thanksgiving-eve at the detector

I spent Thanksgiving-Eve at the lab. There had been a power outage the day before, and it's always a huge chore to get things running again. A 20-second power outage routinely requires 48 hours of recovery time; this happens a couple times a year.

I went in around 6 pm and was very pleased to, by midnight, diagnose and correct a showstopper problem that had so far eluded solution, setting the demodulation phase on a wavefront sensor. But then I encountered more mundane problems, giving up with the detector still inoperable. Well, it was operating just fine, but our low-noise readout system wasn't. So, no data for Science. I got home a little after 5 am.

Woke up after noon on Thanksgiving day, checked the lab's electronic lab notebook. In the morning other scientists were able to get the remaining issues cleared up. Teamwork, I guess.

You can spend an infinite amount of time just keeping the thing running. That leaves no time for Thesis.

thanksgiving

You couldn't ask for a more perfect autumn day for a holiday, cool and breezy with the cold winter sun shining down brightly at high angles through the oak canopy, the streets devoid of all traffic and startlingly silent, some houses with twelve cars parked in front and the others with none. I took the little dog on a long holiday romp, running through the empty streets and chasing squirrels up the driveways towards columned southern mansions, spanish moss draped in front. Sara prepared a great little thanksgiving for us: me and her and ryan, ryan's dad, Azedah and Rob. Turkey and stuffing and potatoes and cranberry sauce. Saffron rice from azi, curry chicken from Rob. Pumpkin and mint-chocolate pies, Swiss chocolate and Belgian beer.

Now just me & the little dog back at home, drinking hot green tea.

delicious breakfast on transatlantic flight, circa 1947

>> Our airplanes hadn't advanced enough to go nonstop from New York [to Paris], so every flight went from La Guardia Airport at New York, to Gander in Newfoundland, then Shannon, Ireland, where we always stopped for breakfast—all the passengers and crew would go to the airport restaurant for the standard breakfast of porridge, steak and eggs, Irish bread and wonderful strawberry jam. It was a happy hour, with the few passengers—thirty was a big load—and crew all jovial and in a good mood with the ocean behind them and now only a couple of hours left to Paris. <<

Bob Buck, North star over my shoulder, p 290.