation project was documented by Discovery Channel in Mastodon in Your Backyard.  A clip from the program shows the muddy beginnings of extricating the bones from a family’s backyard pond.

 The mastodon exhibit includes an artist’s rendition of mastodons on Ithaca’s south hill – in approximately the location of Ithaca College.  Earlier this year IC abandoned its efforts to choose a suitable mascot, though the college will retain the ‘Bomber’ nickname.  I was rooting for the Lake Beast, but on second thought perhaps the mastodon would be a very cool mascot – way better than a flying squirrel, no question.



A few steps away from the mastodon exhibit is the Gorge Garden, a representation of the northeastern U.S. during the Ice Age, complete with tundra vegetation and glacial erratics.

One aspect of the museum that I found especially impressive was the combination of art with science.  In the lobby, Primordial Imprints by Jonathan Paul Bennett fuse glass and metal into castings of a variety of fossils.  The trilobite in glass is pretty cool, but my favorite piece is the set of antlers that gleams like a polished mineralized fossil.  Downstairs, Art Murphy’s photographic Devonian Dreams present invertebrate fossils from the Catskills in brilliant color.  Perhaps it’s the use of color, but there is a real immediacy to Murphy’s images – a sense of living organisms, not ancient remains.  Both exhibits are amazing and worth the price of admission.  Primordial Imprints runs through November 7; Devonian Dreams runs through January 8, 2012.

The main take-away from my short visit to the museum is a strong impression of the interconnectedness of life across the time continuum.  I don’t mean in some collective conscious way, but in how what came before affects our lives today and how today’s perspective affects the standpoint with which we regard the past.  
Today I live in an apartment complex built on a hillside overlooking a lake carved out by glacial activity.  The icy lands once roamed by mastodons some 10,000 years ago are now marked by corn fields and grape vineyards; we understand the lives of the mastodons through our (provisional, imperfect) knowledge of Earth’s geology and contemporary animals.  I’m  trying to understand a little better.  We’ll see what the History of Life series unfolds.

Book Review: The Archaeology of Home

I have just finished reading The Archaeology of Home: An Epic Set on a Thousand Square Feet of the Lower East Side (2011) by Katharine Greider.  The story opens in 2002, with Greider receiving a late Friday evening phone call from the architect heading up a team charged with assessing her home, No. 239 E. 7th Street, for proposed repairs.  An inspection by the team's engineer reveals a deteriorated foundation in a "failed condition": No. 239 is in imminent danger of complete structural failure and collapse. The architect will report the building's condition to the City first thing Monday morning.  No. 239's occupants, including Greider's family, need to vacate over the weekend.

In an effort to answer the reverberating question How did this happen?, Greider scours the archives of City Hall, searching for the documents that will illuminate some disastrous remodel or faulty decision making of the past.  In the process, she also traces the lives of the people who owned the land and/or lived in/around the building which eventually become her home.  This copiously researched account takes the reader back to the days when what would someday be known as the Lower East Side was yet a salt marsh, the seasonal domain of the Lenape tribe.  Drawing on a vast array of source documents, Greider "excavates" each subsequent strata of the East River neighborhood, revealing a succession of socio-cultural changes that reflect the history not only of New York City but also the United States.

Though the transitions between personal narrative and local history are occasionally awkward, overall Greider's portrait of No. 239 and its environs is captivating and well-written.  The reference list alone is a treasure trove - a rich source of material about NYC's history and immigrant population, especially in the heyday of the tenements.  Greider's reflections on the affect of space and place on the building's/neighborhood's inhabitants are also noteworthy and fully referenced.

I read The Archaeology of Home on a NookColor from Barnes & Noble.  While I appreciate many aspects of the e-book, I wish I'd purchased a paper copy for my library.  The combination of tactile/visual memory and a rainbow of PostIt flags would make it much easier for me to reference specific items of interest in the future.  The virtual bookmark provided by Nook doesn't have the same mental stickiness for me.  Still, whatever the format, The Archaeology of Home is definitely recommended to anyone interested in the life-shaping place we call home.

Changing Places

A month from today, Frank and I will load up a U-Haul and make our way east on I-84 to Boise.  The evergreens of the Pacific Northwest will become a blur in the rearview mirror as our mini-caravan crosses the Blue Mountains and rolls into the high desert of Idaho’s Treasure Valley.  Upon arrival, we will take possession of a house that I have been in once.  For about 15 minutes.  Seven years ago.  Seriously. 

The house belongs to my parents, from whom we will rent what I vaguely recall as a well-designed, smallish place with an open floor plan.  The positives of the house are many:  single-story, master bathroom (with fan!), two smaller bedrooms (for office/guests), a second bathroom (with fan!), proximity to parents, and access to the (private) neighborhood pool.  But for the life of me,  I cannot bring to mind anything more than the vaguest recollection of the lay-out of the place.  The kitchen has an open floor plan and the patio out back borders the green space…that’s all I’ve got.

We’ve determined that we will move as few of our belongings as reasonably possible.  With the exception of the oh-so-comfy Sleep Number bed, most of the furniture we’ve stuffed into the Charming Bungalow will be sold or given away.  Wall hangings, collectibles, cookware – all negotiable; if you’ve had your eye on something, let me know soon.  Most challenging will be handling the books.  Our combined collection totals into the hundreds (I’m afraid to do an actual inventory) and spans a variety of interests – archaeology, business, chess, gerontology, health care, history… I’m sure the new-to-us house can accommodate our wealth of printed material, but I’d feel a lot less stressed-out if I could envision where the bookshelves will go.

The motivation behind the move is both personal and professional.  Living in Boise puts us closer to my parents.  I haven’t lived in the same location as my father since childhood, and I’m excited to have daily-life time with him.  (The professional part is a bit more complicated, so more on that later.)  The hardest part about leaving Oregon City is that I’ll be a long way from my children and grandchildren.  I’m trying hard not to think in terms of missed birthdays and other family activities but that’s the reality. 

So, we will pack up our comfy bed and continue on in the great adventure of LIFE.  And, really, if you need furniture, give me a call – I think those books are going to take up a lot of space in the U-Haul!

18 Inches of Separation

It’s been suggested that each of us is connected to every other person on the planet within “six degrees of separation.”  That is, by virtue of relationship with friends, family, and acquaintances - and by extension their friends, family, and acquaintances - we are all only six (or maybe seven according to some research findings) relationships removed from almost anyone inhabiting the globe.  I don’t travel in celebrity circles, but I can claim two- or three-degree connections to Hollywood elite, U.S. politicos, innumerable recording artists, and a wealth of international chess masters.  Of course, the network of connections is not all glamorous – I am also barely removed from the refugees residing in a wretched camp in Ghana, and a New England mafia “family.”  Still, it’s rather mind-boggling for this small-town girl to consider the vast number of interpersonal links resident in even my own quiet life.

The intention of this blog is to explore the social interconnections (space) of groups and individuals, and the way that the built environment affects our sense of belongingness to a geographic location (place).  I have only recently begun to study these concepts within the framework of the sub-field of environmental gerontology, thus my understanding is provisional at best.  I welcome the perspectives of architects, designers, sociologists, psychologists, urban planners, and anyone else who can cast a wider light on the complex subject of how human beings live (and age) together in terms of home and community.

As part of my quest for understanding, I enrolled in an introductory course in Interior Design at a nearby community college.  Given my interest in how the built environment impacts the life experience, I wanted to familiarize myself with some basics of interior design.  That goal was accomplished, though I soon realized that while I have an appreciation of excellence in architectural and interior design, I have minimal aptitude for creating it myself.  Even so, I endeavored to apply awareness of the concerns of an aging U.S. population to the topics studied during the term.

Which brings me to those pesky18 inches of separation.  At the same time that I was wrestling with Intro to I.D., a more advanced group of students was tackling a course in interior design for aging-in-place.  Their project was the make-over of a 3-level home for a couple of Baby Boomers nearing retirement.  The faux clients were educated, active professionals with vibrant social lives and no children living at home.  The finished designs included areas for a poker table (his) and a tea ‘room’ (hers).  There were no budgetary limitations for the project, allowing the students to incorporate a number of high-end features, including dual-opening elevators, specialty appliances, and customized cabinetry.  The final designs were elegant and well-conceived visions of a home that would serve the couple’s needs for many years to come.

One project however, distinctly qualified for the Poor Application of Gerontology Theory in Aging-in-Place Design award.  The designer met the client’s desire for a tea room by setting an elevated area roughly in the center of the great room.  At 18 inches above the main floor, the tea “room” was non-accessible to anyone who could not climb 2 or 3 steps.  When I raised questions about the wisdom of including such an element in an “aging-in-place” design, the visiting designer/instructor scolded me for being critical of the concept.  She explained that it would be simple enough to remove the tea room platform in 10 or 20 years when it no longer met the needs of the clients.  (She conceded that it would be expensive and inconvenient to remove the platform, and that it was also unlikely that the original flooring material could be matched, degrading the aesthetic of the overall space or requiring replacement of the entire floor.) 

Of course, there is no way to design, engineer, or theorize for every unknown.  The imaginary clients may indeed be able to enjoy that tea room for 20 or more years.  But they could just as easily lose use of it in the next 20 seconds – a simple misstep resulting in a wrist fracture could lead to disability and a diminished quality of life, rendering the tea room a bitter reminder of lost potential. 

The issue of 18 inches of separation is one of societal concern, certainly.  It is also a personal concern.  My father uses a motorized scooter which, while allowing him mobility, limits his access to both physical place and social interaction.  By virtue of his inability to negotiate stairs, my father is immediately excluded from the community of the elevated tea room, just as he is unable to join family members gathered in the sunken living room of his brother’s late-1970s home. 

Among the questions I’ve been asking are:

What makes a home ‘livable’ across the life course, accommodating as many differently-abled people as possible?

In the long run, does incorporating a high-accessibility element (like a dual-entry elevator) into home design balance out a tea room that is off-limits to anyone challenged by that 18” elevation? 

The concepts of connection and separation have been swirling around in my mind for the past several months.  It is my sincere hope that this will be a venue not only for clearing some brain space, but also for expanding the discourse about the effect that environment has on the lived experience.