Reuse

"[My wife and I] chose these low-energy devices and actions simply to avoid waste"
          James Lovelock, propounder of the Gaia Theory

Lovelock wrote those words in The Vanishing Face of Gaia to explain his rejection of environmentalism as an ideology. Climate change, he argues, is almost inevitable; the Earth will become hotter and drier no matter what we do. I think he is right. And I, too, have abandoned the dream of "saving the planet." The planet will save itself, though its solution may not please us.

Avoiding waste is a virtue. I learned it as a seven-year old when my mother, my sister and I spent time in Germany in 1952, living with a sign painter and his wife, the woman who had worked for my grandparents as maid, cook and governess. Like many Germans after World War II, they were poor, lacking even running hot water. To Magdalene, the wife, it was natural to save and reuse. I remember how she salvaged reusables

from packages, which then came wrapped in brown paper bound with string. She would untie the string and then unwrap the paper, without tearing it. The string would be added to a growing ball and the paper folded, to be turned inside out when she herself sent a package.

Packages now rarely come in brown paper and string, but I still keep a ball for string I have used in the garden or around the house. I reuse other things as well. From an aging, cigarette-smoking woman who owned a tropical fish store (mainly as a hobby I think) I learned to add dirty filter bags to the laundry for reuse. And I shop for groceries with reusable bags. Not the flimsy polypropylene variety, but canvas bags that will likely be around long after I am gone.

In what is still largely a throwaway culture, the old adage makes sense: "Waste not, want not."

Killer Kops

So an off-duty policeman at a party receives a hug from a grateful woman...and his gun goes off and fatally shoots the woman through a lung and her heart. The cop says he's "remorseful". He's been placed on administrative leave.

Why wasn't he fired on the spot and charged with manslaughter? If he was off-duty and attending a party, why was he packing heat? And why was the gun live and not locked?

Usual story: cop can do no wrong.

My mother, Alice Murray, 1919-2012

Alice Dolan Murray of Charlotte, only child of Joseph and Elizabeth Dolan, was born in Pittsburgh on April 13, 1919, and died April 15, 2012, having celebrated her 93rd birthday in Carolinas Medical Center.

Alice, who was predeceased by her husband, Andrew H. Murray, is survived by her half sister Helen Howell of Maryville TN; son Neil Murray of Lilburn GA; daughter Charlotte M. Davis of Charlotte; grandchildren Julian Davis of San Marcos TX, Laura Davis of Knoxville TN, Tara Murray of Bellefonte PA, and Dylan Murray of Tallahassee FL; and beloved cats George and Maggie.

Alice lived in Germany and France with her family from 1927 to 1939, where she learned German and French and a love of European culture. She studied at Heidelberg University and left on the eve of World War II to study at Miami University (Ohio) and Ohio State University, where she earned baccalaureate and master's degrees. During the War, she taught German for the U.S. Army Special Training Program, where she met her future husband, one of her star pupils.

She moved to Long Island NY, where she concentrated on raising her children and, later, on teaching German and French at Ward Melville High School in Setauket NY. She received a Fulbright Grant to serve as an exchange teacher in Austria from 1964 to 1965. She enjoyed many summers in Europe with friends and in her eighties traveled to Ireland and Scotland with her son.

Alice loved fine food, good company, lively conversation, classical music, the educational successes of her grandchildren, and local museums, including The Mint, The Bechtler, and The Museum of the New South. Her sharp wit, quirky sense of humor, and compassion were a delight to family and friends.

At Alice's request, there will be no funeral or memorial service. Donations may be sent to The Bechtler Museum of Modern Art, 420 South Tryon Street, Charlotte, NC, 28202 or by contacting Elizabeth Sheets by email at elizabeth.sheets@bechtler.org or calling 704.353.9216.

Deliberate football injuries

It's no secret that some football teams try to knock opposing starters out of the game. The Bad Boy Raiders of the 60s and 70s regularly gunned for the weak knees of the Jets' Joe Namath. The Saints' innovation may be awarding bounties for incapacitation.

I doubt that George, a student in my very first composition class, got paid for his rough hits in high school. But he wrote that he and his buddies on defense never paid any attention to the official score; what mattered was which team forced more players to be carried more off the field on stretchers. Except for this barbaric obsessio9n, George was generally a relaxed person, though his temper could flare. He could not write a decent essay, though. He seemed to try, so on his early papers I gave him not the F's his work deserved but D- grades, hoping to encourage him. Bad move; George apparently took that just-above-failing grade as an insult. Luckily, when George decided he had had enough, I decided to be honest and flunk his essays. On paper return day, he got up from his seat, strode to the front of the class and held a (fortunately empty) trash can over my head. "Murray," he said, "if you gave me another D-, I'm gonna stuff you in this f--king can and throw you out the f--king window." This was a serious threat, as George was strong enough to carry it out and our classroom was on the third story. What the hell. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "I did not give you a D-, George. I gave you an F." "Oh," he said. He put the trash can down and walked back to his seat. He never after questioned the F's on his essays.

And I have never since given anyone a D- grade, if I could help it.

Cheating Teacher

Recently, and especially in Atlanta, cheating by teachers and administrators on high-stakes bubble-sheet tests has grabbed headlines. During my own education, I encountered only one teacher I knew was cheating. I'll call her Mrs. H. She was my ninth-grade history teacher. Very grandmotherly: white hair in a bun, rimless glasses, dumpling cheeks, at least 85 years old. She should have been retired, but the principal, who knew several useless relatives depended on her salary, said she had no birth certificate and he had no idea of her age.

She treated her students as extra grandchildren. I was the black sheep of the family. She knew my name was Neil but called me Lee no matter how many times I corrected her. Nothing wrong with her mind: she once said, more accurately than I would have liked, "Lee, you'll only be happy as the dictator of a small island."...Anyway, at the end of the semester we had to take Regents Exams to earn New York State credit. Mrs. H. handed out the bubble sheets, and as the exam progressed she stopped next to students she knew were in danger of failing. Seeing wrong answers, she pointed with the eraser end of her pencil to correct answers and say, "You should think some more about this question." The students knew the game and would change their mistakes.