Almost Wordless Wednesday: Take Me Out to the Ball Game

 Thanks for the memories!

Six years ago yesterday I wrote this blog post about the 

Negro Leagues, Satchel Paige and the Indians.

Here's a link to a Humor page that includes 

"wisdom" from Satchel Paige and Yogi Berra.

 Robert Lookup's Unusual List of
Important Dates In Major League Baseball

For Major League Baseball Fans Who Love Statistics

Retrosheet

Finding Balance with Regards to Crime

Last week, while reading a chapter from economist and social thinker Thomas Sowell's Knowledge and Decisions, this statement jumped off the page: “While the concept of an ‘optimal’ quantity of crime may be uncomfortable, it is also clear that no one is prepared to devote half the Gross National Product to stamping out every residual trace of gambling.”

It is a bracing statement. Steven Spielberg's Minority Report immediately came to mind. In the film crime is nearly eliminated through pre-crime technology that arrests individuals before they act. The result is remarkable safety—but at the cost of due process and moral agency. The film underscores this same tension Sowell sites: in trying to eradicate crime completely, a society may sacrifice the very freedom it seeks to protect.

No one likes the idea that some level of crime may be inevitable. We instinctively want safety to be absolute. Yet Sowell’s point, and Spielberg's, is not that crime is acceptable, but that trade-offs are unavoidable.

Every society must balance liberty, cost, and security. Eliminating every infraction would require a surveillance state, vast expenditures, and a level of intrusion most citizens would reject. Cameras on every corner, or as in Orwell's 1984, every home. Police in every transaction. Bureaucracy in every exchange. The cure would likely become more oppressive than the disease.

The American experiment has always wrestled with this tension. We prize freedom—freedom of movement, enterprise, speech, and association. But freedom carries risk. A society that leaves room for initiative also leaves room for misconduct. The question is not whether crime can be reduced; it can and should be. The question is how far we are willing to go, and at what cost to other goods and values we cherish.

There's also a moral dimension. A mature society must distinguish between different kinds of wrongdoing. Violent crime threatens life and order and demands serious response. Other offenses—regulatory violations, minor vice crimes, youthful mistakes—raise different considerations. Treating all infractions as equally intolerable can produce overcriminalization, overcrowded prisons, and strained public budgets without meaningfully improving safety.

Finding balance requires clarity about priorities. Government’s primary duty is protection, but protection must be proportionate. Resources are finite. Tax dollars spent on marginal enforcement are dollars not spent on schools, infrastructure, or public health. Excessive time spent policing low-level infractions may be time not spent addressing serious threats.

Another out of balance feature is that because of efforts to hold police under the spotlight lest they misbehave, they now spend four hours out of a twelve-hour shift filling out paperwork. This distrust of police ties up more of an officer's time so that they have less time for responding to real crime. (EdNote: These numbers from our Duluth police department may vary from other police districts.)

George Orwell warned, “In a society in which there is no law, and no police, and no one willing to enforce order, there is no freedom.” Freedom is not the absence of authority; it is the presence of reliable order. Businesses large and small depend on contracts being enforced, property being protected, and disputes being settled peacefully. When theft, vandalism, and intimidation go unchecked, commerce shrinks and ordinary people retreat. When businesses close it also reduces the number of jobs available. And as statistics show, fewer jobs has a direct correlation to higher crime.

Movements to “defund the police,” whatever their intentions, risk weakening the very conditions that allow neighborhoods and businesses to flourish. Police accountability matters, but dismantling enforcement erodes trust and investment. Law and order are not enemies of liberty—they are its scaffolding.

In the end, the search for balance reflects a deeper truth: human beings are imperfect, and any free society must manage that imperfection without surrendering the very freedoms it seeks to defend. No question that finding balance is an ongoing challenge, but wisdom isn't found in extremes. Finding the "Golden Mean" is an imperative.

What Was It Like to Work on the ENIAC?

In the tech realm, everyone knows about the ENIAC. My mother's brothers were each more than acquainted with it. They worked with it.

Vacuum tube. I remember when
television sets had them.

The ENIAC (Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer) was the world's first programmable, electronic, general-purpose digital computer. It was developed during World War II (1943–1945) at the University of Pennsylvania's Moore School of Electrical Engineering by John Mauchly, J. Presper Eckert, and their team, under U.S. Army contract for the Ballistics Research Laboratory.

The ENIAC was built to calculate artillery firing tables quickly—complex ballistic trajectories that took humans days but ENIAC handled in seconds (e.g., 5,000 additions per second, vastly faster than mechanical predecessors). 
Here are some key specs to wrap your head around:

• Used approximately 17,468 vacuum tubes, 70,000 resistors, 10,000 capacitors.
• Weighed 30 tons, occupied a 50x30-foot room (a little larger than my wife's 40x30-foot garage) and consumed 150 kW of power.
• Programmed by rewiring plugboards and switches, not stored programs. It took days to change tasks.
• Unveiled publicly in February 1946 (post-war), it influenced later computers like EDVAC and UNIVAC.

It would be fair to say that the ENIAC marked the dawn of modern electronic computing.  
According to The Evolution of Computers Wordpress site:
The first generation of computers occurred from 1946 to 1958, it was called The Vacuum Tube Years. The vacuum tube was an essential step in the progress of early computers. A vacuum tube was a sealed glass or metal-ceramic enclosure used in electronic circuit which controlled the flow of electrons inside. The air inside the sealed tubes was removed by a vacuum The purpose of the vacuum tubes in the first generation of computers was to be an amplifier and a switch at the same time. The vacuum tubes had no moving parts which enabled it to take weak signals and make them stronger. In other words, the vacuum tube could amplify weak signals. The second purpose for the vacuum tubes was for the easy management of stopping and starting the flow of electricity instantly. This was referred to as the switch. It was these two components, amplifier and switch, that made the ENIAC computer likely. 
Reading about the ENIAC brought to mind a comment my uncle Ferrell Sandy made around 15 years ago before he passed. When my mother and I would visit, we'd often go to an Italian restaurant at the bottom of the hill where he always ordered Chicken Marsala.* When I was growing up my dad would ask--at family reunions--what he was working on. He always replied, "I can't tell you." He was a physicist who worked in a consulting firm that had two clients, the CIA and the NSC. 
In 2010 or 11, fifty years had passed and things were very changed and he could share a few stories, including his experience working on the ENIAC. As noted above, the ENIAC had over 17,000 vacuum tubes. So when I asked about his experience, Uncle Ferrell said, "It would run for five minutes, and then stop, and you'd walk around and try to find which vacuum tube burned out." Once you found it, you could replace it and start it up again. A vacuum tube would burn out around every five minutes.
This was the beginning of the computer revolution.

* Chicken Marsala is a classic Italian-American dish of thin, pan-fried chicken cutlets served in a rich sauce made with Marsala wine, mushrooms, and aromatics like garlic and shallots, often thickened and finished with butter or cream.

Noblesse Oblige: Redeeming Privilege in an Age of Resentment

The United States is not just a melting pot of races and cultures, it's also a melting pot of languages and ideas. One concept we inherited (or borrowed) from the French is summed up in the expression noblesse oblige. 

In our time, the failures of Western Civilization—colonialism, inequality, exploitation—are often highlighted as though they define the whole. Yet Western Civ also gave rise to constitutional government, the rule of law, scientific inquiry, individual rights, abolition movements, and ideals of human dignity that fueled reform from within. Its greatest strength may have been self-critique—the capacity to confront injustice using its own moral vocabulary. At its best, it calls the powerful to responsibility, to service rather than domination.

The French phrase noblesse oblige literally means “nobility obligates.” It expresses the idea that those who possess privilege—whether of birth, wealth, education, or power—carry a moral responsibility toward those with less. French is a beautiful language, and the concept here is beautiful as well.

This idea emerged from the hierarchical structure of medieval and early modern France. In a feudal society, nobles enjoyed legal advantages, land ownership, and social prestige. Yet embedded within that system was an expectation: privilege was not merely to be enjoyed, but to be stewarded. A noble was expected to show courage in battle, generosity toward dependents, protection of the weak, and a certain standard of honorable conduct. Rank demanded character.

The phrase itself gained wider usage in the 17th and 18th centuries and entered English in the 19th century. In Victorian Britain and America, it became shorthand for the belief that the upper classes should lead in philanthropy, public service, and moral example. Industrial magnates who endowed libraries, universities, and hospitals sometimes saw themselves as acting under this principle. Andrew Carnegie funded a total of 2,509 libraries worldwide between 1883 and 1919, including libraries in both Duluth and Hibbing.

Critics, however, have long noted the ambiguity of noblesse oblige. At its best, it encourages stewardship, generosity, and civic responsibility. At its worst, they say it reinforces paternalism—implying that help flows downward from a superior class rather than recognizing shared dignity and mutual obligation. 

This is another example, as I noted last week, of how it's better to do the right thing for the wrong reason than to  do the wrong thing.   

Carnegie Library interior, Duluth MN

In modern democratic societies, the phrase has expanded beyond hereditary aristocracy. Today it may refer to the ethical duties of CEOs, elected officials, celebrities, or anyone whose influence exceeds that of others. The core insight remains relevant: privilege is not morally neutral. Power and advantage carry responsibility. Noblesse oblige reminds us that status is not only a benefit—it carries a burden of expectation.

There is always a price for negligence when we don’t assume responsibility for our privilege.  

What's often missing when discussing the responsibilities of privilege is how much of this attitude stems from the Bible. Jesus emphasized stewardship, charity, and accountability for the powerful. Biblical ideas like "To whom much is given, much will be required" (Luke 12:48) and Christ's example of servant leadership aligned with the notion that higher status demanded greater service.

Christianity profoundly shaped and reinforced this concept within feudal Europe, especially from the 11th–13th centuries onward. The code of chivalry—which developed in France around the late 12th century (associated with knighthood and the ideal of the chevalier)—was explicitly rooted in medieval Christian ethics. It blended warrior duties with Christian virtues: piety, protection of the weak, generosity, justice, and humility. Chivalry was never fully codified but was popularized in literature (e.g., Arthurian legends) and promoted by the Church to civilize the warrior class. 

Without Christian influence, feudal obligations might have remained more pragmatic or contractual (as in some pre-Christian warrior societies). Christianity infused them with ethical depth—turning raw power into a calling to honorable service, mercy, and protection of the weak.

These attitudes which were embedded in Old Testament Judaism didn't begin with Christianity, but they flowered there. The principle echoes throughout Scripture: from the prophets' calls for justice and care for the widow, orphan, and stranger, to the New Testament's parables of stewardship and the servant-king who washes feet rather than lords it over others. Jesus Himself is the ultimate embodiment of noblesse oblige—the divine Son who, possessing all authority, laid it down to serve and sacrifice for the least.

In our flattened, egalitarian age, the phrase can sound archaic or elitist. Yet its deeper truth endures: whatever gifts, opportunities, or positions we've been entrusted with—be they talents, resources, influence, or simply the accident of birth in a prosperous society—come with strings attached. Not strings of guilt, but of grateful obligation. The one who has received much is called to give much, not out of superiority, but out of recognition that all good things come from above and are meant to flow through us to bless others.

This is the quiet revolution at the heart of the biblical vision: true nobility isn't about hoarding privilege but about channeling it toward the common good. In a culture quick to demand rights and resent hierarchies, noblesse oblige—reclaimed through its Christian roots—challenges us to ask: What have I been given? And how will I steward it faithfully?

Perhaps that's the meditation we need today—not to reject privilege, but to redeem it. To see our advantages not as entitlements to exploit or excuses to withdraw, but as divine trusts calling us to humble, generous service. For in the end, the measure of our nobility isn't the height of our station, but the depth of our willingness to bend low for the sake of others. As Christ showed us, the greatest among us must become the servant of all—and therein lies the truest freedom and the most enduring legacy.