I was admonished by my onboard hands-free system to be more polite.

Are you kidding me right now? Needless to say, a few more, less-than-polite words were forthcoming. I’m sure all the other drivers must have thought it quite amusing to see me jumping around in my seat yelling at the dashboard.

What happened is this: My car’s hands-free system was acting a little wonky while I was attempting to make a call. I kept repeating the individual’s name I wished to call, and the system kept getting it wrong or simply cutting out. After about the fourth attempt I got a little hot and let loose with a few choice words to let the darn thing know I was done messing about. The next thing I know, I’m being told in a very superior tone that she doesn’t appreciate being spoken to in that way and, despite only being an “electronic assistant,” I should refrain from using such language when speaking to her.

I know I said before that I’d heard everything, but when it comes to artificial intellgince, I’m sure we’ll all be hearing plenty more. Some will be good; some perhaps not so much. Stephen Hawking warned that powerful AI would be “either the best thing, or the worst thing, ever to happen to humanity.” And California is currently attempting to pass legislation providing accountability and penalties for any potential damage done online by AI algorithms.

We’ve sure come a long way from the early days when it was all speculation and endless possibilities; when John McCarthy, the American computer and cognitive scientist who is generally considered to have invented AI, coined the term during a summer research project at Dartmouth in 1956. AI is now so ubiquitous, if you’re on the grid, you’re in the matrix.

It’s been predicted that by 2028, our education system could become virtually unrecognizable, as AI is used to create a unique, tailored learning experience for each student. On the health care front, AI — which is already widely in use for patient monitoring, operating room management and pretty much everything else — will likely become the standard diagnostic tool for doctors. AI is now even being used to help university admissions staff sift through thousands of applications and summarize all the attendant essays. And new algorithms are being written as you read this that will increasingly influence your life in coming years.

While a few people I know have expressed some concern about being “listened to” and having targeted advertising pop up in their social media feeds, other folks seem pretty comfortable with AI — if they’re even aware of it — because it’s helpful and mostly works in the background. Predictive text with its sometimes amusing foibles is a good example: through use, over time you “teach” your phone or computer words and phrases you use often, and then it starts suggesting those when it “thinks” they might be appropriate.

But that’s just small potatoes. There are lots of things that AI currently does, or will do shortly, which may have the power to not only existentially alter our lives, but our perception of reality and the truths we take for granted as well — trading one fiction for another. Like AI-generated Morgan Freeman and Joe Rogan voices narrating a reel or touting all manner of things. Even voices of politicians and other public figures are being generated to give the impression they’ve said things they haven’t actually said. These are called “deep fakes,” and are becoming an increasingly common way to spread disinformation online.

While I’m certainly no expert, some of this AI business really hits home. As a creative person, there’s something here that reaches deeper for me than it might for some. While it may not yet be as refined or sophisticated as it one day will be, AI is already capable of doing pretty much everything I — and other folks like me — feel defines us. We use our minds and imaginations to make art, but it’s already possible to use one of any number of available apps to write a song, or a story. They can even create a picture in the style of just about any artist who has ever lived.

While I’m pretty sure there’s plenty more weirdness waiting in the wings, I’ve decided to keep an open mind about it all. AI is simply another step on the path of human and artistic evolution. It began with finger-painted cave drawings, pounding bones on logs and storytelling around the fire, which ultimately led to the invention of brushes, hide-covered drums and pictographs — and all the advancements since.

So I’m not going to worry about it. I’ll just keep on doing what I do, and hope the powers that be around here don’t figure out that all they need do is feed the AI app a few of my old columns, pick a topic and bada bing bada boom, I’m out of a job.

W. R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

I feel I was pretty well-educated by the standards of the day, and like all the other public school children of my generation, that education came with its fair share of government-sponsored propaganda. We were already deep into the Cold War with Russia by the time I started first grade, so along with the “duck and cover” drills came lessons about democracy; how it was the best system of government because it was “for the people, by the people.” Authoritarian communism on the other hand was deemed to be not such a good system, because the government was more concerned with controlling the citizenry and restricting their freedoms — freedoms we in this country enjoyed, and which were guaranteed to us by the Bill of Rights in our Constitution.

We kids were all now a part of this great “American experiment,” and we were encouraged to dream the “American dream.” We pledged our allegiance to the flag every morning, and we were expected to be “good citizens.” When we were a little older, we wore our scout uniforms with pride, and marched with our troops in the Fourth of July parades. I just soaked it up — we all did. We were little sponges, and not yet wise to the ways of the world or cynical. That would come later.

And come it did, with a vengeance. Our generation’s war finally ended, and those of us remaining looked to the future — to what lay ahead for us as a country already splintered by that war and the opposition to it. Revelations of government scandals and an administration’s illegal activities, a post-war recession and a mid-decade oil embargo were especially challenging for those of us just at the beginning of our adult lives. Truth be told, almost 50 years on it’s still challenging for many people in this country.

Through all this, one thing has remained constant: my deep and abiding love for this country. But as one does in a relationship, I’ve often had to separate behaviors I don’t agree with from the object of my affections. I understand nothing is perfect, and sometimes poor choices are made. But what we do when that happens is admit them, say sorry and offer a hug. We promise not to make those mistakes again, and then we continue on with our lives, working together toward common goals. As citizens, as a nation, we do the same. We continue to work, to pursue the elusive American dream; each of us just another variable in that so-called American experiment, but working together to make the dream come true for all. That’s patriotism.

By definition there’s a fine line — but a mighty great divide — between patriotism and nationalism. Just look at the synonyms for nationalism provided by the Oxford dictionary: chauvinism, jingoism, flag-waving, ethnocentrism, sectarianism, isolationism, separatism and secessionism. But what, you may ask, about patriotism? I won’t even bother to paraphrase:

“Patriotism is the feeling of love, devotion, and a sense of attachment to a country or state. This attachment can be a combination of different feelings for things such as the language of one’s homeland, and its ethnic, cultural, political, or historical aspects. Patriotism is founded on the principle that the country upholds values such as freedom, justice, nonviolence, and equality. The patriot believes that their country’s government, ideology, and people are essentially good and that they should work together to improve their plight.”

You know, that sounds pretty darn good to me.

Apparently, there are even different levels of patriotism! Who knew? I’m sure there’re lots of lists with all kinds of descriptors out there, but I thought the following might suffice:

• Robust patriotism stresses the importance of thoughtful reflection and deliberation regarding your patriotic sentiments and actions.
• Moderate patriotism combines a concern with your own country with concern for other peoples’ countries as well.

And get this. There’s even something called “impartial patriotism,” which posits that the true value of patriotism lies in inspiring individuals to overcome selfishness and promoting the greater happiness of all fellow citizens. Overcome selfishness? Promote the greater happiness of all citizens? Sounds like a plan to me. Where do I sign up?

I don’t know about you, but I still believe in that beautiful “dream,” and I’m not ready to label the great “experiment” as having failed just yet. So if my choice is between love, devotion, freedom, justice, nonviolence and equality, or all those dark synonyms, I think I’ll just stand over here with the patriots.

W. R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

I say more substantial, but mind you, I’m talking about things once affordable to most middle-class families. Shucks, some of my acquaintances’ families of relatively modest means even managed to build beach cottages which are still in use today. The closest my own family ever came to such was a couple of summers spent in a mildewy little concrete block beach cottage with perpetually sweaty walls, gritty terrazzo floors and no air conditioning.

With all the traveling we did moving, Mom and Dad usually weren’t up for much more than a long weekend camping trip. Actually, taking a planned vacation didn’t really take hold of my imagination until I was out on my own and holding down a full-time job. The idea of getting an entire week off from work, and getting paid for it, was somehow all the carrot needed to get me through a year of mindless labor. And, if you can believe it, I was promised I’d get two weeks paid vacation the following year … theoretically.

Those carefree days of leisure, out from under the oppressive yoke of the daily grind of get up, go to work, come home, go to bed, get up … was like pure oxygen. If even for just a single solitary week, it was sufficient to reenergize me. That was the youthful me. The older, somewhat wiser, and considerably more stressed-out me needed considerably more time off.

Early on, those vacation weeks were typically spent on the road driving to visit family. When you live a full day’s drive apart, and therefore don’t have occasion to see each other often, it’s important to make the effort. Always cognizant of that old Poor Richard admonition regarding company and fish, we usually planned to only stay a few days, so sometimes detours would be made along the way. Depending on our finances, a night or two might be spent in motels, or camping in the mountains. In later years, when I’d finally earned that much-coveted two weeks — and was actually allowed to take them consecutively — the idea of venturing a bit further afield on longer road trips to places far more interesting, and inviting, than Mom and Dad’s guest room were planned.

In mid-life, along with all the trappings of moderate success, came the opportunity for some extended time off. That opened the door to the idea of running off back to Europe to revisit places I’d lived and traveled as a teen and young 20-something. More trips to more exotic spots to see what the folks there were up to ensued. My last overseas trip was to the UK in 2016, the year before my partner Beverly, passed. She had found some previously unknown family members through Ancestry.com who lived up in the Lake District. We stayed in an interesting old tourist hotel and enjoyed an absolutely wonderful visit touring around that scenic area, as well as the Yorkshire Downs.

Since that time, I seem to be reliving some of my past travel itineraries, but in reverse. I’m back to running up and down the interstates to visit with family! Sometimes I drive straight through, and sometimes I’ll stop for the night at a hotel along the way. Despite having legitimately earned my stripes as a “Road Warrior,” and as much as I hate to admit it — even with a couple of gas/potty/snack breaks along the way — when I decide not to break the trip into two days I really feel it the next day. There may well come a time when the long drive is no longer tenable.

That brings us back full-circle to the beginning of this column. But instead of being jealous, I’ve been thinking it may just be time for something new. I’m still open to some overseas travel if the right opportunities arise, and there are still plenty of places right here in the good ol’ US of A I have on my bucket list. But when it comes to these annual family vacation gatherings, I feel they may need to be a little closer to home. I’ll probably take a page from a couple of my friends’ playbooks and rent a beach place or mountain cabin, then I can put out the word that’s where I can be found if anyone wants to visit.

Now all I have to do is get the kids on board.

W. R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

So about 120 years ago, a woman by the name of Anna Jarvis wanted to honor not only her own mother’s considerable accomplishments, but also the accomplishments and sacrifices made by all mothers. Apparently there were a lot of ladies at the time feeling underappreciated, because the idea really caught on, and it wasn’t long before it was proclaimed a national holiday by President Woodrow Wilson in 1914. Mother’s Day is now celebrated, usually in the spring, in more than 40 countries.

I don’t know how it was at your house, but when I was growing up Mother’s Day was actually kind of fun. In school, we always made some snazzy cards with colored craft paper, paper doilies, macaroni, and lots of that thick, funny-smelling paste some of the kids liked to eat. Unfortunately, and to my great shame, my dear mother kept every single one of the cards I made for her. They were found after her death more than 50 years later and bore silent witness to my lack of artistic ability with pasta and paste. My poetic skills were also lacking, as evidenced by one particularly heartfelt inscription: “Violets are blue/roses are red/I love you dear Mother/because you keep me fed.” Billy Shakespeare had nothing on me!

Thank goodness I didn’t have to rely solely on any maternal beneficence to be gained from those admittedly terrible cards, because every year Dad would take me to buy Mom a gift. Being a kid, I didn’t have a clue what to get her, and for some reason Dad’s suggestions always had to do with perfume. He seemed to think she really liked one called Tabu, so after a while Mom had everything Tabu the Dana company ever made. By my pre-teens I’d finally figured out Mom didn’t really care for Tabu, and I began selecting nice little gifts for her myself. Eventually I was off to college, and then spent the better part of 14 years living 800 miles away, so Mother’s Day was simply celebrated with a card and a phone call.

Hard to imagine now, but there was a time when the approach of yet another obligatory annual celebration of all things “Mom” caused me a bit of anxiety. Living as I now did in closer proximity, there was no way I was getting off with just a phone call or card in the mail. As Mom got older she demanded extended face time with one or, better yet, both of her children. An itinerary approved in advance was also required — one preferably involving offerings of food and the rendering of gifts in order to ensure peace in the realm in the coming year ahead. And woe betides any mortal, children included, who dared ignore her in her matriarchal splendor, or underperformed in their sacramental duties on this holiest of days. She was — not just on this day, but every day of the year — the dynamic core, exerting a constant gravitational pull around which our small familial planetary system orbited, and she wasn’t about to let us forget it!

It’s believed the earliest celebration of motherhood was a festival in ancient Greece honoring Rhea, mother of all gods, who was considered a symbol of female fertility, motherhood and the passing of one generation to another. Perhaps my mother was channeling Rhea, because she certainly had all those bases covered — especially the “passing of one generation to another” thing.

Mom was the “keeper,” the storyteller of our family. She was the one who — on her good days — would regale me with tales of all our kith and kin. Her stories were decidedly more Brothers Grimm than Hans Christian Andersen, and not the sunny sort of remembrances one would typically impart on a young child. But the tales were hers to tell, and she would tell them in her way, and in her time, and to whom she chose.

Being her oldest and only child until the age of 10, I was elected to be the next keeper of these sometimes shocking, mostly dark, and vaguely disturbing bits of autobiography, familial history and mythology. The stories were often vague, tenuous and open to endless speculation, but the connections to the past, people and places were real none-the-less. In this way my mother fulfilled perhaps her most important maternal task: she passed the torch to the next generation; she made sure the stories would continue to be told.

So now her name has been added to our pantheon of forebears and, with each story told, her memory is celebrated, and lives on a while longer.

W. R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

I played my share of flag football as a boy, but I’ve always thought of baseball as my game. I loved playing ball with my friends after school and on weekends, and every day I could get away from the house in summer. Even as kids, some of the guys were already eat up with it, and could talk about their favorite teams, the players and some of the stats they got out of the paper and off the bubble gum trading cards we were all into. It’s a game with a rich history, and we loved everything about it.

Did you know that as early as the medieval period, people played bat-and-ball games? Just as today, these usually involved hitting, catching and sometimes even running bases. Modern baseball is said to have begun in Cooperstown, New York, in the early 1800s. Some dude named Abner Doubleday is credited with its “invention.” The very first official game of baseball took place in Hoboken, New Jersey, in 1846, but Cincinnati holds the distinction of fielding the first professional baseball team. You might’ve heard of them: the Cincinnati Reds.

I’m thinking about having my very own baseball season this year — six months of watching all the classics made over the past 30 years, such as “League of Their Own,” “Field of Dreams” and “The Natural.”

All this probably has to do with the fact I’ve recently gravitated toward “feel good” movies when I look for something to watch when I hunker down for an evening. And what could be more feel good than a sappy story about some ne’er-do-well, but likeable, schmo who coaches some ne’er-do-well but likeable group of misfit young athletes, who then go on to win the state championship. You’ve all seen them. Or maybe you prefer the “well meaning but totally unprepared new teacher at the inner-city school, who develops deep bonds of trust with the ne’er-do-well but likeable group of misfit young students, raises the class GPA, and everyone goes to college” version.

Anyway, these movies can be very uplifting if, as noted earlier, a bit sappy. I’ve watched a few now where the sport in question was baseball, and I found myself really getting into the whole team camaraderie thing — which is kind of funny because, once out of school, I was never one to play team sports. Truth is, I was never much of a team player anyway. As an adult I’ve always been more into sports like swimming and racquetball. And I’ve never really enjoyed following sports teams the way some do, because it wasn’t something my father did — except when the Maryland Terps were playing. Besides, at our house, sitting around watching sports on Saturday and Sunday wasn’t something my mother was likely to tolerate.

I have to admit, because I never played ball as an adult, I tend to identify more with the movies about younger players. I did play Little League ball for a couple of years, which wasn’t all that much fun. As much as I enjoyed playing, unlike Mr. Redford in the aforementioned movie, I was no natural. What I lacked in talent, I more than made up for with a general lack of interest in what was happening in the infield as I kicked at the stunted grass and dirt of left field where I invariably found myself. This was long before the age of “every child gets to play,” and the coaches of the day seemed only interested in working with those kids who showed up with some serious skills already on display.

It was a shame, because kids like me who really loved to play and hoped to become better players wound up watching clouds in the outfield or warming the bench. And this was after surviving several mandatory Saturday morning pre-season “clean the playing fields of rocks” sessions, which served the dual purpose of both ridding the fields of rocks and also forcing those kids who didn’t have much of a work ethic or the stick-to-itiveness to handle four hours in the blistering Southern California sun. It was a real hoot.

I think it was Yogi Berra who said, “Little League baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets.” This is probably truer today than back when he said it. Some of my friends’ parents were really into attending all their sons’ games and cheering the team on. But mine, not so much. I guess they figured we all needed our space and time to pursue our individual interests. Helicopter parents they were not! Besides, how often can one reasonably be expected to sit on hard wooden bleachers for nine innings and watch your kid standing way out in left field looking up at the clouds?

W. R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

There was a time I lived for those cards from my grandparents, aunts and uncles, even though it meant I had to struggle with writing thank you notes. It was all worth it when I looked at the growing balance in my savings account passbook. Toys were great, but I was all about that green!

When it comes to holiday greeting cards, it seems we Colonials have yet another complaint to lodge against the Crown, and perhaps more than a few of the lesser nobility. Queen Victoria got the ball rolling when she sent what is credited as being the very first-ever Christmas card. With this royal imprimatur, the sending of such cards must have become something of a fad amongst the upper crust. Then in 1843, a gent by the name of Sir Henry Cole commissioned a printing of 1,000 Christmas cards depicting a multi-generational family group of swells — presumably his — swilling a seasonal toddy and surrounded by depictions of those self-same folk doing good deeds for the poor — giving alms and food, that sort of thing. A nifty little bit of PR by Sir Henry and, as such, I imagine a tax deduction as well.

As with so much else, it was only a matter of time before the trickledown effect began trickling, and those amongst the great unwashed who wished to emulate the wealthier classes, demanded access to ready-printed Christmas cards of their own … cheap! Hearing opportunity a-knockin’, printers met that demand and an industry — as well as a tradition — was born. Anyway, that’s the way I imagine it all went down, but it doesn’t really matter. One irrefutable truth remains: We’ve all bought into this annual Christmas rite — along with the baking of largely inedible cookies and over-decorating the tree and home.

Like everything else, time has changed the holiday greeting card landscape. I can recall my parents always had a large festive display made with all the Christmas cards the family received each year. For many years my mother’s mailing list required the purchase of a number of boxes of cards to be inscribed and mailed. With all our moves, there were always old neighbors to keep up with, as well as friends, grandparents, aunts and uncles. The list varied from year to year, based on who amongst the many had not recently reciprocated by sending us a card — usually these were old neighbors who’d finally wised up to the fact we weren’t ever coming back. Sometimes it was a relative, for the same reason.

I’m sure sending Christmas cards was a chore for Mom, just like the many others she shouldered to create some Christmas magic for the family wherever we happened to find ourselves that year. The upside to Mom’s efforts was all the marvelous greetings we received for weeks before the holidays. Newly received cards were admired, and the inscriptions read aloud around the dining room table. We all agreed the real gems were the “annual newsletters,” which were gaining in popularity at the time and which some people favored over a brief line or three.

Most newsletters were concise and to the point, while others rambled a bit — especially when the sender got to bragging on their kids. Along with the artfully posed family photos with everyone in matching pajamas, Santa hats and smiles, they had one thing in common with Good Ol’ Sir Cole: they were all nifty little bits of familial brand building. Since Mom was something of a traditionalist when it came to such things, I don’t believe she ever succumbed to the allure of one-size-fits-all, mass-produced Christmas greetings. Over time, natural attrition reduced the number of cards needing to be sent to a manageable handful, and that seemed to suit Mom just fine.

My own Christmas card tradition has followed the time-honored blueprint established by my mother, and now I too am down to just a few cards to be mailed each year. Of course, due to the paucity of cards I receive, this also means no large festive display. And though I long ago aged-out of receiving such gifts from far-flung family members, I still open each card with a slight stir of excitement at the thought a check or cash might fall out. It’s the season of magic and miracles, so one can dream!

W.R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

Despite a phase where I thought airplanes were the coolest — and couldn’t hang enough models of them from my bedroom ceiling with fishing line — for me it’s always been about cars. At 12, I subscribed to Hot Rod magazine, and drooled over the color pictures of street and show rods like some kids did their old man’s girlie magazines. I built a bunch of car models, but it just wasn’t enough for me, so I begged my father to buy a cheap clunker I could work on. I hoped one day to build my own hot rod. I spent the entire summer between seventh and eighth grade bugging Dad, listening to The Beach Boys’ “Little Deuce Coupe” and perusing the latest J.C. Whitney auto parts catalogue.

The hot rod idea never took root, but Dad did teach me how to lube and change the oil and various filters on the family car, as well as how to clean and gap the sparkplugs. I guess this was his idea of some sort of automotive apprentice program. Mom said it was because he was Dutch … whatever the heck that means. The mechanic at the corner gas station always looked sad whenever we stopped for gas, but Dad was all smiles. He’d already managed to shirk the much-dreaded lawn mowing duties a few years earlier, and could now add this major coup to his growing list of fatherly accomplishments.

With all our moving around, an automotive hobby wasn’t feasible when I was a teen. But I was always able to find a hood to look under and someone to listen to as they told their stories and turned a wrench.

In this way, I held on to my passion until buying my first car at the ripe old age of 19. At the time, there was no shortage of VW Beetles one could buy quite inexpensively, so I plunked down the equivalent of $179 dollars in Deutsche Marks for a 1957 ragtop and drove happily off into the sunset. My friends and I had a blast that spring and summer driving around Heidelberg in that old thing, always with at least one idiot hanging out of the top. The old ’57 lasted about as long as you’d expect, so I moved on to a 1966 VW notchback coupe into which I later dropped a Porsche 411 engine. That car features prominently in at least a few tales of nefarious doings and high speed shenanigans allegedly engaged in by yours truly on the back roads and Autobahns of Germany.

I’ve indulged my long-held love of motor vehicles by owning more than 25 of them. Most were older, like the British Austin Healey and Triumph sports cars I was into for a few years. But British sports cars are like rescue pit bulls with “issues” — they require lots of attention, and you’re never certain they aren’t going to turn on you at any minute.

My absolute favorite car was a 1966 Mustang 2+2. It wasn’t the hot rod of my dreams, but that little 289 V8 could really pull, and the factory gold paint on the beautifully styled fastback was a real head-turner. It handled well, and I loved running the 4-speed through the gears listening to the throaty sound of the dual exhausts.

Shifting was a big thing for us back in the day. Shifting, it was argued, was REALLY DRIVING. Clutch, shift, clutch shift, clutch shift. Down shift going into the curves and accelerate coming out, constantly shifting through the gears. The general consensus held was that automatic transmissions were for senior citizens, not cool dudes like us. Over bottles of Budweiser, we swore blood oaths NEVER to succumb to the laziness of driving a car with an automatic transmission. Oh, how I’ve failed thee my gear head brothers and sisters!

I didn’t even make it out of my 20s before discovering the bliss of putting a car in drive and leaving it there as I tooled around town. Once on that slippery slope, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable. My current ride has more bells and whistles than a wet T-shirt contest at a town crier convention. But as I drive, if I listen really hard, sometimes I can almost hear the sound of those dual exhausts, and just for a moment I’m that gear head kid again.

W.R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

Really? Wow!

I believe my first real conscious sense of truly oppressive heat was those two summers spent in the third floor apartment my parents rented in Langley Park, Maryland, while my father completed his studies at the University of Maryland. The heat radiated downward from the flat tar roof into our apartment below, often making sleep impossible. Between the heat and a mandated 7:30 bedtime, I was convinced I was finally in that Hell I’d been hearing so much about in Sunday School.

Dad finally gave up and tapped out. He said he needed a window A/C for the master bedroom where he studied because it was just too darn hot in there. After it was installed, I used every excuse I could think of to sneak in to enjoy a few minutes respite from the blazing inferno of the living room. Ultimately, I was always discovered and run out. It was an early, but immensely important, life lesson: Some get A/C, some don’t.

Air-conditioning became a moot point in our family dynamic when we moved to California, land of the ugly — yet functional — rooftop sump cooler. These are essentially just big metal boxes mounted on your roof containing a cage-style fan and a water-filled pan at the bottom over which the air is blown as it enters the ducts into the home. Despite many triple digit days in Southern California and the San Joaquin Valley — where the streets would actually start melting — we never did have air-conditioning. It didn’t seem to slow us kids down too much, and we roamed the neighborhood from morning until dinner time with only occasional stops to drink from someone’s garden hose or run through a lawn sprinkler.

I’ve lived in the South since I was 20 years old, and in my younger days, I rented a few older homes that had no A/C. To keep things somewhat bearable, my wife and I would use the cheap 20-inch box fan we bought at Kmart and move it from room to room around the house as needed. At night, it was placed in an open bedroom window, where it would blow hot humid air over us until we’d eventually pass out from sheer exhaustion on sheets puddled by our own perspiration. Affordable rentals with whole house A/C, or even just a big window unit, were highly desirable but few and far between for a young couple in Gainesville’s student ghetto. I’ve come a long way from those early days, but the experience did give me a profound appreciation for life’s little luxuries.

Unfortunately, not everyone enjoys the same comforts I take for granted. I wonder how, at this stage of life, I would cope with the loss of this luxury. It’s a somewhat sobering but realistic question to ask, given southern and western parts of the country are currently enduring extremely high temperatures. Even countries in Europe and in our Northeast and Northwest, none typically big on air-conditioning, have been suffering through hotter summers in recent years. Despite nearly 90% of households nationwide having some sort of air-conditioning, many households still do not have it.

Regardless of one’s views on the subject of climate change, some facts can’t be denied: The planet has seen an increase in the average temperature worldwide of roughly 2 degrees Fahrenheit since 1900. Current projections call for a minimum 4-degree increase by the end of this century. The impact of such temperature increases is already being felt and can’t be overstated.

From the challenge of raising crops and animals to the warming oceans’ impact on both marine life and weather, the fragile balance of nature is tilting in a direction that doesn’t bode well for us here in the first quarter of the 21st century. One recent article even points to possible mass migrations of entire populations away from regions of Africa, Asia and South America already experiencing food instability due to the devastating effects of heat and draught.

Despite such apocalyptic thoughts, I’m no “end timer.” I remain hopeful for the future — that greater minds than mine might somehow find a fix which ensures a continuing quality of life for us all. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be enjoying the A/C and a cool drink at my place while hoping things don’t go completely off the rails any time soon.

W.R. van Elburg is a James City County resident. He can be reached at w.r.vanelburg@gmail.com.

This may seem like a no-brainer to most people, but many folks like things broken down into easily digestible sound bites, which they are spoon-fed on a daily basis by the social media or broadcast outlet of their choice. They then regurgitate this mess at every possible opportunity when an applicable subject arises; as though their words are the legitimate offspring of actual research and thought — usually it doesn’t even rise to the level of considered opinion!

Although it is really nothing at all new, this is where we find ourselves in the world circa 2021. Seemingly, it has always been easier for humankind to accept what passes for popular wisdom amongst those in their immediate tribal circle — us good, them bad — than to run the risk of actual self-discovery which often results from stepping outside the safe confines of personal and group identity; to actually go and learn something about that tribe on the other side of the river you’ve been shaking your spears at since time out of mind.

This entire preamble brings us, finally, to the topic of today’s column: that being the current brouhaha over another hot button topic, namely critical race theory. As per usual, I was pretty much clueless there was even a button, let alone it was of the hot variety. I guess I really started taking notice when reports of angry parents disrupting school board meetings — and one such meeting which devolved into physical violence — began filtering through the miasma of minutia typically marinating in my grey matter. How was this not on my radar? Was there more to this than met the eye?

After some in-depth journalistic investigation involving hours-long Google sessions and polling of friends and neighbors, this is what I discovered: As a reason for white angst, it’s a nonstarter. It is what can best be described as a wedge issue, cynically trotted out by political pot stirrers solely to keep tensions running high on both sides of the ideological fence. Critical race theory, also known as CRT, has been floating around in the rarified realms of academia since it was first put forth over 40 years ago. In simplest terms, CRT began as a movement of scholars and activists within the legal community attempting to uncover and address how racism has been codified into law and thereby impacting government and civil policy at all levels. It is NOT being taught in our public school systems.

Various and sundry theories aside — including the specious one that teaching our children about our national history in a more inclusive and honest manner is in some way detrimental to their development — the truth of the matter is simply this: For far too long, we have focused our educational efforts on elaborating and elevating the accomplishments of those of us in the majority at the expense of our fellow brothers and sisters of color. And not only have we failed to give them their rightful place in the history of this great nation they helped build, but we are systematically working to erase that very history from the written record, and from the minds of current and future generations.

Granted, my generation did learn about such stellar Black figures in history as George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Booker T. Washington, W. E. B. Du Bois, writers Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin and of course, Crispus Attucks, the first Black man to die during the Revolutionary War. We even read “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” by Harriet Beecher Stowe, which to some extent addresses the evils of slavery. But we did not — at least in school — learn about the racism alive and well throughout our country. This we learned on the nightly news watching police clubbing, tear-gassing and arresting peaceful civil rights demonstrators in cities throughout the South; their only real offense, wanting to vote.

Those of us who cared to, read to learn more about the dismantling of post-Civil War reconstruction and Jim Crow; about lynchings; about the peonage system of forced labor. We cheered each tiny step forward taken to provide our citizens of color with the same rights and opportunities in education and employment afforded whites, all the while ignoring the pernicious racism embedded in the daily fabric of American life.

How can teaching our children the full extent of the Black experience in this country possibly be a bad thing? It is simply an effort to teach the complete history of this great nation. It will not be an easy lesson to teach, or to learn. It is at times shameful and sad; some of it is horrific and downright terrifying in its cruelty and inhumanity, but it is the truth. And as we all know, the truth shall set us free.

It’s very here and now; reading the recipe — if there even is one — gathering the needed equipment; prepping the ingredients and, finally, cooking. Nothing brings me down to earth and grounds me like preparing food, sipping a glass of good Cab and listening to music. If there is someone to share this time with so much the better. To my mind, there are few things more intimate than a couple working together in the kitchen. Cooking food has that kind of power and magic.

Cooking runs in my family. I had two uncles who owned gasthauses in Germany. My great-uncle, Konrad, was only good for a bratwurst and a roll, but my uncle, Franz, was a wiz with all the traditional schnitzles and sauces. My mother was a great cook as well, and an even better baker. My father swears she blindsided him on their first real date with beef stroganoff and a preview of the wedded bliss awaiting him. I’m pretty sure she over-sold the “wedded bliss” part, but I can attest she more than amply held up her end of the bargain in the kitchen over the 52 years they were married.

As moms sometimes will, she had her weekly set menu. Tuna casserole every Friday was de rigueur at our house; we also had our share of meatloaf, stews and spaghetti. But she also liked to try new recipes, especially ethnic dishes. Like most German women of her generation, Mom learned the culinary basics from her mother, my Oma, who was herself an accomplished traditional German cook. These are the knees I learned at.

Like most chefs, my mentors required kitchen help, so I became the sous chef. I helped prep and fetched things, but mostly I was watching them and learning through osmosis. I think I was 6 the first time I recall cooking anything by myself. If memory serves, it was only French toast, but I made it myself, and served my parents in bed one Sunday morning.

Over the years since then I’ve watched all the great cooking shows on PBS to pick up little tips. My particular favorites were the Cajun chef, Justin Wilson, the Frugal Gourmet and Julia Child. More recently, I was a big Anthony Bourdain fan, but more for his cool than any cooking he might have done. Andrew Zimmern and his bizarre foods sometimes actually turned my stomach, and Gordon Ramsay usually seemed more of a bully than a great chef.

The inimitable Julia Child once said, “The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.” I credit the Boy Scouts with furnishing me with just such an attitude. Boy Scouts, in case you didn’t know, are real big on wrapping food in foil, and throwing it directly on hot coals to cook for a while. After sitting around the campfire and trying to ingest a few meals of semi-raw potatoes and charred hamburger, you figure out there isn’t much you can do to totally botch a meal cooked at home.

So I hope I can be forgiven if I admit I don’t understand people who claim they can’t cook and act like this is perfectly fine. To my way of thinking, being able to feed yourself is no different than any other necessary life skill. You don’t have to do it well, but you have to be able to do it just the same, so why not acquire some level of proficiency — or barring that, a bit of creativity?

My second wife was lost in the kitchen. She couldn’t even boil water as they say. Despite that, she was very creative and, once, when I baked acorn squash, she suggested filling the two halves with blueberries when I flipped them over to add butter and a little maple syrup; she then suggested we serve the squash with a dollop of sour cream. The result was amazingly tasty and, at my suggestion, she entered the recipe in a contest then running in the local paper. The recipe was published, and she won an award and $50! It became something of a family joke, since I did all the cooking.

Here in my neck of the woods, I’m becoming known for my kitchen experiments, which I share with my food tasters, I mean, neighbors. After she passed in 2010, I salvaged all my mother’s baking pans and forms, so one of the things that has gotten me through the past six months or so has been baking. But with only me in the house, I have to give the stuff away or suffer the consequences to my waistline.

It’s a good thing my neighbors are an appreciative audience, because I’ve had to jettison a fair amount. Some of the favorites this season have been blackberry cobbler, strawberry pie and blueberry lemon cake. I think the buttermilk pie and blueberry scones were a hit as well. So much better than any cooking award was a very nice birthday card I recently received from a friend and neighbor in which she had sweetly written, “Good eats always remind me of you.”

I’ll take her word for it, and gratefully, because there are few things I’d rather be remembered for than sharing the “good eats” which emanate from the Shinto shrine which is my kitchen.