Why can't trace particles be random and where did I leave my keys?

I had the pleasure of reviewing and abstracting about 370 pages of medical records today. A revelation hit me - I can trace all the major events in this person's life by her medical records. If there was a visit to the ER with lacerations and bruises, it was a domestic scuffle with her significant other. She had a baby. She had substance abuse issues. From looking at these records alone, I can see her job history, her residence history and even how many sexual partners she had.

Now that most medical records and purchases are electronic, information is catalogued that details not only the date of my last tetanus shot, but also what variety of Ovaltine I buy. Because I routinely use a debit card, my household purchases are tracked. Because I am insured with a prescription plan all of my prescription purchases are recorded in a database.

Because I take things to extreme, follow me down this rabbithole....

My Nokia 6790 is a gps enabled device and, with the right Symbian compliant coding, can provide real-time mapping of where I am, where I was and how long I stood in line at Wal-Mart.

So, what does my digital thumbprint say about me?
Maybe if I empty the recycle bin and turn my phone off, I don't have to know. I'm just trying to keep up with my keys. Later folks.

1988 Chishirodai-nishi, Chiba, Japan

Ancient history lesson for you here. This is a photo someone sent me from 1988 during my foreign exchange to Japan. This is actually at a baseball game for the high school I attended (at least a few days). We had to wear uniforms to school, so that's why there's lovely matching outfits. Just looking at this picture reminds me of simpler times. I was so much taller than everyone else. But looking back on it now, at least three inches of that was my hair! Later folks!

A List to Prove I Don't Belong on the List?

If we've learned anything about the expansive nature of executive powers, it is that they are, well, expansive. Executive agencies can exert oversight, insight and control into almost every aspect of our once perceived "private" lives. So, when executive programs, the Patriot Act and several other executive orders and patchwork legislative acts developed the DHS Watchlist, lots of folks found themselves flagged as "of concern" when trying to travel based upon their public library selections, names-sakes and other ridiculous criteria. In classic legistlative style, Congress is now stepping in with a solution to the problem. If your name appears on the Watchlist, you now have the opportunity to petition to have your name not removed from the Watchlist, but instead added to another list of persons wrongfully listed on the Watchlist. So, if your name is Kate Baker and there is a notorious Kate Baker on the DHS Watchlist, you have to petition and must show you are not THE terroristic rightfully belonging on the Watchlist. If you prove you are harmless, then all of your personal data gets added to the "no longer belongs on the Watchlist" Watchlist. Isn't that rich? Congressional action will develop a list of people that don't belong on the executive agency's list. But, you've got to ask to be re-listed. If you are successful, you aren't removed from the Watchlist. You are simply added to another list saying you don't belong on the Watchlist. Huh?
Wired magazine has a great article on the Feb. 4th House action that explains the process. So, when I get ready to fly over to Barcelona for my 3-week vista with Stanley, I am prepared to explain that I am NOT the Nancy Leigh that should be on the terror Watchlist. In fact, I am not even a "person of interest". Call me Hettie. Later Folks.

In the old neighborhood in Grayton Beach

Grayton Beach is a historic neighborhood off of Hwy 30A with craftsman style bungalows built in the early 20th century. There are no high-rise hotels, no fast food restaurants and no gas station. But there is beach houses with quirky names, "Salty Sisters", "Toulouse Mongoose", etc. And a bike path running from Blue Mountain Beach past Seagrove Beach, over thirty miles.

So, year after year we were lucky enough to rent the same quaint historic beach house on DeFuniak Street in Grayton Beach. My daughters loved the house with it's outdoor shower to wash the sand off and the curly trees in the front yard. Mary Kate chased the ice cream truck to the same corner several years in a row. But, in 2007 the house became a permanent residence and no longer available. Spring 2008, we went to Grayton Beach and stayed at the state park. It was awesome, but not like the house. Well, this year I found another private residence to rent and we are headed back to Grayton..... two blocks from the old house on Garfield this time.

Grayton Beach is unlike anywhere else in the world. Time stands still. Last year, I shared Grayton Beach with my friend, Stanley, and wish I could share it with everyone I care for. But, sitting with my toes in the white sand, listening to the roar of the surf and watching my girls chase crabs.... is priceless.

Lights? Camera? Action?

Everyone survive cabin fever? In all the hours of not having lights, I decided to go through a box of stuff from the basement. It included my report cards from second grade. Mrs. Gibson wrote "Nancy needs to work on not talking so much." Pretty much the story of my life summed up in a teacher comment from the second grade.

Longleaf Trace

Two years ago today, I was pulling my miserable self into the trailhead in Hattiesburg, Mississippi at the end of the Longleaf Trace. It was a gorgeous weekend; mid to upper 70s and a fabulous ride. We stayed at the bunkhouse at Circle K Stables mid trail and spread the gentle ride over a day and a half. On the last day of the 3 day weekend Stanley, Evans and myself came back via Vicksburg and rode in the National Military Park. It was unbelievably hard, Stanley and I ditched Evans after 3 miles and went downtown to historic Vicksburg to eat and shop. We had great shrimp and grits at a roundtable restaurant and strolled the historic shops. Evans trouped through several more hours of the grueling ride through the trench hills in the battlefield.
Longleaf Trace is a rail to trail project from Prentiss to Hattiesburg and is an easy ride for anyone to enjoy. Okay, ladies... we gotta climb back on the bikes and go ride somewhere. I need the change of scenery. Game?

Harry, Harry, Harry... It Had To Be You

September 1990, I was working at KUAF radio station, Fayetteville's NPR affiliate. It was supposed to be run of the mill workstudy. You know, copying papers, filing, etc. But somehow I'd moved into babysitting syndicate feeds including "Fresh Air" and "All Things Considered" during afternoons on-air. Then, I was assigned to work on-air overnights on Thursdays. I babysat the board. This control unit was the old fashioned type with dials and buttons, no computer. All local news and feature items were on reel carts. One of the music programs I ran was "Marian McPartland's Piano Jazz". Then it was live radio. So, that first day with a whole two hour notice, I squeezed into the music library (really a hall closet in the old house holding KUAF). Panic set in. There were CDs, LPs and singles catalogued and staring at me. Strangers. I went to high school in Bergman, Arkansas. I knew NOTHING about jazz music. Then, my news director kindly directed me to Harry Connick, Jr. His first album "19" was out. He put me in a sound booth, had me listen to see what tracks I liked and then gave me excellent advice. Read the liner notes. Listen to music by the artists mentioned in the liner notes, find what you like, then read the liner notes from those artists. So, from that one album "19", Harry introduced me to jazz in many forms. That first night my live music show included Harry baby, Winton Marsalis, Branford Marsalis, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzerald and many others. It was quite some months later before I realized there was jazz outside of those artists that influenced Harry (both contemporaries and predecessors).