Mole Day and Celebrating Science

Celebrating Science Geekdom and Nearly Two Decades at Caltech

Caltech Mole Day Celebration

October 23rd—10/23—is Mole Day, that wonderfully nerdy holiday celebrating Avogadro's number: 6.022 × 10²³, a cornerstone of chemistry that lets us count particles by the mole, and a perfect excuse for science geeks to throw themed parties, bake atom-shaped cookies, or just revel in atomic enthusiasm. For most people, it's just another Tuesday in late October. But for chemistry enthusiasts and science geeks everywhere, it's a day to embrace the beautiful precision of the molecular world. And after 16 years at the California Institute of Technology, I can honestly say there's no better place to celebrate your inner science nerd than on a campus where casual elevator conversations about quantum mechanics are completely normal. Especially in a year shaped by isolation and uncertainty, that shared love of science felt more grounding—and more necessary—than ever.

Where Being a Science Geek Actually Pays Off

At Caltech, intellectual curiosity isn't just tolerated—it's the currency of daily life. You might find yourself in an elevator with someone casually discussing their latest paper on gravitational waves, or overhearing a lunch conversation about the finer points of Mars geology. It's the kind of environment where Mole Day isn't just acknowledged with a passing nod; it's genuinely celebrated by people who get excited about things like molecular constants and stoichiometric calculations.

JPL's Mission Control facility

One of the unexpected perks of working at Caltech was the connection to NASA's Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Since Caltech manages JPL, I had incredible opportunities to visit the Lab and indulge the space science geek that's been hiding inside me since childhood. Walking through JPL's halls, seeing actual mission control rooms where engineers communicate with spacecraft millions of miles away, witnessing the hardware that would eventually travel to Mars or Saturn—it was like stepping into the future I'd dreamed about as a kid watching Star Trek.

These weren't just guided tours for VIP visitors. They were genuine glimpses into humanity's greatest adventures, tangible reminders that the theoretical physics discussed in Caltech classrooms eventually becomes the technology that explores our solar system. Standing in those rooms, I couldn't help but think about all the science fiction I'd consumed over the years and realize: this is how we actually get there.

Some of my favorite experiences were bringing my children to share in the wonder of these scientific environments. During "Take Your Daughters to Work Day" at Caltech, Faith and Kailey got to visit actual research labs and help scientists make ice cream with liquid nitrogen—pure magic for kids who thought science was just textbooks and homework. But perhaps even more memorable was bringing my son Teddy to JPL's open house, where we saw Mars landers being constructed and talked to scientists who were actively searching for exoplanets. Watching his eyes light up as researchers explained how they detect worlds orbiting distant stars reminded me why I fell in love with science in the first place. There's something special about sharing your workplace with your children when that workplace happens to be connected to missions exploring the solar system and pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Even if they didn't all end up pursuing STEM careers, those visits planted seeds of curiosity and showed them that science isn't just theory—it's adventure, discovery, and the relentless pursuit of answers to the biggest questions we can imagine.

When Hollywood Comes to Campus

During my time at Caltech, the campus became something of a magnet for Hollywood productions. It seemed like there was always a film crew somewhere, drawn by our authentic scientific atmosphere and those iconic academic buildings that just scream, "serious research happens here."

I got to witness some of the filming for both Numb3rs and Young Sheldon—shows that, in their own ways, tried to bring scientific thinking to mainstream television. Watching the Young Sheldon crew work was particularly fascinating, knowing that the show's series finale would bring young Sheldon Cooper to Caltech as a graduate student. The attention to detail was remarkable—those whiteboards covered in equations weren't just random scribbles but real physics, carefully vetted by actual Caltech physicists. It was Hollywood magic meeting scientific rigor, and seeing that process unfold was absolutely captivating.

Numb3rs brought a different energy to campus, showcasing how mathematical thinking could solve real-world problems. As someone immersed in the Caltech environment, it was thrilling to see mathematics portrayed as the exciting, dynamic field it really is, rather than the dry subject many people remember from high school algebra.

I even had my own brief brush with science television when I was selected for a "man on the street" interview for a cable science show. The irony? Because I could actually explain gravitational waves coherently, they didn't use my footage. Apparently, they were looking for one of those "gotcha" moments where random people fumble through complex scientific concepts. Still, I got to be part of the process and witness how science communication works from behind the scenes—a reminder that sometimes being scientifically literate works against you in the entertainment world.

Meeting My Science Heroes

But perhaps the most humbling aspect of my Caltech experience was the opportunity to meet and work alongside scientific legends. These encounters went far beyond what any science geek could reasonably hope for.

Having actual working meetings with luminaries like Kip Thorne—the theoretical physicist whose work on gravitational waves eventually earned him the Nobel Prize—was both intimidating and exhilarating. Here was someone whose research literally opened a new way of observing the universe, and I'm sitting in his office discussing fundraising strategy with him.

Voyager's Golden Record

One of my most personally meaningful encounters was getting to work with Ed Stone, a Caltech faculty member, former JPL director, and mission scientist for the Voyager project. As a kid, I was absolutely enthralled by the Voyager flybys of the outer planets—those stunning images of Jupiter's Great Red Spot, Saturn's rings, and the mysterious moons of the gas giants. They sparked my lifelong fascination with space science. Meeting Dr. Stone was like meeting one of my childhood heroes. In my work, I had the privilege of helping establish a scholarship that bears his name, and he came to my office several times during that process. Here was the man whose vision and leadership had given us those incredible cosmic postcards that inspired an entire generation of science nerds.

I also had the remarkable opportunity to meet Gordon Moore, the Caltech alum who co-founded Intel and whose famous "Moore's Law" predicted the exponential growth of computing power. Dr. Moore was always thoughtful and genuine in our interactions—mostly revolving around his annual philanthropic gifts to the Institute—and I was tickled that he remembered my name from year to year. One moment I'll never forget: holding a one-million-share Intel stock certificate in my hands while helping facilitate some of his philanthropy. The weight of that piece of paper—representing not just enormous financial value, but the legacy of innovation that built the modern computer age—was absolutely surreal.

These weren't just brief handshakes at formal events. These were real conversations, working meetings, moments where you could pick the brain of someone who had literally reshaped our understanding of the universe or revolutionized entire industries. Each brought their own infectious passion—Kip Thorne's enthusiasm for the theoretical beauty of physics, Ed Stone's wonder at cosmic exploration, Gordon Moore's vision for technological progress. Their ability to make the most complex concepts feel accessible and exciting reminded me why I fell in love with science in the first place.

The Real Magic of Scientific Thinking

As we celebrate Mole Day, I'm reminded that the best part of being surrounded by scientific thinking isn't just the knowledge itself—it's the mindset. It's the curiosity that drives you to ask "what if?" and "why?" It's the collaborative spirit that brings together brilliant minds from different disciplines. It's the willingness to get genuinely excited about something as wonderfully specific as a number that helps us understand the fundamental building blocks of matter.

Caltech's Millikan Library (and my office)

That mindset felt especially vital in 2020. As I walked back to my office after a routine COVID-19 screening test, I was struck by how quiet and empty the Caltech campus had become. The vibrant intellectual buzz—the impromptu hallway debates about quantum mechanics, the packed lecture halls, the bustling labs—had been replaced by a pandemic-induced stillness. But even in the silence, science was at the center of our lives. It was science that helped us understand the virus, science that guided public health responses, and science that ultimately delivered the vaccines.

Reflecting on my experiences at Caltech—from holding Gordon Moore's Intel stock certificate to walking through JPL's mission control rooms, from meeting the visionary behind Voyager to watching Hollywood try to capture scientific authenticity—I'm struck by a common thread: science isn't just about understanding the world; it's about transforming it.

Ed Stone's Voyager missions didn't just teach us about Jupiter's moons; they fundamentally changed how humanity sees itself in the cosmos. Gordon Moore's insights didn't just predict technological growth; they enabled the digital revolution. Kip Thorne's gravitational wave research didn't just confirm Einstein's theories; it opened an entirely new window for observing the universe.

And in the face of a global pandemic, science once again proved its power—not just through discovery, but through real-world action that saved lives.

The study of science matters because it's how we push beyond the boundaries of what we think is possible. Every equation on those Hollywood whiteboards, every conversation in a Caltech hallway, every moment spent geeking out over Avogadro's number—these aren't just intellectual exercises. They're the building blocks of innovation, the foundation of progress, and the source of solutions to challenges we haven't even imagined yet.

Whether you're calculating moles in a chemistry lab, pondering the mathematics behind gravitational waves, or simply marveling at the elegant patterns in nature, you're participating in humanity's greatest ongoing adventure: understanding our universe and our place in it.

So here's to Mole Day, to Avogadro's number, and to all the science nerds out there who understand that some of the most beautiful truths in the universe can be expressed in equations, constants, and the simple joy of discovery. After 16 years surrounded by people who dedicate their lives to pushing the frontiers of knowledge—and during a year when science helped us confront a once-in-a-century crisis—I’ve learned this: the world needs more people who will unapologetically geek out over the profound mysteries that make life—and the universe—so astonishingly beautiful.

Happy Mole Day, everyone! May your calculations be accurate, your vaccines effective, and your sense of wonder never fade.

Toasting Kailey & Matt's Wedding

Dad and the Happy Couple

We all join this evening to congratulate Kailey and Matt and wish them all the best for a long and happy life together.

Kailey, you captured my heart the day I met you, and despite the fact that I am the person you are least likely to call to come to bail you out of jail, that love has only grown deeper as the years have passed. As I look at you today, this grown woman, my daughter, I am in awe of who you have become.  But no matter what your age, and no matter what you accomplish, you are, and will always be, “my little girl,” the girl who gave herself “time-outs” when she was mean to her brother, the girl who got so mad when I prevented her from being run over by a car, the girl who became my Christmas elf, the girl who gave me butterfly kisses from her top bunk…

Today, as you marry this wonderful man, I see that my beautiful butterfly has broken free from her chrysalis, and my awe is replaced with pride and respect. You and Matt are about to embark on a breathtaking journey filled with twists and turns, ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and all of the love that can only come as husband and wife. 

Matt, I want to welcome you, and your family, to our clan.  I won’t pretend that I don’t have tons of advice for you about joining this motley crew or about being Kailey’s partner, but I know that you will find joy by discovering those things together with her (and Kailey made me promise to be brief…).

What I will tell you both, from my experience and from my heart, is that the recipe for a great marriage requires one key ingredient: mutual respect.

You have chosen each other, so as you move forward in life together, respect each other, value your differences, appreciate your similarities, fight fair (when necessary), make up often, and honor each other. Then, and only then, will a long life of love follow.

I know this is supposed to be a toast and not another episode of “Dad’s life lessons,” so… since we are in my native land (Chicago) and since that always brings out the Irish in me, I’ll share with you the traditional Irish family blessing:

May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
Slow to make enemies,
Quick to make friends,
But rich or poor, quick or slow,
May you know nothing but
Happiness from this day forward.

Now if everyone will join me for one last Irish tradition, please raise your glasses and toast the bride and the groom…

Merry met, and merry part,
I drink to thee with all my heart!

Happy happy! Joy joy!!

Richard Fredrick Boeke, October 19, 1932 - May 23, 2020

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."

                                                    ~ Søren Kierkegaard

It’s only now, looking back, that I begin to truly understand the depth and meaning behind the moments we shared, Dad. When I was younger, they felt simple—like when you took our Cub Scout den to the 1977 BSA Jamboree at Moraine State Park. At the time, it just seemed like a fun adventure — making rope with David and our friends, learning new skills, and laughing as we discovered a few "new" words you might not have planned on teaching us that day. As we grew older, the moments became more challenging. But now, with time and distance, I see them all differently. That particular memory wasn’t just a fun outing; it was a lesson in patience, leadership, resilience, and love — the kind of lessons that you taught not through lectures, but through living example.

Kierkegaard was right. We move forward through life, not always knowing the value of each experience, not always understanding the meaning behind the choices we make or the words we speak. But when I look back now, so much becomes clearer. I see how the way you led, the way you showed up, the way you handled both joy and difficulty—all of it shaped who I am today.

I am so grateful for every lesson you tried to teach me—both the ones I took to heart and the ones I only came to understand later. I know I didn’t always recognize your wisdom in the moment, but looking back, it’s everywhere. Your presence, your guidance, your values—they’re in the way I try to raise my own children, in the way I try to treat people, in the way I live.

I hope you saw that in me. I hope you recognized that the kind of father I strive to be is, in large part, because of the kind of father you were. Our relationship wasn’t perfect—whose is? But your love was always there, steady and strong, and mine never wavered either.

Thank you for everything, Dad. For the memories, the lessons, and the love. I am so thankful I got to spend those last hours with you — to simply be near you, to say goodbye, and to let you know how deeply I care.

I promise I will keep living forwards—with the understanding I carry from looking back. I will continue to strive to be the best person I can be, because that’s what you taught me, and that’s how I will honor you.

Love you forever.

The Vanishing Center: What The Right Answer Still Gets Right

The Right Answer: How We Can Unify Our Divided Nation
by John K. Delaney

My rating: 3½ of 5 stars

In December 2019, a friend gave me The Right Answer by John K. Delaney as a holiday gift. At the time, I was vaguely aware of Delaney as the first Democrat to enter the 2020 presidential race, but I hadn’t paid him much attention. The field was crowded with louder voices, flashier platforms, and sharper ideological lines. The gift felt like a gesture of quiet hopefulness—offering not just a book, but an invitation to consider what politics might look like if we chose construction over conflict. By the time I sat down to write this, Delaney’s campaign had long since ended—he suspended his bid in January 2020, before a single vote was cast. And yet, the book lingers—not as campaign literature, but as a thoughtful reflection on what our politics might be if we made more space for decency, data, and the discipline of governing.

I read The Right Answer that winter, noting passages that spoke to the civic impulses I still believe in: common ground, mutual responsibility, the hard but necessary work of listening. Delaney’s vision, laid out in earnest and unvarnished prose, wasn’t revolutionary—and that was precisely the point.

Delaney, a former congressman from Maryland and successful entrepreneur, brought a rare combination of business acumen and policy pragmatism to the national stage. Before entering politics, he co-founded two publicly traded companies focused on healthcare finance and lending to underserved communities—ventures that reflected his interest in both innovation and equity. Elected to Congress in 2012, he represented Maryland’s 6th District for three terms, earning a reputation as a pro-business Democrat who valued bipartisanship and data-driven legislation. His 2020 presidential bid was an extension of that philosophy: a campaign rooted in optimism, civility, and practical solutions—what he called “facts over fury.” He stood, in many ways, as the last echo of a brand of politics that once thrived in both parties but now seems dangerously close to extinction.

None of Delaney’s campaign was designed to set Twitter ablaze. All of it was grounded in the belief that Americans still wanted their government to function.

But The Right Answer arrived—and was largely ignored—at a time when the political center was already disintegrating. In the 2020 Democratic primaries, Delaney's moderation felt out of sync with a party energized by sweeping structural reforms and ideological purity. His voice was steady, not soaring; his appeal was to voters’ practical instincts, not their tribal loyalties.

Looking back, it’s clear Delaney wasn’t just running for office—he was submitting a kind of civic preservation report. His book reads like a blueprint for a governing philosophy built on what used to be bedrock: compromise, incremental progress, mutual respect. It now feels like a dispatch from a version of American politics we are dangerously close to forgetting altogether.

The erosion of the political center isn’t just about polls or party labels—it’s a slow unthreading of the civic fabric. We trade in the deliberative processes of governance for the dopamine hits of outrage. What once lived in Rotary halls and town meetings now festers in comment threads and curated feeds. The incentives are all wrong: media algorithms reward extremity, primary systems punish moderation, and fundraising emails raise more when they vilify than when they unify.

This isn't a plea for false balance or nostalgic centrism—but a recognition that without a stable center, democracy cannot hold. The center is where the work gets done: where laws are negotiated, budgets are passed, and citizens feel heard rather than herded. It’s where humility still has a seat at the table, and where policy is shaped not by purity tests but by lived experience. When we lose that space, we don’t just lose consensus—we lose the conditions necessary for pluralism to survive.

And so The Right Answer stays with me—not as a relic of a failed campaign, but as a reminder of what we still risk losing: the belief that governance is possible without vilification, that policy can be more than theater, that democracy is slow, communal, and—if we’re lucky—boring. But if the center fades at the top, it still flickers below. It’s in church basements, PTA meetings, Rotary clubs, volunteer fire departments, and union halls—places where Americans still come together not as partisans, but as neighbors.

Reviving the center doesn’t begin in think tanks or TV studios—it begins with regular people doing regular things with civic intent. Democrats and Republicans alike can help breathe life into the center by simply showing up: for school board elections, for community listening sessions, for city council public comment. We ask harder questions of our political leaders—about real solutions, not slogans—and support candidates who are willing to risk a primary loss to preserve their integrity. We reward bridge-building over brand-building and remember that pluralism isn’t a liability—it’s the heart of the American promise. The work ahead is ours. Civic strength doesn’t trickle down from elite circles; it bubbles up from participation, trust, and collective effort. The center doesn’t have to be mushy; it can be muscular—rooted in values, powered by engagement, and carried forward by people who understand that compromise is not capitulation, but courage.

I don’t know if John Delaney would have made a great president. But I do know he wrote a book full of humility and resolve, and I’m grateful someone thought to give it to me. Like reading real history or sorting laundry by hand, the work of democracy is quiet, deliberate, and unfashionable. But it’s still worth doing.

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