Dogs, cats, even rats, can bond with human animals and come to care about us. But what about the wild ones?
While recently watching naturalist Joe Hutto, on Public Television’s Nature program, commune with wild mule deer, I thought of the time I sat alone on a volcanic island of the Galapagos as little lizards, Marine Iguanas, scurried linearly close by, and walloping sea lions stopped to lick my toes. It all seemed like a friendly greeting.
Joe Hutto spent a couple of years relating to a herd of mule deer on his land in the Wind River Region of Wyoming, and those deer came to trust him, even care for him. The head of the herd, he named Ragtag, cared so much she even licked his cheek in tenderness. When Ragtag died the whole herd visibly mourned. I was moved to tears when Joe Hutto found Ragtag’s orphaned faun, Molly, lying helplessly hungry without her mother. He nursed her to maturity and she became his constant friend.
Then I thought of a mother sea lion on the beach of another Galapagos Island who had just given birth to a still-born pup. That mother licked her baby for several minutes trying to restore life—to no avail. She then spent all her energy nudging that inert babe to the ocean’s edge and let it float out to the sea. No member of her herd came to offer condolences, even those nearby. None even came by out of curiosity, except a yearling offspring of that sad mother, who stood by and stared and stared.
A woman scientist at the 29th Fungal Genetics Conference held at the Asilomar Conference Center in Pacific Grove, California, in March 2017, sponsored by the Genetics Society of America. I gave the Fungal Conference Perkins/Metzenberg Lecture in 1993, and I am pleased to see such growth in the field and the rise of women in science.
I’ve not been at the bench in science for over ten years. While since devoting my time to a more sedentary, different profession as writer of memoirs and family sagas (www.cardyraper.com), I’m still fascinated by what’s going on in science, especially genetics.
Last month I escaped a 20-inch snowfall in Burlington, VT, to attend the twenty-ninth Fungal Genetics Conference at Asilomar, CA, on beautiful Monterey Bay. I went to just listen and learn. And this is what I learned: 1) Young folks give better talks than we old folks of the past. 2) New investigative tools allow these youngsters to find out more in two months than we old fogies could have done in years. 3) Women have ascended to at least half the numbers, maybe more, of scientists in this field. 4) The science of genetics holds more unforeseen mysteries than ever!
Ha, we thought DNA was the absolute blueprint of how living creatures look, behave, and reproduce—not so. RNA (an evolutionary precedent of DNA) and proteins (the products of a special kind of RNA that translates the DNA message) have a lot to say. What’s more, environment shapes their function! A whole new field of epigenetics is taking off.
I used to think we had to wait for mutations in the DNA to adapt to a changing environment, but now we know it’s possible to adapt through small RNAs that alter expression of the genome.
If I had another life to live, I’d go for epigenetics as a master detective.
Red Raper and I produced an artist daughter, Linda Carlene Raper.
L. Carlene presented me with the poster pictured. It is a photo of a work of art she surprised me with on my 49th birthday in 1974, when I was working with Red on the sex life of Agaricus bisporus
Campbell Soup Company had provided a grant for Red and me to find out whether or not the mushroom used in their famous mushroom soup could be improved by breeding. Pleased, proud, and amused, we posted said poster on our laboratory wall at Harvard . Two days later, the poster went missing. Oh No! I promptly fixed a note to that blank spot: “Whosoever took this work of art, please return it. It cannot possibly mean more to you than it does to me.” The thief never responded. What you see above is a photo taken the day of hanging.
As for the research project depicted, we found out that that mushroom does have a sex life, but all it does is fertilize itself–what good is that, I ask, if you can’t mix different genomes from different places? Well, using fancy molecular techniques, the system can be manipulated to cross breed, but not easily. Such research continues in other labs.
I had thought that Andy Warhol-like image was gone forever, but L. Carlene surprised me on my recent ninetieth birthday by digging its photo out of the archives and mounting it on a 2×3 foot poster board. It hangs in my hallway today.
Art meets science again.
Among many great moments of my life—the rush of first love, the birth of two healthy babies, a breakthrough scientific discovery—one of the best was feeling as one with other animals on a beach in the Galapagos. I sailed there with a small group of active thrill-seekers who could hike and climb with gusto. But my bum ankle, recently busted while skiing downhill, held me back. I sat alone on the beach of one of those islands while all others in the group hiked a volcanic mountain. Relaxing, eyes closed midst the soothing sounds and smells of ocean waves, I felt something stirring, licking my toes. Looking down, I found a cuddly young sea lion seemingly greeting me as one of them while a host of iguana marched past paying me no mind. Then three feet to my left, in a low lying bush, a nest of lava gull chicks squawked a greeting to their parent bearing food.
I was one of them—just another species.
Ken Burns’ latest series, The Roosevelts sparks memories I have of the nineteen thirties and forties.
Eleanor was my first idol despite my mother’s disapproval. Mom, a Republican and proud member of the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) thought a wife should stay home and look after her husband and children. She had enrolled me in the CAR (Children of the American Revolution), and our chapter traveled to Washington in 1937 when I was but an adolescent. We went to the White House where Eleanor received us. The moment I looked up into her kind face and shook her hand, I became a fan. Her welcoming warmth traveled throughout my young body. Little did I realize then how much the life she lived would influence mine.
Eleanor became my heroine for the courage she showed in doing what she felt needed to be done despite public criticism. She became her husband’s partner in affairs of state, and carried on with that work long after his death—First Ladies just didn’t do that at that time in history!
At age eight, I had announced to my mom, “I want to grow up to be a scientist”, Mom replied, “That’s nice, dear, you can be a nurse”, which then, of course, was the only proper goal for a girl keen on science. Nonetheless, I became a scientist and Eleanor served as my model.
Ultimately, Mom changed with the times. She voted for Kennedy and grew proud of my scientific accomplishments. I think she also came to admire Eleanor after all.
Remembrance of one’s past is an anchor to the present. Putting it all down—in mind, in talk, in text—gives meaning to life. But what is the thrust overall? Looking back to one’s time in life—in my case from 1925 ‘til now—much changed, much happened, yet what of before and before?
I am now writing books about earlier times as told in the words of my family and my husband’s family. These recollections seem hardly significant compared to the written history of all human kind. Then what of time before human existence (200,000 years ago), the origin of life on earth (3.5 billion years ago), planet Earth before life began (4.5 billion years in the past), the Universe (13.7 billion years old), and before that, whatever it was? Having just watched Neil de Grasse Tyson hosting Cosmos, I am totally humbled by such thoughts. My existence is but a teensy tiny speck in the grand scheme of what we now know. It holds importance for me, some relatives and friends, but it is as nothing in the grand scheme of events. We live. We die. Famous people with more impactful stories than mine, live and die—all in a fraction, a micro-second of that grand scheme.
No wonder one want’s to believe in heavenly life hereafter. Yet I, for one, cannot presume such comfort, even should I try to lead a very pious life. I think, once ‘passed’, I shall become the stuff of stars from whence I came.
Recycle—that’s the ticket!
I had five older brothers and four sisters-in-law. They’re all gone, dead, passed on, recycled—save one: my younger brother’s wife, Grace. Grace is one hundred going on one-oh-one. She can’t see; can’t walk, can’t hear very well, but Grace is lucid, sweet, smart, and beloved. She’s grown old gracefully, just as my mother said we should all try to do. Grace has 10 years, 8 months, 18 days on me. I can see, smell, taste, walk, even play tennis, but—thinking of Grace—can’t help contemplate my future. Will I, can I, grow old gracefully?
But I shall not think anymore about that today. Instead, I will make myself a sinful breakfast of bacon and buttered waffles amply laced with Vermont maple syrup; I shall read the newspaper; the New Yorker—maybe finish Archer Mayor’s Paradise City—take a walk; watch a bit of the Australian Open and, after that, catch the NFL playoffs.
I will postpone working on my book, “Tobacco Farm Tales,” until tomorrow. Today, I shall not think any more about growing old gracefully.