John and William

William was a government employee tasked with gathering data and writing reports for the local government related to public safety and health. He adamantly defended the prevailing wisdom that the composition of the atmosphere was the primary public health crisis of the day. The scientific establishment at every level, from local government leaders to researchers and scientists of international fame, were united in recommending sweeping, expensive mitigation measures to improve reduce human impacts on air quality.

Scientific journals and grantees supported their field work that was always undertaken, of course, with their convictions in mind.  William and others cited data that spanned centuries—even millennia—and, not surprisingly, the results seemed to always support their hypotheses.  Their science in hand, they successfully talked governments into expensive projects they claimed would help. Sadly, it did not. Damaging events continued with unceasing regularity.

John was a self-made man, a physician who worked as an anesthesiologist during the day, and a researcher when he could make the time. Like William and his colleagues who espoused the theory of harmful atmospheric gasses as the cause of the world’s poor health, John was driven to find a way to stop the death and cultural upheaval he saw around him. It consumed him.  Unlike William, however, John’s own research led him to dismiss the idea that the active modification of atmospheric gases could solve the problem.  Instead, John chose to open his mind, follow the data, and go against the established scientific thought.

It was not an easy decision for John. His reputation as a non-devotee of the accepted scientific theory closed a lot of doors to financial support and he was forced to fund his research with his own money.  Once condemnation of his initial research began, his life was anything but peaceful. He was one voice against a boisterous chorus of critics.  He courageously published his findings despite the widespread disapproval of his peers, the government, and scientific journals.  The more he studied the problem, however, the more he was convinced that he was right and he knew he had to find a way to convince the masses.

Then came a particularly deadly public health event where hundreds died.  John documented his field work and carefully mapped the data.  He spoke out incessantly trying to affect change.  If not his scientific arguments, at least his persistence was successful in gaining one small action by the government that, in hindsight, may have saved countless lives.  But his contributions were ignored and his critics continued to dismiss him as a marginal voice.  Ultimately, the stress of rejection and the selfless energy he devoted to his research began to take its toll.  One day he simply collapsed at his desk and died.  He was only 45.

John never lived to see his work vindicated.  But he was proven correct.  Whether out of courtesy or simply out of desperation to find a solution to the problems that continue to plague the world, William began looking more carefully at John’s research and started to see the wisdom in his approach.  Years passed and, once another major health crisis brought death to the region.  This time William applied John’s analytical approach to the problem, and he realized that John had been right.  Nobody really understood the underlying cause of the problem, but William was now convinced that atmospheric gases weren’t to blame. 

As an apology of sorts, William published his findings in support of his deceased colleague.  Ultimately, William was successful in helping change the view of the scientific community to recognize John’s contribution.  Government leaders adapted their public improvements activities accordingly and they successfully halted the centuries of death that had plagued the region. 

EPILOGUE

This story is true.  And while it’s obviously written in a way to evoke thoughts of a more familiar scientific controversy, the account of the lone, principled researcher who stands against an entire scientific body, even though he doesn’t fully understand the science behind his findings, is as informative as it is tragic.

John Snow was a nineteenth-century physician who lived through multiple cholera epidemics in London.  He pioneered the field of anesthesiology, but he couldn’t ignore the suffering that appeared in deadly regularity around him.  His years of self-funded research into the cause of the cholera epidemic placed him at odds with most of the scientific community of the day that believed in the miasma theory of disease. 

Miasma is the belief that all disease is caused by the air around us, that smells and polluted air made us sick, and often it was our constitution (literally what kind of people we are, morally, spiritually, intellectually) that determined whether or not we’d succumb to the illness.  William Farr, a data analyst in the British General Register Office, was a miasma devotee who dedicated himself to solving the cholera problem by focusing on cleaning up the air (specifically the smells) in London. 

While we now know that goal of reducing air quality is itself noble, the approach led William and his colleagues to ignore contradictory voices (like Snow’s) and push implementation of misguided policies like encouraging the government to dump all of London’s sewage into the Thames, the source of much of the city’s drinking water. Obviously, the epidemics continued.

John’s work led to the removal of the handle of the pump he deemed to be at the center of the 1854 cholera epidemic.  He couldn’t explain exactly why he thought water was the problem (the bacterial theory of disease wouldn’t be understood until decades later), but that single action may have saved numerous lives.  Sadly, without fully accepting the science behind the decision, the government didn’t act city-wide until after the 1866 epidemic (long after John’s death in 1858), when William Farr had finally accepted and supported the validity of John’s water-borne hazard theory.

While William Farr enjoyed some of the recognition that John should have shared, he was gracious in acknowledging Farr’s role.  Today, a plaque commemorating John Snow and his 1854 study stands at the place of the water pump mentioned above.  The plaque shows a water pump with its handle removed. 

Exactly 155 years after his death, the British medical journal, The Lancet, printed a correction of its short obituary of Snow that they had originally published in 1858:

"The journal accepts that some readers may wrongly have inferred that The Lancet failed to recognise Dr Snow's remarkable achievements in the field of epidemiology and, in particular, his visionary work in deducing the mode of transmission of epidemic cholera."

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 Note: I first became interested in John Snow’s story via this book:

The Ghost Map: The Story of London's Most Terrifying Epidemic – and How it Changed Science, Cities and the Modern World

Other references of note:

John Snow, Cholera, the Broad Street Pump; Waterborne Diseases Then and Now

Mapping disease: John Snow and Cholera

Death and miasma in Victorian London: an obstinate belief

A Very Sweet Melody

Winter came early to the mountains of West Virginia this year.  Since our foray to McDowell County in April, we’ve been wanting to go back and do more to help.  My wife has been gathering donated clothing, shoes, toys, and school supplies for the community there. Given the likelihood of a cold winter, she began focusing on coats and boots, gloves, scarves and hats.  And Christmas gifts, of course. The donations were incredibly generous, with some individuals in our local community providing new items (with tags) that could be shared with the less fortunate in Appalachia.  The outpouring of concern and assistance was sobering.

We had plans to take down an SUV-load of boxes and bags in October or November.  Between scheduling conflicts and the poor timing of autumn storms, the goal became getting everything to the WV rescue mission before the severe winter cold set-in. And the first storms of winter were already looming in the mountains.  It was now or never.

Snow and ice were forecast for last weekend and weather reports said more dangerous precipitation (with particularly cold air) was expected mid-week and into the holidays.  If we wanted to go, we had a very small window (likely a day—Tuesday, December 9th) to get there and make our delivery.  

HER NAME IS MELODY

As quickly as the date was set, we got another phone call from West Virginia.  Our friend Sharon Sagety at the McDowell County Humane Society (where you’ll recall we adopted our dog in April) was on the other end of the line.  Someone in the WV mountains had called her to say a neighbor had moved from their home, abandoning a female black labrador and nine puppies.  They were left outside with only a metal doghouse to ward off the winter cold.  Before anyone could assist them, one of the puppies had died. The remaining eight and their mother needed to be helped to safety immediately. And there were no facilities in that area with room to spare. The neighbor began providing food for the little family but that’s all they could do.

 

This is where I quickly learned the truth of the phrase, “It Takes a Village.”  My wife began calling and emailing every rescue group she could.  It took most of last weekend to pull together, but soon a willing rescue group stepped up, found a veterinarian to help process all of the puppies, and volunteered to find fosters while they waited to be adopted.  Prayers were answered.  Everything was ready.

Monday’s winter storm dumped snow and ice in WV and on the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and we hoped all would be clear Tuesday to make the trip.  Thankfully, it was. Barely.  Our friend Jorja (also a volunteer for the McDowell County rescue) offered to brave the icy downhill road to the shelter, pick-up the dogs, and drive out of the mountains to meet us in Virginia.  At noon on Tuesday, we met off I-81 in a snow packed parking lot to swap out our load of donations for four dog kennels carrying precious cargo back to Maryland.  

The four-hour trip home was uneventful, though there were a few times when all eight little voices in the back complained in unison with the canine version of “Are we there yet?” Frankly, they were absolutely perfect for us and there were no major accidents (of the puppy kind).  

As promised, when we arrived at the veterinary hospital, the staff eagerly and with great care brought the puppies into their facility. I followed with mom on a leash. Her name is Melody.  While we waited for all the puppies to be brought in, I sat with Melody and talked to her softly about what was going on. I noticed that during the whole ordeal, she never whined or barked and insisted on staying where she could see the puppies.  I tried to reassure her all would be OK from now on and I must have called her a "good girl" a dozen times.  She was incredibly stressed, as you might expect, but somehow, you could see in her brown eyes she knew her ordeal was over and there were a whole bunch of humans now watching out for her.  

 

As the staffer took the leash and walked Melody back to join her puppies in the exam rooms, the exhausted puppy mom stopped abruptly and turned back, paused for a few seconds to look at me as if to make sure I was still there, and to say, “thank you.” Then she went on her way.  I’m convinced Melody’s calm presence helped her puppies through an entire day of travel. I know it took a toll on her. But now, as you can clearly see in this pair of photos, even one day of love and security has made a huge difference for her. 

 

THANK YOU ALL!

Starting with my wife who directed it all, I can’t believe the lengthy cast of everyone who played an important role in this incredible story.  I won’t try listing them all, but suffice it to say that there are many. They were all selfless and hardworking, sacrificing time, money, expertise, and some serious muscle (thanks, Skylar!) to the cause.  None of this would have happened without them.  As for me, I was just the driver who got to love on some wonderfully sweet dogs for a day.  And then write about the experience.

Mom and puppies will be available for adoption soon. One of the vet techs told us he already has one picked-out for himself. They are adorable.

Sweet Melody indeed. 

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Postscript: Given that mom was named “Melody,” we found eight little collars and called our daughter (now a music major in college) and asked her to pick music-themed names for all the puppies.  Four boys and four girls.  Here they are:

12/15/25 UPDATE: A handful of the puppies (Riff, Major, and Diva) are currently up for adoption through Lab Rescue LRCP of the MidAtlantic. Thanks to them for their tireless support of our little family.  Coda, the one shown in the photo with me above, already has a forever home. I felt like a proud father. Makes me very happy! I'll add updates here when we get them.

 January 2026 UPDATE: All puppies now have homes.  Mom Melody (named "Molly" by the rescue because her vet records included that name) is still waiting for a foster or adopter to come forward. 

Seeing First-Hand

I’ve written two blog posts on my partner site, markbeck.org (here and here), about the February 2025 flooding in Welch, WV and how it affected the tiny mountain community. Once a bustling center for coal production, the entire region is a mere shell of what it once was and most buildings appear abandoned and crumbling, having succumbed to the economy and the elements.  

By way of disclaimer, my interest in Welch is not simply random.  I was tuned in to this particular location because my wife, years ago, read a news account of flood waters there in America’s poorest county, and wanted to find some way to help. She began by locating charities and sending both monetary donations and goods where they could be accepted.

This continued for some time until she ran across the unique plight of the McDowell County Humane Society.  The use of “McDowell County” is somewhat of a misnomer because the local government doesn’t sponsor the facility. Rather, it’s all run on volunteer labor and donations, under the dedicated purview of one very selfless woman, Sharon Sagety. Sharon almost single-handedly runs and pays for the facility’s operation.

Please take a moment to read this recent news article (and watch the video) introducing Sharon and her Organization.

As we are life-long dog lovers, my wife contacted Sharon and we began trying to help where we could, with shipments of food, supplies, etc. Sharon, in turn, expressed gratitude for even the small amount of help we could provide.  Fast forward to last fall when we received a handful of photos Sharon had taken at a dog-friendly Halloween “trunk or treat” pet adoption event at a Subaru dealer in nearby Bluefield, WV.  She texted my wife that a new stray dog had come into her care that she thought would be perfect for our family, if we’d be interested in meeting him.  This was one of those photos.

 

We talked about it (very briefly—it didn’t take long) and agreed we’d like to visit the shelter and see him.  Granted, it’s a 7+ hour drive from our home and, with our busy work schedules, poorly timed winter weather events (like the severe flooding in February that devastated the area), and coordinating the hectic schedule of a teenage daughter who absolutely would not let us go without her, we knew it would be difficult to get there in a timely way.  So, Sharon happily agreed to keep him for us until we could make the trip.  In the meantime, “Ollie,” as my daughter chose to call him, would receive veterinary care and proper nutrition. We had been a year without a dog in the house and (IYKYK) it was time.

So last Thursday we packed up the SUV with dozens of dog blankets, packages of towels, dog food, dog treats, cleaning supplies, and a few other items to donate to the rescue, and began our journey south and west.  It was an eye-opening drive once we left the relative ease of the Interstate. Most of southern West Virginia (most of the state, in fact) is mountainous, and the local roads into Welch were narrow, two-lane affairs, that wound like goat paths along the rivers. There was a lot of climbing and descending, blind curves, and occasional livestock (and wildlife) on the road. It was slow going. And much of the time we didn’t even have cell service. Given the claustrophobic slopes on both sides, even satellite radio was sporadic.

The journey was eye opening—particularly for my daughter, who had never seen Appalachia. Tiny, impoverished communities of small houses and mobile homes, many abandoned or in disrepair, lined the narrow strip of land between the road and the river.  Some were obviously within the flood zone. The waterways were strewn with debris (trees, building materials, tires, etc.) abandoned by the flood and, most dramatically, clothes and other household items were still caught in trees that bent over the river—sometimes dozens of feet above the current water level.  The damage was surprisingly obvious, and it was sobering for all of us to see how resilient (or resigned) the residents of these low-lying towns must be to deal with such frequent destruction of their homes and livelihoods.

 

At last the GIS alerted us to our destination, the McDowell County Humane Society. [See photos above.]  We turned at the small sign and descended a very steep hill through the trees and bushes to the building and kennel complex at the bottom of the valley floor.  Sharon was there to greet us and let us in the gate, and it was if we’d known her for years, though we’d never met her.  She’s just that kind of person.  While I unloaded the car, my wife and daughter wasted no time getting inside to see Ollie. He “lit up” when he saw them, as if he knew they were coming. Tail wagging furiously, he literally climbed into my wife’s lap and licked him as if he were a long-lost pet. (And to think we were afraid he might not “accept” us as his new family.) It was love at first sight for everyone.

The facility itself is the former (once rebuilt) “company store” for the local coal mine that is still visible (and in operation, see the white buildings in the lower left photo above). It was once accessible from the mine complex through a stone tunnel under the railroad tracks that run right behind the shelter. The ubiquitous coal trains run right through regularly and, when the wind is right, coal dust covers the shelter, and volunteers must clean the kennels and the dogs regularly. Seeing how much work it requires simply to keep a facility like this in operation on donated funding and volunteer help was overwhelming.

We took some time to visit Sharon to talk about her operation and, while she took my wife and daughter to see all the dogs (roughly 60 on site, I think she said, including puppies) and give each one a dog treat, I stayed with Ollie to make sure he knew this visit was going to be different. I sat with him (or, rather, he sat on me) and I got the same face licking my wife and daughter did.  As many of you may know, one hazard of visiting a shelter in person is that we very nearly came home with multiple dogs. So many of them were loving, sweet, and eager to be adopted.  But we knew we needed the time to bond with Ollie and we promised we’d come back.

We’d have liked to stay longer, but we had a long drive ahead. We arrived home in the early evening and had time to get Ollie situated. It has been five days since we met him, and he’s quickly become part of the family and slotted perfectly into our routine. He loves everyone and has become very attached to all of us. And we to him. [See photos below.] 

 

I know this life is very different than what Ollie knew before, particularly since all we know about his past is that he was discovered alongside the road, sick and emaciated, by a driver who thought enough to stop and take him to the shelter.  But I must admit the brief visit to see where he came from has changed us all forever as well. My wife and daughter want to keep saving dogs.   

I’ll add that seeing first-hand (though not truly experiencing, I admit) the natural and economic challenges faced by people in places like McDowell County, my admiration for their strength and dedication has grown immensely.   

I’m also more determined than ever to apply the kinds of solutions I highlight over at markbeck.org to help change lives and protect communities.  Keep watching.

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Postscript: 

Another dog we met that day at the shelter was a tiny Maltese mix named Molly (left).  We told some good friends in our community about how wonderful she was. By October, they felt so strongly about meeting her, they drove the 7+ hours to Welch, met her, and adopted her. We're now fortunate enough to be able to see her regularly. She is absolutely as sweet as we thought she was. And she is extraordinarily happy with her very own family!

Invisible No More

Recently, my wife and I attended a wonderfully planned memorial service for the young adult son of some friends. While I didn't know the young man, the sadness his parents felt when he passed away last year affected us all deeply. 

During the memorial, fittingly held under a tent on a rainy, gray day, dozens of friends, family members, classmates, co-workers, and neighbors took a few minutes each to relate memories about him. Each spoke from a different perspective--a side, if you will--and added their own personal thoughts about this person I had never met. 

Image: https://www.colorcraze.run/losangeles/

As each individual stood to speak, it was as if each one was tossing a cloud of bright dust on this individual's memory, like occurs during a color run.  As the service continued, a bright, full-color image of this young man began to emerge. It was beautiful.

And as the event ended, I remarked that I felt as if I now saw the "image" of this wonderful person simply from the love and affection that had been heaped on his memory from all sides by those who knew him. 

I left wishing we had known him and I resolved to never waste an opportunity to meet someone new.

 

The Victorian

She stopped in her tracks and stared.  The house was grand. It was downright handsome.  It was older, perhaps even historic—at least it looked that way.  It had its rough edges and a few unfinished surfaces, but its bones were wonderfully fit, and it carried itself with unusual sophistication and confidence on a street lined with relatively plain colonials and contemporary style dwellings.  Many of the others were larger, often surrounded by greener lawns and bigger driveways, but there was something about this house that spoke to her heart. And she was immediately smitten with its charm.

Image source: http://www.homeworkscarpentry.com/

Someone had worked very hard on the details of this house.  It was a stately, two-story swelling that was painted bright, cheerful colors.  It had towering gable roofs covered with slate shingles facing three different directions. The eaves were lined with carefully constructed wooden dentals and ornately cut gable end decorations, and there were shutters lining each window.  The house had one rounded tower that reminded the woman of a castle and, most wonderful of all, it boasted a wrap-around porch where she hoped to place a swing for those lazy summer evenings.

“I’ll take it,” she said, “It’s perfect!”

Soon everything she owned, her furniture and decorations collected over years of renting, was carried through the leaded glass doors and into every room of the house. There seemed to be a place for everything. She hung her paintings, placed her rugs, and tied neat little towels on the racks above the bathroom sink. She purchased some new decorations she liked and brought them home, where they lined the walls and shelves of the house.  In the evenings, music wafted downstairs where she sat admiring the moldings, the carved wood, the colorful baseboards, and the ornate ceiling inlays that supported great bronze chandeliers. Truly there couldn’t be a grander house, she thought. I can’t believe my luck.

Weeks went by. Then a few months passed.  Friends came by and expressed envy at her fortune in finding such a wonderful house. She’d feign modesty and say with a smile, “I guess it’s adequate for my needs.”  She loved entertaining just for the compliments she knew she’d receive.  But she also knew it was a big chore cleaning such a nice house with its ornate details.  Occasionally she’d express frustration under her breath as she reached for the feather duster yet again. At those times she began to wonder if such an amazing house was worth the work.

Then one day she passed a neighbor’s house that sported a large two-car garage. She paused, pulling her car to the curb, and she wondered if she’d be able to get a second car into her own garage. Opening the garage door that evening, she stopped to measure its width.  Sadly, it wasn’t quite wide enough to fit two cars, particularly that new SUV she wanted. “Well, that won’t work,” she said to herself, annoyed that her perfect house was suddenly not so perfect for her lifestyle. “I’ll have a contractor come by in the morning.” And she did.

The contractor showed up bright and early, taking measurements and notes. The garage door would have to be wider. In fact, he suggested the detached garage was in disrepair and, if she’d like, he could give her a price on replacing it with something similarly beautiful. “I don’t want to pay for that. I just want something simple, like my neighbor’s garage.  Can it be built on to the house?” she asked. “Um, sure,” came a somewhat hesitant reply, “but why would you do that?  I think you’d ruin the beauty of this house by doing that. It’s absolutely perfect the way it is. My wife loves this house.” But she insisted and threatened to call someone else who would do what she wanted.  So the builder relented and started work that very day. 

Three months later the old garage was gone and a new, more contemporary, more functional structure with sleek, clean lines and a huge, automatic door had taken its place. The new garage was tied directly to the side of the house, and she loved being able to walk directly from the car to the kitchen without getting wet in the rain.  “That’s more like it,” she told the contractor, smiling.

But there was something wrong. It didn’t dawn on her immediately, but over time she realized that the beautifully decorated Victorian looked strange next to the new garage. The old house needed some work too.  The paint was dated, and the decorative trim was strangely incongruous with the contemporary addition. Without a second thought, she picked up her phone and called the contractor.  Again, reluctantly on the contractor’s part, the projects began in earnest.  Weeks turned into months that turned into years.  As soon as one project ended, she’d ponder how the next would begin.

A decade later, the original house was unrecognizable when compared with its original self. Gone were the bright colors, the slate shingles, the castle tower, the dentals, and facia panels.  The shutters had been removed and the whole house painted a neat colonial gray with white trim.  Even the porch was gone.  Everything that made the house special and unique had been replaced with plain, traditional style and trim--inside and out.  In fact, it almost felt dead inside, like the spirit that once filled its hallways had been stripped and discarded.  The cheer, the charm and grace were gone. 

Unfortunately, by this time, the woman’s love for the house was also gone.  Even though the house was now simply what she had made of it, she was bored with it and felt no more affection for it.  “I’d move and start over,” she complained, “but I’d never be able to get this much space or land for that price again.”  She hated the fact that she felt “stuck” with it.  But it was hers and, though she stayed for many more years, she now regretted buying the house at all.