WHAT THE PROFESSOR CALLS QUALITY TIME

WHAT THE PROFESSOR CALLS QUALITY TIME

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The professor reads in silence on his favorite cedar bench. It was purchased by his wife at the first overture of spring. She was subtle to a fault. The deck overlooking the back yard had not weathered well. Hopes were that the contrast would inspire a father/son summer project to get the cedar deck to match. She was correct. It was a rare bonding moment even celebrated with carved initials at one end. Contrary to her intent, however, they chose to fade the bench instead. The science was much more interesting in their approach. They have friends in the chemistry department. Now, they also have friends at the garden center which stocks replacement benches. His wife has learned to be more specific in her requests. The professor takes great pride in his bench.

He is grading a sociology quiz. On one side slouches his fourteen year old son, who matches the initials. His head rests on an outstretched arm draped across the adjacent glass patio table. A textbook is opened to the first chapter. He ponders the ripples created in his coffee as drops fall from his spoon. On the professor’s other side is the family cat. Her tail occasionally wags to brush away a persistent fly. Both wait patiently for a cue. Both burn for a fight.

The coolness of the morning is refreshing. The forecast is for another scorcher. September has been uncommonly hot.

The professor’s wife keeps an eye through the window as she tidies up in the kitchen. Only she finds the silence uneasy.

Without straying from his students’ writing, the professor’s left hand spiders onto the bench at his side. His fingers tap the cedar like the hammer of a ringside bell. Round one. The cat attacks. The one-handed wrestling match commences. It usually continues until either first blood is drawn, most times his, or as in this instance ...

“Honey, stop tormenting the cat,” a directive is barked from the kitchen window.

The cat throws in the towel and disappears into the garden. The quiver of the ornamental grass divulges her hiding spot, a commanding view of the yard.

Silence returns except for the occasional clatter from the kitchen.

Now it’s the son’s turn to engage. Coffee drips from the spoon into the mug. The unrelenting sound is sure to antagonize a response any moment.

Today is different.

“What are you studying?” asks his father.

“Wave theory.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No. It’s pretty straight forward.”

That didn’t go as planned. The text book is pushed away. The poor posture morphs into an equally ill-mannered contortion leaning back.

“I don’t know why we’re studying this anyway,” says the son. “I can’t see any possible application.”

Actually, he loves physics. His parents know it too. He has expressed interests to one day earn a fellowship at the Perimeter Institute; an internationally respected research center for theoretical physics in Waterloo.

The feigned loss of a such a lofty dream seemed like the next best way to insight an argument.

The professor commandeers his son's coffee mug and spoon. It's show time.

“Wave theory son, is not limited to physics. It applies to many fields of study. In sociology, it is used to understand group behavior.”

His son sits up, curious as to what his father is up to.

“In Manitoba, the Anishnawbe tribe uses the expanding ripple as a metaphor to explain rehabilitation therapy for addiction and abuse. Offenders have to discuss their behavior in progressively larger circles of family and tribe members until they can admit it to the entire community.”

His son was always his toughest audience. Fascination was quickly melting. Accepting the challenge, the professor thinks for a moment.

“Okay. What do you see in the cup right now?”

“No ripples.”

“That’s right. It’s calm - a state of equilibrium. Now stand up. Look over the fence around the neighbours’ backyards. What do you see?”

“It’s calm.”

From the spoon, his father releases one drop.

“Think of the single droplet as an event.”

“An event? Like what?”

“Ahhhhhhh!” The morning silence is broken as if on cue. The privacy fence does little to block the screams of the untamed two year old next door.

“Let’s say a murder. It’s impact is felt as it ripples out. The significance of the event determines the amplitude of the wave or trauma.”

The two year old’s even louder cousins have come to play.

“So a triple murder has a larger impact?” asks the son.

“Now think of the rebounding, shrinking wave as the community’s attempt to heal itself.”

“In other words . . it’s returning to equilibrium which is a tranquil state.”

Ideas percolate through the son’s mind. Not as many as in his father’s. The professor is easily excited when students are interested to learn. He starts to ad lib and hypothesize on the fly. His enthusiasm is often the deciding factor when statistics are not present to back up his wild postulations.

He leaps off the deck to the fish pond. Colorful speckled Koi gather below the surface to greet him with expectations of being fed. The tall grasses quiver as the cat finds a different vantage point.

“Now watch what happens with the drop of coffee. The same single event barely seems to reach the sides. The return to the center is not as obvious. That is because of the larger population.”

“A larger population of what? Water droplets?”

“Of accumulated events. The larger the population the less impact the single event has.”

Next the professor sprints and turns the tap to the water sprinkler. Neither take notice of how drenched they both get in the process.

“Now watch what happens if I sprinkle a number of droplets around the pool. The ripples intersect but the pool returns to the tranquil state. It is the surface tension or resiliency in society which makes this possible.”

“Is there such a thing as too many events?”

“Funny you should ask. Watch what happens when I set the nozzle to rain. Do you see any ripples?”

“No. It just churns.”

“The surface tension has been overloaded. The population as a whole has become dysfunctional. There’s no chance for the rippling effect.”

“So would that be like Iraq?”

“Good question! There, the multiple events are daily suicide attacks. Society as you said is churning. One event such as a cleric committing murder gets lost. The perfect place for a serial murderer to live don't you think? Iraqis would find it refreshing to experience just one event which we would consider a traumatic event.”

“I think I can improve on your analogy," says the son.

His father gestures that the podium is all his.

"Watch what happens if we change the events from water drops to . . . fish food.”
He tosses in one pellet. There is a ripple followed by a quick disturbance in the surface as it is devoured by a Koi. The water returns to a calm state.

Next he tosses in a handful which causes a feeding frenzy.

The professor puts his arm around his son. Both are drenched.

“I’m really impressed with your ability to grasp these concepts. I think you and I should visit the Perimeter Institute sometime soon.”

“That would be great, Dad. I’m going to go dry off.”

His mother watches as he walks toward the kitchen. She sees him stop. His expression immediately changes. It is as if he is saying: ‘Wait a minute!’ to himself. She recognizes the abrupt mood change and knows what is about to follow.

“Dear,’ she calls out to distract him. “Would you come here? Reach the cookie sheet for me, please.”

“Are you making Nanaimo bars?” he asks hopefully.

“I had a strange feeling that someone would want Nanaimo bars today.”

He retrieves the cookie sheet from an upper shelf for her.

“Mom, do you remember wave theory from high school?”

Her understanding of the subject unfortunately does not backup her desire to share in his interests.

“How did your father explain it?”

The walk into the house served as an ample cooling off period. Old behavior is hard to change. He refuses to admit that a meaningful exchange is possible with his father.

“The Anishnawbe Indians or something," he says shrugging his shoulders. "I don’t know.”

“Son, I never studied Canadian history.”

“It’s physics mom."

She squares his shoulders, straightens his back and towels his hair as if he is still a child.

“You’d be surprised what your father knows if you only give him half a chance.”

He realizes that too many events have happened recently between he and his father. Things had turned into Iraq. It is time to call a truce and let the waters calm. Today, the Perimeter. Perhaps a few more conversations and the new PlayStation®3 is a possibility.

“Leave my hair alone.” He abruptly pushes away after his mop is mostly dry.

“Think I’ll go change my shirt and see what Nathan's doing.”

“He’s playing quietly. Leave him alone.”

He bolts up the stairs. Somehow, she knew he wouldn’t listen.

She ventures outside to join her husband at the fish pond. He is tossing pellets in one at a time and observing. By this time the fish have had their fill and the pellets just float on the surface.

“Don’t you think they’ve had enough?” she asks.

“The fish just watch them bloat and drop to the bottom of their world. No reaction,” he contemplates out loud. An analogy is imminent.

"You look like you're doing it again," she says. ". . . making up a hypothesis to fit a good analogy."

She starts to towel his hair from behind which turns into a hug.

"Thanks for filling the fish pond. Maybe that should be your next project, to fix the leak together? It makes me happy to see you spend some quality time with him. He seems so angry at times. It's more than teenage angst. I'm afraid what he might do. So were you able to connect? What was that all about? Some rain dance?”

“The best fights are ones your opponent hasn’t a clue they have lost.”

“Who won?” she asks, always fascinated by her husband’s interpretation of events. Meanwhile, she hands him a recipe card.

“River's curiosity is his Achilles heel.”

“So why don’t you do that all the time?” she asks.

“Why are you giving me this?”

“By the way, did you make some deal with Nathan to stay in his room?”

“Just a little side wager," he replies. "That if he played quietly by himself that you might be persuaded to make Nanaimo bars."

“Who would make the Nanaimo bars?”

“Our bet was that if we made it through Sunday morning without a fight, you would make Nanaimo bars,” he clarifies.

“Otherwise?” she asks.

“I would have to make them,” he whimpers.

“So here’s the recipe card. The pan’s on the counter. The apron’s on the handle of the oven.”

“Mom! River just destroyed my castle!” is screamed from the upstairs window.

He gazes suspiciously at his wife.

“Listen. I don’t hedge my parenting decisions with side bets, professor. I just know my children,” she answers.

They wrestle playfully.

“And now that I’m on a roll, I call bullshit!”

Bullshit was called within the family whenever one member thought another was making something up. River was usually the one calling his father to the mat with suspicions of stretching the truth. His father was a better storyteller than philosopher. The wager was usually a household chore or to make a sandwich for the winner.

"Really? Was it that bad? Which part needs work?" he asks.

“The Anishnawbe Indians. It’s so good it must be a lie.”

“Ha!” he laughs. “That was the only true part. The rest I’m about to publish in a paper. I was just trying it out in front of an audience.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“Now.” he says cutting her apology short. “Since I’m such a nice guy, I’ll give you a choice. Nanaimo bars or separate the kids?”

He tries to stick the recipe card back into her pocket.

“You shouldn’t have called bullshit,” he laughs.

They walk hand in hand into the kitchen.

“Oh, I spoke to the vet today. I asked if it’s normal for the cat to allow you to pet her for five minutes, all nuzzles and purrs, then without warning to dig in her claws, bite and bound off.”

“I never have that problem,” he proclaims.

“Because you never pet her!”

“So what did she have to say?”

“It’s behavior typical of being abused as a kitten.”

“Did you explain that we have had the cat since it was six weeks old? That's how love is in the animal world. It's the same with River. Don't you dare bite me!”