Post G24-004: Advice on sheltering your bee hotel for the winter.

 

My advice:  Don’t shelter your bee hotel for the winter.  Let it freeze along with everything else.  This post explains why.


Early bee emergence

Last year, for the first time, I hung up a bee hotel.  This is a set of nesting tubes designed to make it easier for solitary/native bees, such as mason bees, to reproduce.  It seemed to be quite successful, per the picture below.  Ultimately I ended up with about 15 nesting tubes filled.

I left that up through the summer and fall, and, per common internet advice, moved it to a sheltered location once winter set in.  In this case, I moved it to the inside of a detached, totally unheated garage.

Moving a bee hotel to a sheltered location, for the winter, is probably not a good idea.  Despite that being widely suggested by seeming experts.  That’s because if your sheltered area is even a little warmer than the outdoors, I think it entices the bees to emerge too early.

That’s what appears to have happened this year.  For my particular Home Depot bee hotel, the nesting tubes that were filled by mason bees last spring …

… are all now empty.

Consistent with that, my wife noticed some bees on her crocuses this morning.  Which was odd enough to stand out.  Because, among other things, not much is blooming right now except crocus and daffodil.  And it’s not all that warm out yet.  The upshot is that it seems a little early to be seeing bees out and about.

I’m betting that those were “my” bees.  And I’m betting that I did them no favors by (inadvertently) waking them up too early, this year.  If I put up a bee hotel again this year, I’m just going to leave it alone.  I’m now of the opinion that  bees ought to overwinter at exactly the temperatures they’ll face out-of-doors.


Like Tinder, but with only 15 people using it.

Experts say that mason bees should emerge when blossoms are open, and daytime temperatures consistently reach 55F (reference).

By those benchmarks — blooms and temperature — my bees are at least three weeks too early. That’s based on these observations.

Blossoms:  Slim pickings.  At present, only the crocuses, daffodils, and maybe a scattered other few species blooming.  There are a few cherry trees here and there, in this area, in blossom.  For reference, the earliest recorded peak bloom date for the national cherry trees is March 15, with April 1 being a typical date (reference March 15 to the National Park Service).  Separately, a harbinger of spring in many areas is forsythia, but our forsythia isn’t even close to blooming yet.

Temperatures:  Still too cold.  We’ve had a couple of days where the high exceeded 55F, but those are still few and far between.  We are not consistently 55F and higher.  But we’re closing in on that.

Source:  Weather underground. 

And based on our historical weather averages, you wouldn’t expect consistent 55F and higher days for another two-three weeks or so.

Source:  Analysis of NOAA weather data for Dulles Airport (Sterling, VA).

All of that, plus my experience last year, tells me that my little batch of bees emerged the better part of a month too early.  Call it three weeks, minimum.

Finally, these bees don’t live very long.  They emerge, eat, mate, and die within a span of a few weeks.  They’re now out of sync with their species in general, and they’re going to be dead before the rest of the local mason bee population emerges.  So, if they all survive, their procreation will be as described in the section title.


Conclusion

I’m not a bee expert, but I’ve spent a lot of time observing the habits of bugs, since I took up gardening during the pandemic.  The one universal rule is that everything in the garden — plants and bugs alike — operates on temperature, and on degree-days.

By keeping this bee hotel in an unheated garage, I kept it warmer than the ambient outdoor temperatures.  I suspect that, one way or the other, this caused my bees to emerge earlier than is optimal, for their species.

If I do this again this year, I’m going to leave the bee hotel outside all winter.  The bee larvae may not much like the cold, but they need to stay in sync with outdoor temperatures, in order to emerge at the right time.

Source;  All the pictures for this post are from Gencraft.com AI, with the prompt of “a bee, wearing a stocking cap and scarf”.

Addendum:  To bee, or not.

Edit:  In the end, I gave it another go, doing it better this time, as explained in Post #G24-008.  This year, my bee hotels are ugly, but properly constructed (closed-ended tubes roughly 6″ long), as shown above.  Well over half the tubes are now filled, as of this writing (4/22/2024).  I’m just going to leave them be until its time to take them down and put them in an emergence box next spring.

Original post follows.

Am I going to put up bee hotel this year?  Not sure, but at this point, I’d say, no not.  Probably not going to put up another bee hotel this year.  For the following reasons.

First, these bees don’t pollinate my garden.  They’re out and about early in the year, and they are gone by the time my garden crops or flowers need pollination.  So when you hear about “attracting bees to your garden to get better yields”, they ain’t talking about mason bees.  The earliest-blossoming food I grow is peas, and my recollection is that mason bees do their thing well before (e.g.) the peas blossom.  Apparently they are good for orchards.  Which would make sense, as fruit trees blossom early.  (And mason bees are orchard bees, or orchard bees are mason bees, or something, I’m not entirely sure.  I don’t have an orchard.)

Second, I’m trying to grow the kinds of plants that (the internet tells me) make good natural nesting sites for these bees.  But that whole enterprise is looking a bit sketchy at the moment.  I’ve started down that path, by not mowing my wildflower beds yet.

You’d think, well, that’s got to be dead easy, just grow some plants and leave them. Just don’t mow.

But its not that simple.

Mason bees need medium-sized hollow stalks to nest in.  (Or equivalent.)  That seems right by my experience so far.  Sturdy annuals will sometimes leave behind big, ugly stems.  Looks about the right size.

But that’s the point where anything ceases to be easy.

In a nutshell, you have to keep them for two years, they’re ugly, they get in the way, and you have to defend them from the deer.  I’m not going to go through the details.  I can boil it down to this.

Do I really want to use my time and attention to try to protect some ugly weed stalks from ravenous end-of-winter marauding deer?  For a couple of years, yet (the literal same batch of stalks, I mean.)  And somehow work around them, while prepping the beds for this year’s flowers.  And in the end, really have no clue whether they are effective or not.

I have a lot of sunk cost in this whole bee-hotel thing, not in the sense of buying the Home Depot wooden bee hotel, but mostly in the time and effort gathering and cutting bamboo, in anticipation of annul replacement of the nesting tubes in that hotel.

In addition, rehabbing that Home Depot hotel for re-use could be a fair bit of work.  I should replace the bamboo nesting tubes each year.  This year — with the off-the-shelf unit — that means breaking the existing glued-in tubes out first.

I think I’ll see how hard the rehab is, first, then decide on next steps after that.

But as of right now, I’m not seeing a huge benefit to anybody or anything in being a mason bee hotel keeper for another year.  I should let them find their equilibrium vis-a-vis the local flora.  Might tweak the flora to try to help them out, if I can figure out how to do it.  But I think I’m going to punt on maintaining a manufactured bee hotel.

Post #1945: Microplastic, not sure I much care about it.

 

Let me give you the argument, to see if you buy it.  (Read Post #1941 and Post #1942 to see where I’m coming from on this issue.)

1:  We’ve been using plastic, including artificial fibers, in the U.S., for a long time.  2:  Therefore, best guess, whatever microplastic does to humans, it has already done that to us.  Plus, 3: personally, as it turns out, I live in a microplastic-fiber-rich environment.  I think.

Regarding that last point:  The wall-to-wall carpet that came with my house is polyester fiber.  Not only do I walk around on the cut-off ends of pieces of artificial-fiber yarn whenever I change locations within my home, the fiber is polyester, which typically gets fingered as potentially harmful microplastic.

My guess is that this surely (surely!) generates a microplastic-fiber-fragment-rich living environment.  (But to be clear, there’s only a bit of research to support that, as outlined in this reference.)  And there are a lot of people in the same boat.  A lot of folks who spend a lot of hours in places with synthetic-fiber wall-to-wall carpet.

The upshot is that if microplastic from polyester fibers is a major health hazard, even if that only shows up late in life via a cancer effect, you’d think we’d have noticed it by now.  We’ve had a lot of time and variation in chronic exposure to do so.

Restated:   If there were significant human health effects from typical exposures to microplastic, you’d think we’d have noticed by now.

But how, from this viewpoint, can you explain why we are suddenly seeing and hearing so much about microplastic? How do you explain that, if it has, as you say, been there all along?

My guess?  I guess that we’re now seeing it because we’re now looking for it.

One guess for the uptick is a change in or diffusion of microplastic-detection technology.  The best studies seem to use some fairly exotic equipment, something I take to be a microscopic infrared spectrometer.  Maybe those have gotten cheaper, or maybe it’s just the case that more people have access to the required equipment.  Alternatively, other studies appear to use minimal equipment, but may require significant time.  The publishable standard of measurement is so low (particles per liter) that maybe a lab with the right filter paper (and a microscope and some lab assistants) can quantify microplastic-in-blank to a publishable degree.

(I think that this last point, more than anything else, explains the view that microplastic is an inexhaustible source of clickbait, via finding microplastic in any (e.g.) bodily fluid or organ that you care to examine closely enough.)

A second guess for the uptick is that we now bother to look for microplastics, in both the human and natural environments.

One the one hand, maybe we look more often because “microplastic” is clickbait-du-jour.   An internet-fed fad.  A response to economic rewards for attracting eyes to your article.  After all, every N days, somebody finds microplastic in some new (and yuck-inducing) substance and/or bodily fluid and/or internal organ.  And that makes great clickbait.  Particularly for the closet doomscrollers.

On the other hand, microplastic is part of a legitimate concern about plastic in the environment, overall.  I mean, how many times have we heard this story, only to find out it has an unhappy ending:

There's this stuff?  We use a lot of it.  But it doesn't decompose well.  

So, where does it end up?

But in any case, I’m betting that any human health impacts of microplastic are  pretty subtle.  Not that I’ve done any research on that, but just from a feeling that we’ve been living with plastic for so long, I think we’d have seen something by now.

OTOH, I live in a house with polyester wall-to-wall.  So take this FWIW.

 

Post #1944: Chevy Bolt one-month review

 

  • I bought a used car.
  • And to gas, au revoir.
  • This is favored, by far,
  • By the energy czar.
  • If the range is sub-par?
  • Well, I don’t travel far.
  • Not to Ulannbataar, or far-off Zanzibar,
  • Just my local bazaar.

[Thumpity-thump.]

  • So it’s no blazing star,
  • No de-luxe Ja-gu-ar.
  • I don’t know it from NASCAR
  • Or races stock-car.
  • So it’s not caviar
  • With a Cuban cigar.
  • It is more Hershey-bar.
  • Middle-class avatar.
  • But I set a low bar.
  • Been no glitches so far.
  • And it isn’t bizarre.
  • Like some daft minicar.

[Thumpity-thump.]

  • In mood most noire?
  • Yearn for God’s abattoir?
  • Then grab hold of the busbar.
  • Forsake CPR.
  • But for now, NPR
  • And some padding lumbar
  • Will together debar
  • Good Saint Pete, registrar.

In prose

Bought a 2020 Chevy Bolt about a month ago.  Just over 5K miles on it.  Just under $19K with taxes and tags, should end up under $15K after the tax rebate.

It’s the best used car I’ve ever bought.  But — trust me on this — that isn’t saying much.

Good:

  • About 5 miles per kilowatt-hour, as driven.  Much better than EPA, and almost on a par with my wife’s 2021 Prius Prime.
  • Low C02.  Where I live (and charge), driving 150 miles in this car produces about the same amount of C02 as burning one gallon of gasoline.  I have years, paying back the C02 that went into making all those batteries.  But in terms of operating C02 emissions, that’s quite low.
  • Comfortable:  Lot of front leg room, driver position is much higher off the ground than a Prius, which makes this easy to get into and out of, and gives good visibility (for a car, that is).  The driver’s seat fits my frame (6′) well.
  • Zippy.  Very zippy when you need to zip.  Lots of acceleration off-the-line.
  • Plugs right into the wall.  Level I (120-volt) charging works just fine.  An overnight charge at 12 amps adds maybe 75 miles of range.
  • Surprisingly nice sound system.  I have what I’m pretty sure is the stock radio, and the sound quality is very good.

The neutral:

  • Came with just one fob.  That’s really an issue with buying it used.  But, it was surprisingly easy to buy and in-the-car program some new fobs.
  • No spare or jack.  But, it was easy enough to locate and buy a jack and spare that should work with this car.
  • All told, a couple-hundred bucks fixed both issues.

The not-so-good:

  • Bumpy ride.  Short wheelbase and tight suspension give it a jittery ride.  I probably wouldn’t notice it but my own suspension isn’t all that tight, so I tend to jiggle more than I like, as I drive.
  • Have to pay attention.  This car has tight, responsive steering and a somewhat wide turning circle, both of which were a surprise, given how small the car is bumper-to-bumper.  (This is a foot-and-a-half shorter than my wife’s 2021 Prius Prime, but has a wider turning radius.)  Both of these mean that you can’t just rest a couple of fingers on the steering wheel, and cruise down the road.  You actually have to grab the wheel and steer the car.

Summary

All my life, when faced with a major energy-using investment, I’ve opted for the most efficient thing I could reasonably get.  And, so far, I’ve never been sorry I did that.

This car fits that pattern.  As long as it doesn’t fail prematurely, I am more than satisfied with it.  It’s all the car I need and it’s about as C02-efficient as a car will likely ever be in my lifetime.

I don’t think I’m going to look back, a few years from now, and say “oops”.  For a used car, that’s about all I can ask for.

Plus, I can now sneer at all those old-fashioned hybrid cars on the road.

Post #1943: Microplastic, doing a burn test for carpet fiber

Most internet sources assure me that only four fibers are likely to be found in the pile of modern wall-to-wall carpet. A handful of sources add a fifth (acrylic).  Perusal of current offerings at Home Depot adds a sixth (triexta).

  • Wool
  • Nylon
  • Polyester
  • Polyolefin (including polypropylene and polyethylene)
  • Triexta
  • Acrylic

I think I can plausibly narrow it down to three, in my case, by eliminating these:

Triexta appears to be new enough that it’s not going to be the fiber in my 20-year-old wall-to-wall carpet.

Acrylic appears rare enough, in wall-to-wall carpeting, that I can’t actually find any roll-type carpet made with acrylic fiber currently offered for sale.

Polyolefin fibers appear to be used only in the cheapest carpet materials.  At Home Depot, that’s what their self-stick carpet tiles are made of.  That’s not going to be the basis for my well-wearing 20-year-old wall-to-wall.

N.B. 1:  SD means solution dyed, that is, that is, the plastic itself is dyed before the fibers are spun from it.  As opposed to dying the fibers after-the-fact.  This apparently is by far the preferred method for durability in modern carpeting.

N.B. 2:  Olefin (a.k.a. polyolefin) is a polymer (long molecule made from simple building blocks) where the basic building blocks are straight-chain alkanes (carbon and hydrogen and nothing else).  If you make it out of propane feedstock, you get polypropylene.  If you make it out of ethane feedstock, you get polyethylene.  I assume they use polyolefin when they make the fiber out of whatever’s handy, or from a mix of feedstocks.


Burn test

The most commonly-suggested way to tell what a carpet is made of is to burn (a bit of) it.  Condensing the guidance from this site:

Wool barely burns, extinguishes itself, leaves ash, and smells like burning hair.

Nylon burns well, with a smokeless blue flame, leaves a gray/black blob of melted plastic.  And stinks.  (I’ve sealed the ends of enough nylon rope to know that.  It’s your classic burning plastic smell, but does not stink quite so badly as the smell of burning electronics, which is typically the smell of burning PVC (plastic wire insulation).

Polyester burns well, with a smoky orange flame, sputters and drips as it burns, leaves a shiny plastic bead, and smells “sweet” as it burns.  (Really?)

Pretty sure this carpet isn’t wool.  So it boils down to burning a bit of it, and seeing if it stinks.  If so, it’s nylon.  If not, polyester.

What I didn’t realize is that you need a pretty good chunk of fibers to be able to do this test.  First time I tried it, I had a fluffy bit of fibers, and they simply shrank away from the flame.  Second time I got an entire piece of yarn, twisted it tightly, and got it to burn.

Results:  Sputtering flame, no ash, and no stink.  I’m pretty sure my carpet is polyester.  I could refresh my memory with a bit of nylon cord, or burn a bit of known polyester fabric, but I think this all makes sense.  Plus, burning nylon really stinks.  Like “don’t do that inside” stinks.  And while this did not smell “sweet”, this basically didn’t smell like much at all.  Which pretty much rules out nylon.

I may try some different test, if I can find one.

But odds are, given that this is 20-year-old decent-grade grade wall-to-wall carpet, with some worn spots, clearly made of synthetic, and the fiber burns without a stink, this is polyester.


Conclusion

The entire floor of my house is covered with the cut ends of polyester yarn.  And has been for the past 16 years or so.

All this time, not only did this not bother me, heck, it was downright comfy to walk on.

But now that my eyes have been opened, I see this as a comfy source of microplastic polyester fibers.

Should I care about that, or not?  Or do anything differently, now that I know?

Time to let this percolate a bit more.

Post #1942: Microplastic, some more targeted questions.

 

In my last post, I pinned down what I did and didn’t know about microplastic.  And, while I don’t (yet) think this spells the end of civilization, what I learned has given me pause.

With the just-prior post as background, I spend this post homing in on the questions that I should be asking.

They are:

1)  What are my likely sources of greatest exposure?

2)  How does this stuff break down?  What is the half-life of microplastic, particularly fibers, in various environments (including human tissue).

2B)  Are we seeing this topic frequently in the popular press because microplastic has been building up in the environment (that is, it’s now a much greater hazard than in the immediate past), or because we’re looking for it and/or we now have the means to find it?

3)  Are nano-scale (really tiny) fibers a particular concern?

I’m only going to address the first question, in this post.

Understand my background as a health economist.  Surgeons have been implanting chunks of plastic and metal into people for more than 70 years.  (The first pacemaker implant took place in the late 1950s.  Modern metal-and-plastic hip replacements go back somewhat further.)  So the right materials, properly chosen, won’t interact with the body at all.  OTOH, there’s a long list of materials that were tried and rejected, because they were not so inert.

So my prejudice is that incorporating random bits of plastic into your body is probably a bad idea.  The only question is, how bad is it?  And can you avoid it?


Wall-to-wall paranoia

The first question to ask for any environmental health hazard is, 1)  What are my likely sources of greatest exposure?

For airborne fibers, if I walk through it logically, my greatest source of exposure almost certainly has to be the wall-to-wall carpeting in my home.  It’s indoors, it contains a huge amount of fiber, it’s clearly synthetic fiber, and it is constantly being abraded by walking on it.  And it’s “clipped”, that is, every strand of carpet yarn has been sheared off, so that it’s an entire floor surface consisting of the cut ends of synthetic yarn.  In my house, every floor surface save bathroom, kitchen, and foyer is covered in the stuff.

For me, it’s a big, fiber-generating surface that I shuffle my feet across, every time I change locations within my house.

Reading up on it, I’m guessing it has maybe 60 ounces of carpet pile per square yard, a.k.a., “face weight” 60 carpeting.  Doing the math, that means my house contains somewhere around 700 pounds of carpet fibers.  In the form of short pieces of yarn, with their cut ends exposed, for me to walk on.  I’m pretty sure that outweighs all other cloth in this household, by a wide margin.  True, on any given day, most of it just sits there.  But so does most of the clothing in my closet.

I can only think of two things arguing against this being my greatest source of airborne synthetic fiber exposure.

The first is that, whatever it’s made of (I have no clue), it’s made to resist abrasion.  It was here when we moved into this house in 2007, and it looks about the same now as it did then.  (To within my ability to tell.  What I mean is, no obvious new wear spots have developed in the past 15 years.)

The second is a potential “inverse-square-law” for inhaled fiber concentrations.  That is, for a given rate of fiber shedding, the closer you are to the source of the airborne fibers, the more of them you may be likely to inhale.  If that’s true, then the fibers shed from stuff that’s right under your nose — shirts, sweaters, scarves, coats — might matter more than the fibers shed at your feet.

And if I put all that together, I come up with the obvious conclusion that crawling around on wall-to-wall carpet may not be smart.  Not that I’m planning to do that any time soon, if I have any say in it.  But the point being that having infants crawl around on your wall-to-wall carpeting might require a rethink.  Putting that differently, if you’re not worried about your kids crawling around on wall-to-wall carpet, I don’t see much point in being worried about this topic at all.  Because, outside of a factory, it’s hard for me to imagine where you could get a higher concentration of inhaled artificial fibers than in crawling across modern wall-to-wall carpeting.

We have met the enemy, and he is us.

In my case, I’m going to start by trying to figure out what my carpet is made of.  It was here when we moved in, and I have no clue what the fiber is.  Nylon is a good guess, and everything I read says that nylon, in particular, is a fiber that you’d like to avoid breathing in, owing to what it produces as it slowly breaks down.

And I may be a little more diligent in vacuuming.  Given that the vacuum (in theory) has a HEPA-level filter on it, that (in theory) couldn’t hurt.


Conclusion:  What to do when you’re flying blind

From the prior post, it was absolutely clear that routinely inhaling a lot of nylon fiber is bad for you.  There’s even a name for the resulting condition — flock worker’s lung.

But so what?  Inhaling high levels of almost any fiber or powder is bad for you, be it coal dust, silicon dust, cotton dust, copier toner, wood dust, or what have you.

It’s still an open question as to whether or not there are identifiable health effects from absorption of microplastic at levels commonly found in the environment.

But, from my own perspective, given how picky medical device manufacturers are about the materials they will use for implantable medical devices, it’s a pretty good bet that inhaling and ingesting random plastic bits and fibers is probably not good for you.  How bad, exactly, we can argue about.  But almost surely not a good thing.

My first thought, in a situation like this, is to test for it.  Measure it.  See what my exposure is.

But I don’t think that’s possible, practically speaking.  I already have a “PM 2.5” meter, bought in response to the Canadian forest fires of 2023.  That almost uniformly shows lower airborne particulate levels inside my house than outside.  And that responds to all kinds of particulates, of which the tiny minority is likely to be microplastic fibers.

So this is a case of flying blind.  I can’t tell how much I’m exposed to and I have no clear idea what harm that exposure might do, anyway.

In that case, I can at least try to identify the easily-avoidable sources of microplastic, and so reduce my exposure until better information develops.  I might even go so far as to change what I buy, to avoid funding the production of even more items that shed microplastic.  (E.g., avoid synthetics in my next batch of shirts).  But I’d want to look at the full implications of that first.

So I’m stuck at the “identify my exposures” stage.  My water filter appears to take care of most of the microplastic that might make it into my tap water.  (Though I have no idea what it does with the very smallest particles).  And for airborne fiber, my biggest exposure has to be wall-to-wall carpet.  But this house was built for it, and replacing the existing wall-to-wall with hard-surface flooring would be ludicrously expensive.

Time to step back and let this percolate a bit.

Post #1941: Microplastic, some initial questions.

 

Intro:  Not a lot of answers in this post

Seems like every week I read another story about microplastics. 

At some point in all that reading, it dawned on me that I didn’t actually know what microplastic is.  Sure, micro meaning small, and plastic, meaning plastic.  But that’s as deep as my understanding went.

Turns out, there are good reasons for my confusion.  The term “microplastic” is used for everything from shreds of plastic you can see, down to nano-scale bits that you’d need an electron microscope to see.  From the plastic chips left over from recycling, down to aerosol-sized microscopic fibers.  The microplastic in your tap water (fibers, mostly polyester) really isn’t the same stuff as the microplastic in your bottled water (particles, mostly bits of PETE or HDPE plastic).

Let me narrow down my interest to microplastic in my tap water.  Or maybe, microplastic in the air I breathe.

What’s that all about?  What is it, exactly?  How much is there?  Will my water filter remove it?  How about an air filter?  Is it harmful in the concentrations I’m routinely exposed to?

Weirdly, for something that seems to be in the news a lot, I could not find out much in the way of hard facts.  In this post, I at least begin to pin down why I’m not finding answers to those basic questions.

Other than the fact that my Brita water filter promises to remove most of it.  Whatever it is.  I think.

Source:  Brita.com, data for the “elite” filter, not their standard filter.


First stop:  A mother lode of click-bait

The popular press on this issue yields a coherent if superficial story about the environmental danger of microplastic.

It’s invisible.  Municipal tap water, for example, typically contains bits of plastic that are too small to be seen with the naked eye. It is not present in enough density to give the water a cloudy or turbid appearance.  Nor does it affect the smell or taste of the water.

It’s everywhere.  These bits are too small to be filtered out completely by typical municipal water plants.  And once you start looking for it, you can find some amount of microplastic almost everywhere.  Not just tap water, but: Bottled water.  Bottled soda.  Even in things that are bottled in glass bottles.  Animal tissue.  Breast milk.  Rivers.  The oceans.  Fish.  The soil.  The air.  The clouds.

(Ah, yeah, in addition to eating and drinking it, you breathe it in the form of floating dust particles.)

It might be bad for you.  I haven’t yet come across hard evidence one way or the other, at levels seen by the average U.S. resident, but the most common analogy is with asbestos.  Exposure to asbestos fibers is associated with cancer presumably because the fibers were small enough to enter cells and perturb DNA replication.  A lot of microplastic is in the form of fibers, some of which are likely small enough to enter cells.  So this is a plausible if unproven concern.

And that combination makes it hard to sort fact from fiction.  Look at the phrases in red above.  In the internet-driven world, you know what means.  It means that “microplastic” is an ideal and practically inexhaustible source of  click-bait.  Between the people who make their living out of scaring you, and the people make their living out of mindlessly repeating stuff they gathered off the internet, let’s just say that the facts appear thin on the ground.

On top of which, everybody hates on plastic.  Even as we, collectively, use vast amounts of it.  So you’ve got some degree of  axe-grinding dressed as fact-finding, thrown into the mix.

To be clear, I’m not dismissing this as a threat.  This, even though our public health authorities don’t seem to have any handle on it.  But that has happened before (think, leaded gasoline).  Sometimes widespread harm is only understood well after-the-fact.


Three things

Three things make me hesitate before I freak out over microplastic.

Thing 1:  It’s not as if plastic is a new thing.  We’ve been using lots of plastic, for a long time, here in the U.S., and world-wide.  Whatever-it-is that microplastic does to you, chances are that it’s been doing that to you, to a greater or lesser degree, all your life.

Up until COVID, U.S. life expectancy had been increasing consistent with its historical trend.  So whatever it is that plastic in the environment is doing to us, it’s small enough not to perturb that trend.  It doesn’t mean it has no effect, it just strongly suggests that the population-level health effects, at typical exposure rates, are likely small.

There needs to be one major caveat there:  Assuming it isn’t just slowly accumulating.  And we’re only now beginning to reap what we’ve been sowing for the past N decades.  Haven’t stumbled across any evidence suggesting that, so far.

Thing 2:  It’s not as if having harmful material in your air or drinking water is new, either.  For example, Virginia requires that all public water supplies are tested, and that those test results be made public.  So I know there’s lead in my drinking water, but the 90th percentile of water samples in my town showed 1.5 parts per billion, lead.  That’s low enough that I cross it off my list of things to worry about.  (Source: 2022 water quality report testing 2021 water, Town of Vienna).

Thing 3:  This is a newly-recognized potential health hazard, and that means that there are no answers to even the most basic questions.  This really wasn’t on the public-health radar screen a decade ago, near as I can tell.

Suppose, for example, you wanted to see the equivalent of the report shown above, but for the microplastic content of your local tap water.  How much is there, in parts-per-million or parts-per-billion, and does that exceed some safety threshold?   You would discover that:

  • No, they don’t measure it that way (PPM or PPB).
  • No, nobody routinely monitors for it.
  • No, it’s not reported in the State-mandated drinking water reports that my Town must publish.
  • No, there is no accepted safety threshold.
  • No, there’s no hard evidence one way or the other for impact on human health.
    • Yet.

 


Boiling down the basic background.

Believe it or not, I don’t get paid by the word.  So let me just state some key facts that I think I’ve learned, without citation as to sources, then cut to the chase regarding health effects.

  1.  There is no standard definition of microplastic.  You’ll see that used for pieces of plastic that are anything from dime-sized to nano-scale bits (fractions of a micron).  But most research focuses on stuff that’s around the same size as aerosol air pollution, PM 10 (particles 10 microns or smaller) or PM 2.5 (particles 2.5 microns or smaller).   (Recall that a human hair is about 70 microns thick, and that aerosol particles — those that can remain suspended in the air for long times — are conventionally taken as those that are 5 microns and smaller).  The most common cutoffs I’ve seen for “microplastic” are 10 microns or smaller, or 1 micron or smaller.
  2. There are no quantitative measures of it similar to “parts per million” for drinking water.  Instead, for liquids, they run the liquid through a fine filter and count whatever gets caught.  So the most common measure of quantity is “counts per liter”, as in, the count of microplastic bits found, per liter of water poured through the filter.  Big bits, small bits, chunks, fibers — it’s all the same in that measure.
  3. It takes sophisticated equipment to determine how much plastic and what type of plastic is there.  Infrared spectroscopy, for most studies that I’ve seen.  Different types of plastic have unique infrared “signatures”.  Typically, certain distinct strong peaks in IR reflection or absorption are associated with specific common plastics.  At root, it’s the same process that your plastics recycler uses to sort plastic.  And the amounts in question are small enough that careful studies need to net out the residual or background amount of microplastic that’s found on everything, including everything in the labs that test for this stuff.
  4. In water, it’s mostly fibers.  And those fibers are mostly polyester.  But that’s not because polyester is uniquely bad among synthetic fibers.  In fact, acrylic cloth and yarn shed microplastic fibers at a much higher rate than polyester.  But polyester shows up as the main contributor because we use so much of it.
  5. The presumption is that this mostly enters the waterways from laundry effluent, but it may enter via deposition from the air as well.  Clothing sheds fiber as it is washed and dried, and it sheds as you wear it.  Plausibly, wearing it generates a much larger volume of shed fiber than washing it.  Some of that fiber remains suspended as dust in the air, which eventually settles and is then deposited in waterways via runoff.
  6. Typical municipal water processing removes most but not all of it.  Of what I recall, raw water might typically have on order of 200 CPL (counts per liter) of microplastic, and the finished water might have on order of 5 CPL.
  7. You also get little chunks of plastic that are not fibers.  Those also count, and my reading is that when you hear about microplastic in bottled water, for example, that’s what you’re hearing about. It’s not even clear that anybody knows where that comes from, but the presumption is that these are residues of some factory production process.
  8. There’s enough of this in the environment that labs have to net out their background level of microplastic when they test for it.   Just as they would have to do if (e.g.) measuring radiation, because every place on earth is slightly radioactive.  The readings you see in most studies are not the “raw” counts, they are the counts from the samples tested, less the counts found on control samples, presumably reflecting the background level in the lab doing the counting. Any human-occupied environment — laboratory, factory, office, whatnot — is going to have some ambient level of microplastic fibers, as long as the people in it are wearing clothes, and those clothes contain synthetic fibers.
  9. Most of it passes right through you.  At least, the larger fibers do.  That’s my takeaway from studies of fish that are fed materials containing microplastic fiber.  Mostly it just passes right through them.
  10. But some does not.  The concern centers around the tiniest fibers (fractions-of-a-micron), that are presumably small enough to pass through the gut, into the blood stream, and then into your tissues.
  11. I did not find research on what mechanisms the body has for breaking down or otherwise removing microplastic that make it past the gut/lungs.  So once you’ve absorbed some of this stuff, I have no clue how (or even, whether) you get rid of it.  That said, research seems to indicate that nylon fibers, in particular, produce some toxic byproducts when they break down in the body.
  12. Jury remains out on whether or not microplastic cause significant harm to humans.  At typical environmental concentrations.  In a dust-filled factory, you bet that synthetic fiber dust causes lung injury.  My take on it is that there’s almost literally no credible research on the likely level of harm at typical environmental concentrations of microplastic, because this has only recently (past decade or so) come to the attention of public health authorities.

A few observations.

First, taken as a whole, this likely explains why nobody routinely tests tap water for it. There’s no standard definition of it.  There’s no hard evidence of human harm, let alone some agreed-upon maximum threshold for safety.  It takes specialized equipment and techniques to measure.  And there’s a good chance of contamination from the testing lab.

Second, there’s some obvious potential for mischief in reporting the presence of microplastic in (fill-in-the-blank), in that this stuff is everywhere.  That is, there’s going to be a background level of microplastic in any testing lab.  If you don’t net that out, you’ve got the potential to report finding microplastic in pretty much anything you care to test.


Where to start:  Is there a synthetic-fiber analog of brown lung?  Answer:  Yes.

That is, do factory workers get sick from breathing in high levels of synthetic fibers?

Historically, workers in cotton mills suffered from a high incidence of brown lung.  This was the result of chronic exposure to high levels cotton dust, or to the dust of other organic fibers (jute, hemp, and so on.)

Is there anything to suggest that the same thing happens with chronic exposure to high levels of fragments of synthetic fibers?

Short answer: Yes, starting with Flock Workers Lung (.pdf)This was recognized around the year 2000, in workers in Massachusetts plants that produced nylon flocking for use in producing velour-type fabrics.  In those plants, long nylon fibers were chopped into short lengths.  Inhaling airborne nylon fiber fragments led to inflammation, reduced lung function, and asthsma-like symptoms.

Whether polyester fiber fragments increase risk of lung cancer in factory workers is still an open question.  One study of a quarter-million female textile workers in Shanhai, China found no association between synthetic fiber exposure and cancer (reference).  By contrast, a study of one large industrial plant in France found that greater exposure to fiber dust was associated with increased risk of developing lung cancer (reference), but the dust was from a mix of fibers, including asbestos.

The upshot of this is that heavy exposure to large amounts of airborne synthetic fibers can mess up your lungs fairly badly.  This is definitely true for nylon, and may be true for other synthetic fibers.  (Several studies suggest to me that nylon fibers are particularly noxious, for reasons that appear related to what they release as they break down.)

This should come as no surprise, as chronic exposure to large amounts of almost any type of dust causes lung problems.  Sometimes the diseases have names, such as black lung for coal dust, mesothelioma for asbestos, siliconiosis (sp?) for silicon dust, and so on.  Sometimes, fiber will damage the lungs, but there is no specific name, for example, damage caused by breathing wood dust in a woodworking environment.  Name a dust, and an excess probably causes problems.  Toner?  Yep.  Fiberglass?  Yep.  And so on.


Is there any epidemiological evidence for the effect of lower levels of exposure?

No.   Not that I found. 

First, it’s a good bet that most people will have some microplastic in their lungs.  One small study in London (reference), using lung tissue samples that had been removed from people for various reasons.  It looks like they found a small number of microplastic particles in every sample they tested, although the number was not hugely higher than the background rate in the test lab.  By contrast, another study (reference) found 24 microplastic fibers total, in a sample of about 100 bits of lung tissue, but those fibers were more likely to be found in tumors than in normal lung tissue.

But in terms of linking population-level exposure to disease rate, I haven’t seen much.  And the studies of factory workers suggest why.  Where there appears to be an association between synthetic fiber exposure and cancer, say, we’re talking about modest increases (50% higher risk) for relatively rare cancers.  If the massive exposure you’d get from working in a textile mill has only a modest impact, you may not be able to see much impact from the vastly lower exposure of the general population.

That said, there are some hints.  There was a nice in-vitro study where polyester fibers inhibited the healing of lung “organoids”.  And one of the studies of lung tissue found that plastic fibers were more likely to be found in lung tumors than in healthy lung tissue.


Addendum:  Water filtration versus air filtration.

This is just a note-to-self that I now need to look up how water filtration works.

With COVID, I got up to speed on how air filters and N95 masks filter out aerosols. It’s not at all obvious, and it’s nothing like passing material through a fine-mesh filter.

For example, the hardest particle to capture is about 0.3 microns.  That’s why N95 masks are rated as producing a 95% reduction in 0.3 micron particles.  They actually produce a greater reduction in particles both larger and smaller than 0.3 microns.

I’m pretty sure that water filtration cannot possibly work the same way.  For example, 3M Filtrete material takes advantage of Brownian motion of particles in the air, in order to bring the most difficult-to-capture particles (0.3 micron) into contact with the electrostatically-charged filter material.  Well, that’s not going to work in a dense fluid like water.  Brownian motion won’t move particles far enough.

But I just plain don’t know.  For example, the Brita filter at the start of this posting is rated for capturing particles in the 0.5 to 1.0 micron (micrometer) range.  Is this like an air filter, so I can be assured that it captures even higher percentages of particles larger and smaller than that?  Or does that mean it simply doesn’t capture particles below 0.5 microns?

I just have a hunch that if you poured water through an N95 mask, it wouldn’t filter the water.  But I need to get up to speed on the basic science.

 

Post #1938: Psychrophilic bacteria for winter composting, total failure

 

This is a quick followup to post #1921, where I dumped some winter pond maintenance bacteria into one side of my tumbling composter, to see what would happen.  The question was whether or not that would keep my composter working in the cold of winter.

Now, one month later, the short answer is, not.  There is no detectable difference in the level of (un-decomposed) compost, between the treated and un-treated sides.

The upshot is that the only way I’m going to be able to keep that composter working throughout the winter is to heat it.  A little passive-solar-heated shed didn’t do the trick.  These cold-loving bacteria didn’t do the trick.  And having an electrically-heated outdoor composter is a total non-starter, for me.

At this point, I give up.  I just won’t compost kitchen scraps over the winter.

Post #1936: What if this is as good as it gets?

 

Source:  Data are from U.S. DOE, Sources: U.S. Energy Information Administration, Form EIA-860, Annual Electric Generator Report. U.S. Energy Information Administration, Form EIA-861, Annual Electric Power Industry Report. U.S. Energy Information Administration, Form EIA-923, Power Plant Operations Report and predecessor forms.

When technology produces big leaps in energy efficiency, it’s pretty easy to make meaningful reductions in your carbon footprint.  Just buy newer stuff.

But as a long-term observer of this issue, it seems to me that technology-driven gains in energy efficiency are hitting their limits.  There are a lot of important areas — cars, fridges, lighting, and even electrical generation itself — where any further reductions in carbon footprint look a lot more difficult.

What I’m trying to say is, looks like technology has already grabbed the low-hanging fruit.

I’m not going to belabor the societal implications of this.  For me, this means that once I’m driving an EV and living in a house with an efficient heat pump and LED lights, there are no more easy reductions in my household carbon emissions.  Nor are there likely to be, for the foreseeable future.  Lifestyle changes, yes.  Effortless reductions in emissions, no.

Maybe this is as good as it gets.

Continue reading Post #1936: What if this is as good as it gets?

Post #1931: Custom oil candle base for the Luminiser TEG lantern

 

This is the third (and, I hope, last) in a series of posts about the Luminiser thermo-electric-generator lantern.  This device makes light by converting the heat of a candle to electricity, then using that electricity to run some LEDs.

The claimed output of the Luminser is 200 lumens, or about one-quarter as bright as a “60 watt” light bulb.  It’s an impressive piece of technology for $20, and an impressive amount of light from the heat of a single tea-light-sized candle.

But it has a couple of problems.  It’s not very stable (sitting on four spindly plastic legs, as shown above), and it uses a disposable, proprietary oil candle as the preferred power source.

I happened to notice that the base of the Luminiser lantern is almost exactly the same size as a U.S. standard wide-mouth canning jar.  Which then immediately suggested a solution.

I’ve now fixed both of those issues by converting a standard wide-mouth mason jar into a custom oil candle, just the right size to be used to stabilize and power this lantern.  My Luminiser now rests securely on the mason jar, with the candle flame at the same height, and of the same size, to replace their proprietary disposable oil candle.

Here’s the final product, below, where I’ve removed the flimsy plastic legs, and used a low-profile pint (500 ml) canning jar as the base.  Plenty of light to work a crossword puzzle with no eyestrain.  All that, powered by a flame about the size of what you’d get from a tea light candle.


Directions in brief

Overview

Start with a wide-mouth canning jar (mason jar, Ball jar), pint or half-pint size.  Drill a little hole through the metal lid.  Stick a little piece of copper tubing through that.  Run a piece of cotton kitchen twine through that tube, to form the wick.  Fill the jar with lamp oil, screw on the lid, and that’s your oil candle.

(N.B., canning jars come in two formats in the in the U.S., regular and wide-mouth.  Wide-mouth is the right choice here, as that fits nicely into the base of the Luminiser.)

That’s the finished oil candle, shown above.  This now fits neatly against the bottom of the Luminiser, and replaces the proprietary oil candle.

NOTE:  You must also drill a small pressure-relief hole in the lid in order to use this safely.  That’s really the only part of this that isn’t obvious.  That little pressure-relief hole is a standard safety feature on oil lamps.  It is important that you include it in this oil lamp.  Even if you skip all the rest of the directions, read that part, in red, below.

Materials:
  • Pint or half-pint wide-mouth canning jar, with band and lid (a.k.a., two-piece metal lid).  If you’ve read this far, I probably don’t have to tell you, but don’t use a plastic lid.
  • 1/8″ rigid copper tubing (sold in 1′ pieces at ACE Hardware, $2, reference below).
  • A foot or so of cotton twine, ~2.5 mm diameter, sometimes sold as  “butcher twine” (the stuff you’d use to “truss a chicken”, see below for brief discussion).
  • For attaching the copper tubing to the lid:
    • A few drops of superglue  OR
    • Optional:  A small amount of two-part epoxy OR
    • Crazy optional:  Torch and solder.

Tools:

  • Razor-blade knife (Skil knife) or single-edge razor blade.
  • A bit of sandpaper.
  • Drill, with bits:
    • 1/8″ drill bit (to drill hole in lid for wick-holder tubing)
    • 1/32″ (or tiny) drill bit (to drill air relief hole in lid).
  • Metal paper clip (to push cotton twine wick through the copper tubing).

Part reference:  The only “exotic” piece of material here is the thin copper tubing.  My local ACE Hardware sells that, shelved with hobby supplies, for $2 each.  It’s “K&S 1/8 in. D X 1 ft. L Utility Copper Tubing“.  The metal does not make any difference — copper, brass, or aluminum would all be fine.  But the dimension is fairly critical.  Don’t go larger, you’ll get too big a flame.

Cotton twine:  The cotton twine needs to be small enough to fit through the copper tube, but must fit snugly inside the copper tube.  The theoretical internal diameter of that 1/8″ O.D. copper tube is .105″ or 2.667 mm.

You may have to eyeball this, as it’s hard to find twine marked as to diameter, or even as to twine gauge, in the hardware store. Ideally, the cotton twine would run about 3/32″ or 2.5 mm in diameter when lightly twisted.  The twine I used was not quite as thick as two U.S. dimes, as shown in the pictures below, thicknesses in millimeters.

What will work:  You want 2.5-ish mm cotton twine.  Of what I saw on the shelf at my local ACE Hardware recently, this product, labeled butcher’s twine, looked about right.

What might work, but I haven’t tried it:  In theory, purpose-made 2.6mm oil candle wicking on Amazon should work, but I can’t say that I’ve tried it, and it’s expensive.  If it works, it’ll be a tight squeeze.  Separately, a lot of cotton kitchen twine, package-wrapping twine, and general-purpose twine will be too small unless you double it or triple it up before feeding it through the copper pipe.

What won’t work:  Material sold as 1/8″ round oil lamp wicking is way too large for this use.  Any twine or wicking sold as 3 mm or larger is too large.  Wicking or twine sold as 2 mm or smaller would likely be too small.  Anything with a “twine gauge” or “size number” in the 10s or 20s (e.g., #12 twine) will be much too small unless you double it up or triple it up.

Finally, you can’t (or, at least, shouldn’t) use twine made of synthetic materials for this purpose,  Whether you could use other natural materials (e.g, jute), I have no idea.

Directions in some detail.

1:  Prepare the wick holder.

Cut 1.5″ off one end of the copper tube.  The simplest way to do this is to place it on a flat surface, place the Skil knife blade or single-edge razor blade on top, and roll it back and forth until the knife edge cuts through the thin copper tubing.  Remove the burr around the cut edge by sticking the paperclip in and working it around until you’ve opened cut end back up to the full diameter of the original copper tube.

2:  Prepare the wicking.

Cut a foot or two off the roll of cotton twine. 

Thread the cotton twine through the 1.5″ piece of copper tubing.  First, bind one end of the twine using superglue.  Hold the tightly-twisted cotton twine in one hand, put a few drops of superglue near the end, and let it set up.  Once set, snip off the little bit of twine past the super-glued part.  If you did it right, you end up with a nice, tight, rigid section of super-glued twine that you can then poke into the copper tubing.  (Same concept as an aglet, or shoelace-end.)  Once you have that started, use the paperclip to push it all the way through.

3:  Prepare the metal canning lid.

Sand the plastic coating off a square inch or so of the interior of the lid, right at the center.  This is to help whatever glue/solder you use to stick the wick holder to the lid.

Drill a 1/8″ hole in the center of the lid.  Wallow it out just a bit.  Sand it to remove any burrs.

Drill a tiny hole (1/32″ or so, smaller is better) well off-center, but not covered by the screw-on band that holds the lid in place, to provide air pressure reliefYou must provide this pressure-relief hole in order to operate this safely.  If you do not do this, and you screw the lid on tight, the oil candle will enter “runaway” mode when you use it.  Oil and air expand as they warm up.  If you do not provide a pressure relief hole, that will force oil up and out of the wick, resulting in an ever-increasing flame, and possible fuel spill beyond the top of the candle, and a fire.

This tiny vent hole is a standard safety feature on oil lamps, it’s just typically placed so that you don’t notice it on store-bought oil lamps.  You may see directions for mason-jar oil candles, or even commercially-offered mason-jar oil candles, that skip this step.  The resulting products are decorative objects, not working oil lamps.  If you actually want to burn this candle safely, include the air vent, just like a real oil lamp.  You may think to yourself, oh, I’ll always remember to leave the lid a bit loose, or some such.  But at some point, either you or somebody else will forget to do that.  Do your future self a favor and drill that pressure relief hole when you drill the main 1/8″ hole for the wick holder.

4:  Assemble.

Poke the copper tube through the lid, so that the long “tail” of wicking is on the under-side of the lid.

Adjust the copper tube until the top of the copper tube protrudes 15/16″ from the top of the lid.  This adjustment puts the flame in the correct position.  Take the time to get this right.

Super-glue the copper tube in place, front and back, and allow to set.  (This is not great technique, but it’s fast, and it mostly works.  A more secure method would apply a small amount of two-part epoxy to the back of the lid, around the tube.  Or would use a torch and solder to affix the copper tube to the metal jar lid).

Cut the bound end off the cotton twine/wicking, and adjust the cotton twine that that it barely protrudes beyond the end of the copper tube, about 1/16″ to 3/32″ or so.  Something under 1/8″.  This small amount of exposed wicking will generate a flame that’s the right size.  If you leave too much exposed, you will get an unusably large flame, and you’ll have to go back and adjust the wick once it’s wet with lamp oil.  You want just a tiny bit of exposed wick.

5:  Fill, light, test.

Add lamp oil.  To reduce the total amount of oil present, you may want to put some heavy inert filler in the jar, such as marbles, glass weights, clean rocks, or similar.  DO NOT OVERFILL.  As with any oil lamp, leave space at the top of the jar, to allow for easy expansion of the oil as it heats up.  A good rule-of-thumb from canning is, when in doubt, allow a 1″ headspace.  Don’t fill it closer than 1″ from the rim.

Insert the tail of the wick in the oil, put the lid on top of the jar, screw the band on to hold the lid into place.

Wait a few minutes for the lamp oil to saturate the wick.

Light and observe.  You want a flame that’s maybe 3/4″ tall.  Let it burn for 10 minutes to be sure that the flame height remains steady.

Note that the top of the tube is just shy of 1″ above the metal canning lid, and the flame is under 3/4″ tall.

Place the Luminiser over the mason-jar candle and observe another ten minutes to make sure the flame height remains steady.

Below is the final version, using a shorter jar, with the folding legs removed.  To remove the legs, take a Skil knife (utility knife) and slice the inside “rim” off the split plastic pegs that hold the legs on.  You can then pull those plastic pegs out of holes that hold them to the body of the lantern.  Toss the flimsy plastic legs, as they will no longer stay attached to the lantern after you do this.

Never leave the lit Luminiser unattended.

6:  Main drawback:  Awkward wick adjustment.

A simple oil candle like this lacks the “wick riser” mechanism of a real oil lamp.  (That’s the little wheel that you turn to raise or lower the flame.)  For this oil candle, you have to adjust the wick height by tugging on the wick and/or pushing on the wick.

As long as you don’t let the wick burn down to a nub, you should be able to grab it with pliers (or maybe even large tweezers) and give it a little tiny pull to lengthen it.

If you overdo that adjustment, you can either stuff the wick back down the tube, using a paperclip, or you can take the top off the jar and pull the wick back down.  If you let the wick it burn too far, so you can’t grab it from the top, you have to take the top off and use a paperclip to push the wick up.

It works, but it’s awkward.  Luckily, you don’t have to adjust the wick often, once you achieve the right flame height.

If it weren’t for the fact that a wide-mouth mason jar works so well as a stable base for the lantern, I’d probably have bought a commercial lamp mechanism for a mini-oil-lamp, and worked from there.  Just to get an easily-adjustable wick.  As it stands, the awkward wick adjustment is a minor annoyance I can live with.

7:  Eventually, deal with the lantern legs.

The pieces of perforated black plastic in the photo above are the flimsy lantern legs, folded up.  At some point, I’ll either remove them, or cut them so that they will fit over the final (likely, half-pint) container, and so hold the lantern firmly to the mason-jar base.

It works fine as-is.  Its mostly that those folded-up legs spoil view a bit.  Fixing that is optional.

Edit:  Done.


Conclusion

The end result is a heavy, solid base for the Luminiser lantern, along with an oil candle that could hold a several-week-supply of lamp oil.  This avoids the relative unsteadiness of the original design, and allows you to fuel the lantern cleanly without using the proprietary disposable oil candles sold by the manufacturer.

The fit between the standard wide-mouth mason jar and the Luminiser is so good that it almost looks as if this were made for it.   It’s like having an oil lamp with a chimney.  Except that the chimney puts out twenty times as much light as the oil lamp itself.

Replacing the pint wide-mouth mason jar with a half-pint would make this more stable, and more difficult to knock over.  (The only reason I made this with a pint is that I didn’t have a wide-mouth half-pint available.  I plan to replace my pint jar as soon as I can lay hands on a half-pint.) Edit:  I have now replaced it with an even better choice, a low-profile pint jar, as pictured near the start of the post).  If you desire stability beyond that, epoxy the mason jar to a suitable base, such as a piece of marble or wood.

Finally, let me emphasize the general safety precautions.  Don’t run this unattended.  Don’t run it with a flame bigger than about 3/4″.  (If the flame is too big, pull or push the wick down further into the tube.)  Drill that tiny pressure relief hole before you use this, to avoid a runaway lamp situation.  For indoor use, burn only lamp oil or kerosene (e.g.,”Klean Heat”).

That said, you do this at your own risk.  This is, after all, quite a bit of easily flammable material, all in one place.  As with any candle or oil lamp, you always need to keep in mind that you are playing with fire.  There is an inherent risk in doing that, and to do it safely, you need to acknowledge that, and take all reasonable precautions.