[1]

From shoes to chandelier, Scene at the Signing of the Constitution of the United States (1) blend accuracy with artistic license (2) to achieve the artist's vision of an event that took place in Philadelphia's Independence Hall. The artist, Howard Chandler Christy, was born in 1873, long after George Washington (3) presided—over the momentous event that in 1787 (4) served the final role of ending the Constitutional Convention.

[2]

[1] The group portrait, as big as a billboard, hangs in the Christy’s (5) prior preparations in advance of the work included a visit to Philadelphia to study how the light falls through the windows in Independence Hall. [3]. Christy arranged to see the inkwells (6) into which the quills would have been dipped as the delegates prepared to make history. [4] He scoured countless drawings of period furniture and fabrics, (7) noting color, texture, design. [5] (8) Hunting down portraits of the signers and scrutinized them. [9]

[3]

Such measures may seem standard in the making of historical paintings, but that is not the case. For example, in Emanuel Luetze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, the president strikes a noble pose on a (10) boat. Experts now agree could not have been the vessel that carried the revolutionary leader across the river. In (11) another, painting of the signing of the US Constitution, artist Barry Faulkner places the figures in a Roman ruin.

[4]

Accurate in many respects, Christy’s painting also plays with the truth to suggest the grandeur of the moment. For instance, Washington benefits from more than his share of natural light, which singles him out (12) in Christy's famous painting. Many of the assembled men, (13) luminaries as Benjamin Franklin and James Madison, improbably stare the viewer squarely in the eye. Their expressions suggest they are well aware of their own importance but even more aware of the viewer's, almost as if one more signature will give the document its full meaning.

My older sister was a guitar buff (16) and my idol when I was growing up. She would teach me songs on her acoustic guitar now and then after school and on long family road trips to the beach. In those moments, my sister and I were the closest we've ever been. And my guitar itself felt like, well, family. 

When my sister left Chicago for college in California, I began carting my guitar (17) around everywhere: to school, to work, to (18) friends houses. Years later, my guitar accompanied me on business (19) trips. No matter where I was, playing it made me feel a little bit closer to home. 

But one day, after landing in Honolulu, Hawaii, for an extended trip, I couldn't locate my guitar on the luggage carousel. Panicked, I (20) assailed airport personnel, (21) who assured myself that they would try to recover my beloved instrument. At that (22) moment of my extended trip, continuing the trip without it seemed impossible.

My worries began to dissipate, (23) otherwise, as I walked out of the airport and (24) upon the balmy Hawaiian air. In front of me, a man was playing what looked like a miniature guitar. Warm, mellow tones (25) accrued from the instrument, complementing the lyrical rhythm of the Hawaiian words he sang. It was a ukulele.

As soon as I could, I bought a ukulele of my own. (26) I began to linger on the beach, where several native Hawaiians often played. I watched them for hours, my ukulele in my hands, and practiced. Unlike the guitar, which has six strings, my ukulele had four; to make the same chords with the uke, I had to learn completely different finger positions. I also had trouble with dexterity at first because the neck of the uke is much narrower (27) then that of a guitar. I had to retrain my fingers to make smaller movements in order to shape the chords. 

When I wasn't working, I was on the beach, losing myself in the bright notes of the uke. Eventually, I began playing (28) music like "He'eia" (29) as the locals. (30) And the sound of the ukulele is synonymous with the romance and beauty of Hawaii's beaches.

[1]

(31) They're some 45,000 electricity-generating wind turbines in the United States, and the task of repairing and maintaining these huge machines (32) have represented a substantial undertaking. Ladders inside the towers simplify access to the generator and controllers within the turbine housing. (33) In contrast, servicing the turbine (34) blades those long fiberglass vanes that slice through the air, is a serious challenge.

[2]

[A] Rock climbers are comfortable in high places and capable, equipped with rope and other simple gear, of (35) scaling almost anything. After completing specialized training, (36) rock climbers become ideal "rope technicians."

[3]

When the rope technicians arrive (37) across a turbine, they first lock the blades into a ''bunny ears" position, in which two blades angle up and one blade points straight down. The technicians climb the ladder inside the tower, secure themselves with ropes and harnesses, open a hatch in the turbine's housing, and rappel down the vertical blade.

[4]

Certainly, turbine blades withstand severe stress. The blades zip through the elements as fast as 200 miles per hour, braving heat, hail, blizzards, and more. Yet despite enduring such harsh conditions, most turbine blades that rope technicians service only need a thorough cleaning or other basic upkeep, such as a new coat of paint. Sometimes, the task can be more complicated: patching fiberglass damage from a lightning strike, for example. [B]

[5]

(38) The largest wind turbine blades are over 270 feet long. Technicians work in (39) pairs; while they don't climb in high winds, extreme temperatures, or precipitation. (40) Whether there's lightning within thirty miles, the technicians stay on the ground. [C] Precautions such as (41) these—along with rigorous procedures and training, (42) make the job quite safe.

[6]

For many rock climbers, being a rope technician is a dream job. [D] Fresh air, great vistas, (43) to practice climbing daily, and ample time off to scale actual rocks-it (44) not a typical job description, is it?

She depicts flowers with layers of petals, intricate spirals and rosettes, teardrops bending within circles, and (46) dizzying mazes of lines-embroidering them in vibrant reds, blues, pinks, yellows, and greens on fabric of delicate silk or cotton. Pang Xiong Sirirathasuk Sikoun is a master of paj ntaub, or "flower cloth" embroidery, the most difficult of the (47) century's-oldest Hmong needlework arts. Paj ntaub is increasingly made in lighter, softer shades today. [48] She's been creating stitched textiles since she was a young (49) woman, and lived in northern Laos. For the past several decades, she's been designing paj ntaub in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where she also teaches her craft. 

Flower cloth (50) (commonly as a shirt, dress coat, or collar) is made to be worn as clothing and, depending on the amount of needlework on the piece, (51) is designed either for everyday wear or for a special occasion. With pattern names such as "elephant's foot" and "snail house" and images of animals framed by geometric designs, (52) paj ntaub patterns are versatile. What distinguishes paj ntaub from other Hmong needlework arts is the artist's use of (53) tiny, tight stitches, and several complex techniques. One technique is reverse (54) applique, in which shapes are cut out from, rather than (55) adding on top of, the embroidered fabric.

Another is elaborate overstitching: thousands of layered stitches are applied to (56) its surface. 

Pang Xiong regrets that most people she knows today wear only (57) regular clothes. When she was growing up in Laos, she explains, she had few items of clothing, but each garment she owned was handcrafted paj ntaub.

(58) However, she still wears flower cloth every day and would like to inspire (59) others to do so. Pang Xiong teaches paj ntaub in art museums-including at the Smithsonian Institution, where some of her textiles are on permanent display-and in community settings around Philadelphia. [75] Pang Xiong is showing a new generation the joys of paj ntaub and beautiful handcrafted clothing.

In 1940, Hedy Lamarr was becoming a Hollywood star, but she was bored. On set for only three months of the year, she filled her spare time with an unusual hobby: inventing. World War II was underway in Europe, where Lamarr had grown up, and she hoped to invent something to help the Allied cause. Because Lamarr's former husband had often discussed his work in munitions, the actress knew about weaponry. 

She had ideas of her own, including (61) an idea of hers for a torpedo with a sophisticated radio-controlled guidance system. [62] Lamarr knew that radio signals on one frequency (63) is easy to jam by anyone sending a competing signal on the same (64) frequency. She envisioned a system that used dozens of frequencies to transmit a signal to guide torpedoes. To protect the signal further, transmitters and receivers would jump from frequency to frequency in a predetermined order that would seem random to an outsider. Such a signal (65) like that would be hard to detect and nearly impossible to disrupt.

[1] In August 1940, Lamarr met composer George Antheil, and the two began collaborating. [2] Antheil, who had synchronized player pianos for his compositions, had the mechanical knowledge that Lamarr needed to (66) instigate her idea. [3] Then in 1942, the inventors heard that the Navy had rejected their idea. [4] They submitted the "Secret Communication System" to the military in June 1941. [5] In the decades after the (67) war, however, the US military discovered the value of Lamarr's idea, which came to be called "spread spectrum," and used it in guidance, radio, and navigation systems. [68]

In 1978, the spread spectrum was declassified, and it (69) made a difference. Devices that operate (70) wirelessly, cellular phones, wireless Internet networks, the Global Positioning System— (71) functioning because of Lamarr's idea. (72) It wasn't until 1996 that Lamarr and (73) Antheil, they were finally given credit for spread spectrum.

(74) However, they were awarded the Pioneer Award from the Electronic Frontier Foundation. Upon hearing of her award, Lamarr said, "It's about time."