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What Did I Just See?, Otisville, MI (2026)

04/21/2026

In the mid-1970s, in the small southeastern Puerto Rican town of Patillas, a teenage girl named Olga González sat in her high school auditorium listening to a career-day speaker she had almost skipped.
Her math teacher had told her to go. She hadn't wanted to. She had no real idea what she wanted to do with her life.
The speaker began describing a profession the girl had never heard of before, a field that combined mathematics, chemistry, and the real, physical design of things that work. Engineering.
Olga would later describe that moment with a sentence that has quietly become famous among her colleagues:
"I heard my wings open. I actually heard pop, pop: this is it. It was a second, but it was right."
She walked out of that auditorium knowing what the rest of her life would look like.
The road was not easy. When she enrolled at the University of Puerto Rico at Mayagüez to study chemical engineering, she was one of five women in her entire program. In her first drafting class, she discovered she could not draw two straight lines — because in her high school years, drawing class had been restricted to boys only. "Girls weren't allowed," she remembered being told, "because it was for boys."
She taught herself to draft. She finished her degree. In 1979, a young Puerto Rican chemical engineer walked into NASA's Glenn Research Center in Cleveland, Ohio.
At the time, NASA had a problem — a problem so quiet and so technical that most of the public never knew it existed, but a problem that was holding back the entire future of human space exploration.
The problem was batteries.
Every satellite, every spacecraft, every orbiting telescope, every eventual space station — all of them have one absolute vulnerability. They spend roughly half of every orbit in Earth's shadow, cut off from the sun. During that 35 minutes of darkness every 90 minutes, the onboard batteries are the only thing keeping the lights on, the systems running, and — in the case of the eventual International Space Station — the humans inside alive.
In the late 1970s, NASA's best space batteries lasted about three years. Nowhere near long enough to run a permanent crewed station. And the cost of launching replacements was, in Olga's own later phrasing, "astronomical."
In January 1984, President Ronald Reagan stood before Congress and made a commitment that would shape the rest of her career:
"Tonight, I am directing NASA to develop a permanently manned space station, and to do it within a decade."
The target for the batteries was brutal: 15 years of service life, no replacements, no upgrades, working reliably from −40°C to +60°C, cycling through charge and discharge tens of thousands of times without failing.
Olga González-Sanabria joined NASA's Electrochemistry Branch and got to work.
Her specific contribution — the thing that earned her and her team the 1988 R&D 100 Award — was with the separator: the precisely engineered thin layer inside each battery cell that isolates oxidation reactions and prevents voltage losses. A battery cell is only as durable as its separator. The nickel-hydrogen batteries she and her colleagues developed could cycle more than 20,000 times with 85% energy efficiency and run reliably for fifteen years and beyond.
They became the power system of the International Space Station when it went operational in 2000.
They were also adopted for the Hubble Space Telescope. When Hubble's original batteries were replaced during a servicing mission in May 2009 — more than nineteen years after Hubble launched — they had achieved the highest number of charge-discharge cycles of any nickel-hydrogen battery ever flown in low Earth orbit.
They powered the Mars Odyssey and the Mars Global Surveyor.
Between 2017 and 2021, NASA replaced the ISS nickel-hydrogen batteries with newer, lighter lithium-ion units. But for the first two full decades of continuous human habitation in space — the longest uninterrupted period of human presence beyond Earth in history — it was her team's batteries keeping the lights on.
Olga González-Sanabria herself went on to become the first Latina ever appointed to NASA's Senior Executive Service and eventually the highest-ranking Hispanic employee at NASA Glenn Research Center. She served as Director of Engineering, Director of the Systems Management Office, and spent more than three decades guiding one of NASA's most important research institutions through massive reorganizations. She was inducted into the Ohio Women's Hall of Fame in 2003. She received the Presidential Rank of Meritorious Executive in 2007. She was inducted into the NASA Glenn Research Center Hall of Fame in 2021.
She retired from NASA in 2011 after 32 years of service and founded her own consulting firm. She still mentors Latina students entering STEM fields. She and her husband, Rafael Sanabria — also a senior NASA engineer at Glenn — were featured together in HENAAC's technical magazine in 2004 as "NASA Glenn's Dynamic Duo."
And yet if you asked the average person who built the batteries that kept humans alive in space for twenty years, they would not know her name.
When schoolchildren read about NASA, they read about the astronauts. They rarely read about the electrochemists. They almost never read about the woman from Patillas who walked into Cleveland at 23, improved the invisible layer inside a battery cell, and quietly made a permanent human presence in space possible.
Olga was once asked what she tells young girls who ask her whether they should pursue science. The answer, like the moment in the auditorium that started her life, is something she has said in various forms many times:
Follow the thing that makes you hear a pop inside your chest.
Somewhere above you tonight, 250 miles up, the International Space Station is orbiting Earth at 17,500 miles per hour. It has been continuously inhabited since November of the year 2000. Every 45 minutes, it enters Earth's shadow. And for the first twenty years of its life, the reason it didn't go dark in those 35-minute nights, the reason its air recyclers kept running and its science experiments kept breathing and the astronauts inside kept living — was partly because of a battery separator designed by a girl from Patillas, Puerto Rico, who once couldn't draw a straight line because her high school wouldn't let girls take the class.
Some of the most important engineering in human history is done by people whose names never appear on the spacecraft.
Remember hers.

04/21/2026

Sometime in the mid-1950s, at a lab table in upstate New York, a young Navy veteran named Wilson Greatbatch reached into a box of electrical resistors to grab a small part.
He was building an oscillator — a simple circuit designed to record the rhythm of a human heart so doctors could study arrhythmias. The oscillator needed a 10,000-ohm (10 KΩ) resistor. That's what he was looking for.
He misread the color code.
Instead of a 10,000-ohm resistor, he pulled out a 1,000,000-ohm (1 MΩ) resistor — a hundred times more resistance than the circuit called for. It was the wrong part.
He didn't notice. He plugged it in.
And the circuit began to do something it was not supposed to do.
It didn't hum. It didn't whine. It didn't produce the continuous oscillation it was designed to produce.
It pulsed.
A sharp electrical pulse, exactly 1.8 milliseconds long.
Then silence for one second.
Then another pulse.
Then another second of silence.
Then another pulse. Over and over again. Steady. Rhythmic. At precisely 60 beats per minute.
Greatbatch stopped what he was doing. He stared at the machine. He would write about this moment for the rest of his life — the instant he realized that what he had accidentally built was not a heart recorder at all.
In his memoir, he described it in one sentence:
"I stared at the thing in disbelief and then realized that this was exactly what was needed to drive a heart."
At the time, pacemakers already existed. But they were the size of a television set, external to the patient, and they delivered shocks through wires that went through the skin. They were painful. They restricted patients to bed. And their power cords meant that a patient whose life depended on a pacemaker could be killed by nothing more dramatic than a hospital power outage. (This had actually happened. Babies had died during brownouts.)
What Greatbatch had stumbled into was the possibility of a pacemaker so small, and so low-power, that it could be placed inside a human chest. No wires through the skin. No dependence on the electrical grid. No television-sized boxes. Just a tiny pulse generator, sealed shut, tucked beneath the ribs, beating alongside the heart it was saving.
He got to work.
He took a two-year leave from his job and moved his laboratory to a barn in his backyard in Clarence, New York. He had about $2,000 in savings. His wife, Eleanor, helped him shock-test the experimental transistors — by taping them to their bedroom wall.
He partnered with Dr. William Chardack, chief of surgery at Buffalo's Veterans Administration Hospital. On May 7, 1958, Greatbatch brought a hand-built pacemaker, smaller than a matchbox, to Chardack's animal lab. They opened a dog's chest and touched the two pacemaker wires to the exposed heart.
The dog's heart immediately began beating in rhythm with the device.
Chardack stared for a moment and said five words that are now carved into the lore of medical history:
"Well, I'll be damned."
Greatbatch later scribbled in his diary: "I seriously doubt if anything I ever do will ever give me the elation I felt that day when my own two cubic inch piece of electronic design controlled a living heart."
The early models were, to put it generously, imperfect. The first one they tried implanting was sealed with electrical tape. Body fluids leaked in. The circuit shorted out. The implant lasted four hours. They switched to encasing the device in a solid block of epoxy resin. Within a year, they had implants that lasted four months.
In 1960, they were ready for humans. Their first patient, a 77-year-old American man, received the Chardack-Greatbatch pacemaker and lived 18 more months.
But here's the astonishing part of this story that most people never hear.
The actual first human being in history to receive an implantable pacemaker was not an American. He was a Swedish engineer named Arne Larsson. And his story is one of the strangest and most beautiful in 20th-century medicine.
Larsson had a heart condition so severe that he was losing consciousness twenty to thirty times a day. His wife Else-Marie was the one who pushed, relentlessly, for doctors to try something experimental on him. On October 8, 1958 — about eighteen months before the first Chardack-Greatbatch human implant — a Swedish surgeon named Åke Senning implanted a pacemaker designed by engineer Rune Elmqvist into Arne Larsson's chest.
It lasted three hours.
They implanted a second one. It lasted two days.
Over the course of his life, Arne Larsson would receive 26 different pacemakers, upgraded again and again as the technology improved — much of it thanks to the work Greatbatch was doing in a barn across the Atlantic.
Larsson died on December 28, 2001, at age 86.
He had outlived his surgeon.
He had outlived his inventor.
He had outlived a whole generation of people who were told their hearts would kill them.
Greatbatch himself lived to be 92. He went on to hold more than 325 patents — including, most importantly, the lithium-iodide battery that now powers nearly every pacemaker in the world. He never got rich from his pacemaker, by choice: he licensed his design for a token amount to ensure wide adoption. He spent his later years working on nuclear fusion, AIDS research, and a solar-powered canoe. At the time of his death in 2011, he was reportedly working on a nuclear-powered spacecraft to Mars.
Today, roughly one million pacemakers are implanted around the world every year. The device is credited with saving more than two million lives and with extending millions more.
Every one of them traces back, in some form, to a young man in upstate New York who reached into a box for the wrong part.
When asked, late in life, what advice he had for young engineers, Wilson Greatbatch always said the same thing:
"Don't fear failure. Don't crave success. The reward is not in the results, but rather in the doing."
The world is full of mistakes. Most of them are just mistakes. Sometimes, once in a very great while, someone looks at a mistake long enough to notice what it's actually trying to tell them — and a heart that would have stopped keeps beating.
For a hundred years more.

04/21/2026

Drive fifteen minutes northeast of downtown Kansas City, and you'll pass limestone bluffs along the Missouri River. They look unremarkable from the outside. But behind their face, carved into 270-million-year-old rock, sits the largest underground business complex on Earth.
It's called SubTropolis. It was developed in the 1960s by Lamar Hunt — the same Kansas City sports magnate who founded the Chiefs and helped create the American Football League — who realized that a depleted limestone mine left behind something valuable: millions of square feet of perfectly stable, naturally climate-controlled space, 160 feet below the surface. The year-round temperature hovers between 65 and 70°F. Humidity holds steady around 40%. No rain, no hail, no sun damage, no snow. Energy costs up to 70% lower than a surface warehouse.
Pillsbury moved in. Russell Stover chocolates moved in. The United States Postal Service eventually stashed a master copy of every postage stamp ever issued down there. Hollywood shipped its most precious film reels underground — the original negatives of Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz have sat in those caverns for decades.
And in 1965, a Ford Motor Company newsletter ran a headline that belongs in a time capsule: "Parts Storage Area Completed After 560,000,000 Years." Ford had just leased 82,000 square feet to store replacement parts for its nearby Kansas City Assembly Plant.
But Ford's most legendary underground chapter came in the early 1970s. With compact Maverick production outrunning demand, thousands of unsold cars needed somewhere to wait. Ford leased roughly 25 acres of SubTropolis and parked row after row of Mavericks in the tunnels — the exact photograph that still circulates online, decades later, looking like the opening shot of a science-fiction film.
Here's the part most versions of the story miss: Ford never left. What started as parts storage in 1965 quietly became one of the most durable corporate arrangements in American manufacturing. Today, Ford's North American Vehicle Logistics operation sits right beside SubTropolis, and a corner of the underground complex is now nicknamed "Automotive Alley." Every Ford Transit van built in the United States since 2014 has passed through Kansas City, and many have spent part of their journey to market below it.
Sometimes the most interesting infrastructure on Earth is the kind you'll never see. You drive past it. You drive over it. You drive a vehicle that might have spent a week inside it. And you never know.
What's the strangest thing you've ever learned was hiding in plain sight in your own state or country?

04/21/2026

The 1930 U.S. Census counted something the country wasn't quite ready to look at. Roughly one in ten American women never married. Many lived alone. And a striking number of them — in small towns from Ohio to Oregon — shared their cottages with cats.
They weren't called "cat ladies" yet. That label wouldn't take its modern shape for another forty years. In the Depression, the word was spinster. It was said with a slight wince, or a shake of the head, or the soft pity reserved for women whom life was presumed to have forgotten. Neighbors brought casseroles. Sisters-in-law sent suggested bachelors. The newspapers ran advice columns about how to "console" the unmarried aunt at Thanksgiving.
But the women themselves were often telling a different story — when anyone bothered to listen.
Many were librarians, teachers, nurses, telephone operators, seamstresses — the small roster of professions where a woman could earn enough to keep her own roof. Many had watched the Depression hollow out their married friends' households, watched husbands lose jobs and tempers and sometimes both. They had compared the two lives — the expected one and the actual one — and made a quiet calculation. The cottage. The paycheck. The cat on the windowsill. The door they could lock behind them at the end of the day.
It was not glamour. It was something better: it was theirs.
Letters and diaries from the era, preserved in state historical archives from Maine to California, tell the story over and over in slightly different handwriting. A schoolteacher in Vermont writing that her evenings with her two cats and a borrowed novel were "the most peaceful hours of my week." A seamstress in Chicago describing her apartment as "small, warm, and entirely answerable to me." These weren't political statements. They were simply lives — lived in the gaps that society hadn't noticed could hold a whole person.
When the stereotype of the "cat lady" finally hardened in American culture decades later, it buried something important: that for a whole generation of women, choosing the quiet life wasn't resignation. It was a door they had to pry open in a world that kept insisting they didn't need one.
They weren't lonely. They were off-script.
And some of the most radical things a person can do still look, from the outside, like simply staying home.
Do you have a woman like that in your family tree — the aunt, the great-aunt, the one who "never married"? What do you know about the life she actually lived?

04/21/2026

In the autumn of 1876, Alexander Graham Bell was not a man of confident vision. He was a 29-year-old Scottish-born teacher of the deaf, newly engaged, newly patented, and quietly terrified. His telephone — US Patent 174,465, granted that March — had been publicly demonstrated at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, and audiences had marveled. But marvel wasn't money. Lawsuits loomed. The infant Bell business was burning through cash, and his partners Gardiner Hubbard and Thomas Sanders were bracing for collapse.
So they made what seemed like a sensible decision. They tried to sell.
Hubbard offered the entire telephone patent to William Orton, president of Western Union — the telegraph giant that dominated American communication the way a modern tech empire dominates search — for $100,000. Roughly $3 million in today's money. Orton turned it down. His reasoning, according to the legend that grew up around the moment, was captured in a single dismissive line: "What use could this company make of an electrical toy?"
It was, by almost universal agreement among business historians, the worst corporate decision ever made in the United States.
Within a year, Bell's company had built the first telephone exchange. Within three years, 30,000 phones were humming in American homes and offices. Western Union, realizing its error, tried to enter the market through the back door — buying telephone patents from Bell's rivals Elisha Gray and Thomas Edison, and building a parallel network. Bell sued. On November 10, 1879, Bell won. In the settlement, Western Union surrendered its 56,000 phones and all its telephone patents in exchange for 20% of Bell's rental income for the 17-year life of the patent.
The man who had offered his invention for $100,000 and been refused ended up owning the communication future instead.
But here's the quieter truth beneath the myth. Bell didn't triumph because he was fearless — he triumphed because he kept going after being afraid. He offered to sell. He nearly gave up. He was almost bankrupt. The moment that mattered wasn't a room of investors; it was the unglamorous grind of the two years that followed a rejection that should have ended him.
So when people tell you the story of Bell, they often tell it wrong. They say he refused to sell. The truth is he tried — and the universe, in the form of a company that couldn't see the future, refused him.
Sometimes the best thing that can happen to a dream is for the wrong buyer to say no.
What's the "no" in your life that you're still trying to figure out whether to thank or resent?

04/20/2026

Late in 1971, inside a dim lab in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a 30-year-old engineer named Ray Tomlinson typed a string of random letters — something close to "QWERTYUIOP" — and hit send. The message traveled across ARPANET, the experimental military network that would one day become the internet, and landed on a computer sitting about a foot away from the one he'd typed it on.
He wasn't supposed to be working on this.
Tomlinson, employed by a contractor called Bolt, Beranek and Newman, had been assigned to build parts of ARPANET itself. Email was a side project — a "neat thing to do" in his own words. At the time, computer messages were a dead-end technology: you could leave a note for someone, but only if they used the exact same machine as you. It was like mailing a letter that could only be delivered to people who already lived in your house.
Tomlinson fused two existing programs — one for local messages, one for file transfers — and solved the harder problem underneath: how do you write an address that tells the network which person on which computer? He scanned his keyboard for a character that would never appear in anyone's name. His eye landed on a quiet, almost-forgotten symbol that had been gathering dust since the days of commercial ledgers: @.
User at host. Person at place. It was obvious the moment he saw it — and nobody had seen it before.
When he showed the working system to his colleague Jerry Burchfiel, Tomlinson himself grinned and said, "Don't tell anyone — this isn't what we're supposed to be working on." Within two years, email was devouring ARPANET. By 1973, it accounted for roughly three-quarters of all network traffic. By the 1990s, it was changing how the world did business. By today, over 300 billion emails travel the planet every 24 hours.
Tomlinson never patented any of it. He never trademarked the @ symbol. He never asked for a cent. When asked later why, he simply shrugged and said he thought it was a neat little experiment. He died in 2016, and the Museum of Modern Art in New York now displays the @ symbol in its permanent design collection — one of the few characters on your keyboard with its own place in an art museum.
The lesson is almost too quiet to notice, which is fitting. The biggest revolutions don't always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes they look like a man at a desk, picking a symbol no one wanted, and pressing a key.
What's the smallest decision you've ever made that ended up shaping more of your life than you expected?

04/20/2026

On the evening of Saturday, October 21, 1978, a 20-year-old Australian named Frederick Valentich climbed into the cockpit of a single-engine Cessna 182L at Moorabbin Airport, just outside Melbourne, and took off into a clear southern sky.
He was not a veteran pilot. He had about 150 total flying hours and had failed his commercial license exams multiple times — most recently just a month before this flight. But his route that night was a familiar one: south across the Bass Strait to King Island, about 235 kilometers away. The weather was good. He had a full tank of fuel and, for reasons that would later be disputed, four life jackets and no arrangement for the King Island runway lights to be turned on for his arrival.
His father would later say something haunting.
Frederick, he told investigators, had been an enthusiastic believer in UFOs — and recently, a fearful one. Six days before the flight, according to his girlfriend Rhonda Rushton, Valentich had talked with her about the possibility that a UFO might someday take him.
At 7:06 p.m., about 45 minutes into the flight, he keyed his microphone and spoke to Melbourne Flight Service controller Steve Robey.

Valentich: "Is there any known traffic below five thousand?"
Robey: "No known traffic."
Valentich: "I am… seems to be a large aircraft below five thousand."

Over the next five minutes, Valentich described what he was seeing with growing unease. Four bright lights. Metallic. Long and green-tinted. Above him, below him, passing over him.

"It seems to be playing some sort of game. Flying at a speed I can't estimate."
"It's approaching right now from due east, toward me."
"It seems to me that he's playing some sort of game. He's flying over me two to three times at a time, at speeds I could not identify."

Then his engine began to run rough.

"My intentions are — ah — to go to King Island. Ah, Melbourne, that strange aircraft is hovering on top of me again. It is hovering and it's not an aircraft."

Those were the final comprehensible words.
For seventeen seconds after that, Steve Robey heard something over the open channel that would never be fully explained. Controllers described it as a metallic, scraping, pulsing noise. Then the transmission ended.
And Frederick Valentich was gone.
A massive air and sea search spanning more than 2,500 square kilometers combed the Bass Strait for four days. The Royal Australian Air Force flew P-3 Orions. Civilian aircraft joined in. Ships swept the water.
They found nothing.
Five years later, in 1983, an engine cowl flap from a Cessna 182 washed up on Flinders Island. Its serial number fell within the range that included Valentich's aircraft — probable but never officially confirmed as his. Beyond that fragment, no trace of the young pilot or his plane has ever been found.
Theories have piled up over the decades.
Skeptics point out that Valentich was a relatively inexperienced pilot flying at dusk over glass-calm water — ideal conditions for a phenomenon called spatial disorientation, where a pilot loses his sense of up and down. A 2013 analysis by astronomer James McGaha and investigator Joe Nickell proposed that Valentich had entered what pilots call a "graveyard spiral" — a tightening descent that would have produced the engine roughness he reported, and that the "four bright lights" may have been the planets Venus, Mars, and Mercury, and a bright star, while the "green light" was probably the reflection of his own Cessna's right wingtip navigation light bouncing off the canopy.
Others have noted that the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind had been released less than a year before Valentich's flight, that his radio language curiously echoes dialogue from that film, and that he was an avowed believer in UFOs.
Believers counter that Valentich was a trained, rated pilot who had filed a proper flight plan, that the calm-eyed tone of his early transmissions doesn't sound like a panicked man in a spiral, and that no complete spatial-disorientation theory has fully accounted for the seventeen seconds of metallic noise on an open microphone.
The official Australian Department of Transport investigation ran for four years. Its final conclusion was simple and unsatisfying: the reason for the disappearance of the aircraft has not been determined. Presumed fatal.
Frederick Valentich would now be in his late sixties.
His Cessna — a machine made of aluminum and steel and supposed to have crashed into shallow water — has never, fully and definitively, been found.
Somewhere in the Bass Strait, the sea is keeping a secret. And somewhere in an Australian archive, a cassette tape still contains seventeen seconds of static, recorded one October evening in 1978, that no one has ever explained.
What do you think happened that night?

04/20/2026

Nobody ever wrote a movie about the railroad car inspector.
The generals got the headlines. The pilots got the parades. But when you look at how America actually won World War II — how 90% of Army and Navy freight and 97% of all organized military personnel moved across the United States between 1941 and 1945 — it came down, over and over again, to steel wheels on steel rails. And before any of those wheels turned, somebody had to walk the line.
The photo shows a Santa Fe man in 1942. Coveralls. A cap. A face that's seen weather. He's one of thousands.
What he and his kind actually did, every single shift, was this: they walked the length of train after train, in rain, in snow, in the black of night at 3 a.m., and they looked. They bent down to check wheel treads for hairline cracks — the kind that kill a crew at 50 mph miles down the line. They tapped on air hoses to catch leaks. They listened — yes, listened — for the soft hiss of a brake failing to release. They inspected couplers, safety appliances, grab irons, ladders, journal boxes, knuckles, sill steps.
If something was wrong, they slapped a paper tag on the car and called it "bad order." The car didn't move. It went to the repair track — and in the big wartime yards, the repair tracks were full. One Union Pacific yardman later recalled that "there wasn't a time when there wasn't four or five tracks, mostly four, that we used for repair work. You would never find a time when there wasn't three out of those four that were full of bad-ordered cars that needed repair."
That was the job. Find the flaw. Stop the car. Save the train.
Here's what makes it stagger the mind when you think about it:
To move a single American armored division from staging camp to port — one division — took 2,221 railcars. Sleepers, kitchen cars, baggage cars, and 1,748 flatcars loaded with tanks. In the spring of 1943, special troop trains were leaving stations every six minutes, around the clock. American railroads ran nearly 114,000 special troop trains during the war. Every single one of them had to be inspected before it moved.
Tanks built in Detroit. Bombers disassembled in Long Beach. Ammunition from Ohio, grain from Kansas, oil from Texas, soldiers from every town in every state. It all met on the rails. And the rails only worked because men like this one walked them, shift after shift, tapping wheels with a small hammer and trusting their ears more than any instrument.
He is no one the history books remember. But a division that arrives in San Francisco intact, ready to board a troop ship bound for the Pacific, arrives that way because somewhere back in Kansas or Arizona or Illinois, a man in coveralls caught a cracked axle at 2 a.m. and wrote BAD ORDER on a tag.
The war had generals. But it also had him.
And maybe that's worth remembering. That history isn't only the loud, famous parts. It's also a quiet man with a hammer and a lantern, walking a thousand feet of freight car in the cold, looking for the one tiny flaw that could kill a hundred men he would never meet.
He found it. He tagged it. He kept the line moving.
That's a kind of greatness too.

What Did I Just See?

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