What's the definition of immortality?

We had a big debate at book group last night about "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks," the book by University of Memphis prof Rebecca Skloot.

The scientists among us argued that it wasn't, in fact, Henrietta--unwittingly the source of a replicating cell culture known as HeLa--who was immortal. It was her cells. Therefore, she wasn't immortal at all, the inference being that the premise of the book was somehow flawed.

And, they asked, what were the ethical issues of taking a cell culture from the African-American woman who, in 1951, was dying of cervical cancer at Johns Hopkins, a hospital established to treat the poor? It was routinely done at the time, long before anyone ever heard of informed consent. It is routinely done today, when we often sign medical forms without reading or questioning the documents.

And what, after all, did the family deserve as a result of her famous cells? Wouldn't their lives have been essentially the same even if her contributions had been known?

Probably the greatest ethical issue of the book, a social scientist argued, was the breach of confidentiality in identifying Henrietta. Her family discovered it only when her name became public, and they struggled to understand what "immortal" meant. Was their mother cloned?

Others saw the ironies. Henrietta, by virtue of her "immortal" cells, was the source of medical advancements, even breakthroughs, and the HeLa cells are around even today. Yet her family couldn't afford medical care. Wasn't the book really about putting a human face on the research by telling Henrietta's story? A commentary on the profound differences in treatment according to race and class? A view of the cultural and economic chasms that still exist in medical care?

Wasn't it a well-told story of how one simple act can lead to a exponentially complex web of consequences?

I urge you to read the book and decide for yourself.

Lending library

My aimless curiosity owes a lot to Andrew Carnegie, the great philanthropist.
He gave extraordinary amounts of money in his day--$350 million, to be exact—for libraries, church organs, and organizations such as the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching.

All of these are close to my heart, but none more so than the Carnegie Library pictured above.

With $10,000 of the Carnegie wealth, this became my town’s library in 1913, one of only 11 Carnegie libraries in Mississippi. Today, it houses the local economic development agency.

In my day, it housed magic.

During the unforgiving Southern summers, this was our Terabithia, an adventure into the yet-to-be-known. Up the steps through the double doors we raced, into the book smells, swimming into the high-ceilinged, calm stillness stirred with hands that fluttered against interesting, colorful spines and titles. Into the mystery of books.
We came home with treasures and hours of entertainment. We came to return our books with knowledge and a thirst for more books.

Our futures in many ways were formed in that library, which outgrew the Carnegie structure about the time many of us moved into bellbottoms and tie-dyed skirts.

In 1978, thanks to the generosity of a local benefactor, the library moved into a new structure.

With the move came computer workstations, a children’s reading room, membership in a regional library consortium with access to university resources, and a vital community space for lectures, exhibits, meetings, recitals, and other events.

And with it came the need for resources to maintain, expand, and continue to provide service for about 30,000 patron visits a year. Sadly, it’s struggling.

Despite community fundraisers, declines in state funding have meant a series of cuts. Staff has been reduced by about half. Hours of operation have been reduced—no more Saturdays poring over the latest acquisitions. The library no longer opens then. Local book-lovers are alarmed.

Andrew Carnegie believed the rich are trustees of their wealth and have an obligation to use it for the benefit of others. More than 2,500 communities received tangible evidence of his generosity and were better for it.

How I wish for an Andrew Carnegie today.

Second thoughts

There's a piano in this story, but you have to bear with me.

Think of the seconds that come to mind.

Second helping. Second chance. Split second. Second chapter. Second time around. Second to none.

And then there's second place. Second rate. Second class. Second best.

I'm the second child, but only by a freak accident of timing. My twin sister beat me by a mere 15 minutes, and bequeathed to me the eternal grade-school memory of being labeled by substitute teachers as "Walker No. 2."

It could ruin a person psychologically. I've thought of that many times since first seeing the great movie Amadeus. It's hard to empathize with the tortured but somewhat smarmy Salieri, who aspired to be Mozart. He, with some poetic justice, was condemned to be just himself.

And my poetic justice is that also. Despite my mother's dream that I become a serious pianist, I am a competent amateur. I am not a professional, nor was I meant to be. I will do to swell a chorus or two, no stage lights, please.

Anne Tyler has said that she writes as though no one will ever read it. I play as though no one will ever hear it. I play for the beauty of the instrument and the sounds it's capable of making. I play for myself.

There's great freedom in the number two. It liberates you from the anxiety of having, always, to be first.

What do we see in the landscape we pass every day?

Finding the simple life

From my view on Main Street, our small 12,000-resident community teems with activity, even at 6:30 a.m. Life should be simpler in this rural enclave. It rarely is.

Dump trucks thunder down our street, rattling the quiet and cracking the streets. Our sidewalks tend to flood during a heavy rain, and there's a bridge further down the street that has caved in. You may cross one tentative, temporary lane at your own risk, or detour.

We're full of detours. We detour around the streets that spider away from Main Street into murky arteries sometimes clogged with furtive drug deals. We detour around the thousands of folks now unemployed since our main industry closed its doors and left a cavernous concrete parking lot to sprout weeds. The hungry are hidden from us, though our local food pantry thrives.

Once a year, we collect money, food, and gifts for hundreds of Adopt-a-Family candidates, but we tend to forget them in the Christmas hangover of bills and work realities. It's too easy to be caught up in our own realities.

Life is not simple here. We just tend to simplify it to give ourselves the comforting possibility that we, after all, are all right.