Arkansas River sandbar & Free Bridge 1966

Jeff, Steven and David on a sandbar on the Arkansas River just above the Free Bridge, in the fall of 1966.  From the same group of slides as the earlier one I posted showing Arch and Jeff.  What looks like a light in the middle of the bridge's lift span is a reflection of sunlight from the little metal building that contains the controls for lifting that part of the bridge to let barges, etc, pass under.  The McClellan-Kerr navigation project was underway, as evidenced by the large rocks and wooden pilings in the photo, but wasn't completed until five years later.  A new bridge to replace the Free Bridge was opened at about that time (officially opened in 1972).

American soldier's "tomato" request, France 1944

Update, 14 October 2014.  I heard from Cecile yesterday. She sent me the story of the American soldier's request for a tomato (see below). I'd asked her when I e-mailed her if it would be okay to post the photo of the soldier's reaction when she brought tomatoes to him (he is standing in front of a tank, laughing and making a gesture of frustration, and numerous villagers, old and young, are gathered along the side of the road in front of him).  She asked me not to post the photo, saying, "I am very uncomfortable with the modern world."   So I've deleted it, and also deleted or changed some of the text below, in accordance with the correct version of the story.

This extraordinary photo [no longer posted] was given to me about 20 years ago by a 71 year old female physicist at the University of Texas at Austin named Cecile Dewitt-Morette.  I could write a lot about her here, but it's mostly covered in the link I've provided.  What isn't mentioned there is the complete story behind this photograph, which is of an American tank crew entering a French town in  July 1944.  The soldier standing on the ground was asked by Cecile if there was something she could get for him.  He asked for a tomato.  At the moment of this photo, Cecile had returned with several tomatoes.  The soldier is clearly not just saying "thank you."  He is evidently explaining that in the soldiers' vernacular, a tomato is a young woman. Cecile was 21 at the time.  Given the uncertainties of the language barrier, instead of answering her question he may have been saying to himself and his buddies that here was a "tomato," and Cecile took it as a request.

Here's the story, sent to me by Cecile herself.  It's apparently taken from a larger article, and thus there's no info provided on who the other people are:

In July 1944, Mien, François, Genevieve, their children, Claudine and Patrice,

and I were in Bleneau (Yonne). Two American tanks drove right into the town

square.

The first American I met (photo) was a good looking strapping soldier with his

tank. The villagers had asked me to talk to him because none of them spoke English.

I would not have gone on my own because properly brought up young ladies did not

talk to the military. So with my best French accented English I asked him,

“What would you like?”

He said, “A tomato.”

That was a strange request because tomatoes were about the only staple not

rationed. But during the war, we did not question requests from reliable sources. So

I went to the nearby grocery store and brought him back one kilo of tomatoes. He

burst out laughing (see photo) as if communication with the natives were hopeless. I

could not figure out his reaction.

Years later, showing this picture to my husband, I told him that I was glad he was

more intelligent than the first stupid American I had met. Upon hearing my offer of

one kilo of tomatoes, he burst out laughing and told me that in the military slang

then a “tomato” was a girl.

I tried to write about Cecile after I'd taken a Classical Mechanics course from her in the Fall of 1990 and had gotten to know her. She claimed she wasn't interested in having anything published about her life, at least not until after she died.  At least I fulfilled that wish of hers, although others have written a little about her (James Gleick, for one, in his biography of Richard Feynman titled Genius).  As far as I know Cecile is still alive (she hasn't responded to a recent email of mine, however), and now of course is 91 years old.  

I should have posted the photo in August July to coincide with the 70th anniversary of its being taken, but I only last month thought about it and looked it up in my files, where I also found this note I wrote to her when I was (unsuccessfully) trying to get something published to coincide with the 50th anniversary of D-Day in 1994:

Dear Cécile,                                                                  March 21, 1994

          I recall you telling the Normandy Scholars something about the nature of survival under the Nazi occupation during the war, but I don’t recall exactly what you said.  One student asked about it, using the cliché, “You did what you had to do to survive?”  You said no, not to survive, and then you said something more specific which I wonder if you can recall.  It’s a rather important point, since “doing what you have to do to survive” implies one’s first interest is self-preservation, which I suppose could describe the Vichy government at the time.  What is your description of how you lived then?  I think the distinction was between living—a day to day physical task—and “surviving,” which implies some complicity with the Nazis.

          I’ve heard you talk about D-Day and occupied France, but haven’t gotten an idea of how you felt during those times.  I think many people would be interested in knowing your feelings during those times.  Of course, handling such things requires circumspection—I’m not thinking of what happens emotionally on numerous TV talk shows these days.   It isn’t even the direct expression of the emotions that’s needed in print, it’s a presentation of what happened, of the facts or memories, in a fashion that is the most truthful.  It just so happens that the most articulate and truthful expression of the facts comes from connecting emotionally with the events.

          I’ve gotten a bit of this sort of thing from you, but would like to get more, and would like to try to publish something in Texas Monthly, the New York Times Magazine, or, yes, even Physics Today about what happened to you in the summer of 1944—the accidental deaths of members of your family from the Allied bombing of Caen, your being stranded (if that’s the correct term) in Paris, and your working with the Joliot-Curies.  This is historically significant!  The article would just make that 50-year-old historical connection, so I don’t see any reason for you to be embarrassed at the publicity while you’re still alive.  Maybe you could make some notes on this subject when you have little mental (and emotional) flashes of memory from those times.

          Time, by the way, is fairly short, but I will send queries out this week.

                                                                                                 David

HP-28C and me

Here's something a bit different.  A not-very-well-focused-or-framed scan of a calculator?  Well, of course, a story goes with it, but it's basically told by what I punched in on the calculator before I scanned it today.  Yes, I won it.  Not recently, but it's approximately the 27th anniversary of when I won it, in early fall of 1987.  The occasion was an engineering job fair on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin.  When I went in, I filled out a slip of paper to register for the door prize.  I'd just moved to Austin with my wife of that time, now ex-wife, and was working as a physics lab instructor and was enrolled in physics graduate school.  For me the lab teaching was just a job offer that had enabled me to move to Austin from Little Rock. I didn't really want to pursue the usual graduate student fast track, so I was looking for another job, and thus went to the College of Engineering job fair.

When I got home and my wife told me I'd had a call saying I won a calculator, I wasn't jumping up and down.  Big deal, a calculator!   Things changed when I found out it was the HP top-of-the-line graphing calculator.  Winning it was one of the few good things that happened to me at that time (I wound up dropping my graduate physics classes, since I was about to flunk.)   The other good thing about the calculator was more recent, namely I got it working again.  I hadn't used it for Lord knows how long, and whenever I last tried putting new batteries in it, it didn't work.  Then I tried again this year and it worked.  I use it as a normal calculator and also for Chapter 3 (matrix calculation) problems in Mathematical Methods in the Physical Sciences, an excellent textbook by Mary L. Boas.

Back in '87 the calculator was worth several hundred dollars, which is also about the retail price of the 43" flat-panel TV I won in a drawing last year at this time at the Arkansas Recycling Coalition conference in Eureka Springs.  I was actually more excited about getting the old calculator to work than about winning the TV.  I let a friend borrow the TV to use in his bedroom, since I don't watch much TV anyway, and the one I've got already (a hand-me-down 27" non-digital with an external converter box) is enough for me.