What do you care what other people think? ...

Richard Feynman’s stature among American scientists is unsurpassed. He won the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1965. As a member of the 1986 Rogers Commission, which investigated the tragic loss of the space shuttle Challenger earlier that year, he provided key insights leading to a determination that the failure of small rubber gaskets – O-rings – caused the disaster.  And in 1999, 11 years after his death, he was named one of the 10 greatest physicists of all time in a poll, conducted by a British science magazine, of 130 top physicists throughout the world.

Even as a very young scientist in the 1940s, his brilliance took him to the Manhattan Project, which was the secret effort at Los Alamos in New Mexico to develop an American atomic bomb before Germany or Japan as World War II waged on. But no matter how much his intellectual genius was esteemed and treasured by his colleagues, his first wife – Arlene – kept his feet on the ground.

Arlene’s personality seems to have been a good match for Feynman’s, with a similar strength, confidence, and bit of irreverence. Stricken with tuberculosis, she was confined to an Albuquerque hospital. Feynman drove the 100 miles from Los Alamos to visit her every weekend. He tells of those visits in his 1988 semi-autographical book What Do You Care What Other People Think?: Further Adventures of a Curious Character. Arlene’s spirit comes through royally:

“There’s a little charcoal broiler in her room – she’s bought it in the mail from Sears. It’s about 18 inches across, with little legs. ‘I thought we could have steaks,’ Arlene says.

‘How the hell can we use it in the room, here, with all the smoke and everything?’[ Feynman asked]

‘Oh, no,’ she says. ‘All you have to do is take it out on the lawn. Then you can cook us steaks every Sunday.’

The hospital was right on Route 66, the main road across the United States!  ‘I can’t do that,’ I said. ‘I mean, with all the cars and trucks going by, all the people on the sidewalk walking back and forth, I can’t just go out there and start cooking steaks on the lawn!’

‘What do you care what other people think?’ (Arlene tortured me with that!) ‘Okay,’ she says, opening a drawer, ‘we’ll compromise: you don’t have to wear the chef’s hat and the gloves.’

So every Saturday or Sunday, I’d go out there on Route 66 and cook steaks.”

A Czar's yearn to learn ...

If we like political leaders who’ve had similar jobs to our own, working day to day to pay for necessities while hoping to save a little for entertainment and our later years, we might find Peter the Great, Czar of Russia from to 1682 to 1725, to be a welcome, refreshing, and even inspirational leader. To be sure, he was born into royalty, assuming the crown at 10, upon the death of his father.  But like no other supreme, autocratic ruler before or since, Peter yearned to learn, and would stop at little to do so.

In the late 17^th century, Europe was highly enlightened and modern compared to Russia. Peter recognized the gap and hoped to close it as quickly as possible – and going to Europe to learn its ways seemed the best way to do that. Traveling incognito, probably to avoid time-consuming ceremonies that would have been required as a head of state, Peter traveled with about 250 Russian officials and their minions to Germany, Holland, England, and Austria as part of Russia’s so-called Great Embassy in 1697.

Peter entered the shipyards of Holland as a common laborer to get hands-on experience in shipbuilding, vital for the seafaring future he wanted for Russia. Although his cover was soon blown, arrangements were made for him to work in a private shipyard surrounded by high walls, wrote Robert K. Massie in his 1981 biography Peter the Great: His Life and World.

“Every day,” wrote Massie, “Peter arrived at the shipyard at dawn, carrying his axe and tools on his shoulders as the other workmen did. He allowed no distinction between himself and them, and strictly refused to be addressed or identified by any title. When two English noblemen came to catch a glimpse of [him] … the foreman, in order to point out which one was Peter, called to him, ‘Carpenter Peter, why don’t you help your comrades?’ Without a word, Peter walked over and put his shoulder beneath a timber which several men were struggling to raise and helped lift it into place.”

But despite the inspiration we might find in this part of Peter the Great’s life, we shouldn’t develop too much of a soft spot for him. Among other terrifying excesses, he had his young-adult son Alexis – so overwhelmed by his father’s personality that he fled the country – put on trial on mere suspicions that he sought the Czar’s overthrow. Alexis was sentenced to death, but died rather mysteriously, probably a result of the torture he received in an effort to gain a confession, before the sentence could be carried out officially.

An astronaut's story ... what really happens in space

We of a certain age remember well the excitement and thrill of watching televised broadcasts of the first American missions into Earth orbit.  But contrary to what we knew at the time, the men on those missions were often severely tested when performing tasks in space. An example was 1966’s two-man Gemini IX flight, on which astronaut Gene Cernan became the second American to leave his spacecraft for a “walk” in space.

Cernan wore a stiff, pressurized spacesuit as protection from the vacuum and heat and cold of space. He struggled mightily for several hours against the inflexibility of his suit and his gloves, all the while trying to control his movements in the weightless environment while connected to the spacecraft with a long, uncooperative tether. His heart rate tripled … his helmet fogged tremendously … and ultimately, his attempt to strap on a small rocket pack was aborted. But his biggest challenge lay ahead.

As Cernan wrote in his 1999 book The Last Man on the Moon: Astronaut Eugene Cernan and America's Race in Space, squeezing back into the small spacecraft was almost impossible, especially after the unexpected exertion of the spacewalk.  “My goal was to get my butt flat in the seat and my spine against the backrest, but that was impossible because of the stiff, inflated suit. Effort turned to struggle, then to outright fight as I gained territory a sweaty millimeter at a time. My heart rate, which had calmed somewhat, shot up again as I squirmed about, and I was sucking air forty times a minute,” he writes.  “It was worse than trying to stuff a cork back into a champagne bottle.”

“Eventually, I was halfway in and halfway out the spacecraft, still using all my strength to shove my bulk down into the cabin. I forced my shoulders below the level of the hatch, scrunched down as hard as I could, bent my neck and at an impossible angle, and pulled the hatch. It hit the top of my helmet and wouldn’t close. Sonofabitch! I was still not in far enough.”

His crewmate, Tom Stafford, was able to reach over from his seat and pull down on the hatch, managing to pull it another couple of inches down and engaging the first tooth of a closing ratchet. “Another scrunch, and I was in awful pain,” writes Cernan. “… I was frozen in place by the suit, unable to unfold my feet, which were still tight beneath me.  … More work, more clicks from the closing ratchet as I ground my teeth. … I’d never known such pain. … I gave the handle a last twist, and the hatch finally locked tight.”

“I might admit that I was crying, but only Tom really knows,” Cernan writes.

"Why does he want to kill me?" ...

During the Vietnam War, Americans often suffered from enemy ambushes without sighting a single enemy soldier. The enemy was familiar with the terrain and undergrowth and simply faded away after an intense, quick attack. Excitement –sometimes too much excitement – reigned when an enemy soldier was finally sighted.

Philip Caputo, a young Marine officer when he served in Vietnam in 1965 and 1966, shared such an experience in his critically acclaimed 1977 book A Rumor of War:  “I saw a (enemy soldier). … Actually, I saw a twitching beige cloud at the end of the trees; it was the dust kicked up by the recoil of his rifle. I might have seen the guerrilla himself, but I could not be sure. He was too far away to hit any of us, except by accident …”

“I figured this presented an opportunity to redeem [an] earlier foul-up, [and] with Hollywood heroics. Standing up in front of a stunted tree – it was the only tree in the paddy and a stupid place to expose myself – I crooked my arm and pumped it up and down,” a signal for his unit to move quickly.

“Something slapped into the branches not six inches above my head … A severed twig fell against my helmet and shredded leaves fluttered past my face. Belatedly, I hit the deck.”

“Well, there was nothing random about that. That one had been addressed to me; and so, for the first time in my life, I had the experience of being shot at by someone who was trying to kill me specifically.”

“It was not horrifying or terrifying or any of the things it is supposed to be. Rather, it was perplexing. My first reaction … was:  Why does he want to kill me? What did I ever do to him?”

Teddy Roosevelt's bear ...

Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt, president of the U.S. from 1901 to 1909, was known for his abundant enthusiasm and wide range of “manly” interests -- the outdoors and hunting among them.  But on a hunting trip to Mississippi in 1904, the game he sought avoided him and his party for five days, even though a veteran game catcher named Holt Collier tried to lure animals toward the presidential party. To make matters worse, Roosevelt had allowed members of the press to visit his camp once a day, and their stories about the president’s lack of hunting success had become an embarrassment to him.

But on the next morning, as told by Edmund Morris is his 2001 book Theodore Rex, Collier’s hunting dogs scented a bear and gave chase. Roosevelt and others followed quickly, but thick brush forced them to give up. Collier suggested that they wait in a clearing for any further sightings, while he disappeared into the woods to try to drive the bear back toward the presidential party. Hours later, with Roosevelt bored and hungry, he and the men began the trip back to camp. But soon after they left, a young bear, with dogs in chase, burst through the brush and splashed, exhausted, into a pond, where it roped and captured by Collier, who tied it to a tree.

Roosevelt, notified of another bear sighting, rode back quickly, but was so disappointed to seeing the small, injured bear tied to a tree that he refused to shoot it. Instead, he called for someone else to “put it out of its misery.”  The hunting trip continued for another three days without success.

But according to Morris’ book, “[Roosevelt] did not know … that the outside world was already applauding his ‘sportsmanlike’ refusal to kill for killing’s sake.” The bear as drawn by a Washington Post cartoonist was so liked by readers that they asked for more “bear cartoons,” and the cartoonist obliged with many more. “With repetition,” writes Morris, “his original lean bear became smaller, rounder, and cuter,” and was soon part of almost all cartoons involving Roosevelt.

That winter, by some weird circumstance, a toy factory in Germany began producing “stuffed, plush bear cubs with button eyes and movable joints,” and 3,000 were ordered by a New York store. At the same time, a small New York toymaker came out with a similar small bear. The rest is history, as they say.

Notes Morris:  “The competing bears soon fused, along with [the cartoonist’s] cub, into a single cuddly entity that attached to itself the nickname of the President of the United States.” The Teddy Bear was born, although few people today link it to its namesake.

Abigail Adams gets tough with John ...

As the American Revolution waged on, the U.S. Congress in late 1777 appointed John Adams to join Benjamin Franklin and Arthur Lee in Paris to negotiate an alliance with the French. Adams’ wife, Abigail, remained behind in Massachusetts, tending to their children (except for their 10-year-old son John Quincy, who accompanied his father to Europe) and their farm through the hard New England winter.

Between April and September of 1778, Abigail received only two letters from her husband, for whom she had proven over many years previously to be a valued, no-nonsense confidant for his activities as a patriot and political leader. She wasn’t happy about the lack of communication, as noted in David McCullough’s 2001 book John Adams, and she let her husband know about it:  “‘All things look gloomy and melancholy around me,’ she wrote. ‘You could not have suffered more upon your voyage than I have felt cut off from all communication from you.’ … ‘Let me entreat you to write me more letters at a time, surely you cannot want subjects.’” McCullough adds:  “What he wrote, she said, was always too brief, cold, and impersonal. It was as if he had [in Abigail’s words] ‘changed hearts with some frozen Laplander.’”

In Adams’ defense, the passage of mail between Europe and America was not tremendously reliable, and it was common for letters to become lost, stolen, or delayed by many months. He claimed to have written nearly 50 letters during that April-to-September period, although McCullough writes that “was almost certainly an exaggeration.”

Adams’ response to Abigail’s concern was to express a concern of his own about writing tender letters to his wife:  “I have no security that every letter I write will not be broken open and copied and transmitted to Congress and the English newspapers. They would find no treason or deceit in them, it is true, but they would find weakness and indiscretion, which they would make ill use of.”

Abigail’s response, as transmitted in McCullough’s book:  “The affection I feel for my friend is of the tenderest kind, matured by years, sanctified by choice and approved by Heaven. Angels can witness its purity, what care I then for the ridicule of Britain should this testimony of it fall into their hands?”

She has a point ... a good one.

Lindbergh's first choice ...

Before Charles Lindbergh in 1927 became the first person to fly an airplane nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean, he sought, with funds offered by a group of St. Louis businessmen, an appropriate airplane. He approached several companies, but focused on a new, highly efficient model designed by Giuseppe Bellanca. At first, Lindbergh found that Bellanca’s design was tied up with a company that didn’t seem to think highly of Lindbergh’s endeavor. But that changed when Bellanca went into business with a different company, Columbia Aircraft.

“Willing to make attractive proposition on the Bellanca airplane for Paris flight,” Bellanca telegraphed Lindbergh after the change, writes A. Scott Berg in his 1998 biography Lindbergh. So the soon-to-be-famous pilot met with Columbia officials to close the deal in February 1927.  His enthusiasm was in for a rough welcome, though.

Berg writes of Lindbergh’s reception:  “‘We will sell our plane,’ [Columbia President Chairman Charles Levine] said, ‘but of course we reserve the right to select the crew that flies it.’ For a moment Lindbergh was dumbstruck. When he finally found the words, he suggested there must have been some misunderstanding, that this point was non-negotiable. Levine countered that his company could not possibly release its plane without selecting its crew but that he was willing to let the St. Louis group paint the name of their city on the fuselage. …. Before Lindbergh could leave the office, Levine asked him to call the next day,” however, so Lindbergh reluctantly spent another $3 for a night in a hotel.

Berg continues:  “At the appointed hour [the next day] Lindbergh telephoned. ‘Well,’ Levine said, ‘have you changed your mind?’ Too angered by the question to speak, Lindbergh simply hung up the phone.”

Lindbergh then turned his attention to tiny Ryan Aeronautical Company in California, which over recent months had responded favorably to his questions about the possibility of building a special plan for a non-steop transatlantic flight. And that's the company that build the plane widely known today as Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis.