How tall are you? How much do you weigh? What is the temperature outside? Most of you probably know the answers without hesitation. And most of you probably did not answer in meters, kilograms or degrees Celsius. That is because the vast majority of Americans still speak the language of feet, pounds and Fahrenheit. We inherited the system from Great Britain, held onto it after the British moved on, and have defended it with the same determination we reserve for arguing about barbecue and college football rankings.

Some of you may remember the great metric push of the 1970s. International-minded leaders wanted the United States to join most of the rest of the world in using a single measurement system. In 1975, Congress passed the Metric Conversion Act, legislation designed to encourage a transition from feet and pounds to meters and kilograms. The law was voluntary, but many schoolteachers acted as if the change was inevitable.

I still remember being told that if I did not learn the metric system, I would be hopelessly unprepared for the future. Nearly 50 years later, that future has arrived, and most Americans still measure their height in feet and complain about the weather in Fahrenheit.

A handful of laws require consumer products to include both metric and U.S. customary measurements, but that is about as far as the revolution went. Why? Part of the answer is simple: Americans do not like being told to change. Another part is that we have never been especially interested in doing things just because other countries do them. Call it stubbornness. Call it independence. Call it American exceptionalism with a measuring tape.

To be fair, the metric system has its advantages. It is logical, orderly and based on powers of 10. Conversions are easy. Everything fits neatly together.

The imperial system, meanwhile, often appears to have been invented by a committee of medieval farmers and tavern owners. Yet there is something intuitive about it. A foot is roughly the length of a human foot. An inch is about the width of a thumb. You do not need a calculator or a lesson in geography involving the distance from the equator to the North Pole.

As a 7-year-old, learning the metric system felt like homework. I can only imagine how adults reacted. Change tends to happen slowly. In America’s case, sometimes very slowly. Still, the world grows more connected every year. Science, medicine, manufacturing and international trade increasingly rely on metric measurements. Whether we notice it or not, the metric system keeps creeping into our daily lives.

So perhaps the metric advocates will get the last laugh. Maybe 50 years from now, Americans will measure themselves in meters, buy produce by the kilogram and check the weather in Celsius. But do not bet against us finding a way to keep talking about 6-foot-tall people and 75-degree days.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

I spotted a bumper sticker at a stoplight recently that asked a question I haven’t been able to shake: “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” The light turned green. The car drove away. The question stayed with me all the way to work. It’s a tougher question than it sounds.

I can easily remember plenty of firsts. The first time I rode a bicycle. The first time I ventured into the 10-foot end of the swimming pool. The first movie I saw in a theater. The first kiss. The list goes on. But the last time I did something for the first time? That took some thinking. To answer it, I tried a different approach. Instead of asking what new things I’ve done lately, I asked what things I still want to do.

Back in my 20s, when I believed my body was indestructible and recovery was a personality trait, I had ambitious athletic goals. I wanted to run a marathon, bench press 300 pounds, earn a black belt in taekwondo and ride the entire RAGBRAI route across Iowa. Somewhere along the way, those goals quietly exited the building.

Today’s goals are less dramatic but probably more important. Eat more fruits and vegetables. Exercise consistently. Get enough sleep. Relax. Reduce stress. Remember that “self-care” isn’t just something other people are supposed to do. And, most importantly, tell the people I care about that I love them before they have to remind me.

There are still plenty of firsts out there.

I would like to travel to Ireland with my wife. And Hawaii. I’m not sure why those destinations ended up on opposite sides of the globe, but apparently I enjoy making travel plans complicated.

I would like to learn to play the guitar. Not necessarily well — just well enough that people don’t immediately ask me to stop.

I would like to spend more time with our kids and my grandson. I would like to ride my motorcycle more. I would like to read more for fun instead of proofing copy and scanning emails and trying to decipher instructions for products I should have assembled correctly the first time.

There are also some things I would like to do less of. Watch less television. Spend less time staring at my phone. Eat less junk food that somehow keeps finding its way into my pantry.

Maybe that bumper sticker got it right. Doing something for the first time doesn’t always have to be big, bold or Instagram-worthy. Sometimes it is simply deciding there are still things worth trying.

So, how about you? When was the last time you did something for the first time? Drop me a note and let me know. I’m curious.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

Dates. Not the wrinkly things in the produce aisle that somehow cost $14 a pound, but the numbers we memorize, celebrate and occasionally forget at our own peril.

Anniversaries. Birthdates. Death dates. You know exactly what I am talking about. We are obsessed with them, especially birthdays. Society expects us to remember not only our own birthdays, but also those of our spouses, children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. And that is just family. Add neighbors, college roommates and the kid whose gym socks could clear out the sixth-grade locker room, and suddenly you need the memory capacity of a supercomputer just to buy greeting cards on time.

Most of us now outsource this task to digital calendars that chirp reminders at us like needy little robots. My dad handled things differently. He wrote birthdays in ink on a coil-bound calendar from the local farm cooperative and kept it on the kitchen table next to the salt and pepper shakers. Low-tech, but effective.

Even so, missing a birthday usually earns you only mild disappointment or a passive-aggressive Facebook comment. Forget your wedding anniversary, however, and suddenly you are starring in your own disaster movie. The only real escape hatch is if your spouse forgets, too, which has happened with Jolene and me more times than responsible adults should probably admit.

Wedding anniversaries are different in another way: Nobody expects you to remember theirs. Sure, there are thoughtful souls like my mother, who sent anniversary cards. But most anniversaries stay within the couple, where they belong, tucked safely between dinner reservations and arguments about whose idea it was to buy decorative throw pillows.

Death dates are another story entirely. I remember the day Elvis Presley died because it happened on my birthday, which feels like an unfair trade. Beyond that, I generally try not to store death dates in my mental filing cabinet. I would rather remember the people themselves than the day they left. My mother kept track of the death dates of her parents with the precision of a historian, and that probably explains why my own brain treats death dates like spam calls. Still, I understand why some people memorialize them. Grief does not come with instructions, expiration dates or a customer-service hotline. Everybody handles it differently.

Meanwhile, I cannot reliably remember how old I am. Whenever someone asks, I have to stop and do math like a confused game-show contestant. Even then, I am never completely certain I got it right. But my junior high locker combination? That masterpiece is permanently etched into my brain: 34-15-3. Apparently, my memory decided that accessing gym shorts in 1982 was critical survival information.

LeMar Koethe, the local fitness guru who founded 7 Flags Fitness Center in Clive in the 1990s, once told me, “Your age is only a number. How you take care of yourself determines your real age.” He was right.

So I am going to stop obsessing over dates, at least the numerical kind. The nutty, fruity kind? Those are perfectly fine, and eating them might even help me live longer. But who is counting?

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

The older I get, the more I resent stairs. I am starting to understand why so many older folks fall in love with ranch-style homes. Never thought I would see that day. Then again, I once said the same thing about minivans, bland food and hearing aids. Aging is basically a long string of personal betrayals.

As a kid, though, stairs were entertainment. Our basement stairs were unfinished with open backs on every step. They were just wide enough for me to crawl through, so, naturally, I did it dozens of times a day. Eventually, my head grew larger than my judgment, and one day my skull got wedged between the steps.

I yelled for my brother Steve, who was upstairs. What I failed to consider was the extra pressure on my trapped head when he thundered down the staircase. He apologized — sort of — then laughed like a maniac while prying the steps apart to free me. That was the end of my stair-crawling career.

The stairwell fun, however, was just getting started. Back then, kids could turn almost anything into a toy, especially if it carried a moderate risk of concussion. One of our prized possessions was a tire inner tube wrapped in white canvas. I think it was meant to be some kind of mini trampoline, but Steve and I saw the greater potential of basement stair sledding.

The tube fit perfectly between the stairwell walls, and Steve thought it would be hilarious for me to test it first. He was right. Leaning forward produced a thrilling combination of somersaults and face plants all the way down. Steve assured me the second attempt would go better if I leaned backward. Miraculously, he was correct. The result was a smooth, bumpy ride to the bottom with only minor spinal compression. We rode those stairs over and over until, inevitably, we invented something even dumber.

The next event was essentially ski jumping without skis, snow or adult supervision. We started by leaping from the bottom stair onto the inner tube below. Then we moved up one step at a time. The challenge was simple: jump farther and survive.

Oddly enough, I got pretty good at it. I even out-jumped my older brother, whose height gave him the disadvantage of cracking his head on the ceiling. Eventually, I made it all the way to the top step. Standing there, staring down the staircase, I felt like Evel Knievel — if Evel Knievel had worn tube socks and a T-shirt with grape Popsicle stains.

Steve urged me to go for it. So I launched myself into the air, eyes wide, legs tucked and then stretched out, fully expecting glory. Instead, I landed squarely on my tailbone on the bottom step.

That bone-rattling crash ended the stairwell Olympics for good. It may also explain why ranch homes suddenly seem less like retirement housing and more like good long-term planning.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707