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After seven seasons, NBC's gently acerbic, lovingly rendered Parks And Recreation ended its run Tuesday night with an extension of the final season's voyage to 2017. In further flashes to a few years or even decades later, we learned about April and Andy's kids, Garry's future as a beloved eternal mayor with an ageless wife, Tom's many hustles to come, Donna's educational foundation, the park Ron will run, Leslie's brilliant career, and the true partnership of equals that is her marriage to Ben.

Parks didn't seem to start out as a show about love; it seemed to be a show about the mundane frustrations of the public servant, and it never stopped believing that much of the work people do will go unappreciated and those people will go unthanked. In the finale in 2017, the old Parks Department crew rallies, even though they no longer work there, to fix a swing in the park, only to find that the man who wanted it fixed thinks of their work as nothing more than what was owed to him as a citizen. Which, in a sense, after all ... it is. As Leslie once told the departed Mark Brendanawicz when he felt no satisfaction at having gotten a troubled speed bump lowered, in what may be the show's guiding principle in a nutshell: "You fixed a problem. That's what we're supposed to do."

There aren't many shows that could get away with so many big final victories, with so much happiness for everyone that it sloshed over the rim of the show's world and felt even more like augmented reality than it usually does. But what distinguished the brand of happiness the writers delivered in this final pass was that it was specific to the characters and true to who they were. This was wish fulfillment as character exploration. Writers are always told that the engine of all fiction is that someone wants something; rarely has a show so thoroughly understood what the people it's brought to life really, genuinely want.

Ron, for instance, doesn't want what Leslie wants, despite the fact that they're close friends. He learned a lot from an office full of people who became friends, but he doesn't want another one now that his first one has scattered. What he wants is solitude, nature, silence, and meaning. Meaning. Ron's distrust of sentimentality and closely held cards, we now know, were never signs of emotional emptiness or a vacuous heart. He had his own definition of meaning, and Leslie learned to respect it, and she understood in the end what it was he really wanted. Telling him about the job she had already accepted on his behalf running Pawnee National Park, she says, "You'd work outside. You'd talk to bears."

Tom writes a book about failure, but he gets back his girlfriend Lucy, the only really right woman he ever dated (bringing back Lucy is one of the best decisions they made this season, after seemingly dropping the thread of her story back in the fourth season). Tom with Lucy was the best Tom, and he gets to both keep her and be a hustler forever, because he is a hustler. Forever. He's okay without an empire. He just needs to have his next idea. He always wanted success, but even more, he wanted to live inside the promise of the next success.

Garry wanted to be embraced. Donna wanted to live comfortably, in the company of her darling husband, as a philanthropist. Chris Traeger wanted new toys to beep comfortingly at him to reassure him of good health. Ann wanted her kids, as she always had, and to hug Leslie until they were both about to burst.

Maybe the most surprising storyline to anyone who last watched the show in the second season or so is that years later, April and Andy are happy and have a son, to whom April gave birth while listening to "Monster Mash" in Halloween makeup. Andy entered Parks as a freeloading bad boyfriend and goes out as an adoring dad and devoted husband. April entered as a cynical student and leaves as a skeptical but loving mom who's learned to trust not only her husband but her tight circle of friends.

As for Ben, in a very rare move in American television, a man is shown as admirable, romantic, desirable, brave and good in part because the thing that matters most in his life is his marriage – not merely in the sense of having it rather than endangering it, but in the sense of being able to make a frictionless sacrifice of his own ideal individual future to allow her to have hers – something many, many spouses do at some moment or another. And, critically, he makes that choice not reluctantly but joyfully. He has other ambitions: he became a congressman, after all, and had there been an opportunity to be governor, he might have taken it. But it all matters less than recognizing that his wife – who considers them to have equal claims to entering the governor's race and is willing to leave it to chance – is more ambitious than he is, wants to be governor more, has wanted to be governor longer, and is going to be happier than he is with the opportunity. And, perhaps, will be a better governor.

This dance between Leslie and Ben has been going on as long as they've been together – in fact, they broke up early in their relationship because it might have interfered with her running for Pawnee City Council. They've had to navigate these waters a few times, and sometimes one of them has stepped forward and sometimes the other has. But in the end, it is Leslie whose dreams of politics are grander, stickier, and more vital to who she is, at least for this moment.

We learn what happens next: Leslie becomes governor, and after two terms, she's off to some unnamed new adventure – one that eventually means that decades later, at Garry's funeral, guys in dark suits are accompanying her and Ben. Is she being protected as a former two-term governor?

Maybe she's an ambassador. Maybe she's in the cabinet.

But maybe, of course, Leslie Knope is president.

Or First Lady.

They don't actually say. This, perhaps, was a bridge too far and a tease better left as a tease. Better to suggest than to try to show anyone being sworn in by a member of the Supreme Court. After all, she got to play charades at Joe Biden's parties. Shouldn't that be enough?

This kind of ambiguity can be maddening when it feels cute, but here, it feels thematically appropriate. It leaves space for hope – it leaves space to choose between the least audacious, dreamy outcome you could imagine for Leslie and the greatest one. In a lot of ways, this is what Parks has been about: one radically optimistic woman who chooses the dreamiest outcome, who believes that you start by solving a problem because that's what you're supposed to do and maybe end up as president.

If Parks has a single identifiable theme, it's this, loosely paraphrased from Leslie's own words in the finale: people get a sense of meaning in life from love and work. All these people got to be happy because they committed to allowing space for love and work, in one way or another, and thus for meaning.

We went through a period in the '80s and early '90s when comedies were asked to choose between being really funny and being emotionally rich, and they often wound up with neither. This was the era of the Very Special Episode, and it led directly to the welcome arrival of Seinfeld and its "no hugging, no learning" motto. But to say a comedy needs neither hugging nor learning to matter is not the same thing as saying it has to be unrelentingly arch. Hugging is part of life. So's learning. Parks has been equally skeptical – equally, always – of maudlin sentimentality on one hand and the reflexive deployment of ironic detachment as a guard against accusations that you're corny on the other. When it was feelings-y, it was effectively feelings-y, and when it was pointed, it was very pointed. When it was funny, it was hilarious, and when it was silly, it was blissfully silly.

In fact, it has been itself, pretty clearly, work done with love.

One-hundred-fifty years ago, a man named Samuel Van Syckel built the nation's first commercial oil pipeline in the rugged terrain of northwestern Pennsylvania.

His pipeline transformed how oil is transported — and it would change the modern world, too — but not before a battle that makes the debate over the Keystone XL pipeline look meek by comparison.

In January 1865, the place where this all happened, called Pithole, was nowhere, really — just a patch of wilderness in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Then drillers struck gushers at three wells and everything changed.

Obama Vetoes Keystone XL Pipeline Bill Feb. 24, 2015

By September, an estimated 15,000 people moved to Pithole. And soon, Van Syckel had constructed his 5 1/2-mile pipeline.

A Place Called Pithole, And An Opportunity

Walking the snowy grounds of what used to be Pithole City, Sue Beates, curator of the nearby Drake Well Museum, points out the sites where old Methodist and Presbyterian churches once stood.

But there was more to Pithole than religious devotion, she explains. "There were hotels, a jewelry store, drug stores, houses of ill repute, lots of saloons, parlor dens of all sorts, billiard parlor dens — that sort of thing."

Before Van Syckel's pipeline, transporting oil cost as much as, or more than, the oil itself. He eventually lost his pipeline to the bank after making several unwise bets. Drake Well Museum/Courtesy of PHMC hide caption

itoggle caption Drake Well Museum/Courtesy of PHMC

Van Syckel had come to the region as an oil buyer, a middleman. Like everyone else, he was there to make his fortune. But there was a big obstacle to the Pithole boom.

"Once people were there, they discovered it was one thing to bring oil out of the ground — but it was an entirely different thing to try and get it to market," says Christopher Jones, a historian at Arizona State University.

"The main way oil was transported during the first several years of the industry was by teamsters," he says. But this was long before the labor union by the same name.

"These were men driving wagons pulled by horses, and they would collect the oil in large barrels — 300-pound barrels of oil — that they would load up on their wagons, and drag them over the various roads," Jones says.

Roads filled with up to two feet of mud, Beates notes. The work was incredibly tough, but the teamsters made it pay.

"They definitely had a monopoly on it," Beates says. "Oil was selling for maybe $5 a barrel, [$3] of which went to the teamsters."

So the cost of moving the oil was as much as, or more than, the oil itself. Van Syckel saw an opportunity.

"He had a mechanical aptitude and a vision for doing things that exceeded most of the other people who went there," Jones says.

By the summer of 1865, Van Syckel had raised $100,000 from a bank. Within five short weeks, he had built the nation's first pipeline.

Or to be more exact, the first oil pipeline that "didn't leak like a sieve," Beates adds.

Van Syckel's pipeline was wrought iron and 2 inches in diameter. That's tiny by today's standards, but it was an engineering marvel. One challenge, Jones says, was preventing ruptures.

"Making sure that the joints were securely enough welded that, even with the pressure to push the oil through the pipelines, that that pressure didn't split the pipes apart and ruin the pipeline," he says.

The topography along the route was also a challenge, Beates says.

"You can see the steep hills that it had to go over, which is why there were steam pumps to help push the oil up over the hills," she says. "Then it could gravity feed down the next [hill] and then steam-pump-pushed back up the next hill all the way to Miller Farm, to the railroad."

Sabotage, Threats And Fistfights

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Miller Farm, the terminus of Van Syckel's pipeline, in 1868. The oil was pumped to Miller Farm and then transported by railroad. Drake Well Museum/Courtesy of PHMC hide caption

itoggle caption Drake Well Museum/Courtesy of PHMC

Miller Farm, the terminus of Van Syckel's pipeline, in 1868. The oil was pumped to Miller Farm and then transported by railroad.

Drake Well Museum/Courtesy of PHMC

The engineering worked fine. But the teamsters — those rugged guys who hauled wooden barrels of oil with teams of horses — weren't too happy with Van Syckel's pipeline.

"So as soon as the pipeline was completed, several of the teamsters in the middle of the night went to various sections of the 5-mile pipeline and ripped it out of the ground and pulled the pipe apart so it stopped working," Jones says.

Beates adds, "They took pickaxes and horses and chains and pulled the pipe apart."

There were threats and fistfights, but Van Syckel rebuilt his pipeline. And this time, he enlisted the sheriff and his own security team.

"By hiring his own armed force to patrol the line, he ended up defeating the teamsters — and they stopped trying to sabotage his line," Jones explains.

And just like that, a new technology would make an entire line of work obsolete.

"It's estimated that 500 teamsters were put out of business in five weeks," Beates says.

Within a couple of years, she says, hundreds of pipelines crisscrossed western Pennsylvania, the birthplace of the American oil industry. "Wherever there was a big oil strike, there would be a pipeline to transport the oil to a railroad," Beates says.

And what about Van Syckel? After making some unwise bets, Jones says, he lost his pipeline to the bank. Later, the ingenious Van Syckel developed some new methods of refining oil.

But within a decade, someone else would emerge to dominate refining, pipelines, rail shipments — almost the entire oil industry. His name was John D. Rockefeller.

pipelines

Keystone XL Pipeline

energy

oil

Invention

An 82-year-old celibate Buddhist abbot from Cambodia has been diagnosed with HIV. His doctor was the cause: He was re-using syringes and infected a reported 272 individuals, including babies and children.

This horror story resonates around the world. More than two million people were infected in 2010 alone, according to the most recent World Health Organization research, with hepatitis B, hepatitis C and HIV because of injections with previously used syringes or needles. While data are not available for transmission of all diseases, unsafe needle practices could also put people at risk for bloodborne illnesses, such as Ebola and malaria, according to WHO.

And it happens in rich and poor countries alike.

This week, WHO launched a global campaign to tackle the problem of disease spread because of the re-use of contaminated needles.

The organization is recommending that countries adopt the use of safety-engineered syringes, or "smart" syringes, designed to prevent re-use. "With one injection, the new-style syringes disable themselves," says Dr. Selma Khamassi, the head of the WHO team for injection safety. "Some have a metal clip that blocks the plunger and you cannot pull it back to give another injection. Some have a weak point, so if you try to pull it back, it breaks." And some have a device, like a spring, that automatically retracts the needle after the plunger hits the bottom of the barrel.

About 70 manufacturers are beginning to make versions of the smart syringes. In low-income countries, where the problem of re-use is greatest, affordability is crucial. The cost of traditional syringes without safety features is about 3 to 4 cents each; a syringe that automatically disables itself when used ranges from 4 to 8 cents each. "They are moving toward affordability. Once the demand increases, the price will decrease," says Khamassi.

Indeed, cost is one reason that health workers in poor countries re-use needles or syringes. "When workers lack equipment, they feel obliged to re-use the same syringe," she says. Or some healthcare workers have the misconception that changing the needle tip while keeping the same syringe (which holds the medicine) is safe. "It is not," says Khamassi.

A third reason in developing countries is that low-paid health workers can re-use syringes to pick up extra income by giving injections outside their clinics or hospitals in what might be called a private practice of sorts, Khamassi said.

Re-use also happens in wealthy countries, including the United States, because of ignorance of safety procedures, laziness, lack of equipment or simple greed."Please don't think injection safety is an issue only in poor countries," says Khamassi.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported more than 50 outbreaks in the U.S. since 2001 of hepatitis B and C as well as bloodborne diseases because health workers re-used needles, syringes or vials designed for single use. In other instances of re-use, there was no transmission of disease but patients had to be notified for possible testing. Examples include a urology clinic in Nevada using the same needle for prostate biopsies on more than one patient; a pediatric clinic in Denver re-using syringes to administer flu vaccines; a pain clinic in Los Angeles re-using syringes that exposed patients to hepatitis C; and a health fair in New Mexico that re-used finger stick devices to test for blood glucose levels.

Adding to the problem in some countries is a demand by patients for injections when oral medications work as well. "Some patients believe injections are more effective or work faster," says Khamassi. "Some people demand an injection for a fever or vitamin or antibiotic injections." Part of the WHO campaign is to educate communities and patients in order to reduce the number of unnecessary injections.

syringe

Hepatitis

HIV

Jordan's King Abdullah has faced delicate balancing act ever since he ascended the throne in 1999 following his father's death. His country shares borders with Iraq, Syria and Israel among others, and there always seems to be trouble in the neighborhood.

His latest challenge has been to persuade Jordanians that it's in the country's interest to play a prominent role in the U.S.-led coalition against the self-declared Islamic State.

Many Jordanians were skeptical if not outright opposed. But when they saw their pilot Moaz Kassasbeh killed on video by ISIS, they rallied behind the king.

The monarch even found support from critics like Dimah Tahboub, the spokesperson for the Islamic Action Front, a political party allied with Jordan's wing of the Muslim Brotherhood. The brotherhood, an Islamic social and political movement, is big and legal in Jordan.

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"This is the phase where we should unite our efforts with the government and with the regime because we thought that our country is threatened, our Islam is threatened, so we should stand united in the face of that," says Tahboub, who was educated at the University of Manchester in England.

The phase that she spoke of lasted less than a month.

Last week, a leading member of the Muslim Brotherhood was sentenced for remarks he posted on Facebook, attacking the United Arab Emirates. He was convicted of insulting a friendly government and received 18 months in prison.

"Our king speaks well, he promotes Jordan very good in Western communities," she says.

But for domestic opposition groups like her party, she says, things are not so good.

For example, the electoral system makes it impossible for a party to win many seats in parliament. In a more representative system, the Islamic Action Front could have real political power.

Some defenders of the status quo fear that if the front won power, Tahboub's party would reverse Jordan's pro-Western alignment.

So what does the party stand for?

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Dima Tahboub is the spokesperson for the Islamic Action Front, a group aligned with the Muslim Brotherhood. The front is legal, but Jordan's political system limits its clout and the king has the final say on important matters. Art Silverman/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Art Silverman/NPR

Dima Tahboub is the spokesperson for the Islamic Action Front, a group aligned with the Muslim Brotherhood. The front is legal, but Jordan's political system limits its clout and the king has the final say on important matters.

Art Silverman/NPR

"Our belief is not that radical. We believe in moderate Islam. There has to be a social contract between people. Making a woman wear the headscarf or preventing people from drinking liquor is not going to be our priority at that time," she says.

"Our priorities will be educating people, empowering people to rule themselves, to be free in their own countries," she adds.

She acknowledges that the party would like to see social measures, like a ban on alcohol, put on the ballot.

"If people agree to that, if we put that to the vote, and the majority of the Jordanian people say, 'OK, we want to prevent liquor in the country,' then that's democracy, that's their decision," she says. "Why does democracy [here] have to be different than democracy in the United States? If people agree and there's a consensus, well, let it be."

Asked about polygamy, a policy sanctioned by the Quran and practiced by some traditional Muslims, she says: "Polygamy is like other issues. They're not our priority to handle now. We should be interested more in human rights. We're suffering from all kinds of injustices."

"The West should appreciate that the Arab countries and the Muslim countries have their uniqueness," she adds. "If we meet, we meet as equals, but we have our differences."

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Jordanians marched in the streets of the capital Amman on Feb. 6 to show solidarity with the family of a pilot killed by the Islamic State in Syria. Jordanians also expressed support for the king's decision to take part in the U.S.-led coalition against ISIS. Muhammad Hamed/Reuters/Landov hide caption

itoggle caption Muhammad Hamed/Reuters/Landov

Jordanians marched in the streets of the capital Amman on Feb. 6 to show solidarity with the family of a pilot killed by the Islamic State in Syria. Jordanians also expressed support for the king's decision to take part in the U.S.-led coalition against ISIS.

Muhammad Hamed/Reuters/Landov

As for the battle against ISIS in Syria, Tahboub's party supports retaliatory airstrikes against ISIS, provided they don't kill innocent civilians. But when it comes to Jordanian troops entering Syria, the party is against that, as are most Jordanians.

"We have to face the ideology of ISIS in Jordan to protect the minds of our youth from what ISIS presents," she says. "They are hijacking Islam to us."

She compares ISIS to fanaticism in Christianity.

"Should we blame Christianity for that, should we blame the churches for that. Each church has its problems. Each church has it's alien offspring," she argues.

In her view, Westerners as well as Arab rulers need to distinguish between Islamic political parties and extremists. Arabs in many countries are, she says, "being handcuffed by our governments, by our regimes. They are treating us as an equal problem to these radical fanatics."

King Abdullah

Jordan