Anita Harris is a geologist who does not accept all that is written in that paragraph. She is cool toward aspects of plate tectonics, the novel theory of the earth that explains mountain belts and volcanic islands, ocean ridges and abyssal plains, the deep earthquakes of Alaska and the shallow earthquakes of a fault like the San Andreas as components of a unified narrative, wherein the shell of the earth is divided into segments of varying size, which separate to form oceans, collide to make mountains, and slide by one another causing buildings to fall. In a revolutionary manner, plate-tectonic theory burst forth in the nineteen-sixties, and Anita Harris is worried now that the theory is taught perhaps too glibly in schools. In her flexplek huren enschede words: “It’s important for people to know that not everybody believes in it. In many colleges, it’s all they teach. The plate-tectonics boys move continents around like crazy. They publish papers every year revising their conclusions. They say that a continental landmass up against the eastern edge of North America produced the Appalachians. I know about some of the geology there, and what they say about it is wrong. I don’t say they’re wrong everywhere. I’m open-minded. Too often, though, plate tectonics is oversimplified and overapplied.
Book 2: In Suspect Terrain I get all heated up when some sweet young thing with three geology courses tells me about global tectonics, never having gone on a field trip to look at a rock.” As she made these comments, she was travelling west on Interstate 80, approaching Indiana on a gray April morning. She had brought me along to “do geology,” as geologists like to say-to see the flexplek huren nijmegen countryside as she discerned it. Across New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, she had been collecting, among other things, limestones and dolomites for their contained conodonts, index fossils from the Paleozoic, whose extraordinary utility in oil and gas exploration had been her discovery, with the result that Mobil and Chevron, Amoco and Arco, Chinese and Norwegians had appeared at her door. She was driving, and she wore a railroad engineer’s striped hat, a wool shirt, blue jeans, and old split hiking boots-hydrochloric acid for testing limestones and dolomites in a phial in a case on her hip. With her high cheekbones, her assertive brown eyes, her long dark hair in twin ponytails, she somehow suggested an American aborigine. Of middle height, early middle age, she had been married twice-first to a northern-Appalachian geologist, and now to a southern-Appalachian geologist. She was born on Coney Island and grew up in a tenement in Williamsburg Brooklyn. There was not a little Flatbush in her manner, soul, and speech.