John Contestabile (@jconte66) header
John Contestabile (@jconte66) profile picture

tech in transportation and homeland security....former HS Wrestling coach...craft beer lover! (tweets are my own)

Baltimore/Washington
Joined December 2009
John Contestabile retweeted
Amazing true story: On a pouring Sunday morning in Georgia in 2014, TunDe Hector hit rock bottom on the shoulder of a slick highway. Enduring a painful divorce and severe financial hardship, she watched helplessly as her fuel gauge dropped to empty and her car sputtered to a halt. She had a single $5 bill in her pocket, an empty gas can in her hand, and miles of cold rain between her and the nearest filling station. Minutes later, Chris Wright drove past on his way to church with his family. Spotting the solitary woman trudging through the downpour with a gas can, he felt an unmistakable tug on his conscience. After dropping his wife and children off at the church doors, he looked at his wife, Carmen, and said, "I have to go back. I have to help her." Chris turned his vehicle around, pulled onto the shoulder, and offered TunDe a dry seat. He drove her to the nearest gas station and paid to fill her container. As they pulled back up to her stranded car, Chris felt another quiet prompting inside his chest telling him to empty his wallet. He reached into his pocket, pulled out $40, every dollar he had on him, and pressed the folded bills into her hand. TunDe wept right there in the passenger seat, thanking a man whose name she did not even know before they parted ways. Three years later, in the summer of 2017, tragedy struck the Wright family. Chris’s mother, Judy Wright, entered the final, devastating stages of Parkinson’s disease. Doctors informed the family that she had only weeks left to live and required immediate, round-the-clock hospice care at home. The family arranged for a private nursing aide, only for the scheduled caregiver to cancel at the very last minute. In her place, the agency sent a replacement certified nursing assistant: TunDe Hector. Neither TunDe nor the Wright family recognized one another when she walked through the front door. Over the following days, the family watched in awe as TunDe cared for their dying matriarch with extraordinary gentleness, dignity, and warmth. She spoke softly to Judy, prayed over her bed, and treated her with the devotion of a daughter. During quiet hours beside Judy’s bed, the family learned that TunDe dreamed of finishing nursing school, though she was currently locked out of registering for classes because she owed tuition money she could not afford. One afternoon during a shift change, the conversation turned to how faith carries people through impossible seasons. TunDe began telling the family about the lowest day of her life three years prior, describing how she had run out of gas in the pouring rain with only five dollars to her name, and how a kind stranger had circled back from church, bought her fuel, and handed her every dollar in his wallet. Across the room, Chris Wright froze. His jaw dropped, and tears immediately welled in his eyes. "TunDe," Chris whispered, his voice breaking. "That was me." They both removed their hats, looked closely at one another, and broke down crying in the middle of the living room. The woman Chris had rescued on the side of a lonely highway had been sent back into his life three years later to comfort his mother in her final days on earth. Two weeks later, on July 9, Judy passed away peacefully. It happened to be TunDe’s birthday. Even though she was off duty and celebrating with her own loved ones, the second TunDe received the phone call, she left her birthday party and rushed straight to the Wright home to comfort Judy’s widowed husband and prepare her friend one last time with dignity. Overwhelmed by her selflessness, the Wright family decided that simple thank-you notes were nowhere near enough. When they wrote Judy’s obituary, they included a special request: in lieu of funeral flowers, please donate toward TunDe Hector’s nursing school tuition. They set up an online fundraiser hoping to gather $1,000 to clear her past-due class balance. Within 45 minutes of going live, the fund surpassed its goal. Within days, the story of their full-circle encounter spread across the country, and strangers donated over $34,000, enough to pay for TunDe’s entire nursing degree. A single forty-dollar bill given in the rain had returned years later as priceless grace when a family needed it most.
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John Contestabile retweeted
T-Mobile spent five years trying to get rid of the exact spectrum Elon just called "the last critical piece" of complete phone coverage in America. This 800 MHz block is Sprint's old Nextel spectrum, the stuff that powered push-to-talk walkie-talkie phones in 2004. The DOJ forced T-Mobile to divest it as a condition of the $26 billion Sprint merger. Dish had first rights at $3.59 billion and walked away because it couldn't raise the money. T-Mobile finally offloaded it to an investment firm called Grain Management last year for $2.9 billion plus a spectrum swap. Grain's original plan was selling it to utilities for private networks. Fourteen months later, SpaceX buys the whole portfolio, and shares of the carriers who passed on it fall as much as 8% in a single afternoon. Here's why it matters so much. Starlink's satellite signal at 2 GHz can reach your phone outdoors, but it dies at the first wall. 800 MHz penetrates buildings. Most phones already have the band built in. So satellites handle the open sky, this low-band layer handles indoors, and suddenly Starlink Mobile covers everywhere a normal carrier does without the tower network. Stack the moves. $17 billion for EchoStar's 50 MHz of 2 GHz spectrum. FCC approval for 15,000 Gen2 satellites this week. Now the low-band coverage layer. Verizon, AT&T, and T-Mobile paid $81 billion in a single auction for C-band spectrum in 2021, then spent years and tens of billions more deploying it on towers. SpaceX assembled a nationwide carrier out of a distressed-asset sale, a forced divestiture castoff, and rockets it already owns. The walkie-talkie spectrum from 2004 ended up being the piece that lets satellites replace cell towers. Nobody who touched it for twenty years saw that coming.
We announced an agreement to acquire a nationwide low-band spectrum license portfolio that will pave the way for @Starlink to become a major mobile carrier in the US. With this new spectrum and our Gen2 constellation, Starlink Mobile can ensure Americans have access to high-speed mobile broadband no matter where they are → spacex.com/updates#starlink-…
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Research offers approaches to strengthen rail safety, resilience - go.shr.lc/4jxzFZt
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John Contestabile retweeted
I reread this every year. I cry like a baby every year. Todd Beamer died a father, husband, and hero. Todd: Hello… Operator… listen to me. I can’t speak very loud. This is an emergency. I’m a passenger on a United flight to San Francisco. Our plane has been hijacked. Lisa: I understand. Can they see you? Todd: No. There are three that we know of. They have knives — razor knives, like box cutters. Someone announced from the cockpit there was a bomb. It sounded fake. Lisa: Your name?Todd: Todd Beamer. United Flight 93.Todd: They killed one passenger in first class. They forced most of us back. Fourteen of us here. Five flight attendants. The guy with the bomb ordered us to sit on the floor. Lisa: Are you okay? Todd: We’re going down… wait. No. We’re leveling off. We changed directions. We’re flying east again. Todd: A guy named Jeremy called his wife. She told him two planes hit the World Trade Center. Lisa, is that true? Lisa: I have to tell you the truth. It’s very bad. Both towers are gone. A third plane hit the Pentagon. Our country is under attack. I’m afraid your plane may be part of their plan. Todd: Oh God. Lisa, will you do something for me? Call my wife and my kids. Promise me you’ll call. Lisa: I promise. Todd: Our home number is… You have the same name as my wife. Lisa. We’ve been married ten years. She’s pregnant with our third child. Tell her I love her. I’ll always love her. We have two boys — David, he’s 3, and Andrew, he’s 1. Tell them their daddy loves them and he is so proud of them. The baby is due January 12th. I saw an ultrasound. We still don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy. Lisa: I’ll tell them. I promise, Todd.(Lisa patches in the FBI.) Agent: Todd, your plane is on a course for Washington. Best guess is the White House or the Capitol. Todd: I understand. I’ll be back. Todd: Everyone knows this isn’t a normal hijacking. We have decided we will not be pawns in their plot. Lisa: What are you going to do? Todd: Four of us are going to rush the one with the bomb. Then the cockpit. A stewardess is getting boiling water. We’ll take them out. Todd: Would you pray with me?They pray the Lord’s Prayer. Then: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Todd: God help me. Jesus help me.Are you guys ready? Let’s Roll.
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John Contestabile retweeted
He told his students to go to the windows. Get out. Jump if you have to. Then Liviu Librescu walked to the classroom door and pressed his body against it. He was 76 years old. He weighed 140 lbs The gunman was in the hallway. It was April 16, 2007. A Monday morning. Solid mechanics class at Virginia Tech, Room 204. Twenty-two students, most of them 19 or 20 years old. At 9:45 AM, gunshots echoed through Norris Hall. Room by room, the shooter was working his way down the corridor. Liviu heard it. He understood immediately. He had survived the Holocaust. He had survived a labor camp. He had spent decades living under Communist oppression. He knew exactly what evil sounded like. He told his students to escape through the windows. Second floor — it was a drop, but they'd survive. Then he walked to the door and held it shut with his body. The shooter tried to force it open. It wouldn't move. He fired through the door. Wood splintered. Bullets came through. Liviu stayed. Behind him, students were climbing out the windows. Dropping to the ground. Running. One by one, all twenty-two of them got out. The shooter kept firing through the door. Liviu held it shut until every student was safe. Then the bullets killed him. When police arrived, they found his body at the door. All 22 of his students survived. Not one was injured. Liviu Librescu was born on August 18, 1930, in Ploiești, Romania. He was Jewish. In 1941, when he was eleven years old, Romanian authorities sent him and his family to a labor camp. His father died there. Liviu survived. When the war ended, he was fifteen. He went back to school. Studied engineering. Earned a doctorate from the University of Bucharest. But Communist Romania had no interest in allowing a Jewish intellectual to succeed. He was blocked from academic positions. Passed over for jobs he deserved. He applied to emigrate. The government kept refusing. Finally, in 1978 when Liviu was 48 years old — Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin personally intervened. Romania let him go. He had spent most of his adult life trapped in a country that didn't want him. In Israel, he taught at Tel Aviv University. Published over 300 papers. Became an international expert in aeroelasticity — the science of how air flows over aircraft wings. In 1985, Virginia Tech offered him a position. He moved to Blacksburg, Virginia. He taught there for 22 years. His students loved him — demanding but kind, high standards, genuine care. He was still teaching full-time at 76. Still publishing research. Still showing up every Monday morning for solid mechanics. April 16 was the first day of Passover — the Jewish holiday celebrating liberation from slavery and oppression. Liviu Librescu died on the day his tradition sets aside to celebrate freedom. He spent his entire life escaping death and oppression by luck, by persistence, by the intervention of others. And on his last morning, he chose to stand at a door so that twenty-two young people could have the future he had fought so hard to reach. He could have run. He could have hidden. He could have climbed out a window with his students. He chose to stay. The Virginia Tech shooting killed 32 people that day — the deadliest school shooting in American history at the time. Room 204 had zero casualties. Because a 76-year-old Holocaust survivor held a door with his body until every student behind him was gone. His funeral was held in Israel. Students from Virginia Tech flew across the ocean to honor him. The Israeli government awarded him the Star of David Medal posthumously. Virginia Tech named a scholarship in his memory. His son said his father died the way he lived — protecting others. A man who survived everything evil threw at him for 76 years. On his last day, he made sure 22 kids survived too. Professor Liviu Librescu. August 18, 1930 — April 16, 2007. Holocaust survivor. Labor camp survivor. 302 published papers. 22 years at Virginia Tech. 22 students out the window. He held the door.
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