editorial
editorial
An Alliance for Africa
9/1/03
For the children of Mpumalanga, South Africa, a typical walk to school involves picking a path across land abandoned by a coal-mining company, dodging sinkholes, and holding cloth to nose to avoid breathing in toxic gases and dust from underground fires raging below. It's not unusual for children to be swallowed up during this walk, or for nearby roads to cave in, taking cars or buses with them.
Seeds of Discovery
9/1/02
My brother handed me a small package, his eyes shining. "You just never know what you'll discover out there," he said, having returned east after six months in California's Sequoia National Park.
I unwrapped the tiny package. Inside rested a pinecone, the size of an egg and the color of hot cocoa. A pattern of oblong triangles formed its bumpy ridges. The cone was hard and dense—not brittle as I expected—and it smelled of campfires.
Dispatches from the Field
5/1/02
"It's easy to spot the Americans at an Italian ristorante," writes David Pacchioli in a dispatch from Italy. "They're the ones who are rolling their eyes, holding their breath, glancing at their watches. The evening air is magnificent, the sidewalk table is plunked down in the middle of the 16th century, but somehow atmosphere is beside the point. We're done eating, their body language is screaming. What are we doing still sitting here? The waiters seem oblivious.
Excavating Tire Tracks
9/1/00
When I tell people I spend my summers on archaeological digs, eyebrows go up. Some ask if I've found any dinosaurs—nope, that's pale-ontology. Some ask if I get to keep the pots, bones, or beads I dig up—yikes, a double whammy, unethical and illegal. My favorite response is, "Oh, like Indiana Jones, right?" (For the record, I have never had to outrun a rolling boulder or a band of thieves.) At that point in the conversation, I give up—or I give in and tell a story of my adventures. The best one goes like this:
Bringing the Best
9/1/98
"I cannot express how special this fellowship made me feel," writes Nina Berry, one of several Penn State graduate fellows profiled in the story that begins on page 18. "Nor can I express the determination that this fellowship gives me to excel in my academic and personal life."
Our Place in the Universe
9/1/97
The hour before sunrise I find best for writing. Roll out of bed, shrug into a cardigan, stumble to the kitchen to light the kettle—give or take a quarter hour, I'll be at my desk by five, one hand clutching a hot cup of tea, the other tapping a mechanical pencil or, more often in the last year or so as the technology has grown familiar, waggling the trackpoint of a laptop, while the cold and the quiet and the black mirror of the window await the dance of words.
An Alliance for Africa
9/1/03
For the children of Mpumalanga, South Africa, a typical walk to school involves picking a path across land abandoned by a coal-mining company, dodging sinkholes, and holding cloth to nose to avoid breathing in toxic gases and dust from underground fires raging below. It's not unusual for children to be swallowed up during this walk, or for nearby roads to cave in, taking cars or buses with them.
Seeds of Discovery
9/1/02
My brother handed me a small package, his eyes shining. "You just never know what you'll discover out there," he said, having returned east after six months in California's Sequoia National Park.
I unwrapped the tiny package. Inside rested a pinecone, the size of an egg and the color of hot cocoa. A pattern of oblong triangles formed its bumpy ridges. The cone was hard and dense—not brittle as I expected—and it smelled of campfires.
Dispatches from the Field
5/1/02
"It's easy to spot the Americans at an Italian ristorante," writes David Pacchioli in a dispatch from Italy. "They're the ones who are rolling their eyes, holding their breath, glancing at their watches. The evening air is magnificent, the sidewalk table is plunked down in the middle of the 16th century, but somehow atmosphere is beside the point. We're done eating, their body language is screaming. What are we doing still sitting here? The waiters seem oblivious.
Excavating Tire Tracks
9/1/00
When I tell people I spend my summers on archaeological digs, eyebrows go up. Some ask if I've found any dinosaurs—nope, that's pale-ontology. Some ask if I get to keep the pots, bones, or beads I dig up—yikes, a double whammy, unethical and illegal. My favorite response is, "Oh, like Indiana Jones, right?" (For the record, I have never had to outrun a rolling boulder or a band of thieves.) At that point in the conversation, I give up—or I give in and tell a story of my adventures. The best one goes like this:
Bringing the Best
9/1/98
"I cannot express how special this fellowship made me feel," writes Nina Berry, one of several Penn State graduate fellows profiled in the story that begins on page 18. "Nor can I express the determination that this fellowship gives me to excel in my academic and personal life."
Our Place in the Universe
9/1/97
The hour before sunrise I find best for writing. Roll out of bed, shrug into a cardigan, stumble to the kitchen to light the kettle—give or take a quarter hour, I'll be at my desk by five, one hand clutching a hot cup of tea, the other tapping a mechanical pencil or, more often in the last year or so as the technology has grown familiar, waggling the trackpoint of a laptop, while the cold and the quiet and the black mirror of the window await the dance of words.