Saturday, September 19, 2020

free will

Do we have free will or it's all just an illusion? Modern sciences would like to tell us it's the latter. Your body and mind are just one big complex machine that acts according to the laws of physics, the neurons in your brain were fired up long (nanoseconds) before you think of an idea or make a move, the end result of a long chain of events that trace back all the way to the day the universe started.

But like the behavior of flowy water cannot be described by the particle-like movements of its atomic components, and deterministic events in microcosm do not transpire to deterministic outcome in a "chaotic", complex system (having full knowledge of all the meteorological parameters does not guarantee accurate predictions of the weather, for example), such reductionist deconstruction of human psyche is fallacious and even unscientific.
 
The philosophical determinism and religious predestination theory, on the other hand, are more about fancy thought-play and mystical after-the-fact statements than honest reporting of human state of mind as it happens.

Free will, in common sense term that you and I can understand and experience, is the capacity to weigh different options and make decisions without coercion (such as someone holding a gun to your head), to do things we desire.

A sovereignty that some may prefer not to have, for some reason. In a psychological experiment, one group of people were asked to read a passage arguing that free will was an illusion, and another group to read a passage that was neutral on the topic. Then both groups were subject to a variety of temptations and observed their behavior. What researchers found was, with the opportunity to cheat being equal, the former group took more illicit peeks at answers during a math test and took more money than they should from an envelope of $1 coins than the latter.

樂 樂 樂

So, if you are free, what will you do?

President Eisenhower once quoted a Stoic-ish statement in one of his State of the Union addresses that "Freedom is the opportunity to do the right thing;" ancient Greek philosophers--Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle--believe that seeking truth is the same as seeking good, helping people becoming virtuous in the process. 

And devout believers seek God's will to replace their own; contemplative "deep silence" prayers try to will nothing but hold an implicit intent to be in union with God during meditation; naturalists think they see the Creator's will everywhere or nowhere in the world.

Flipping the coin to the other side, free will could be hijacked by the basest of human instincts--aggression, possessiveness, self-aggrandization--to an abysmal end as deep as their superego would take them. All the ruthless rulers and mad men in history...

Free will may be overrated, after all. As relational creatures living in an interconnected world, none of us has absolute freedom but all depend on the freedom of others and the complex makings of a fragile world for our well-beings. Instead of insisting "my way or highway," "your wish is my command" may be a wiser approach to harmonious living.

Your good will will always trump my free will, that is.

☺  ☺  ☺

Sunday, August 2, 2020

a hectic fall

It was a Monday evening, I just started off my home on my way to Mel & Jo's for our recently resumed weekly meditation meetup. This was the third week in a row I bicycled instead of driving to my meditation friend's home. Evelyn's and Annie's were both in San Clemente, Mel & Jo's was in San Juan Capistrano, closer to my neck of the woods but the route I chose for this bike ride had some up and down, wind-around road challenges I felt a bit anxious to check out.

Maybe too anxious, I forgot the steep slope that led down our community exit that I always needed to maneuver through first, and careless, for I had been riding down this slope so many times before, I didn't apply much brake, and instead of rolling over the speed bump I swerved to its side to bypass it... next thing I knew I saw my wheels hit the seam between the curb and the pavement and start to rattle and wobble and I reckoned I was losing control of my bike and decided to let go the handlebars and fell to the ground...


When I came to, there were a couple of people sitting beside me by the roadside (some Good Samaritan neighbors happened to drive by and saw the accident), a man and a woman, I thought. The woman asked kindly how I felt, I said I was all right, "what day is today," she continued, and I felt funny, because I couldn't answer that question, nor could I figure out why I was there and where I was headed...

They called the ambulance for me and minutes later I was in the Emergency Room of Mission Hospital. They took an X-ray on my left shoulder and a CT-scan on my head and left me resting there for a few hours before returning with the result: A broken collarbone on my left shoulder and a minor concussion on my head. Neither was too serious and should heal themselves in days, they said. They then gave me a prescription for pain-killer medicine and a sling for shoulder support and dispatched me home.

I had a couple nights of very bad sleep not only due to the broken shoulder but also the left wrist and fingers that were red hot swollen and excruciatingly painful. I also experienced morning headaches and dizziness and nausea at times.

But these gradually let up in the following days, to the point when I visited my primary care doctor a week later for followup check, as suggested by the ER staff, I spent about equal time catching up with him (he's been our family doctor for decades and we don't get to see each other except on "special occasions" like this) as talking about the accident and its after-effect on me.

My sense of recovery and well being got even stronger a few days later when I visited an orthopedist referred by my primary care doctor. As a precaution, and to know exactly how my injury was and had been healing, he ordered another X-ray on my shoulder, as well as an MRI on my wrist.

He called me the next day with a somewhat alarming tone: The X-ray report he just saw showed the fracture of my collarbone was much worse than he originally thought, the bone was split far apart and out of alignment, a situation that called for immediate surgery the sooner the better.


I was surprised to hear that and started looking for second opinions on whether I should do surgery or not. After talking to a couple of fellow cyclists who had similar accidents and injuries and had gone through surgeries, a regenerative (non-surgical) medical doctor, and another orthopedist, I concluded I should do the surgery and set up for it the following week, a little more than three weeks from the day the accident happened.

It was a minor surgery--as the doctors liked to say, comparing it to knee replacement or open heart surgeries, I suppose. I was put under general anesthesia, though, and slept through the two-hour operation. What the doctor did was put in a metal plate, drill holes on my bones, fasten the plate and bridge the bones together again.


The post-surgery recovery was quite manageable, the inconveniences I had to live through came from needing to avoid wetting the bandaged surgical cut on my shoulder when taking a bath, and the restricted movement of my left arm and hand that forced me to wash my face with one hand, like a cat, for example.

All these were lifted after I paid my post-op visit to the surgery doctor last Friday. They removed the bandage and stitches from the wound, and said I could start moving my arm and hand around like normal again... no swimming until a couple weeks later, though. 

Neither bicycling, I suppose.

* How to fall off a bike the right way? Believe it or not, I've been cycling off and on for over 8 years, including a 9-day round-the-island tour in Taiwan a couple years ago, and this was the first time I ever fell off a bike. Here is the belated tip I learn from online: 

When sensing an imminent fall, tuck your chin to your chest, keep your hands on the bars or as close to your body as possible, roll when you hit the ground to spread the forces of the impact across a larger surface area, so to reduce your chances of a fracture.

One thing I certainly did not do was holding on to the handlebars, but instead letting it go so easily, maybe subliminally thinking about or trying to apply the fall-down skills I learned from Judo or snow skiing practices, when what's waiting for me down there was not a tatami mat or a soft pile of snow, but hard rugged ground of asphalt pavement!

* Many thanks to those who came to my aid after the accident: From Christine who picked me up at the ER, to Richard who took me to the many doctor visits and the surgery, to Dr. James who referred me a fine orthopedic specialist and gave valuable after-surgery advices, to my across-street neighbors who sent me comfort foods, to my meditation group and book group friends and all others who expressed condolences and good wishes after hearing the accident. Your acts of love and kindness, good thoughts and prayers are more powerful and spread wider than whatever pandemic virus out there is and could!

Sunday, June 14, 2020

relationship

No one is an island. We are born attached, literally, umbilically, to our mother, and father, and siblings, genetically and emotionally. We then go out and create our own ties, making friends, joining organizations, forming families, weaving a social web work that comes to define who we are, or at least how people perceive we are. On the day we die, many would feel the greatest regret of their life is the failure to reconcile some of these relationships they have with others.

A Utopian Confucian society is one based on all the "proper" relationships–father and son, man and wife, ruler and subject, the old and the young–properly performed by all its members, facilitated by rites and rituals, motivated by everyone's original good heart of love and kindness. Easier said than done. When the original good doesn't come out original or good enough, society becomes disingenuous, rites and rituals turn into "man-eating decorum" (吃人的禮教), civilization loses luster. 

A smack of intimacy is detected in the word relationship, versus the word relation. That's probably why nations have "Foreign Relations" Department not "Foreign Relationship" Department, and she says she has "sexual relationship" with him while he says he does not have any "sexual relations" with that woman.

Essential as emotional attachment seems to be, some wiser guys choose to keep as little of it as possible. "The gentlemen's friendship is as bland as water (君子之交淡如水)," says Confucius. Some, like the hermits or the monks, go further, severing all ties with the world, their only remaining one being with nature or God. That's keeping it very simple, smart! I don't go extreme, but I think sometimes a proper break from a long stalemated relationship helps you see things clearer and move on better.

Perhaps the most precious, sought after relationship is the one prefixed with the adjective "personal". It is a relational super highway that cuts through all the hierarchical byways to get wherever you want–a special treatment, undivided attention, etc.–fast. Shouldn't/can't we make all relationships personal, then?

How you see your relationship with another tells how you know them and how they affect you. When Jesus asked his disciples "Who do you think I am," Peter hit the jackpot ("You are the Messiah!") and got the key to the gate to heaven, while others–like many still today–consider him just a prophet, a sage, or a great teacher, and don't get the magic a Savior endows the saved ones with.
 
Much has been said about virtual relationships in today's info-media world: Facebook friends, Twitter followers, celebrity groupies... But I say all relationships are virtual, for the simple fact that no two persons can be physically close by 24/7, so we all have to rely on thoughts and prayers, memories and imaginations, to keep the connection going in our mind, with all those we cross paths with in life, short or long, near or far, dead or alive.

That's why relationship never dies.

Monday, June 1, 2020

a home project

The side yard door we had since the house was built some 8 years ago had been sagging on one side and the wood panel deteriorating with age, I decided to replace it.

I ordered a metal gate online and got it in a week. Assembling was not too hard, except they sent wrong screws for some parts I had to figure out and get the right ones from a local hardware store.

Dismantling the old door was not too hard either.

But I had to get rid of those big long bolts sticking out from the concrete block columns after the old wooden posts were removed.

A little hacksaw blade could do the big job of sawing off the bolt, given time; but I didn't really need to saw it all the way down, just about one third of the way, then knocked it off with a hammer.

Now came the hard part: carving out a seam between the concrete block column and the ground for my new metal post's base to tuck in.

I made my own “improvised cutting device” after learning it from a YouTube video by attaching a disc blade to a drill gun. 

It worked for a while, giving me some headway into the hard solid block column I wanted. 

But then it kept breaking down: the rickety home-made device just not sturdy enough to stand the constant jerking and shaking my forceful cutting action created.

After some online research, a couple visits to the local hardware store, and advice from a kindly store helper, I bought this power oscillating tool, along with a diamond grit concrete cutting blade to attach to it.

That did the job, cutting a seam about 5 inches wide, 2 inches deep, at the base of the column.


So I could tuck the metal post in.


Along with the gate.


The only problem now was my opening was just about one inch too narrow for the door handle and its backstop to "kiss" and close properly. 

So I detached and reattached the backstop plate to the other cheek of the post, and now the door handle and its backstop clap flawlessly together.

Welcome to my yard!

Sunday, May 3, 2020

why fish don't exist (4)

In David's own estimate, out of the 12,000–13,000 species of fish known to humans in his day, he and his students had discovered over 2,500 of them. One out of every five in the world, that was.

What drove him to such monumental tasks, to persist and persevere while catastrophes struck, again and again?

He had “a terrifying capacity for convincing himself that what he wanted was right,” writes scholar Luther Spoehr, “His ability to crush those in his path multiplied even as he became convinced that his path was the one of righteousness which led to progress.”

A belief system likely seeded by his youth time idol, the naturalist Louis Agassiz (whose statue stands outside the marine research building commissioned by David at Stanford), whose summer camp inspired David to the field of Ichthyology study.

Agassiz believed there were objective measures about organisms, such as “the complication or simplicity of their structure” or “the character of their relations to the surrounding world,” that could be used to rank organisms in their proper order. Lizards, for example, would score higher than fish because they “bestow greater care upon their offspring.” Parasites, meanwhile, were clear lowlifes, the lot of them. Just look at how they earned their living: they mooched and deceived and freeloaded.

He believed there is a ladder built into nature. A divine hierarchy from bacteria to humans that points objectively toward better. The highest of creatures could fall from their rungs if they weren’t careful, that bad habits could somehow cause a species to physically and cognitively decline.

When Darwin's evolution theory became the zeitgeist of late 19th century, David mashed it with Agassiz’s foggy idea of “degeneration” and ran with it. In a scientific paper, David proposed that the sea squirt, a sedentary sac of a filter feeder, had once been a higher fish but had “degraded” into its current form due to a combination of “idleness, inactivity and dependence.”

David was one of the first to bring Eugenics ideas that started in England to America. As early as the 1880s, decades before most American eugenicists got the fever, David had begun to tuck these ideas into his lectures at Indiana University, informing students that traits like “pauperism” and “degeneracy” were heritable and thus could be “exterminated just as swamps are drained.”

He published his first pro-eugenics article in 1898 and followed it with a flurry of books advocating for the cleansing of the gene pool. He made stops at churches and almshouses, where he’d warn the devoted staffs about the dangers of their work fomenting, as he claimed it did, “the survival of the unfit.”

In 1907, a few of his friends from Bloomington successfully legalized forced eugenic sterilization in Indiana—the first such law not just in the country but in the world. Two years later, David helped get it passed in California. His commitment to the cause apparent, he was asked to chair the Eugenics Committee of the American Breeders Association. He eagerly accepted.

Now back to the fish story, and a bit evolutionary mumbo jumbo.

How do evolutionary biologists classify creatures found on earth? Starting in 1990s, "cladistic" method is the most common one used. What does cladistic method do? Simply put, it categorizes organisms in groups ("clades") based on the most recent common ancestor.

For example, if you want to talk about group "vertebrates", that includes all creatures with a backbone, then snakes are in, worms are out. Group "mammals"? It must include every single descendant of that first creature able to make milk. Cats, dogs, whales, all good. No reptiles allowed!

Quiz: A cow. A salmon. A lungfish. Which of these things is not like the other?

If you could, for a moment, allow yourself not be blinded by the outer look of these creatures (such as the scales of the salmon and the lungfish) but focus on their shared evolutionary traits, then you would begin to notice: the lungfish and the cow both have lung-like organs that allow them to breathe air while the salmon does not; the lungfish and the cow both have an epiglottis (a small flap of skin that covers the windpipe) while the salmon is epiglottis-less; and the lungfish’s heart is structured more like a cow’s than a salmon’s, etc., etc., etc. All leading to the conclusion that the lungfish is more closely related to the cow than to the salmon.

Using method like this, taxonomists conclude that fish, as a legitimate category of creature, do not exist.

We human mind intuitively and summarily groups all creatures living in water with scaled skin, swinging fins, sleek body as one kind and call them fish, but by that same logic, we should treat all creatures living in mountains, for example, mountain goats, mountain toads, mountain eagles, and mountain men, as one kind and call them one same name, but we don't.

To conclude the story, let's give some equal opportunity time to Darwin:

Contrary to David and Agassiz's assertion of a divine hierarchy from bacteria to humans that points objectively toward better, Darwin sees no ladder in nature. Nature doesn’t jump, he says. Species—and indeed all those fussy ranks taxonomists believed to be immutable in nature (genus, family, order, class, etc.)—were human inventions. Useful but arbitrary lines we draw around an ever-evolving flow of life for our convenience. Nature has no edges, no hard lines. To get stuck on a single hierarchy is to miss the bigger picture, the messy truth of nature, the “whole machinery of life.”

And what does Darwin say is the best way of building a strong species? Variation. In nearly every chapter of "Origin of Species," Darwin hails the power of “Variation.” He marvels over how diverse gene pools are healthier and stronger, how inter-crossing between different types of individuals gives more “vigor and fertility” to their offspring, how even worms and plants that can produce perfect replicas of themselves are equipped for sex, for introducing variety back into the gene pool.

And maybe every little interaction between creatures, sentient ones in particular—the affection, good will, compassion..., makes life bind closer, jell better, evolve higher, proves that we exist, with or without label, categorizable or not!

* This 4-part write-up is based on the book "Why Fish Don't Exist" by Lulu Miller I recently finished reading. Hope it gives you enough distraction from the lockdown and endless bombardment of the corona virus news we are all facing now. Cheers!

Saturday, May 2, 2020

why fish don't exist (3)

Upon learning that Jane Stanford's death would likely be ruled a poisoning, David set sail for Hawaii.

Though he told the New York Times his visit had “nothing whatever to do with the investigation which the police of San Francisco and Honolulu are conducting,” that he was there only to escort Jane’s body home, records show he hired a new doctor and paid him the hefty sum of $350—about $10,000 today—to reexamine the case.

The man David selected, Ernest Waterhouse, had only been practicing medicine for a couple of years. Without examining the body or any of the evidence, and after a skim of a book on poisoning, conversations with a couple of the witnesses, and a series of meetings with David, in his hands the explanation of Jane’s death took an acrobatic turn.

In a typed memo to David (which David had instructed he prepare for him), Dr. Waterhouse declared that he was “decidedly not” convinced that Jane Stanford had been poisoned. Though concerned by the amount of strychnine found in her belly and bottle, he wasn’t sure it was enough to have killed her. So how to explain the violent convulsions, the lockjaw, the whole rapid death thing? Gingerbread!

Now Bertha — Jane's personal assistant — said that the gingerbread prepared by the hotel for Jane's picnic had not been freshly cooked, as she had originally testified to the police (and the hotel continued to claim), but under-cooked. And not only did Jane inhaled gob after gob of the sloppy, eggy dough, she also sucked down eight sandwiches, filled with thick slabs of beef tongue and Swiss cheese, multiple cups of cold coffee, and over a dozen French candies.

So, as David informed the New York Times, that he was “wholly convinced” that Jane's death was due to heart failure triggered by a combination of overexertion (from a leisurely picnic outing?) and consuming “a surfeit of unsuitable food.”

When the statement went public, the Hawaii doctors were horrified. They banded together and immediately released a counter-statement, which read:

"She did not die of angina pectoris because neither the symptoms of the attack nor the condition of the heart confirms that diagnosis. It is imbecile to think that a woman of Mrs. Stanford’s age and known mental characteristics might have died of an hysterical seizure in half an hour.… No Board of Health in existence could allow a certificate based on such a cause of death to go unchallenged."

David retorted by calling the key medical witness, Dr. Humphris, “a man without professional or personal standing.” When the Hawaii doctors rushed to Humphris’ defense, David accused them all of colluding in a conspiracy—fabricating the diagnosis of murder as a way of getting money to perform the autopsy and coroner’s inquest.

A ludicrous accusation. No matter. Because of David's prestige, his power, and probably a nation's disregard for its outlier islands (Hawaii was not yet a state at that time), the Hawaii doctors’ account of what happened never really took hold on the mainland.

Until almost a hundred years later.

Robert Cutler, a Stanford neurologist, stumbled across an old newspaper article about an investigation into the poisoning of Jane Stanford while researching another project. Robert was shocked. He was a history buff and a proud Stanford man. Why had he never heard that the founding mother had potentially been poisoned? So he began digging.

With the help of his wife, Maggie, and a flock of archivists from Honolulu to San Francisco to Washington, DC, he gathered the coroner’s report, the eyewitness testimonies, the court transcripts... all the evidence, laid out as clearly as possible, with long quotations from the primary sources themselves. Then he published the book "The Mysterious Death of Jane Stanford" in 2003 before he died.

In his book, Robert Cutler, a medical doctor for more than three decades, is clear: given Jane’s symptoms and the discovery of strychnine in both her belly and medicine bottle, he believes she was poisoned. And after tracing David’s actions in the wake of her death, he believes it’s hard not to conclude that David was trying to cover up the poisoning. Why? Perhaps to protect the university from scandal. Perhaps for other reasons. Robert Cutler won’t wager a guess.

Other scholars go further. Bliss Carnochan, a Stanford English professor who studied the letters between Jane and her spy, thought the timing of the murder was fishy. He wrote that David, as a means of protecting his presidency, “had the motive.”

Richard White, a Stanford historian, began teaching a class called "Who Killed Jane Stanford?" to try to uncover more clues. Each semester, he unleashes a dozen students or so on the archives to find new information. White’s current guess is that Bertha did it (for the will money), but he remarks that the timing of Jane’s death was remarkably “lucky” for David. He feels increasingly confident that, no matter who did it, David covered up the poisoning.

In one of David's fish-collecting manuals, "A Guide to the Study of Fishes," that advises readers how to find fish anywhere in the world, under the section called “How to Secure Fishes,” he divulges a secret to his readers, his favorite trick for catching the peskiest of fish, the ones that evade capture by darting into the cracks of tide pools? Poison. And the particular variety he recommends? A dangerous and powerful substance, one he once described as “the bitterest thing in the world.” Strychnine.

Friday, May 1, 2020

why fish don't exist (2)

Just a year into David’s presidency, Leland Stanford had died and left Jane in charge of affairs. And it was turning out that Jane was not such a fan of the swashbuckling giant after all. She expressed concern about the amount of time and money David was devoting to fish. She wanted the university to expand in other directions, such as, say… the scientific study of spiritualism, where they might find some newfangled technologies that lead to breakthroughs in contacting the dead, such as Jane and Leland's son who died at 15, in whose memory the university was founded. She was also concerned over David’s hiring practices, accused him of nepotism, calling the men he hired in his science departments his "pets."

Her concerns about David's leadership grew to the point where she appointed a spy to keep tabs on him. The spy was a professor in the German department who, after a few years of watching, caught David doing something that didn’t look great. It was not David himself, but a long time student-turned friend of his, who as head of zoology department and a married man, had an affair with a young Stanford woman and were discovered one day by a librarian, who came to David demanding that he be fired for such impropriety. But David did not want to lose this “brilliant taxonomic mind" friend of his, so, thinking on his feet, he threatened the librarian with “incarceration in the insane asylum for sexual perversity” (often code for homosexuality) if he breathed a word of it to anyone else. That succeeded in shutting the librarian up—he quit Stanford, left town. But somehow Jane’s spy got wind of the whole saga, and typed it up in a formal letter to Jane.

In it, he accused David of “whitewashing” a sex scandal to protect a friend, and he claimed that this was far from a lone incident. According to the spy, David ran the university like a “gang,” with faculty members afraid of disagreeing with him for fear of “risking their heads.”

Jane wrote via signed letter to the senior trustee of the school that David’s moral shortcomings had “been painfully evident to me for a long time.” By the end of 1904, rumors abounded that Mrs. Stanford planned to replace David.

Then Jane died, unexpectedly one night in early 1905 while traveling in Hawaii.

On that fatal, sunny day, Jane took a carriage with her entourage to a seaside lookout for a scenic picnic, spending hours sitting in shade, enjoying ocean view, snacking, reading.

In the late afternoon, they returned to the hotel, rested for a bit, and had a light dinner of soup. Then, as Jane was readying herself for bed, she asked one of her assistants, Bertha, to leave out her medications—baking soda and herbal cascara capsules to help with digestion. Bertha left out a spoonful of baking soda and one cascara capsule, and around 9:00 p.m. she and another assistant May retired to their room across the hall.

At approximately 11:15, Jane’s assistants were awakened by cries coming from across the hall. “Bertha! May!” Jane called. “I am so sick!” They hurried to Jane’s room, opened the door, and found Jane keeled over. She was having trouble opening her mouth, her jaw muscles beginning to clamp down against her will. Through widened eyes and barricaded teeth, Jane bleated, “I have no control of my body. I think I have been poisoned again.”

By that point, the man staying next door, having heard the commotion, had rushed over to help. He ran for a doctor. A few minutes later, a sleepy, doe-eyed Dr. Francis Humphris arrived, medicine bag in hand. He sat with Jane, gently palpating her jaw, trying to coax her muscles into relaxing, and finally yanking out her dentures so he could give her some mustard water to induce vomiting. But it was no use. Jane looked at Dr. Humphris with eyes wide as her body began to contort in stranger and stranger ways. Her toes pigeoned inward, her fists clenched into rocks, and her legs splayed open into an unseemly spread-eagle. Helpless, horrified, she stared at something, somewhere just beyond or within her, and pleaded through toothless gums, “Oh God, forgive me my sins.” She was dead, only fifteen minutes after it had all begun, by 11:30.

Two more doctors arrived a few minutes later. One with a stomach pump dangling uselessly from his hand. All three doctors tasted the baking soda remaining in the bottle and noted a foreign, bitter taste. The sheriff arrived and wrapped the spoon and glass in paper and sent them to the toxicologist’s office, and sent Jane’s body to the morgue.

The toxicologists got to work examining the contents of the bottle of baking soda and the contents of Jane’s intestines. They found traces of strychnine in both.

A jury of six citizens was convened. It took them two minutes to settle on a verdict. Jane Stanford, they decided, had died from “strychnine having been introduced into a bottle of bicarbonate of soda with felonious intent by some person or persons to this jury unknown.”

Now you had heard Jane say before her death that she thought she was poisoned again. Why did she say that?

Just about 6 weeks ago, on January 14, 1905, she was at home in her San Francisco town house, getting ready for bed, when she took a big swig of water poured from her usual source, the tank of Poland Spring water in her kitchen. She tasted something so alarming and astringent that she immediately stuck her fingers down her throat to force vomiting.

She summoned her assistants, Bertha and Elizabeth, to help. After calming her, they both tasted the water and, noting a “queer” and “bitter” taste, took the tank to a nearby chemist, who analyzed it and found it contained lethal amounts of strychnine.

Jane survived but was understandably shaken. A detective turned up no leads; the investigation had focused solely on her household staff—the maid, the cook, the secretary, the ex-butler—and ended up clearing everybody.

Knowing there was someone out there who wanted her dead, but not knowing who, Jane set sail for Hawaii, hoping that a few weeks in the tropics would calm her nerves.

That did not pan out, alas.