I am beginning to think winter will be unusual this year. Not so much based on the Farmer's Almanac which says it will be a below-normal snow fall for us this year with the first snow around Thanksgiving, but because of the signs I am seeing about town.
Last week Kiel and I went to K-Marts to get some oil for the car, and I could not believe that in September they had fully decorated Christmas trees up and ready! Good Lord, the boys just went back to school. Can't they wait until at least after Halloween much less Thanksgiving?
And today, while driving down Westside Drive, I nearly popped my eyes out at a huge bright yellow sandwich sign with big black letters emblazoned on it advertising "Snow Plowing"! Snow? The leaves aren't even off the trees yet.
And speaking of leaves, they are falling fast and turning brown quickly. I sure hope we get at least some color before everything turns to dust. Of course, it doesn't help that I have been cold and actually dug out my longjohns, scarves and gloves already. I know, its only been raining, but Kiel said the rain was so solid he thought it was sleet. Even he was complaining of how chilly it was outside. Drew no longer needs me to tell him to put a coat on before rushing to the bus stop.
Its not exactly handwriting on the wall, but perhaps there is something in these little signs. Regardless, I have turned the heat on in the apartment, and put another quilt on my bed. So despite the forecast of snow flurries, I wrap a scarf about my neck and persist in taking my morning walk. Hopefully, Ben Franklin will be right, and the current anticipation will not encourage an early and hearty winter.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Students Under Glass (so named by my good friend Robin)
Closing the Library isn't a difficult job. Just make sure the machines are turned off, the lights are out, rooms are empty and the doors are locked. Sounds simple. I made a checklist. When training someone new, I walk through the process and demonstrate the first time, let them do it while I follow them around the second time, then let them solo while I am in the building for consultation. For the next few days I check when I come in the morning to make sure everything got done and the little details are all tended to, and tell them my cell phone is with me and on should they have any questions at all - don't hesitate to call.
Sometimes, though, these straightforward plans run aground. Like the first night I stepped through things with the new Evening Building Supervisor. We walked through the building a half hour before closing to see how many people were upstairs. After we had done everything else and were about to lock up, I mentioned that I hadn't seen enough people come down the stairs and that we should do a final walkaround upstairs just to make sure everyone had exited.
Good thing we did! Turns out there were three students stuck in a group study room. The door handle was broken, and although it turned OK, it didn't release the latch. As I stood there looking at them through the mostly glass door, I whipped out my cell phone, feeling masterly and in charge, and scrolled through the S's until I found security. I called and explained the situation, then went back to the desk to await their arrival. I waited and waited, and sent the other person home. After 20 minutes, I asked a staff person to wait at the desk, thinking maybe security had gone up the back stairs. Besides, I was concerned that the students not think they had been abandoned even though we had left the lights all on.
When I came to the room, there they were, still working on their laptops and chatting away. I had brought the only two screwdrivers at Circulation - tiny little ones. I slid one under the door, and one of the students worked from inside while I worked from outside. Another 15 minutes went by, and the other staff person arrived, worried that she had missed security. She suggested looking in Collection Services for better tools, which I retrieved. Now we had chisels and putty knives to ply. Still no security.
One of the students suggested throwing a chair through the glass, which I managed to talk her out of. They called a friend and sang Happy Birthday while explaining their plight. Nothing we did seemed to work. I was just about to call security again when the door magically popped open on its own, releasing the captives. After much exclamation and debriefing, the students left while I called security to tell them not to bother coming anymore.
Often, security takes calls in the order of priority, so I had assumed they had some emergency situation that trumped ours. But when I called, the person answering sounded surprised that I was still there. He stated that he had come to the library, found no one at the Circ Desk, asked around (to whom, I wondered, since the Library was locked and the only people inside were stuck in the room), then assumed everything was fine and left. I gently suggested he should have come to the room since I had given him the number. He said he had looked for the room but couldn't find it. I was floored. There aren't that many rooms IN here. How could he have not found the one room with people clustered about picking a non-locking door?
I couldn't let it go. Security has never been that lax, never would have laughed about what they were calling a miscommunication. Didn't they care about our students? What if someone had been in pain, or worse yet, had to go to the bathroom? Something had to be done. I worked through the emotions until I identified the purpose of pursuing - that such an incident not be repeated. I sent a carefully worded and non-accusatory email to our Library Operations Manager suggesting that perhaps Security could identify some reasonable length of time to recall, some common place to meet, put in place a protocol whereby they would at least seek me out or recall my phone to make sure everything was taken care of before writing us off.
So Monday morning, the head of Security came to my desk and asked if I would please look at the call log on my phone. They had no record of me calling them at all. What? But I spoke with one of the guards. Incredulous, I took out my cell phone and obediently scrolled to Sunday's date. There it was, the call to security at 12:45 am. Wait. What am I seeing? Not RWC Security. CUW Security. Concordia, my summer home, who's number I keep on speed dial because my swipe card constantly refuses to work and I get locked out of buildings. Similar letters - both have C and W. The numbers are right next to each other in the search list.
No wonder nothing made sense! I had called the wrong security. I cannot tell you how glad I was that I hadn't pitched a hissy fit for negligence! Well, there's a learning curve. Miscommunication indeed. What on earth must Concordia's security think? Some wingnut filing a false report? Fortunately, the good Lord, laughing from his vantage point, released the door and got those innocent students out despite my incompetence. In charge? Not likely. But at least we did get the door fixed - and checked all the rest of them while we were at it.
Sometimes, though, these straightforward plans run aground. Like the first night I stepped through things with the new Evening Building Supervisor. We walked through the building a half hour before closing to see how many people were upstairs. After we had done everything else and were about to lock up, I mentioned that I hadn't seen enough people come down the stairs and that we should do a final walkaround upstairs just to make sure everyone had exited.
Good thing we did! Turns out there were three students stuck in a group study room. The door handle was broken, and although it turned OK, it didn't release the latch. As I stood there looking at them through the mostly glass door, I whipped out my cell phone, feeling masterly and in charge, and scrolled through the S's until I found security. I called and explained the situation, then went back to the desk to await their arrival. I waited and waited, and sent the other person home. After 20 minutes, I asked a staff person to wait at the desk, thinking maybe security had gone up the back stairs. Besides, I was concerned that the students not think they had been abandoned even though we had left the lights all on.
When I came to the room, there they were, still working on their laptops and chatting away. I had brought the only two screwdrivers at Circulation - tiny little ones. I slid one under the door, and one of the students worked from inside while I worked from outside. Another 15 minutes went by, and the other staff person arrived, worried that she had missed security. She suggested looking in Collection Services for better tools, which I retrieved. Now we had chisels and putty knives to ply. Still no security.
One of the students suggested throwing a chair through the glass, which I managed to talk her out of. They called a friend and sang Happy Birthday while explaining their plight. Nothing we did seemed to work. I was just about to call security again when the door magically popped open on its own, releasing the captives. After much exclamation and debriefing, the students left while I called security to tell them not to bother coming anymore.
Often, security takes calls in the order of priority, so I had assumed they had some emergency situation that trumped ours. But when I called, the person answering sounded surprised that I was still there. He stated that he had come to the library, found no one at the Circ Desk, asked around (to whom, I wondered, since the Library was locked and the only people inside were stuck in the room), then assumed everything was fine and left. I gently suggested he should have come to the room since I had given him the number. He said he had looked for the room but couldn't find it. I was floored. There aren't that many rooms IN here. How could he have not found the one room with people clustered about picking a non-locking door?
I couldn't let it go. Security has never been that lax, never would have laughed about what they were calling a miscommunication. Didn't they care about our students? What if someone had been in pain, or worse yet, had to go to the bathroom? Something had to be done. I worked through the emotions until I identified the purpose of pursuing - that such an incident not be repeated. I sent a carefully worded and non-accusatory email to our Library Operations Manager suggesting that perhaps Security could identify some reasonable length of time to recall, some common place to meet, put in place a protocol whereby they would at least seek me out or recall my phone to make sure everything was taken care of before writing us off.
So Monday morning, the head of Security came to my desk and asked if I would please look at the call log on my phone. They had no record of me calling them at all. What? But I spoke with one of the guards. Incredulous, I took out my cell phone and obediently scrolled to Sunday's date. There it was, the call to security at 12:45 am. Wait. What am I seeing? Not RWC Security. CUW Security. Concordia, my summer home, who's number I keep on speed dial because my swipe card constantly refuses to work and I get locked out of buildings. Similar letters - both have C and W. The numbers are right next to each other in the search list.
No wonder nothing made sense! I had called the wrong security. I cannot tell you how glad I was that I hadn't pitched a hissy fit for negligence! Well, there's a learning curve. Miscommunication indeed. What on earth must Concordia's security think? Some wingnut filing a false report? Fortunately, the good Lord, laughing from his vantage point, released the door and got those innocent students out despite my incompetence. In charge? Not likely. But at least we did get the door fixed - and checked all the rest of them while we were at it.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Not Lost Purse
I am not usually scattered brained. Even when I have my bouts of chemobrain, I am aware of my plight and choose to find ways to control and contain any damage. Today I was focused on having some quality time with the boys after church. It had been a long haul of watching pennies to payday, settling in to the new order of fall semester, getting back into the swing of work and activities.
What better way to enjoy the afternoon than to have a bite to eat at Wegmans, the boys favorite fast food place? And what better way to make that special than to explore a different Wegman's store? I had been told by several people to check out the newer Wegmans stores, that they put the familiar stores to shame with their new ideas and services. I wasn't quite clear where these spiffy new stores were located, but Kiel thought he knew where one was.
We headed in the direction of Ridge Road only to discover that it wasn't one of the new stores, but at that point we were hungry, so we accepted our fate and went in. The good thing about eating at Wegmans is that there is something for everyone, and the wide variety of selections are all excellent. Today we settled on Danny's subs and left the Chinese Italian Indian Japanese Jewish American dishes for another day.
Drew chose the tall tables with the nosebleed chairs and the no room to set anything down way over in the corner of the dining room. We chatted away happily, munching on the crusty homemade bread and fresh meats and cheese. I broke down and actually got a Coke and a gooey chocolate chip cookie all warm and munchy. I set my purse on the window ledge as we ate, and I clearly remember telling myself not to forget it when we left.
Problem is, we were talking and joking around by the time we left, feeling good and energized, and I wasn't really paying any attention. It wasn't until I reached church in the evening and went to grab my purse that I realized I didn't have it with me. After service and PrayerSong rehearsal, I headed back to the apartment and looked around, trying to remember when I last remember having it.
Yes, the last clear memory was telling myself not to leave it on the window ledge at Wegmans. Fighting a rising panic, I prayed my way out the door and drove back to the store. One look in the dining room revealed an empty window ledge. I asked at the service desk, hoping for some good Samaritan to have turned it in. I once left my wallet at a McDonald's in Ohio on our way from Tulsa to New York. Fearing the worst, we stopped at the same McDonalds on the return trip and lo and behold someone had turned it in - minus the cash. But no such luck today.
I headed out to pick up Kiel from his soccer game, and explained my plight, rehearsing in my mind all the things in that purse that would have to be replaced or revoked. Yikes! Its a whole history, an entire life wrapped in cloth. Do I have time to go to the bank, call the credit card company, replace my license, find those important notes I had tucked in the side slots, get more pictures of the kids, replace the coughdrops and lipsticks? Not really.
We went back to the apartment before getting Drew from Youth Group. We both search the usual places. Not on the coffee table, not on the nightstand, not on the piano, not in the kitchen, not on the divider, not with my coat, not in my closet. I retrace my steps, repeat what I did after returning from Wegmans. Nothing. I bend down and look under the bed. Nope.
With a sigh, I lie down, trying to resign myself to my fate. Suddenly, Kiel says, "There it is!" Where? Hanging on the post of my bed, a place I not only never put it, but where it was covered up by a jacket. WHEW!!! Thank you Lord - I sure didn't want to have to deal with all that. I tell myself to pay more attention, and to remember that with my chemobrain, I need to stick with the agreed upon routines. Thank God that's taken care of. Now, where did I put my keys?
What better way to enjoy the afternoon than to have a bite to eat at Wegmans, the boys favorite fast food place? And what better way to make that special than to explore a different Wegman's store? I had been told by several people to check out the newer Wegmans stores, that they put the familiar stores to shame with their new ideas and services. I wasn't quite clear where these spiffy new stores were located, but Kiel thought he knew where one was.
We headed in the direction of Ridge Road only to discover that it wasn't one of the new stores, but at that point we were hungry, so we accepted our fate and went in. The good thing about eating at Wegmans is that there is something for everyone, and the wide variety of selections are all excellent. Today we settled on Danny's subs and left the Chinese Italian Indian Japanese Jewish American dishes for another day.
Drew chose the tall tables with the nosebleed chairs and the no room to set anything down way over in the corner of the dining room. We chatted away happily, munching on the crusty homemade bread and fresh meats and cheese. I broke down and actually got a Coke and a gooey chocolate chip cookie all warm and munchy. I set my purse on the window ledge as we ate, and I clearly remember telling myself not to forget it when we left.
Problem is, we were talking and joking around by the time we left, feeling good and energized, and I wasn't really paying any attention. It wasn't until I reached church in the evening and went to grab my purse that I realized I didn't have it with me. After service and PrayerSong rehearsal, I headed back to the apartment and looked around, trying to remember when I last remember having it.
Yes, the last clear memory was telling myself not to leave it on the window ledge at Wegmans. Fighting a rising panic, I prayed my way out the door and drove back to the store. One look in the dining room revealed an empty window ledge. I asked at the service desk, hoping for some good Samaritan to have turned it in. I once left my wallet at a McDonald's in Ohio on our way from Tulsa to New York. Fearing the worst, we stopped at the same McDonalds on the return trip and lo and behold someone had turned it in - minus the cash. But no such luck today.
I headed out to pick up Kiel from his soccer game, and explained my plight, rehearsing in my mind all the things in that purse that would have to be replaced or revoked. Yikes! Its a whole history, an entire life wrapped in cloth. Do I have time to go to the bank, call the credit card company, replace my license, find those important notes I had tucked in the side slots, get more pictures of the kids, replace the coughdrops and lipsticks? Not really.
We went back to the apartment before getting Drew from Youth Group. We both search the usual places. Not on the coffee table, not on the nightstand, not on the piano, not in the kitchen, not on the divider, not with my coat, not in my closet. I retrace my steps, repeat what I did after returning from Wegmans. Nothing. I bend down and look under the bed. Nope.
With a sigh, I lie down, trying to resign myself to my fate. Suddenly, Kiel says, "There it is!" Where? Hanging on the post of my bed, a place I not only never put it, but where it was covered up by a jacket. WHEW!!! Thank you Lord - I sure didn't want to have to deal with all that. I tell myself to pay more attention, and to remember that with my chemobrain, I need to stick with the agreed upon routines. Thank God that's taken care of. Now, where did I put my keys?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Homecoming
I didn't really participate in Homecoming last year - didn't realize it was coming or that there were reasons to be on campus. I had noted a few activities that piqued my interest, but with other obligations, I never made it to any of them.
This year I had the bright idea of running a booksale down in the bazaar tent. We had an overflow of gift items that filled our shelves, and I wanted an opportunity to see if there were interest in developing a Friends of the Library organization to help with fundraising, promotion, organization, volunteer work, event planning - all those things that would be nice to do if only we had more time to plan and work on.
It was admittedly experimental. I had never so much as seen the bazaar tent before let alone have any sense of what I could expect. Still, there is no better way to find out than to plunge in and try it. Hindsight can be a wonderful thing. My colleague suggested putting a few carts of books together and wheeling them down, make a few signs, take a cash box. Simple.
And it was. Except that it took six men and a monkey to wheel the heavy carts down the hill and across campus (it took a woman to suggest using the VAC elevator to avoid the hill), and thank goodness for the staff who volunteered to spell me so I could run to the bathroom and grab a bite of lunch.
People came in waves. There was the set-up crowd, the pre-parade group, the post-parade group, the pre-lunch and post-lunch groups, the alumni who came back after their reunions to take a second look because they didn't have time earlier, the faculty who were interested in donating more books weeded from their personal collections, the parents with kids in strollers bunch, the graduates scrolling through, the students totally sold on books, the conversationalists, the long time affiliates who really just wanted to reminisce, and the people from the other booths who were curious.
Our little stall attracted a lot of attention, and it was surprising how many people took time to look through all of the bookcarts. At the end of the day, we had sold well over a hundred books and made a small amount of pocket change (after all, at a quarter a book, you don't make millions, but then, that's not the point). I was exhausted after the noise and the standing and the running about, but it was a decent start to what I hope will be a long tradition.
Now comes the fun part - planning the real event for next year!
This year I had the bright idea of running a booksale down in the bazaar tent. We had an overflow of gift items that filled our shelves, and I wanted an opportunity to see if there were interest in developing a Friends of the Library organization to help with fundraising, promotion, organization, volunteer work, event planning - all those things that would be nice to do if only we had more time to plan and work on.
It was admittedly experimental. I had never so much as seen the bazaar tent before let alone have any sense of what I could expect. Still, there is no better way to find out than to plunge in and try it. Hindsight can be a wonderful thing. My colleague suggested putting a few carts of books together and wheeling them down, make a few signs, take a cash box. Simple.
And it was. Except that it took six men and a monkey to wheel the heavy carts down the hill and across campus (it took a woman to suggest using the VAC elevator to avoid the hill), and thank goodness for the staff who volunteered to spell me so I could run to the bathroom and grab a bite of lunch.
People came in waves. There was the set-up crowd, the pre-parade group, the post-parade group, the pre-lunch and post-lunch groups, the alumni who came back after their reunions to take a second look because they didn't have time earlier, the faculty who were interested in donating more books weeded from their personal collections, the parents with kids in strollers bunch, the graduates scrolling through, the students totally sold on books, the conversationalists, the long time affiliates who really just wanted to reminisce, and the people from the other booths who were curious.
Our little stall attracted a lot of attention, and it was surprising how many people took time to look through all of the bookcarts. At the end of the day, we had sold well over a hundred books and made a small amount of pocket change (after all, at a quarter a book, you don't make millions, but then, that's not the point). I was exhausted after the noise and the standing and the running about, but it was a decent start to what I hope will be a long tradition.
Now comes the fun part - planning the real event for next year!
Friday, September 26, 2008
Warm Tea and Warm Socks
So maybe my friend is right. Maybe I need to rethink the "live life to the fullest and do everything you can" philosophy, and spend more time taking care of my health, slowing down, eating better, and resting. Otherwise, like today, I find myself resting because there is no other option. Its so hard to find that right balance and it gets all wound up with that darn Christian work ethic. If you are not working every minute you are somehow a slackard and a failure who will be looked down upon. It also gets all wound up with the darn reaction-to-devastating-disease thing where you realize how short life is and how you should take advantage of every moment, because is will be gone before you know it.
Sigh. Well, today there is no philosophizing. There is only tiredness and aching. So I will forgo my morning walk for a few days, and use my beautiful new socks to do as I have been directed - put my feet up and let my body heal. I kind of like that idea at the moment. I make my way to the big blue recliner, carefully balancing my hot out of the microwave cup of ginger green tea, and settle in, tip back, and close my eyes.
I take a mouthful of the warm and fragrant tea, hold it in my mouth for a few minutes before swallowing until that little spot on my soft palate, way at the back of my throat, is thoroughly warmed and retains the heat for long seconds after swallowing. It brings such a sense of relaxation that I sip another mouthful and purposely swirl it around in my mouth to make sure I hit all of that tender spot before swallowing. Oooo - good! I can feel the warmth right down to the tips of my purple teal blue thick comfy socks. Ahhh.
I know time is short before I need to go to work, even though I am going in late today. Its hard not to let my mind run ahead anticipating all the things that beckon, all the lines on the to-do list. But each time I catch myself, I tell myself, "Self, stop that." Just breath and rest. Be relaxed. Let your body do its job without distraction. Let all those repair molecules have time to fix the cracks, the breeches, the worn out parts. Let THEM be busy this morning, and you take pleasure in letting them do their God-given work. Amen!
Sigh. Well, today there is no philosophizing. There is only tiredness and aching. So I will forgo my morning walk for a few days, and use my beautiful new socks to do as I have been directed - put my feet up and let my body heal. I kind of like that idea at the moment. I make my way to the big blue recliner, carefully balancing my hot out of the microwave cup of ginger green tea, and settle in, tip back, and close my eyes.
I take a mouthful of the warm and fragrant tea, hold it in my mouth for a few minutes before swallowing until that little spot on my soft palate, way at the back of my throat, is thoroughly warmed and retains the heat for long seconds after swallowing. It brings such a sense of relaxation that I sip another mouthful and purposely swirl it around in my mouth to make sure I hit all of that tender spot before swallowing. Oooo - good! I can feel the warmth right down to the tips of my purple teal blue thick comfy socks. Ahhh.
I know time is short before I need to go to work, even though I am going in late today. Its hard not to let my mind run ahead anticipating all the things that beckon, all the lines on the to-do list. But each time I catch myself, I tell myself, "Self, stop that." Just breath and rest. Be relaxed. Let your body do its job without distraction. Let all those repair molecules have time to fix the cracks, the breeches, the worn out parts. Let THEM be busy this morning, and you take pleasure in letting them do their God-given work. Amen!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Warm Shower
I'm having one of those "everyspot in my body aches my glands are all swollen my joints are stiff I am too tired to move or think" days. They rear their ugly head from time to time. I never know if its the cancer flaring up or just old age or both. Sometimes I know I have been pushing too hard. Other times it just happens.
Usually the remedy is to take it easy, lay down a lot, cut all the extras from the schedule and let yourself heal. Its a wonderful excuse to pamper yourself, drink tea, cuddle up in a cozy quilt, watch mindless movies, and breathe. Don't allow yourself to think about anything. No guilt trips about how good mothers do all sorts of amazing things for their children, good neighbors lend helping hands, good Christians are filled with good works.
Nope. This is time to just relax. Today I decided not to practice piano, voice, choir music. I decided to leave the dirty dishes in the sink and step over the garbage in the living room. I decided that the planning, organizing, bill paying and paper writing could wait. Today I am taking it easy. I am pretending that I am 'settin' out, like Gram and Gramp did every summer evening, doing nothing, just watching the cars zoom by on Route 50 and sipping a drink.
To get in the slow-down mood, I took a l-o-n-g hot steamy shower. Unbelievable that I can do that. I stand with the warm liquid caressing my tired, aching muscles, my heart grateful that I am privileged enough to have this option. I let the spray massage my aching side, heat the tender areas under my arms and in my groin. With each patter of warmth I breath in and exhale slowly and give thanks.
Thank you Lord that I have running water (I have lived places where I did not have that luxury).
Thank you Lord that this water is good and hot (many times we heated our water on the stove and taken dip baths).
Thank you Lord that I have privacy and there is no one in this house except me and it is QUIET for a change (I rarely ever have such privacy).
Thank you Lord that I have the right to decide to take this shower now and am not waiting in line, am not pressed for time, am not having to be considerate of others' needs.
Thank you Lord that I am not living in a drought area.
Thank you Lord that the shower curtain is clean and pretty and the floor is even and the tub is scrubbed spotless and the bathroom smells nice.
Thank you Lord that I have clean warm clothes to put on and soft lotions and effective soaps and shampoos to use.
Thank you Lord that I am able to stand by myself and that I am not recovering from surgery. Thank you Lord that my work schedule is flexible and allows me to be leisurely today.
Thank you Lord that I realize what blessings You have given me.
Thank you Lord that this wonderful warm shower is helping the aches and pains to go away.
Ahhhhh. That's so much better.
Usually the remedy is to take it easy, lay down a lot, cut all the extras from the schedule and let yourself heal. Its a wonderful excuse to pamper yourself, drink tea, cuddle up in a cozy quilt, watch mindless movies, and breathe. Don't allow yourself to think about anything. No guilt trips about how good mothers do all sorts of amazing things for their children, good neighbors lend helping hands, good Christians are filled with good works.
Nope. This is time to just relax. Today I decided not to practice piano, voice, choir music. I decided to leave the dirty dishes in the sink and step over the garbage in the living room. I decided that the planning, organizing, bill paying and paper writing could wait. Today I am taking it easy. I am pretending that I am 'settin' out, like Gram and Gramp did every summer evening, doing nothing, just watching the cars zoom by on Route 50 and sipping a drink.
To get in the slow-down mood, I took a l-o-n-g hot steamy shower. Unbelievable that I can do that. I stand with the warm liquid caressing my tired, aching muscles, my heart grateful that I am privileged enough to have this option. I let the spray massage my aching side, heat the tender areas under my arms and in my groin. With each patter of warmth I breath in and exhale slowly and give thanks.
Thank you Lord that I have running water (I have lived places where I did not have that luxury).
Thank you Lord that this water is good and hot (many times we heated our water on the stove and taken dip baths).
Thank you Lord that I have privacy and there is no one in this house except me and it is QUIET for a change (I rarely ever have such privacy).
Thank you Lord that I have the right to decide to take this shower now and am not waiting in line, am not pressed for time, am not having to be considerate of others' needs.
Thank you Lord that I am not living in a drought area.
Thank you Lord that the shower curtain is clean and pretty and the floor is even and the tub is scrubbed spotless and the bathroom smells nice.
Thank you Lord that I have clean warm clothes to put on and soft lotions and effective soaps and shampoos to use.
Thank you Lord that I am able to stand by myself and that I am not recovering from surgery. Thank you Lord that my work schedule is flexible and allows me to be leisurely today.
Thank you Lord that I realize what blessings You have given me.
Thank you Lord that this wonderful warm shower is helping the aches and pains to go away.
Ahhhhh. That's so much better.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Coyote
Remember the seagulls that congregate in the middle of the soccer field, right in the center of the track? Ever since I arrived I marvel at the hordes of white and gray winged creatures that flock there for no apparent reason other than that they can. Some have told me it is due to the pond on the other side of the bleachers, but that begs the question why not congregate on the pond side of the bleachers?
Some have said its because there are lots of earthworms living in the fertile green grass in the center of the track and field. I didn't think seagulls ate earthworms. How do they pick them out of the grass with their hooked beaks? Others say its because of the food scraps left behind by the sports crowds, but there are seldom crowds there munching anything seagulls would want.
No, I think its just a habit. They settled there and now there is no reason to go elsewhere. I am used to seeing seagulls despite our 15 to 20 mile distance from Lake Ontario. I suppose it is nothing to them to flit a few miles for a tasty meal and a secure perch. Still, there are so many of them. It's not that they are particularly troublesome, though of course there is the inevitable squawking and poo mess to deal with. I giggled on move in day to see them all airborne, wheeling and turning overhead, unwilling to be constantly disturbed by new students dashing about.
Today I began to hear disturbing stories about a coyote down on the field, chasing the seagulls away. What? A coyote right in the middle of a suburban neighborhood? Where did it come from? Why isn't someone calling the animal patrol? Turns out, the Facilities and Security departments found a life-sized stuffed-animal coyote and stuck it in centerfield in an attempt to scare away the seagulls. It seems to be working. The field was bird free for the first time in a long while. I wonder how long that will "fly" before they figure it out. I shall be interested in tracking it. Let's hope it doesn't scare away other critters we need.
Some have said its because there are lots of earthworms living in the fertile green grass in the center of the track and field. I didn't think seagulls ate earthworms. How do they pick them out of the grass with their hooked beaks? Others say its because of the food scraps left behind by the sports crowds, but there are seldom crowds there munching anything seagulls would want.
No, I think its just a habit. They settled there and now there is no reason to go elsewhere. I am used to seeing seagulls despite our 15 to 20 mile distance from Lake Ontario. I suppose it is nothing to them to flit a few miles for a tasty meal and a secure perch. Still, there are so many of them. It's not that they are particularly troublesome, though of course there is the inevitable squawking and poo mess to deal with. I giggled on move in day to see them all airborne, wheeling and turning overhead, unwilling to be constantly disturbed by new students dashing about.
Today I began to hear disturbing stories about a coyote down on the field, chasing the seagulls away. What? A coyote right in the middle of a suburban neighborhood? Where did it come from? Why isn't someone calling the animal patrol? Turns out, the Facilities and Security departments found a life-sized stuffed-animal coyote and stuck it in centerfield in an attempt to scare away the seagulls. It seems to be working. The field was bird free for the first time in a long while. I wonder how long that will "fly" before they figure it out. I shall be interested in tracking it. Let's hope it doesn't scare away other critters we need.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
MeltDown
I headed into class, my precious paper clutched in my hand. I had fought a bloody battle for this one, and I turned it in with fierce pride. Its not that writing papers is difficult. In fact, it's just a matter of applying one's self to the assignment at hand. They pretty much tell you exactly what to write about. I drop their instructions into outline form, then fill in the paragraphs from my notes and readings.
This semester writing took a step up to the next level over the last class's papers. For the last class, we wrote 5 pages every week. You got into a stride and pumped it out on demand. This year we write 10 pages every other week, and I have yet to find my stride. I intend to write half the paper one week, the other half the week its due. But that hasn't happened yet. I still hold out hope. There is more to sort through, more primary documents to process, a wider range of philosophies, histories, peoples to consider.
Still, its a matter of creating the outline from the assignment and filling in the paragraphs, but you have to think harder about it now. I created the outline in my office one night after work, and emailed it to myself. Saturday morning I got a jump start on the paper while the boys snored peacefully in their room. It was quiet, and I made good progress. I saved after every paragraph like a good student should, confident that I would be able to finish the paper after my shift at the library in the afternoon.
Around noon the boys roused and I needed to get ready for work, so I closed the document and tried to email it to myself, planning to stay after work and finish it from the solitude of my office. That's funny, I can't seem to find the document. Maybe I saved it under a different name or in a different folder. I searched methodically through everything I had on the laptop (not much).
This can't be right. I know I saved as I was working. What is going on? The more I searched, the more frantic I became. I looked in my recent documents, my folder, my desktop - everywhere I could think of. Then I did a search under what I was sure I had saved it as. Nothing. Now I am beside myself. Five hours of slaving over a laptop and six completed pages wasted.
I finally find the file under Temporary Internet Files, but alas, there is nothing there except the outline I started with. Information Technology will not be open again until Monday, so even if there is a remote chance of recovery, I cannot afford to wait. There is no help for it. I realize with a sinking feeling that I was out of luck. I would have to recreate the whole thing, throw away those hours, begin again, miss out on finishing my reading, stay behind after work until midnight.
I have to admit I did my share of hair pulling and pleading with God to help me find that darn paper. Ah, me. I hate when that happens. After I got to work, my equilibrium got restored. It was busy at the desk, and when I finally had a chance to work on the paper, it mostly came back. In fact, I think the second version was a bit better than the first.
I cannot tell you how glad I am that this was not my doctoral dissertation. I have learned my lesson. When you email yourself a document, save TO THE LAPTOP, don't use the temporary email file. What a silly goose. I should know better than that. Good thing I wasn't finishing up in the eleventh hour and had time to recreate.
I will say though, that you learn a lot about yourself when you are in a crisis. I'd like to think I am more mature than I was ten years ago, but a meltdown is a meltdown. Just goes to show I have a lot of work to do to be the person I ought to be. Even meltdowns are good for something.
This semester writing took a step up to the next level over the last class's papers. For the last class, we wrote 5 pages every week. You got into a stride and pumped it out on demand. This year we write 10 pages every other week, and I have yet to find my stride. I intend to write half the paper one week, the other half the week its due. But that hasn't happened yet. I still hold out hope. There is more to sort through, more primary documents to process, a wider range of philosophies, histories, peoples to consider.
Still, its a matter of creating the outline from the assignment and filling in the paragraphs, but you have to think harder about it now. I created the outline in my office one night after work, and emailed it to myself. Saturday morning I got a jump start on the paper while the boys snored peacefully in their room. It was quiet, and I made good progress. I saved after every paragraph like a good student should, confident that I would be able to finish the paper after my shift at the library in the afternoon.
Around noon the boys roused and I needed to get ready for work, so I closed the document and tried to email it to myself, planning to stay after work and finish it from the solitude of my office. That's funny, I can't seem to find the document. Maybe I saved it under a different name or in a different folder. I searched methodically through everything I had on the laptop (not much).
This can't be right. I know I saved as I was working. What is going on? The more I searched, the more frantic I became. I looked in my recent documents, my folder, my desktop - everywhere I could think of. Then I did a search under what I was sure I had saved it as. Nothing. Now I am beside myself. Five hours of slaving over a laptop and six completed pages wasted.
I finally find the file under Temporary Internet Files, but alas, there is nothing there except the outline I started with. Information Technology will not be open again until Monday, so even if there is a remote chance of recovery, I cannot afford to wait. There is no help for it. I realize with a sinking feeling that I was out of luck. I would have to recreate the whole thing, throw away those hours, begin again, miss out on finishing my reading, stay behind after work until midnight.
I have to admit I did my share of hair pulling and pleading with God to help me find that darn paper. Ah, me. I hate when that happens. After I got to work, my equilibrium got restored. It was busy at the desk, and when I finally had a chance to work on the paper, it mostly came back. In fact, I think the second version was a bit better than the first.
I cannot tell you how glad I am that this was not my doctoral dissertation. I have learned my lesson. When you email yourself a document, save TO THE LAPTOP, don't use the temporary email file. What a silly goose. I should know better than that. Good thing I wasn't finishing up in the eleventh hour and had time to recreate.
I will say though, that you learn a lot about yourself when you are in a crisis. I'd like to think I am more mature than I was ten years ago, but a meltdown is a meltdown. Just goes to show I have a lot of work to do to be the person I ought to be. Even meltdowns are good for something.
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Quilt Show
Every year our church holds a Quilt and Needlework Expo. People bring their handcrafted items to put on display - wall hangings, embroidered pictures, quilts, afghans, all sorts of wonderful colors and sizes and styles and patterns. There are vendors and a tea room and other activities to keep you occupied. They hang quilts from every possible nook and cranny in every room, on specially made racks. In fact, the choir had to leave their folders on their seats in the sanctuary Sunday after service because the rehearsal room would be bursting at the seams with yards and yards of homemade love.
Last year it was just an advertised event to me. I had already made plans for the weekend and wasn't able to come. This year though, I decided to put a few quilts I have on display. I was surprised to find how many quilts I have! One made by my grandmother back in 1918, and seven - count them - 7 that my Mom has made and given to the boys or to me.
My kids love the quilts their Gram has given them. They will not part with them for anything, even when they are tattered and worn, even when they have outgrown the babyish puppies and toys scattered across them. They beg Gram for an updated one, and carefully tuck away the comfy one, retiring it to good memories and the depths of my cedar chest.
Several years ago, when I was sick and couldn't get warm, Drew used to wrap me up in the quilt Gram had made for him. It was the only blanket that could stop the shaking and shivering. I don't know what Mom fills her quilts with, but it did the trick of chasing away the cold. It was downright touching that when I was having a bad day or night, Drew would tenderly wrap me up in his quilt, sacrificing his own good night's rest for my benefit.
I knew it was temporary, and sure enough, the chills and shaking days happened less and less often until I only had one now and again. I didn't give it much thought really. But Drew did. He asked me once if Gram had ever given me a quilt, and I told him no. Without so much as a whisper, he quietly approached Gram and asked if he could hire her to make a quilt for me. Mom didn't know quite what to say, for she was working on a quilt for me already.
Not wanting to spoil Drew's surprise, she set aside the quilt she was working on (and gave it to me later) and whipped up a quilt for Drew to give me according to his specifications. Drew contracted to pay her something like $10. I was completely overwhelmed both by the beautiful quilt and the thoughtful young man who had arranged such a wonderful Christmas gift for me.
Drew and I have our moments of disagreement, but times like that make you know this child will turn out to be a good friend and a tenderhearted and loving husband and father someday. I cried buckets of tears that Christmas, and delightfully use both quilts, rotating them according to season. I wouldn't think of being without at least one of them.
It was hard to bring them to the Quilt Show and leave them there. I missed them at home, but wanted to show off my Mom's handiwork. I am proud of her masterpieces and want everyone to enjoy her artistry as much as I do.
The Quilt Show has two other considerations that bloom during the event. For one thing, they take food donations as part of the entrance fee. The newly stocked food pantry will go to a local distribution center to help those struggling to feed their families. Also, all through the year, the good ladies of the church knit prayershawls for those who are sick. They pray for the recipient while they are making them that God will be present, will bring strength and healing to the person who is suffering. They also make baby comforters for sick babies, miniature sized quilts filled with love and care and prayer. These items are blessed in church service, and fill the sanctuary during the show.
Its impressive to walk through the double doors and see hundreds of baby comforters laid over the backs of the pews and the prayershawls wrapped over the altar railing. You can feel the love in the room - it feels like the most special Christmas you have ever encountered.
People come from all over to attend this show. In service on Sunday they mentioned over a dozen states and even Canada and I think I remember Australia! Or was it New Zealand? Anyway, it was well attended and many of the prayershawls were taken for loved ones struggling with illnesses. The baby blankets too will be placed in facilities to be given out.
The organizers of the event told me later that while they did make money from the tea room and the tickets, but it's not about the money. It's really about the conversations, the connections, the way the prayershawls touch people's lives, the feeling that you are helping in a practical and concrete way.
Maybe next year I can actually go! I'd love to see all the other handiwork. This year though, I had many people tell me that lots of attendees loved Mom's quilt, especially the floral embroidered one. So thanks Mom for the beautiful quilts. Your work is admired by many, but I'm not giving mine up for anything.
Last year it was just an advertised event to me. I had already made plans for the weekend and wasn't able to come. This year though, I decided to put a few quilts I have on display. I was surprised to find how many quilts I have! One made by my grandmother back in 1918, and seven - count them - 7 that my Mom has made and given to the boys or to me.
My kids love the quilts their Gram has given them. They will not part with them for anything, even when they are tattered and worn, even when they have outgrown the babyish puppies and toys scattered across them. They beg Gram for an updated one, and carefully tuck away the comfy one, retiring it to good memories and the depths of my cedar chest.
Several years ago, when I was sick and couldn't get warm, Drew used to wrap me up in the quilt Gram had made for him. It was the only blanket that could stop the shaking and shivering. I don't know what Mom fills her quilts with, but it did the trick of chasing away the cold. It was downright touching that when I was having a bad day or night, Drew would tenderly wrap me up in his quilt, sacrificing his own good night's rest for my benefit.
I knew it was temporary, and sure enough, the chills and shaking days happened less and less often until I only had one now and again. I didn't give it much thought really. But Drew did. He asked me once if Gram had ever given me a quilt, and I told him no. Without so much as a whisper, he quietly approached Gram and asked if he could hire her to make a quilt for me. Mom didn't know quite what to say, for she was working on a quilt for me already.
Not wanting to spoil Drew's surprise, she set aside the quilt she was working on (and gave it to me later) and whipped up a quilt for Drew to give me according to his specifications. Drew contracted to pay her something like $10. I was completely overwhelmed both by the beautiful quilt and the thoughtful young man who had arranged such a wonderful Christmas gift for me.
Drew and I have our moments of disagreement, but times like that make you know this child will turn out to be a good friend and a tenderhearted and loving husband and father someday. I cried buckets of tears that Christmas, and delightfully use both quilts, rotating them according to season. I wouldn't think of being without at least one of them.
It was hard to bring them to the Quilt Show and leave them there. I missed them at home, but wanted to show off my Mom's handiwork. I am proud of her masterpieces and want everyone to enjoy her artistry as much as I do.
The Quilt Show has two other considerations that bloom during the event. For one thing, they take food donations as part of the entrance fee. The newly stocked food pantry will go to a local distribution center to help those struggling to feed their families. Also, all through the year, the good ladies of the church knit prayershawls for those who are sick. They pray for the recipient while they are making them that God will be present, will bring strength and healing to the person who is suffering. They also make baby comforters for sick babies, miniature sized quilts filled with love and care and prayer. These items are blessed in church service, and fill the sanctuary during the show.
Its impressive to walk through the double doors and see hundreds of baby comforters laid over the backs of the pews and the prayershawls wrapped over the altar railing. You can feel the love in the room - it feels like the most special Christmas you have ever encountered.
People come from all over to attend this show. In service on Sunday they mentioned over a dozen states and even Canada and I think I remember Australia! Or was it New Zealand? Anyway, it was well attended and many of the prayershawls were taken for loved ones struggling with illnesses. The baby blankets too will be placed in facilities to be given out.
The organizers of the event told me later that while they did make money from the tea room and the tickets, but it's not about the money. It's really about the conversations, the connections, the way the prayershawls touch people's lives, the feeling that you are helping in a practical and concrete way.
Maybe next year I can actually go! I'd love to see all the other handiwork. This year though, I had many people tell me that lots of attendees loved Mom's quilt, especially the floral embroidered one. So thanks Mom for the beautiful quilts. Your work is admired by many, but I'm not giving mine up for anything.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Crazy Socks
"It started out as a house warming gift," my friend held out a present wrapped in tissue and tucked into a pretty light turquoise gift bag. "But it turned into a foot warming gift instead." I rustled the tissue paper aside and pulled out a nice thick pair of socks in the perfect colors! Purples and turquoises and black and blues.
I didn't catch it at first - they didn't match. One had turquoise toes, the other purple toes. The patterns were very similar, but the order of colors differed! How unique - and how toasty warm! She told me they sell them in threes sometimes and you can pick which ones to wear and have three totally different mismatched sets!
It came with a card and a smile and a reminder to take time to rest and to care for myself. I do tend to get wound up in life. I need the reminder. Often. I put them back in the wrapping and set them on the piano in my bedroom to simply enjoy the delight of an unexpected gift for a few days.
But I couldn't resist them for long. I decided to wear them to work with black pants and a purple shirt. I was sure I would get a bazillion comments on their unique combination. But I was wrong. No one made any comments at all. I didn't get a rise out of anyone. Zip. Nada. Nothing. I guess it was too much to expect that people who are busy and running about with serious things to take care of should notice such a little thing. After all, *I* didn't even get it at first.
No matter. I love the socks. They keep my feet toasty and happy all day. Sometimes sitting in my office I turn freezing cold and have to get up and move, make a cup of tea, go stand by the fireplace for a few minutes (yes, we have TWO of them in the library!). In the seminar classroom where I spend four hours of quality time on Tuesday evenings I have taken to bringing a blanket to wrap up in since I can't leave the lecture just to warm up. Brrrr!
But these crazy socks prevent my feet from getting cold and the rest of me stays warmer. Now I wear them when I walk in the mornings - not because I am cold, but because the thick cushiony sock softens the jarring of foot on blacktop when the dew is too heavy to trod through. I lay them out carefully at night so I can just slide into them in the morning along with my Concordia hoodie (if they ever offer Northeastern Seminary stuff, I plan to get sweatpants from Santa for Christmas!).
I love these crazy mismatched socks. They are just like me. Best of all, they remind me that I have kind and thoughtful friends who also have a zest for life and who appreciate the fine art of taking care of yourself well with flair!
I didn't catch it at first - they didn't match. One had turquoise toes, the other purple toes. The patterns were very similar, but the order of colors differed! How unique - and how toasty warm! She told me they sell them in threes sometimes and you can pick which ones to wear and have three totally different mismatched sets!
It came with a card and a smile and a reminder to take time to rest and to care for myself. I do tend to get wound up in life. I need the reminder. Often. I put them back in the wrapping and set them on the piano in my bedroom to simply enjoy the delight of an unexpected gift for a few days.
But I couldn't resist them for long. I decided to wear them to work with black pants and a purple shirt. I was sure I would get a bazillion comments on their unique combination. But I was wrong. No one made any comments at all. I didn't get a rise out of anyone. Zip. Nada. Nothing. I guess it was too much to expect that people who are busy and running about with serious things to take care of should notice such a little thing. After all, *I* didn't even get it at first.
No matter. I love the socks. They keep my feet toasty and happy all day. Sometimes sitting in my office I turn freezing cold and have to get up and move, make a cup of tea, go stand by the fireplace for a few minutes (yes, we have TWO of them in the library!). In the seminar classroom where I spend four hours of quality time on Tuesday evenings I have taken to bringing a blanket to wrap up in since I can't leave the lecture just to warm up. Brrrr!
But these crazy socks prevent my feet from getting cold and the rest of me stays warmer. Now I wear them when I walk in the mornings - not because I am cold, but because the thick cushiony sock softens the jarring of foot on blacktop when the dew is too heavy to trod through. I lay them out carefully at night so I can just slide into them in the morning along with my Concordia hoodie (if they ever offer Northeastern Seminary stuff, I plan to get sweatpants from Santa for Christmas!).
I love these crazy mismatched socks. They are just like me. Best of all, they remind me that I have kind and thoughtful friends who also have a zest for life and who appreciate the fine art of taking care of yourself well with flair!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
One Dark Pink Rose
All the rest of my dozen roses have long since faded, turned brown, disintegrated. This one lone rose, which never fully and completely opened, is still vibrant with color even though its petals have dried to parchment. Its a beautiful rose, mostly white with the edges of each petal tinged a deep ruby pink. The overall effect is the delicate, fragile beauty of Victorian gentility, a rarity even in the extraordinary beauty of the world of rosedom. It puts me in mind of Miss Keck.
Miss Keck was something of a conundrum to a tomboy teenager like myself. Her ladylike composure, her unflappable behavior in the face of excitement, her careful attention to comportment were missing elements in my upbringing. Yet there was something appealing about her, something that caught your attention and made you stop for a conversation with the grand dame of the little church my Father pastored at the time.
She never would have dared enter church without her stylish pillbox hat, often with a touch of veil that hung just so over her eyes. She inevitably wore a stole of real fur which varied with the seasons and was either loose or attached to her winter wrap. Gloves were also a must, white in summer, black in winter and they always matched her purse and shoes. Her fingers were tastefully attired with jewel bedecked rings, her silk dress ornamented with a sparkling brooch. She always smelled faintly of roses and you wondered if she lined the drawers of her bureau (she would never own a dresser) with some exotic sachet.
She was never in a hurry about anything, but took her time about walking, which she did with solidarity, assuredness, and a sturdy wooden cane. She never wasted her energy on useless endeavors, but was usually in the pursuit of those activities befitting her station in life. Though she never married, she was the quintessential matriarch (back when that word meant something more than a rock group), and those who knew her trusted that if she chaired a committee, things would be done RIGHT!
She was neither extravagant nor miserly, never gaudy nor plain. Though somewhat dated in appearance, one did not disrespect Miss Keck for she represented a bygone era of elegance and old world charm that had long since crumbled and faded save for small glimpses preserved to remind those of us without such upbringing of what we were missing and what we could achieve if only we put our minds to it.
Though we never had conversations (I was admittedly a bit scared of her), still, I appreciated her representation of womanhood. She held out an example of refinement and genteel behavior that I seldom had exposure to elsewhere in the rapidly changing era of the sixties. She did not care that she didn't keep up with the times or stay in vogue. She was happy with who she was and liked the world in which she was raised and continued to live by her own insistence. Though her parents had long passed from the earth, and though I rarely saw her with others of her social strata, she seemed content and at ease with others, even loud mouthed brassy kids like me.
Yes, I see this not fully opened rose that has outlived its time, still vibrant in color, still offering a hint of fragrance, still beautiful to behold even in is anciency, and I think of Miss Keck and her wonderful example of a quality of life worth keeping well after others have moved on. Here's one scrufty little kid still affected by her charm.
Miss Keck was something of a conundrum to a tomboy teenager like myself. Her ladylike composure, her unflappable behavior in the face of excitement, her careful attention to comportment were missing elements in my upbringing. Yet there was something appealing about her, something that caught your attention and made you stop for a conversation with the grand dame of the little church my Father pastored at the time.
She never would have dared enter church without her stylish pillbox hat, often with a touch of veil that hung just so over her eyes. She inevitably wore a stole of real fur which varied with the seasons and was either loose or attached to her winter wrap. Gloves were also a must, white in summer, black in winter and they always matched her purse and shoes. Her fingers were tastefully attired with jewel bedecked rings, her silk dress ornamented with a sparkling brooch. She always smelled faintly of roses and you wondered if she lined the drawers of her bureau (she would never own a dresser) with some exotic sachet.
She was never in a hurry about anything, but took her time about walking, which she did with solidarity, assuredness, and a sturdy wooden cane. She never wasted her energy on useless endeavors, but was usually in the pursuit of those activities befitting her station in life. Though she never married, she was the quintessential matriarch (back when that word meant something more than a rock group), and those who knew her trusted that if she chaired a committee, things would be done RIGHT!
She was neither extravagant nor miserly, never gaudy nor plain. Though somewhat dated in appearance, one did not disrespect Miss Keck for she represented a bygone era of elegance and old world charm that had long since crumbled and faded save for small glimpses preserved to remind those of us without such upbringing of what we were missing and what we could achieve if only we put our minds to it.
Though we never had conversations (I was admittedly a bit scared of her), still, I appreciated her representation of womanhood. She held out an example of refinement and genteel behavior that I seldom had exposure to elsewhere in the rapidly changing era of the sixties. She did not care that she didn't keep up with the times or stay in vogue. She was happy with who she was and liked the world in which she was raised and continued to live by her own insistence. Though her parents had long passed from the earth, and though I rarely saw her with others of her social strata, she seemed content and at ease with others, even loud mouthed brassy kids like me.
Yes, I see this not fully opened rose that has outlived its time, still vibrant in color, still offering a hint of fragrance, still beautiful to behold even in is anciency, and I think of Miss Keck and her wonderful example of a quality of life worth keeping well after others have moved on. Here's one scrufty little kid still affected by her charm.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Bird Song
I had missed my morning walk a few times, so it felt good today to stretch my legs and head off towards the backside of the complex under a bright blue sky. It had been frightfully cold, making Kiel state that fall had officially arrived even though the 21st had not yet shown its face. Even Drew, who never puts on jackets or wraps up, dug through my cedar chest for an actual blanket to put on his bed! A miracle if I have ever seen one. I gave serious thought to turning on the heat when the temps got down to 34 degrees, but resisted. I am determined to hold off until at least October 1st if at all possible.
Our neighbors have been moving out in flocks - first the couple upstairs next to us, then the couple downstairs. (I sort of wish the older couple who smoke and stink up the hallway even though they step outside to smoke would consider moving out, but it doesn't look likely). Mornings are quiet in our building. I step lightly down the stairs and quietly shut the door behind me.
As soon as I reached the sidewalk I realized how silly I was being tiptoeing around. There was a major cacophony of bird song swirling through the air. First I heard bluejays chattering and calling their five note repeated pitch, followed by the racket of crows. Somewhere in the distance there was the gentle coo of the morning dove, the cheerful chirrup of robins, and very faint, the twitter of sparrows.
It was enjoyable, the different pitches, different melodic contours, most of them a descending third or fourth. I stepped along, not bothering to turn on my MP3 player. The air was still chill, the grass dewy, a few cars heading sleepily towards the workday. Suddenly I heard what I thought was someone knocking on a door. I glanced around, but didn't see anyone.
There it was again. A definite knocking on a door. I stopped stock still in the middle of the road and looked carefully about. At last I found the source of the sound. High above my head in the upper branches of a tall oak tree sat a large black bird. I could see him puffing out his feathers, then, poking his neck forward, he emitted the knocking sounds. He repeated them over and over. What kind of crazy bird song was this? I have never heard such a distinctive sound.
He was completely alone in his high perch. Was he calling a mate? Warning other birds to stay out of his territory? Trying to clear his throat? Did he have a cold? Well, I guess I will never know. I started walking again, grinning at the lady walking her dog who stopped stock still in the middle of the road when she heard someone knocking on a door . . .
Our neighbors have been moving out in flocks - first the couple upstairs next to us, then the couple downstairs. (I sort of wish the older couple who smoke and stink up the hallway even though they step outside to smoke would consider moving out, but it doesn't look likely). Mornings are quiet in our building. I step lightly down the stairs and quietly shut the door behind me.
As soon as I reached the sidewalk I realized how silly I was being tiptoeing around. There was a major cacophony of bird song swirling through the air. First I heard bluejays chattering and calling their five note repeated pitch, followed by the racket of crows. Somewhere in the distance there was the gentle coo of the morning dove, the cheerful chirrup of robins, and very faint, the twitter of sparrows.
It was enjoyable, the different pitches, different melodic contours, most of them a descending third or fourth. I stepped along, not bothering to turn on my MP3 player. The air was still chill, the grass dewy, a few cars heading sleepily towards the workday. Suddenly I heard what I thought was someone knocking on a door. I glanced around, but didn't see anyone.
There it was again. A definite knocking on a door. I stopped stock still in the middle of the road and looked carefully about. At last I found the source of the sound. High above my head in the upper branches of a tall oak tree sat a large black bird. I could see him puffing out his feathers, then, poking his neck forward, he emitted the knocking sounds. He repeated them over and over. What kind of crazy bird song was this? I have never heard such a distinctive sound.
He was completely alone in his high perch. Was he calling a mate? Warning other birds to stay out of his territory? Trying to clear his throat? Did he have a cold? Well, I guess I will never know. I started walking again, grinning at the lady walking her dog who stopped stock still in the middle of the road when she heard someone knocking on a door . . .
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Magnificent Moon
"Is that the moon?" Kiel asked incredulously as we were driving home in the early evening. I glanced in the direction he indicated, but could see nothing beyond the dark outline of pine trees as our car sped east on Buffalo Road. I kept looking, catching a glimpse of rose gold color here and there, waiting for the car to clear the wooded area.
There! Hanging low in the sky, a soft dusky disc of light, an unfinished orb of fascination, the color of the glow from a porch light with a soft colored bulb. Usually on nights like this the sky unrolls a glorious tapestry of color, the effect of September sun refracting through the atmosphere. But the sun had long retired leaving only the incredible moon to mirror its glory to translating our ordinary world into a foreign planet, the place and stuff movies are made of.
I knew the moment would quickly pass, the moon shrinking as it took its rightful place in the sky above. Could the three of us hang on to this magical moment? Could we unite under its spell, drink in its incredible beauty together? I had heard that Jupiter and Saturn would be visible for a time, and for the briefest moment, thought perhaps we were seeing not the moon but an extraordinary view of a nearby planet. But no. It was the moon in full dress - black tie, tails and all, close enough to make you believe you could reach out and brush the surface with your fingertips.
We headed for home, and as we neared our destination, the moon rose to its usual hangout, losing the blush of mystery, becoming just a thin white wafer with a piece torn from the top, returning the three of us to our normal evening. Still, we were moved by the incredible beauty, the unique closeness, the fairytale wonder.
It makes me want to rewrite the old adage "Into each life a little rain must fall" to read "Into each life moments of magical beauty must glide."
There! Hanging low in the sky, a soft dusky disc of light, an unfinished orb of fascination, the color of the glow from a porch light with a soft colored bulb. Usually on nights like this the sky unrolls a glorious tapestry of color, the effect of September sun refracting through the atmosphere. But the sun had long retired leaving only the incredible moon to mirror its glory to translating our ordinary world into a foreign planet, the place and stuff movies are made of.
I knew the moment would quickly pass, the moon shrinking as it took its rightful place in the sky above. Could the three of us hang on to this magical moment? Could we unite under its spell, drink in its incredible beauty together? I had heard that Jupiter and Saturn would be visible for a time, and for the briefest moment, thought perhaps we were seeing not the moon but an extraordinary view of a nearby planet. But no. It was the moon in full dress - black tie, tails and all, close enough to make you believe you could reach out and brush the surface with your fingertips.
We headed for home, and as we neared our destination, the moon rose to its usual hangout, losing the blush of mystery, becoming just a thin white wafer with a piece torn from the top, returning the three of us to our normal evening. Still, we were moved by the incredible beauty, the unique closeness, the fairytale wonder.
It makes me want to rewrite the old adage "Into each life a little rain must fall" to read "Into each life moments of magical beauty must glide."
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Supreme Court
In celebration of Constitution Day (and I must admit I have not thought of Consititution Day in a long while), Roberts Wesleyan College sponsored a lecture by James C. Moore, Senior Counsel to the Rochester-based law firm of Harter Secrest & Emery LLP. He spoke on "The US Supreme Court: Recent Decisions of Significance; What Impact will a New President Have on the Court?"
I always try to attend these Cultural Enrichment Lectures - they present current issues in fields I am not necessarily involved with and I appreciate the exposure. Generally I find them interesting but not necessarily riveting. Once in awhile they are just too dry. This one was fascinating. The speaker, an older gentleman, seemed to have a good sense of what students were likely to know and what should be explained without making it seem like he was being patronizing.
Lecture attendees were given the Hip Pocket Guide to the United States Constitution and his lecture handout. His presentation was well organized, his handouts giving just the right amount of information for us to follow along. We worked through the various recent appointments to the Supreme Court, how each judge sees the role of the Supreme Court, who usually votes conservatively, who votes liberally, who has the swing vote. He gave us some insight as to how one becomes a Supreme Court Justice, what role politics have played over the last number of presidencies, and a discussion of three interesting cases recently decided including the Guantanamo hearing (the interesting and new part for me hearing a summary of the entire thing).
He basically laid out a case for how past appointments have affected both the cases being heard and the decisions handed down. Then he directed us to seek online the information about McCain's and Obama's position on this issue. Surely the next president will need to appoint a new Justice, given the ages of some of the current Justices. An interesting and fairly well rounded talk.
I always try to attend these Cultural Enrichment Lectures - they present current issues in fields I am not necessarily involved with and I appreciate the exposure. Generally I find them interesting but not necessarily riveting. Once in awhile they are just too dry. This one was fascinating. The speaker, an older gentleman, seemed to have a good sense of what students were likely to know and what should be explained without making it seem like he was being patronizing.
Lecture attendees were given the Hip Pocket Guide to the United States Constitution and his lecture handout. His presentation was well organized, his handouts giving just the right amount of information for us to follow along. We worked through the various recent appointments to the Supreme Court, how each judge sees the role of the Supreme Court, who usually votes conservatively, who votes liberally, who has the swing vote. He gave us some insight as to how one becomes a Supreme Court Justice, what role politics have played over the last number of presidencies, and a discussion of three interesting cases recently decided including the Guantanamo hearing (the interesting and new part for me hearing a summary of the entire thing).
He basically laid out a case for how past appointments have affected both the cases being heard and the decisions handed down. Then he directed us to seek online the information about McCain's and Obama's position on this issue. Surely the next president will need to appoint a new Justice, given the ages of some of the current Justices. An interesting and fairly well rounded talk.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Speed Walking
I wasn't paying any attention, just focusing on getting in and out of the store as quickly as I could. Given my distaste for shopping, I try my best to zip in and out as fast as I can. I guess it was the zipping part. I dart around people who are dawdling and gawking, moving at the pace of melting ice on a winter's day. I have no time for standing still.
I also had no idea I was moving so quickly until Kiel said something to Drew. "Mom's on a mission. Look out." What? I looked back over my shoulder to discover that the two of them were far behind me, not crawling along at a leisure pace, but certainly not keeping up with me. "Mom, why are you going so fast?" Am I? I had no idea. I'm just walking. I know sometimes I don't walk fast when I am feeling ill, but this seems a normal pace for me.
It wasn't until Drew ran to catch up with me as I kept trudging forward, making a beeline for the frozen food section, that I became aware of how fast I must be walking along. Mind you, I am not out of breath or pushing my feet off the floor in a run. Just walking along. But poor Drew - all 6 foot of him including his long, long legs - was practically running to keep up - and complaining.
"What are you in such a rush for? Not today. Please. I just got done playing a soccer game and I've been sitting outside watching another soccer game and I'm cold." He finally gave up, slowed to a reasonable pace for him, and slid out of sight in the cereal aisle. I shook my head. This is the second time Kiel has accused me of walking too fast. I must be getting some of my childhood vim back. I clearly remember running everywhere when I was a kid. I don't think 'walk' was part of my vocabulary.
I giggled as I remembered visiting my grandparents one summer when I was about twenty. They must have been in their seventies at least, ancient by my reckoning at the time, and retired. They owned a rental property and decided to go bust up a concrete foundation where a shed once stood. They rose at their usual 8am, took breakfast, then started out. I thought I would go along and help out. After all, a young college student was better fit for such work than an elderly and fragile grandparent! I felt sorry that they were having to take care of this difficult task all alone.
The day started off well enough. Grampa swung the sledge hammer and broke the slab into pieces, and Gram and I picked up the chunks, put them in a wheelbarrow, and carted them around front for the trash pick up. It was kind of fun at first. You got into a rhythm of stooping, scooping, tossing, taking delight in watching the barrow fill up. Right about the time your legs were complaining, the barrow was full and you got to hoist the handles and push the heavy load through the short grass, down a small hill to the driveway.
Then the sun came out from behind the clouds, and sweat began to pour. Stooping and scooping became more arduous. The heavy leather gloves stuck to your hands, twisted and pulled by the rough chunks. But Grampa just kept breaking it up, so I pushed myself to keep up. While I was wheeling the barrow out front, Gram 'commenced' to weeding the flower beds and raking and other assorted tasks. At ten I stopped for a long drink of water from the thermos we had brought. Gramp eyed me with impatience, then warned me to save some for later when it got hot. What was he thinking? I was roasting.
This was getting to be real work! I must have taken twenty loads out front at least. Less a game and more a chore, I plowed on, stooping down, bending over, hoisting the gray rocks into the wheelbarrow. Gramp seemed tireless. I glanced at my watch. It was 11:30. Surely we would stop for lunch soon. I thought hungrily of the sandwiches and apples in the cab of the red truck. About ten minutes before noon, I started watching Gramp for signs of lunchbreak. He seemed oblivious to my aching arms and legs, my stinging hands. He just kept swinging that hammer. The noon whistle blew, and I stood tall, assuming we would take a break. Imagine my chagrin when Gramp kept right on swinging!
Suddenly aware that I had stopped, he looked up with a question on his face. Gram gently said, "Lunch, Hub." "Lunch? Already? We aren't even half done! Keep going a bit more before we eat." I almost cried at the thought, but I was determined that no old man was going to get the better of me. My back and legs protested, and I got a crazy idea. Let Gramp bend and pick up those rocks. I'LL swing the hammer. After all, he rests a good bit between each blow.
When I suggested it, Gramp laughed right out loud. He offered me the wooden handle and said, "Be my guest." I picked up that hammer with a grin, lifted it high over my head, and with a mighty force, brought it down 'Whack' right on that concrete slab. Nothing. Not even a crack. Huh. I lifted the hammer again and brought it down even harder. Still nothing. I glanced at Gramp. He just stood there watching. Determined not to be outdone, I thought maybe if I aimed at the edge where it was already broken, I might have more success. I tried that. A tiny piece broke off. Gramp pointed to a spot and I hefted that thing again and brought it down. Whack! It felt like every bone in my arm vibrated from the force of the blow. My hands were tingling. This time a decent sized piece slid off. Gramp grinned and picked it up.
This was not as easy as it looked. After whacking that hammer for all I was worth for about half an hour, Gramp finally called lunch. I think he just felt sorry for me. I fell into the lawn chair while the two of them sat demurely on the edge of the stone wall as if they had just taken a leisurely stroll. Sandwiches did not interest me. I took a long draught from the water jug and let the weight of my body sink into the plastic ribs of the chair, staring into the blue sky and thankful for the shade of the tall tree overhead. It felt like two minutes had passed when Gramp cleared his throat and nodded for us to get back to work. I tried to get up, but every muscle in my body was tight and stiff.
Still, THEY weren't quitting. And neither would I. And so we dug in again. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. You would have sworn we were tearing up an entire city of concrete. The tiny little shed floor seemed monumental in size. After eons had passed, Gram and I finally hoisted the last few pieces into the wheelbarrow. I just didn't have it in me to push that heavy cart all the way to the road. I caught Gram's nod to Gramp, heard her whispered comment "She's just a little girl. You ought to be ashamed making her work so hard." I didn't know whether to kiss her or be mad. But I was too tired to do either. I just wanted to go home.
That, however, would have to wait. After we cleared away the last of the concrete, I sat in a dejected heap in the grass and watched the two of them rake and tidy and clear away every last vestige of that floor, then sweep off the patio and tend to a few other repairs on their list. Even after sitting there for nearly an hour waiting for them to finish, I could barely move. My hands were red and puffy, my legs covered with gray dust. At long long last we piled into Gramp's red truck and headed home. All I could think of was resting in the hammock, recovering from the brutal labor.
Gram and Gramp, on the other hand, went right back to their chores at home as if they had not just spent an entire day at hard labor. How embarrassing not to be able to keep up with old, retired people! Worse yet that they felt sorry for me! Yikes!
I wonder. Perhaps there is a magic time when energy and strength return, and you can easily outdo the young. Wouldn't that be a kicker? (And explain a lot about that concrete floor day!). For now, I'll simply have to humor Drew and slow down enough for him to keep up.
I also had no idea I was moving so quickly until Kiel said something to Drew. "Mom's on a mission. Look out." What? I looked back over my shoulder to discover that the two of them were far behind me, not crawling along at a leisure pace, but certainly not keeping up with me. "Mom, why are you going so fast?" Am I? I had no idea. I'm just walking. I know sometimes I don't walk fast when I am feeling ill, but this seems a normal pace for me.
It wasn't until Drew ran to catch up with me as I kept trudging forward, making a beeline for the frozen food section, that I became aware of how fast I must be walking along. Mind you, I am not out of breath or pushing my feet off the floor in a run. Just walking along. But poor Drew - all 6 foot of him including his long, long legs - was practically running to keep up - and complaining.
"What are you in such a rush for? Not today. Please. I just got done playing a soccer game and I've been sitting outside watching another soccer game and I'm cold." He finally gave up, slowed to a reasonable pace for him, and slid out of sight in the cereal aisle. I shook my head. This is the second time Kiel has accused me of walking too fast. I must be getting some of my childhood vim back. I clearly remember running everywhere when I was a kid. I don't think 'walk' was part of my vocabulary.
I giggled as I remembered visiting my grandparents one summer when I was about twenty. They must have been in their seventies at least, ancient by my reckoning at the time, and retired. They owned a rental property and decided to go bust up a concrete foundation where a shed once stood. They rose at their usual 8am, took breakfast, then started out. I thought I would go along and help out. After all, a young college student was better fit for such work than an elderly and fragile grandparent! I felt sorry that they were having to take care of this difficult task all alone.
The day started off well enough. Grampa swung the sledge hammer and broke the slab into pieces, and Gram and I picked up the chunks, put them in a wheelbarrow, and carted them around front for the trash pick up. It was kind of fun at first. You got into a rhythm of stooping, scooping, tossing, taking delight in watching the barrow fill up. Right about the time your legs were complaining, the barrow was full and you got to hoist the handles and push the heavy load through the short grass, down a small hill to the driveway.
Then the sun came out from behind the clouds, and sweat began to pour. Stooping and scooping became more arduous. The heavy leather gloves stuck to your hands, twisted and pulled by the rough chunks. But Grampa just kept breaking it up, so I pushed myself to keep up. While I was wheeling the barrow out front, Gram 'commenced' to weeding the flower beds and raking and other assorted tasks. At ten I stopped for a long drink of water from the thermos we had brought. Gramp eyed me with impatience, then warned me to save some for later when it got hot. What was he thinking? I was roasting.
This was getting to be real work! I must have taken twenty loads out front at least. Less a game and more a chore, I plowed on, stooping down, bending over, hoisting the gray rocks into the wheelbarrow. Gramp seemed tireless. I glanced at my watch. It was 11:30. Surely we would stop for lunch soon. I thought hungrily of the sandwiches and apples in the cab of the red truck. About ten minutes before noon, I started watching Gramp for signs of lunchbreak. He seemed oblivious to my aching arms and legs, my stinging hands. He just kept swinging that hammer. The noon whistle blew, and I stood tall, assuming we would take a break. Imagine my chagrin when Gramp kept right on swinging!
Suddenly aware that I had stopped, he looked up with a question on his face. Gram gently said, "Lunch, Hub." "Lunch? Already? We aren't even half done! Keep going a bit more before we eat." I almost cried at the thought, but I was determined that no old man was going to get the better of me. My back and legs protested, and I got a crazy idea. Let Gramp bend and pick up those rocks. I'LL swing the hammer. After all, he rests a good bit between each blow.
When I suggested it, Gramp laughed right out loud. He offered me the wooden handle and said, "Be my guest." I picked up that hammer with a grin, lifted it high over my head, and with a mighty force, brought it down 'Whack' right on that concrete slab. Nothing. Not even a crack. Huh. I lifted the hammer again and brought it down even harder. Still nothing. I glanced at Gramp. He just stood there watching. Determined not to be outdone, I thought maybe if I aimed at the edge where it was already broken, I might have more success. I tried that. A tiny piece broke off. Gramp pointed to a spot and I hefted that thing again and brought it down. Whack! It felt like every bone in my arm vibrated from the force of the blow. My hands were tingling. This time a decent sized piece slid off. Gramp grinned and picked it up.
This was not as easy as it looked. After whacking that hammer for all I was worth for about half an hour, Gramp finally called lunch. I think he just felt sorry for me. I fell into the lawn chair while the two of them sat demurely on the edge of the stone wall as if they had just taken a leisurely stroll. Sandwiches did not interest me. I took a long draught from the water jug and let the weight of my body sink into the plastic ribs of the chair, staring into the blue sky and thankful for the shade of the tall tree overhead. It felt like two minutes had passed when Gramp cleared his throat and nodded for us to get back to work. I tried to get up, but every muscle in my body was tight and stiff.
Still, THEY weren't quitting. And neither would I. And so we dug in again. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. Stoop, scoop, lift, toss. You would have sworn we were tearing up an entire city of concrete. The tiny little shed floor seemed monumental in size. After eons had passed, Gram and I finally hoisted the last few pieces into the wheelbarrow. I just didn't have it in me to push that heavy cart all the way to the road. I caught Gram's nod to Gramp, heard her whispered comment "She's just a little girl. You ought to be ashamed making her work so hard." I didn't know whether to kiss her or be mad. But I was too tired to do either. I just wanted to go home.
That, however, would have to wait. After we cleared away the last of the concrete, I sat in a dejected heap in the grass and watched the two of them rake and tidy and clear away every last vestige of that floor, then sweep off the patio and tend to a few other repairs on their list. Even after sitting there for nearly an hour waiting for them to finish, I could barely move. My hands were red and puffy, my legs covered with gray dust. At long long last we piled into Gramp's red truck and headed home. All I could think of was resting in the hammock, recovering from the brutal labor.
Gram and Gramp, on the other hand, went right back to their chores at home as if they had not just spent an entire day at hard labor. How embarrassing not to be able to keep up with old, retired people! Worse yet that they felt sorry for me! Yikes!
I wonder. Perhaps there is a magic time when energy and strength return, and you can easily outdo the young. Wouldn't that be a kicker? (And explain a lot about that concrete floor day!). For now, I'll simply have to humor Drew and slow down enough for him to keep up.
Monday, September 15, 2008
China Berry Trees
That's what I have always called them, those amazingly graceful symmetrical leafy green mid sized trees with the orange ornamental berries hanging down all around. I doubt china berry is its official name, but I will soon find out. Roberts Wesleyan College has a number of "tree walks" that they host each fall, and Kiel is required to take one. I never know in advance when they are offered, but I would love to tag along. One of these days I will do just that. In the meantime, Kiel has promised to get me the map numbering all the trees on campus and the code that tells what they are. I am excited to see it as I would love to know if my upsidedown tree is really an aspen, and what the types of the various pine trees actually are, not to mention what my china berry tree really is called.
I started calling them that because I had heard the term, and because the clusters of bright orange berries that hang abundantly in the fall remind me vaguely of those Japanese lantern plants. I suppose that's not the official name of those cool little plants either with their orange, oddly shaped pods (can you tell that Biology was never my strong suit?) Really, I should pay more attention to these things. How does it look for a librarian to be calling things by the wrong name?
Still, there is something vaguely romantic about saying that you are having lunch underneath the china berry tree. It hints of some hidden away place tucked far from the hectic pace of everyday life, a place where time has no meaning and all the people are calm and pleasant, a place where tea is served in delicate china cups while flute music wafts through the air. Can you picture it? A scene painted in those wispy gestures of brush strokes on a bamboo wall hanging?
Underneath the china berry tree, where everyone is healthy and happy and the mists cover the purple mountains and nature stretches tamely as far as the eye can see. A welcome contrast from the blacktop, concrete, and brick world that composes our daily landscape. I sometimes wander upstairs in the library to the windows gazing out across campus, on the pretext of checking to make sure everything is as it should be, just to be able to see the graceful china berry tree outside our building.
Its not a huge tree, sort of adolescent sized and without the bowing branches of a more mature tree. I wonder if china berry trees have an affinity for libraries, because there is also one in front of the old library building, the now re-purposed Hastings Center for Education. The one there is more of a young adult size. The best china berry tree I have seen lives along Westside Drive in the front yard of a cape cod that I pass whenever I walk from the library to the church (especially true on Thursday nights). Now there is a matronly tree with sweeping boughs that brush the ground and cleanse the environment with every breeze, nourishing the local fauna and providing ammunition for foot stomping fun.
When I discover the true name for my happy fall trees, I will let you know. But I'm pretty sure the real name can't hold a candle to my nickname.
I started calling them that because I had heard the term, and because the clusters of bright orange berries that hang abundantly in the fall remind me vaguely of those Japanese lantern plants. I suppose that's not the official name of those cool little plants either with their orange, oddly shaped pods (can you tell that Biology was never my strong suit?) Really, I should pay more attention to these things. How does it look for a librarian to be calling things by the wrong name?
Still, there is something vaguely romantic about saying that you are having lunch underneath the china berry tree. It hints of some hidden away place tucked far from the hectic pace of everyday life, a place where time has no meaning and all the people are calm and pleasant, a place where tea is served in delicate china cups while flute music wafts through the air. Can you picture it? A scene painted in those wispy gestures of brush strokes on a bamboo wall hanging?
Underneath the china berry tree, where everyone is healthy and happy and the mists cover the purple mountains and nature stretches tamely as far as the eye can see. A welcome contrast from the blacktop, concrete, and brick world that composes our daily landscape. I sometimes wander upstairs in the library to the windows gazing out across campus, on the pretext of checking to make sure everything is as it should be, just to be able to see the graceful china berry tree outside our building.
Its not a huge tree, sort of adolescent sized and without the bowing branches of a more mature tree. I wonder if china berry trees have an affinity for libraries, because there is also one in front of the old library building, the now re-purposed Hastings Center for Education. The one there is more of a young adult size. The best china berry tree I have seen lives along Westside Drive in the front yard of a cape cod that I pass whenever I walk from the library to the church (especially true on Thursday nights). Now there is a matronly tree with sweeping boughs that brush the ground and cleanse the environment with every breeze, nourishing the local fauna and providing ammunition for foot stomping fun.
When I discover the true name for my happy fall trees, I will let you know. But I'm pretty sure the real name can't hold a candle to my nickname.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Happy Birthday Mom!
Hi, Mom. Carrying on the tradition of the birthday story. I hope you enjoy it.
I thought we were poor when I was in junior high school - that awkward time of self discovery, a time of measuring your life against some perception of reality that you have concocted out of scraps of truth and bits of innuendo. Back in those days, young ladies took Home Economics. No question, no debate, you were simply signed up for Home Ec in the same period as the boys time in shop.
This particular semester we were learning how to host the perfect tea. I didn't know anyone who formally took tea in the afternoon, even when they were having out of town company. Nonetheless, all well educated ladies had to know how to hold a tea, even in podunk upstate New York. For weeks we had been baking little tea cakes and fancy breads, making finger sandwiches with all sorts of fillings I had never even heard of, measuring, cutting, sifting, rolling, folding, baking - the multi station kitchen a veritable haven of tantalizing scents and mouth watering pastries. Every counter sported a thin layer of white flour dust, every pot and pan had been disturbed, every ounce of Saran Wrap layered over the fancy glass and thin china plates filled with delicacies. Presentation is everything!
I had concentrated on getting our assignments done. At least here was an area I knew something about - after all, we girls assisted Mom in the baking of Christmas cookies every December! I ought to be able to hold my own in cooking. It never occurred to me that we were actually going to give a tea. By the time I realized that the parents were to be invited, it was practically the day of the event. With dismay, I realized that the mothers who would be attending were the upper crust of our little town - wives of senators and lawyers and businessmen. They would dress for this formal tea in ways our family could only dream of.
Suddenly I was embarrassed to have you come with your homemade dress, toting two babies, your hair uncoifed, your nails unpolished. You were not a lady of leisure with maids to take care of you. Your hands were worn with scrubbing and dishes and diaper washing. Bad enough that I was expected to serve the goodies we had worked so hard to prepare (without ever being able to taste the dainty delicacies!), but to have to endure humiliation on top of that seemed unbearable. So I never gave you the invitation. I honestly thought it would be better if I didn't put you through the experience. I was so young. And clearly not seeing things straight.
Imagine my surprise when you appeared, sans baby, in a decent Sunday-go-to-meeting dress (why did I think you would wear your house dress to a formal event?). How in the world did you find out about the event? (I didn't know they mailed out formal invitations.) You seemed to know just how to sit, just how to take the little finger foods, just how to chat about niceties with the other mothers. No one else seemed to think you were out of place. I fluttered from kitchen to parlour (formal parlors have 'u's in them) with serving plates, watching the level in the punch bowl, keeping a eye out in case you got into trouble. My heart was in my throat the whole time.
Never did it occur to me that you had an actual college degree, something most of the women in that room did not have, being in the 1960s. You also had moved about some and seen more of the world than most of them. As a pastor's wife, you had attended events like this more often than I could have realized. And you have a heart of gold that would put anyone else's to shame. If I had thought of who you are instead of how much money we had in our bank account, I could have saved myself an entire afternoon of distress.
I watched you balance a cup of tea and a plate of pastries with ease and grace. You chatted with aplomb about the difficulties of grass stains on dungaree knees, about what the president was doing to help improve education, about the racial tensions in the news. You laughed at the jokes in all the right places, you didn't drool or spill anything or even seem uncomfortable. You didn't get into trouble. Not at all. In fact, you seemed to have a wonderful time talking and laughing. How curious to observe your Mother being someone you have never seen before! I shook my head in amazement. My Mom a social butterfly!
We girls were not allowed to mingle with our mothers. We were the hired help keeping things running smoothly. After the event, we stayed to clean up, washing the plates and cups, putting the paraphernalia away in the carefully organized cupboards. How like your kitchen, so thoughtfully arranged. I had seen many of those affluential mothers interact with girls in my class enough to know their lives were not unblemished. They endured a certain nervous tension about deportment that I never had to encounter.
I thought about it for a long time, puzzling over this unexpected glimpse of Mom as a real person with interests and friends and a life of her own. My estimation of you rose considerably that day. I was fiercely proud of you and held my head higher in the hallways of Knox Street Junior High School. More importantly, I came to understand the amazing sacrifices you made for us kids, to see a bit of what you gave up to spend time with us, to nurture us. I still shake my head in amazement. We were in fact, rich in ways that count, ways that most of my friends would never be. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for being there, and for being you.
I thought we were poor when I was in junior high school - that awkward time of self discovery, a time of measuring your life against some perception of reality that you have concocted out of scraps of truth and bits of innuendo. Back in those days, young ladies took Home Economics. No question, no debate, you were simply signed up for Home Ec in the same period as the boys time in shop.
This particular semester we were learning how to host the perfect tea. I didn't know anyone who formally took tea in the afternoon, even when they were having out of town company. Nonetheless, all well educated ladies had to know how to hold a tea, even in podunk upstate New York. For weeks we had been baking little tea cakes and fancy breads, making finger sandwiches with all sorts of fillings I had never even heard of, measuring, cutting, sifting, rolling, folding, baking - the multi station kitchen a veritable haven of tantalizing scents and mouth watering pastries. Every counter sported a thin layer of white flour dust, every pot and pan had been disturbed, every ounce of Saran Wrap layered over the fancy glass and thin china plates filled with delicacies. Presentation is everything!
I had concentrated on getting our assignments done. At least here was an area I knew something about - after all, we girls assisted Mom in the baking of Christmas cookies every December! I ought to be able to hold my own in cooking. It never occurred to me that we were actually going to give a tea. By the time I realized that the parents were to be invited, it was practically the day of the event. With dismay, I realized that the mothers who would be attending were the upper crust of our little town - wives of senators and lawyers and businessmen. They would dress for this formal tea in ways our family could only dream of.
Suddenly I was embarrassed to have you come with your homemade dress, toting two babies, your hair uncoifed, your nails unpolished. You were not a lady of leisure with maids to take care of you. Your hands were worn with scrubbing and dishes and diaper washing. Bad enough that I was expected to serve the goodies we had worked so hard to prepare (without ever being able to taste the dainty delicacies!), but to have to endure humiliation on top of that seemed unbearable. So I never gave you the invitation. I honestly thought it would be better if I didn't put you through the experience. I was so young. And clearly not seeing things straight.
Imagine my surprise when you appeared, sans baby, in a decent Sunday-go-to-meeting dress (why did I think you would wear your house dress to a formal event?). How in the world did you find out about the event? (I didn't know they mailed out formal invitations.) You seemed to know just how to sit, just how to take the little finger foods, just how to chat about niceties with the other mothers. No one else seemed to think you were out of place. I fluttered from kitchen to parlour (formal parlors have 'u's in them) with serving plates, watching the level in the punch bowl, keeping a eye out in case you got into trouble. My heart was in my throat the whole time.
Never did it occur to me that you had an actual college degree, something most of the women in that room did not have, being in the 1960s. You also had moved about some and seen more of the world than most of them. As a pastor's wife, you had attended events like this more often than I could have realized. And you have a heart of gold that would put anyone else's to shame. If I had thought of who you are instead of how much money we had in our bank account, I could have saved myself an entire afternoon of distress.
I watched you balance a cup of tea and a plate of pastries with ease and grace. You chatted with aplomb about the difficulties of grass stains on dungaree knees, about what the president was doing to help improve education, about the racial tensions in the news. You laughed at the jokes in all the right places, you didn't drool or spill anything or even seem uncomfortable. You didn't get into trouble. Not at all. In fact, you seemed to have a wonderful time talking and laughing. How curious to observe your Mother being someone you have never seen before! I shook my head in amazement. My Mom a social butterfly!
We girls were not allowed to mingle with our mothers. We were the hired help keeping things running smoothly. After the event, we stayed to clean up, washing the plates and cups, putting the paraphernalia away in the carefully organized cupboards. How like your kitchen, so thoughtfully arranged. I had seen many of those affluential mothers interact with girls in my class enough to know their lives were not unblemished. They endured a certain nervous tension about deportment that I never had to encounter.
I thought about it for a long time, puzzling over this unexpected glimpse of Mom as a real person with interests and friends and a life of her own. My estimation of you rose considerably that day. I was fiercely proud of you and held my head higher in the hallways of Knox Street Junior High School. More importantly, I came to understand the amazing sacrifices you made for us kids, to see a bit of what you gave up to spend time with us, to nurture us. I still shake my head in amazement. We were in fact, rich in ways that count, ways that most of my friends would never be. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for being there, and for being you.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Morning Fog
Carl Sandburg obviously wasn't thinking of Rochester when he wrote
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
This morning's fog didn't creep up quietly - it fell with a boom. There was no hint of fog at 6am when first I woke, but suddenly the sky was white and impenetrable - a mist that seemed to fall like a curtain being dropped unrestrainedly and without warning. The whiteness looked deceptively gauzy, like a bridal veil. But its thickness prevented any awareness of the nearest building. No matter how hard you squinted, you couldn't as much as imagine the dark forms of trees, the outlines of roofs. There was only whiteness, whiteness everywhere.
Even sound seemed unable to break through. I could hear no traffic noises, no bird song, no train whistle, no conversation of neighbors. I was shrouded in silence, alone, a prisoner walled off from the world. This fog didn't look benevolently over the city, it insidiously separated one being from another, prevented connections, shrouded life. No glasses you could find would be able to bring the world into focus. It was eerie, unsettling.
The boys were still asleep, the neighbors quiet. I made a cup of peppermint tea and waited, watching for a break in the fog cover. I took a mouthful of the steamy fragrant tea, closed my eyes and sighed, savoring the warmth in my throat and tummy.
When I opened my eyes, every trace of the fog was gone, mysteriously vanished as if it had never been there, leaving behind the gray dullness of a rainy fall morning whose bland color was only alleviated by the punctuation of a few fallen leaves printed bright yellow on the soggy ground below.
Cat indeed. More like wild ornery wildebeest.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
This morning's fog didn't creep up quietly - it fell with a boom. There was no hint of fog at 6am when first I woke, but suddenly the sky was white and impenetrable - a mist that seemed to fall like a curtain being dropped unrestrainedly and without warning. The whiteness looked deceptively gauzy, like a bridal veil. But its thickness prevented any awareness of the nearest building. No matter how hard you squinted, you couldn't as much as imagine the dark forms of trees, the outlines of roofs. There was only whiteness, whiteness everywhere.
Even sound seemed unable to break through. I could hear no traffic noises, no bird song, no train whistle, no conversation of neighbors. I was shrouded in silence, alone, a prisoner walled off from the world. This fog didn't look benevolently over the city, it insidiously separated one being from another, prevented connections, shrouded life. No glasses you could find would be able to bring the world into focus. It was eerie, unsettling.
The boys were still asleep, the neighbors quiet. I made a cup of peppermint tea and waited, watching for a break in the fog cover. I took a mouthful of the steamy fragrant tea, closed my eyes and sighed, savoring the warmth in my throat and tummy.
When I opened my eyes, every trace of the fog was gone, mysteriously vanished as if it had never been there, leaving behind the gray dullness of a rainy fall morning whose bland color was only alleviated by the punctuation of a few fallen leaves printed bright yellow on the soggy ground below.
Cat indeed. More like wild ornery wildebeest.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Friday Night Tradition
I blinked when I saw the email from Drew's soccer coach. He was offering free tickets to a Rhinos soccer game! I was sure the boys would want to go. Free! Wow. I emailed right away and accepted two tickets (after all, with my cold, I don't really want to sit outside in the night air for a couple of hours). Coach called me and assured me he would send them home with Drew. I felt a warm glow inside. I like doing nice things for my kids.
What a surprise to find that they didn't want to give up Friday tradition for the soccer game. Am I hearing that right? They would rather stay home with their sick old Mom and watch movies and eat junk than go to a game? What is that? Neither boy would budge. In fact, they started telling me that the Rhinos aren't that good a team, that they really don't like watching soccer (right- so why does the TV channel constantly find its way to those soccer games?), they're too tired (this from the kids who can't get in bed before 1am), they already rented the movie and its a 24 hour rental - endless reasons to stay home.
Friday tradition thing is something the boys started. They wanted one night a week when we are all home doing something together. The default is to order fast food and watch a rented movie. Even when everyone is healthy and we have funds, they prefer to be home together rather than at a bowling alley or roller skating or walking in a park. It isn't about what we do, as long as we do it together. Family time.
I realize once again how precious this activity is to them, how careful I need to be not to violate it, how necessary that I am not trying to read or do something where my focus is elsewhere. Tonight we opt for a home cooked meal rather than junk. We fix our plates with the baked potato, barbecued chicken strips, and a bit of fruit, settle in the living room with steaming mugs of tea, and click play to watch the antics of Jackie Chan and Jet Li in Forbidden Kingdom. Its a nice little movie, and afterwards, we catch the Friday night line up of Monk, Psyche, House. I doze on and off in the chair, happy to be home and at ease with the kids. Now if I can just get over this cold!
What a surprise to find that they didn't want to give up Friday tradition for the soccer game. Am I hearing that right? They would rather stay home with their sick old Mom and watch movies and eat junk than go to a game? What is that? Neither boy would budge. In fact, they started telling me that the Rhinos aren't that good a team, that they really don't like watching soccer (right- so why does the TV channel constantly find its way to those soccer games?), they're too tired (this from the kids who can't get in bed before 1am), they already rented the movie and its a 24 hour rental - endless reasons to stay home.
Friday tradition thing is something the boys started. They wanted one night a week when we are all home doing something together. The default is to order fast food and watch a rented movie. Even when everyone is healthy and we have funds, they prefer to be home together rather than at a bowling alley or roller skating or walking in a park. It isn't about what we do, as long as we do it together. Family time.
I realize once again how precious this activity is to them, how careful I need to be not to violate it, how necessary that I am not trying to read or do something where my focus is elsewhere. Tonight we opt for a home cooked meal rather than junk. We fix our plates with the baked potato, barbecued chicken strips, and a bit of fruit, settle in the living room with steaming mugs of tea, and click play to watch the antics of Jackie Chan and Jet Li in Forbidden Kingdom. Its a nice little movie, and afterwards, we catch the Friday night line up of Monk, Psyche, House. I doze on and off in the chair, happy to be home and at ease with the kids. Now if I can just get over this cold!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Singing Bass
It was inevitable. I caught the cold that everyone else has. Students at the Circ Desk came to school with a miserable cold. My boys brought it home. Break out the Vitamin C, the herbal tea and honey, the gallons of cough syrup and juice. Slather up with Olbas (the natural equivalent of Vicks) and stumble about tired and crotchety.
My colds always settle in my throat and aggravate my vocal cords. Its a singer thing. You feel like you are choking and your voice drops several octaves in pitch. As soon as I utter a word, I get the sympathy look. "O, you have a cold. You sound horrible." I nod my head in abject sadness.
Choir rehearsal will be the big challenge. Will I have enough voice to get through it even if I don't sing anything? But wait, tonight I am teaching a Taize tune that is copyright protected. I can't make copies. Its in an expensive book I don't want to purchase 30 copies of just for one or two songs. So I plan to teach it by rote. Its an easy melody. The words are few and repetitive. Then it gets sung as a round once they learn it. I'll just put it first before my voice gives out. Yes, that should work.
I cough and choke and have a hard time even from the getgo, despite the high doses of Vitamin C and the million cups of tea. I suck a cough drop, and that helps, but my voice fades away at the most inopportune times. Good grief. I am sure that by the time I get home, my vocal cords will be so swollen I will have a hard time breathing.
My voice slides in and out of ranges. I am amused to find I can model tenor and bass in the right octaves, and somehow manage to also do any alto and soprano examples as well. Maybe colds are actually good for something! I am happy to have someone else read the devotional. We manage to get through rehearsal OK. I just hope this clears up before Sunday!
My colds always settle in my throat and aggravate my vocal cords. Its a singer thing. You feel like you are choking and your voice drops several octaves in pitch. As soon as I utter a word, I get the sympathy look. "O, you have a cold. You sound horrible." I nod my head in abject sadness.
Choir rehearsal will be the big challenge. Will I have enough voice to get through it even if I don't sing anything? But wait, tonight I am teaching a Taize tune that is copyright protected. I can't make copies. Its in an expensive book I don't want to purchase 30 copies of just for one or two songs. So I plan to teach it by rote. Its an easy melody. The words are few and repetitive. Then it gets sung as a round once they learn it. I'll just put it first before my voice gives out. Yes, that should work.
I cough and choke and have a hard time even from the getgo, despite the high doses of Vitamin C and the million cups of tea. I suck a cough drop, and that helps, but my voice fades away at the most inopportune times. Good grief. I am sure that by the time I get home, my vocal cords will be so swollen I will have a hard time breathing.
My voice slides in and out of ranges. I am amused to find I can model tenor and bass in the right octaves, and somehow manage to also do any alto and soprano examples as well. Maybe colds are actually good for something! I am happy to have someone else read the devotional. We manage to get through rehearsal OK. I just hope this clears up before Sunday!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Game Night
"Would you like some popcorn?" Such a simple question. Such a variety of answers. Nowhere in my job description does it say 'Operate commercial popcorn machine and hawk product.' Yet here I am standing outside the library, warming myself against the fall chill with the heat of a popcorn machine, doing my best to convince people to take something that's free. It was a tough sell.
Running the machine wasn't complicated. Plug it in, push four little buttons to the on position, snip open the coconut oil side of the package and slide the column of yellow into the hanging pan. Snip open the premeasured popcorn/salt side of the package and dump that into the hanging pan. Close the lid and wait about a minute while the bar went round and round the bottom of the pan to prevent burning. Voila! The banging and popping sounded like firecrackers going off, and the fluffy kernels bubbling up out of the pan, bouncing the lid around, spewing into the glass case like some kind of white lava. The familiar smell floated across campus, a veritable invitation to come check it out.
I am convinced that its not the taste of popcorn that makes people want it. It is the memory associated with eating popcorn that make people like the stuff. After all, its rather like eating Styrofoam drenched in butter (or in this case, oil) and salt. Yes, its supposed to be low calorie and high fiber, but invariably when someone actually took a bag, they would share with me the event at which they last had popcorn. Pleasant events - ball games, movies, family gatherings, dorm parties.
The acceptance rate ran around 50%. Some of it was related to the hour - our game night ran from 4 to 7, right over the dinner hour. Either they were headed for dinner and didn't want to spoil their appetite, or they were just coming from dinner and were stuffed. A few just didn't like popcorn (isn't that un-American?). More guys accepted than girls, but the girls were more emotional and expressive about taking it. "Ooooh POPCORN! I just love popcorn. Yummy yummy yummy yummy. Don't fill it all the way to the top though. About two-thirds. Hey (to her friends) come get some popcorn!"
At first I thought perhaps the polite 'no, thank you' might be that they thought I was selling the popcorn. I started emphasize the free part. I would say "Would you like some FREE popcorn? It's free." That only made one or two people change their minds. Then I realized we as a whole are developing a knee-jerk resistance to being approached by salesmen. I myself just recently in the mall was accosted by those obnoxious people affiliated with some sort of over priced beauty product sold from a cart in the median of the mall.
I was taken in by that once. A gorgeous young man with an appealing accent had convinced me to buy a product I had been on the lookout for anyway - a French manicure kit. It was pricey, but he had been so pleasant and well mannered and his accent so engaging. Perhaps there was in that accent both a touch of the exotic, a bit of mystery and adventure, a way to escape our boring ho-hum daily grind, and also some humanitarian appeal to help those from other countries who are probably a bit less fortunate. Americans are suckers for that stuff. Whatever the reason, I bought his product. I only took the basics, resisting all the extras he tried valiantly to sell. The kick came later when I saw the same twinkly blue eyed blond with the perfect white teeth in the food court scarfing down a burger with his friends, laughing and conversing in perfectly normal English sans accent, sans politeness, sans niceness. I had been hoodwinked. Bah!
So last week in the mall when the tall willowy blond girl smiled her bestest smile at me and asked, "Can I ask you a question?" I said "NO!" and kept on walking. I will not be taken in again even if I were interested in slathering my face with salt from the Dead Sea, which I am not (who wants a dead salted face?). I didn't look at her, I didn't slow down, I navigated out of there as fast as my feet could take me, totally ignoring her pleas of "No? But its just a little question, really." Really? I know all about psychological sales strategy. Sound innocent, get them to stop, prey on their politeness, start them out with a question they respond to in the positive, and set them to keep being positive when you ask them to buy. Not me, baby. I know you are only doing what you have been taught to do and you might not even realize the game you are playing. But I have earned a phD in resistance. Sianara.
I figure being rude is a kinder response than standing there playing the devil's advocate, arguing with their logic that they have been trained to use, or listening intently, agreeing to everything and then just walking away and not purchasing. I tried that strategy a time or two, but I felt sorry for the young people who probably work either for peanuts or on commission. Its as cruel to lead someone on as it is to deceive them.
I saw that saw tight-lipped, don't look you in the eye, hold your hand in a 'stop' position, walk away fast response from a few people who said no to the free popcorn. Mostly I think its just protective behavior. One or two told me they were allergic - that was a pleasant rejection. Maybe I should try that with the mall hawks next time. Sweetly look them in the eye, and in a syrupy voice, say "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to overpriced cosmetic products."
Regardless of the rejection rate, I gave out well over 300 bags of popcorn and convinced a fair amount to go inside the library and sign up for the door prizes. My reward was not just seeing go in, but hearing them on their cell phones as they came out. "You'll never guess what I just did in the library. I played a game of Mario Kart. It was great. Yeah, in the library. Its cool. Uh-huh."
All in all, a successful event. And the drawings for the door prize were well attended. When we finally got to the grand prize drawing, the excitement in the room was palpable. It was as if everyone were holding their breath. The first few names we drew were not present. But then we called out a name and the room exploded. They young man who won the hockey stick bounded forward to accept, his face one big smile. Yes, it was a good event.
Running the machine wasn't complicated. Plug it in, push four little buttons to the on position, snip open the coconut oil side of the package and slide the column of yellow into the hanging pan. Snip open the premeasured popcorn/salt side of the package and dump that into the hanging pan. Close the lid and wait about a minute while the bar went round and round the bottom of the pan to prevent burning. Voila! The banging and popping sounded like firecrackers going off, and the fluffy kernels bubbling up out of the pan, bouncing the lid around, spewing into the glass case like some kind of white lava. The familiar smell floated across campus, a veritable invitation to come check it out.
I am convinced that its not the taste of popcorn that makes people want it. It is the memory associated with eating popcorn that make people like the stuff. After all, its rather like eating Styrofoam drenched in butter (or in this case, oil) and salt. Yes, its supposed to be low calorie and high fiber, but invariably when someone actually took a bag, they would share with me the event at which they last had popcorn. Pleasant events - ball games, movies, family gatherings, dorm parties.
The acceptance rate ran around 50%. Some of it was related to the hour - our game night ran from 4 to 7, right over the dinner hour. Either they were headed for dinner and didn't want to spoil their appetite, or they were just coming from dinner and were stuffed. A few just didn't like popcorn (isn't that un-American?). More guys accepted than girls, but the girls were more emotional and expressive about taking it. "Ooooh POPCORN! I just love popcorn. Yummy yummy yummy yummy. Don't fill it all the way to the top though. About two-thirds. Hey (to her friends) come get some popcorn!"
At first I thought perhaps the polite 'no, thank you' might be that they thought I was selling the popcorn. I started emphasize the free part. I would say "Would you like some FREE popcorn? It's free." That only made one or two people change their minds. Then I realized we as a whole are developing a knee-jerk resistance to being approached by salesmen. I myself just recently in the mall was accosted by those obnoxious people affiliated with some sort of over priced beauty product sold from a cart in the median of the mall.
I was taken in by that once. A gorgeous young man with an appealing accent had convinced me to buy a product I had been on the lookout for anyway - a French manicure kit. It was pricey, but he had been so pleasant and well mannered and his accent so engaging. Perhaps there was in that accent both a touch of the exotic, a bit of mystery and adventure, a way to escape our boring ho-hum daily grind, and also some humanitarian appeal to help those from other countries who are probably a bit less fortunate. Americans are suckers for that stuff. Whatever the reason, I bought his product. I only took the basics, resisting all the extras he tried valiantly to sell. The kick came later when I saw the same twinkly blue eyed blond with the perfect white teeth in the food court scarfing down a burger with his friends, laughing and conversing in perfectly normal English sans accent, sans politeness, sans niceness. I had been hoodwinked. Bah!
So last week in the mall when the tall willowy blond girl smiled her bestest smile at me and asked, "Can I ask you a question?" I said "NO!" and kept on walking. I will not be taken in again even if I were interested in slathering my face with salt from the Dead Sea, which I am not (who wants a dead salted face?). I didn't look at her, I didn't slow down, I navigated out of there as fast as my feet could take me, totally ignoring her pleas of "No? But its just a little question, really." Really? I know all about psychological sales strategy. Sound innocent, get them to stop, prey on their politeness, start them out with a question they respond to in the positive, and set them to keep being positive when you ask them to buy. Not me, baby. I know you are only doing what you have been taught to do and you might not even realize the game you are playing. But I have earned a phD in resistance. Sianara.
I figure being rude is a kinder response than standing there playing the devil's advocate, arguing with their logic that they have been trained to use, or listening intently, agreeing to everything and then just walking away and not purchasing. I tried that strategy a time or two, but I felt sorry for the young people who probably work either for peanuts or on commission. Its as cruel to lead someone on as it is to deceive them.
I saw that saw tight-lipped, don't look you in the eye, hold your hand in a 'stop' position, walk away fast response from a few people who said no to the free popcorn. Mostly I think its just protective behavior. One or two told me they were allergic - that was a pleasant rejection. Maybe I should try that with the mall hawks next time. Sweetly look them in the eye, and in a syrupy voice, say "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to overpriced cosmetic products."
Regardless of the rejection rate, I gave out well over 300 bags of popcorn and convinced a fair amount to go inside the library and sign up for the door prizes. My reward was not just seeing go in, but hearing them on their cell phones as they came out. "You'll never guess what I just did in the library. I played a game of Mario Kart. It was great. Yeah, in the library. Its cool. Uh-huh."
All in all, a successful event. And the drawings for the door prize were well attended. When we finally got to the grand prize drawing, the excitement in the room was palpable. It was as if everyone were holding their breath. The first few names we drew were not present. But then we called out a name and the room exploded. They young man who won the hockey stick bounded forward to accept, his face one big smile. Yes, it was a good event.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Getting Ready
I don't know why I stress so about asking for help. Its not hard, really. Perhaps it is that darn American independence thing. Perhaps it is being the oldest girl of eight children. Perhaps its just my character. I don't know, but reaching out for help is actually a good thing.
In this case, I needed more door prizes for our Open House event. The hockey stick was great, but I wanted to be able to give a few more prizes. This required asking for donations from local businesses. With Development's blessings, I selected four local businesses to approach. Not having done much of this sort of thing, I used the head on frontal approach.
I entered the first establishment and asked to speak to the manager. The girl behind the counter blinked, got a serious look on her face, and scurried off to find the head honcho. She must have thought I was going to complain or make a scene. The manager took her time about appearing, and I realized I should have called and made an appointment, but there was no back tracking now.
I introduced myself and explained about our Open House and what I was looking for. She was more than happy to accommodate, asking only a letter describing the event in return. Wow! That was easy! Emboldened, I entered the next place. They too were more than happy to help and requested a letter for their files. This wasn't so hard after all.
By the time I got to the third place, it was nearing the lunch hour, and the manager glanced in my direction, told me it was a bad time, and to come back later in the afternoon. Yikes! Common sense. I should have realized. A learning experience. When all was said and done, I had collected an excellent supply of door prizes from five local institutions, and had been well received by all, invited to come again, urged to have others from campus contact them.
I was definitely encouraged. Sure hope the students come!
In this case, I needed more door prizes for our Open House event. The hockey stick was great, but I wanted to be able to give a few more prizes. This required asking for donations from local businesses. With Development's blessings, I selected four local businesses to approach. Not having done much of this sort of thing, I used the head on frontal approach.
I entered the first establishment and asked to speak to the manager. The girl behind the counter blinked, got a serious look on her face, and scurried off to find the head honcho. She must have thought I was going to complain or make a scene. The manager took her time about appearing, and I realized I should have called and made an appointment, but there was no back tracking now.
I introduced myself and explained about our Open House and what I was looking for. She was more than happy to accommodate, asking only a letter describing the event in return. Wow! That was easy! Emboldened, I entered the next place. They too were more than happy to help and requested a letter for their files. This wasn't so hard after all.
By the time I got to the third place, it was nearing the lunch hour, and the manager glanced in my direction, told me it was a bad time, and to come back later in the afternoon. Yikes! Common sense. I should have realized. A learning experience. When all was said and done, I had collected an excellent supply of door prizes from five local institutions, and had been well received by all, invited to come again, urged to have others from campus contact them.
I was definitely encouraged. Sure hope the students come!
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sabres
I am not a hockey fan. Sports are not my forte at all. But somehow the idea of organizing our Open House event around sports came into play. We tossed ideas around about how to encourage our new students to come into the library. We had met with a marketing professor and talked about what we should be considering, and how the current generation of students expect to have positive experiences with places, and that's what makes them want to come back.
So we thought if we provided a positive experience, they would feel comfortable being in the library. And since we know they like to play online and electronic games, we thought we would set up games throughout the library and invite them to come and play a game. We asked to use the college's big popcorn cart and give out free popcorn, and we asked local rental stores to donate the use of units and games to play. We got Guitar Hero, Mario Kart, and a few others, plus we are setting around board games like chess, checkers, monopoly and puzzles.
It took on a life of its own, this Open House. Our theme is We Got Game, and someone commented that its too bad we couldn't get a local sports figure to come and sign autographs. Never one to turn down a good challenge, I asked. The person who donated the money to build our library, Mr. Golisano, also owns the Sabres, a hockey team in Buffalo. Their contact person was happy to consider our request, but since our event was before the players return, he offered us a signed hockey stick instead.
Fabulous! This morning I drove out to Buffalo and picked it up. What a hoot! Official and everything. As I walked back to my car in the parking garage, any number of people pointed and remarked about the trophy I carried. "Look - Mom - she's got a hockey stick!" "Hey, nice stick." "Wow - where'd you get that?"
Maybe our students will be interested too. Maybe they'll come in our library and check us out. Wouldn't that be great!
So we thought if we provided a positive experience, they would feel comfortable being in the library. And since we know they like to play online and electronic games, we thought we would set up games throughout the library and invite them to come and play a game. We asked to use the college's big popcorn cart and give out free popcorn, and we asked local rental stores to donate the use of units and games to play. We got Guitar Hero, Mario Kart, and a few others, plus we are setting around board games like chess, checkers, monopoly and puzzles.
It took on a life of its own, this Open House. Our theme is We Got Game, and someone commented that its too bad we couldn't get a local sports figure to come and sign autographs. Never one to turn down a good challenge, I asked. The person who donated the money to build our library, Mr. Golisano, also owns the Sabres, a hockey team in Buffalo. Their contact person was happy to consider our request, but since our event was before the players return, he offered us a signed hockey stick instead.
Fabulous! This morning I drove out to Buffalo and picked it up. What a hoot! Official and everything. As I walked back to my car in the parking garage, any number of people pointed and remarked about the trophy I carried. "Look - Mom - she's got a hockey stick!" "Hey, nice stick." "Wow - where'd you get that?"
Maybe our students will be interested too. Maybe they'll come in our library and check us out. Wouldn't that be great!
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Suddenly Fall
This morning as I stepped out of the building for my early morning jaunt, I embraced the delightful blue skies and warm air. The birds were flying swoops across the playful breeze as I turned on my iPod. Soon I was zipping along to Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald singing Frim Fram Sauce. I wish it would stay beautiful outside forever. Late summer is a wonderful time.
Suddenly I realized I was treading across fallen leaves. Wait! When did fall arrive? There hasn't really been any cold weather, but the trees are sporting patches of red and yellow leaves. I can't believe there are already leaves on the ground crinkling into dust. The grass is vibrant green, there are robins everywhere. Surely summer has not come to an end.
I refuse to let go of summer. I am still wearing my sandals. I just can't bring myself to confine my little tootsies in socks and real shoes. I haven't packed away my shorts (in fact, I am wearing them!). If I believed in summer whites, I would still be carrying a white purse. I plan to go to the beach this weekend. Summer just can't be over.
Didn't they get the memo? Fall does not officially start until after the 21st. I refuse to give in to the push of seasonal relentlessness. I won't allow it to stay dark until well after 7am. I do not permit it to grow dark by 8pm. No, no, no. There are still peaches to pick and tomatoes to ripen. I don't care if school has started, I am still in leisure mode. We must eke every ounce of summer out of the days we have left.
Too soon we will be hibernating behind plastic encased windows, shielded from the sun's life giving rays, cocooned in scarves and hats and mittens. Too soon we will be parched from the heated air circulating through our cloistered habitats. Too soon we will break out the hot chocolate to warm us after our forays into the frigidness of winter.
I will marvel at the wonders of autumn another day. For now, I resist! I step over the fallen leaves, laughing with Louis - I'll take the frim fram sauce with the ausenfay with chafaufa on the side. Sunny side up. Thanks.
Suddenly I realized I was treading across fallen leaves. Wait! When did fall arrive? There hasn't really been any cold weather, but the trees are sporting patches of red and yellow leaves. I can't believe there are already leaves on the ground crinkling into dust. The grass is vibrant green, there are robins everywhere. Surely summer has not come to an end.
I refuse to let go of summer. I am still wearing my sandals. I just can't bring myself to confine my little tootsies in socks and real shoes. I haven't packed away my shorts (in fact, I am wearing them!). If I believed in summer whites, I would still be carrying a white purse. I plan to go to the beach this weekend. Summer just can't be over.
Didn't they get the memo? Fall does not officially start until after the 21st. I refuse to give in to the push of seasonal relentlessness. I won't allow it to stay dark until well after 7am. I do not permit it to grow dark by 8pm. No, no, no. There are still peaches to pick and tomatoes to ripen. I don't care if school has started, I am still in leisure mode. We must eke every ounce of summer out of the days we have left.
Too soon we will be hibernating behind plastic encased windows, shielded from the sun's life giving rays, cocooned in scarves and hats and mittens. Too soon we will be parched from the heated air circulating through our cloistered habitats. Too soon we will break out the hot chocolate to warm us after our forays into the frigidness of winter.
I will marvel at the wonders of autumn another day. For now, I resist! I step over the fallen leaves, laughing with Louis - I'll take the frim fram sauce with the ausenfay with chafaufa on the side. Sunny side up. Thanks.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Birthday Shoppin'
I hate to shop. I can think of nothing more detestable than running from huge department store to mega mall to supergrocery market trying to figure out how to stretch too few dollars into impressive arrays of consumables. Unless of course I am shopping for somebody I really care about. Don't you just find it irresistible to figure out what makes some else's boat float, what will bring that perfect unabashed smile of unexpected delight to someone's face?
Most of the fun is in guessing what they like. You have to think like they think, stand in their shoes, remember little things they have wistfully said, consider their hobbies and pastimes. Its not easy to step out of your own mindset and put on someone else's bonnet, see the world through different eyes. I dragged the boys into my mall stalking, enlisting their unwilling aid in anticipating what the birthday person might enjoy.
At first, they just gave blithe answers - "sure, whatever." Translation: I am not interested in this. I would rather be home watching a movie. Or eating. Or both. I persist. Really, do you think she would like this? They blink at me, stunned that I am expecting them to think. After a few tentative remarks, they begin to get into the game.
The first few questions were no brainers. What's her favorite color? Butterdish Blue! Everyone knows that. (If you had been there when they built their house, you would have heard the conversation when paint colors were being decided. She tried to describe the particular tint of blue she wanted, and finally picked up the butter dish - this color!) Has it changed recently? Hum. Not sure. I recall that she is collecting cranberry glassware, certainly not a blue hue. There was a conversation about repainting the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure blue was not part of the discussion. Maybe we have not been paying attention.
Does she like chocolate? Stupid question! Has to be a small amount so she won't break out. Make sure its of a particularly excellent quality - something she wouldn't get for herself, a treat. And she's a tea lover, see what you can find to enhance her tea drinking experience. What else does she like? What have you heard her say lately?
The boys rack their brains. "I don't know. You know her better than we do. You tell us." I hold up a plaque - would she like this? No, it doesn't seem to fit her. What about this one? Maybe. Not quite right. A card with flowers on the front? Nice. Roses or sunflowers? Lilies or a whole bouquet of mixed flowers? TOO MANY DECISIONS!!!
I can see the boys are wearing thin. We switch stores and begin the process again. We had the most fun in the candle store. The two towering athletes excitedly explored the scents of all the candles, causing the salesclerk angst since you aren't supposed to open the jars to sniff (right - how do they expect people to discover what they like?).
Two hours later, we finally tear ourselves away from the mall, an armload of little gifts dangling in fancy bags from our hands. At home, I examine each treasure as I wrap them, wondering if she will like stuff, if we hit the mark or if we guessed wrong. Shopping is no fun unless you are engaged in bringing pleasure to someone else. It makes you jump into the head of someone you care about, makes you realize you might not have been paying enough attention, maybe you need to spend more time with them now and not rely on how they were a year ago - or back when you were a child. After all, people change. Ya gotta keep up. If you care. And we do.
Most of the fun is in guessing what they like. You have to think like they think, stand in their shoes, remember little things they have wistfully said, consider their hobbies and pastimes. Its not easy to step out of your own mindset and put on someone else's bonnet, see the world through different eyes. I dragged the boys into my mall stalking, enlisting their unwilling aid in anticipating what the birthday person might enjoy.
At first, they just gave blithe answers - "sure, whatever." Translation: I am not interested in this. I would rather be home watching a movie. Or eating. Or both. I persist. Really, do you think she would like this? They blink at me, stunned that I am expecting them to think. After a few tentative remarks, they begin to get into the game.
The first few questions were no brainers. What's her favorite color? Butterdish Blue! Everyone knows that. (If you had been there when they built their house, you would have heard the conversation when paint colors were being decided. She tried to describe the particular tint of blue she wanted, and finally picked up the butter dish - this color!) Has it changed recently? Hum. Not sure. I recall that she is collecting cranberry glassware, certainly not a blue hue. There was a conversation about repainting the bathroom, and I'm pretty sure blue was not part of the discussion. Maybe we have not been paying attention.
Does she like chocolate? Stupid question! Has to be a small amount so she won't break out. Make sure its of a particularly excellent quality - something she wouldn't get for herself, a treat. And she's a tea lover, see what you can find to enhance her tea drinking experience. What else does she like? What have you heard her say lately?
The boys rack their brains. "I don't know. You know her better than we do. You tell us." I hold up a plaque - would she like this? No, it doesn't seem to fit her. What about this one? Maybe. Not quite right. A card with flowers on the front? Nice. Roses or sunflowers? Lilies or a whole bouquet of mixed flowers? TOO MANY DECISIONS!!!
I can see the boys are wearing thin. We switch stores and begin the process again. We had the most fun in the candle store. The two towering athletes excitedly explored the scents of all the candles, causing the salesclerk angst since you aren't supposed to open the jars to sniff (right - how do they expect people to discover what they like?).
Two hours later, we finally tear ourselves away from the mall, an armload of little gifts dangling in fancy bags from our hands. At home, I examine each treasure as I wrap them, wondering if she will like stuff, if we hit the mark or if we guessed wrong. Shopping is no fun unless you are engaged in bringing pleasure to someone else. It makes you jump into the head of someone you care about, makes you realize you might not have been paying enough attention, maybe you need to spend more time with them now and not rely on how they were a year ago - or back when you were a child. After all, people change. Ya gotta keep up. If you care. And we do.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Worn Out
All this midnight training and 7am opening of the library has me plumb worn out. I have learned not to push this hard, so I purposely make sure I take mid day breaks, go home, rest up, not over extend. In the old days, I would have just kept going until I dropped (I could hold out longer then). But perhaps my gray hair has actually resulted in a bit of wisdom.
Still, resting in the middle of the day is not the same as keeping regular hours, getting to bed at a decent time, having uninterrupted sleep. My whole system is objecting. My head aches, my throat is raw, my voice raspy, my stomach churning, and most of all, my glands glanding. I know the odd hours will end soon. It is a blip on the radar soon to be long forgotten.
I marvel that I can even attempt this week long push, marvel that I don't collapse as I would have even a year ago. My body is recovering. The joy of knowing that I am created in such a marvelous way as to withstand not only the damage of the horrible disease but also the toxicity of the treatment amazes me.
Truly, I am one of the fortunate ones. So many I know have succumbed to the ravages of disease and/or drugs. I am blessed by the efforts of groups like the Lance Armstrong Foundation who are raising awareness, money, and resources for research and assistance. A time will come, I have no doubt, when cancer will no longer be the death sentence it used to be. Someday it will go the way of polio and whooping cough - a rare incidence here and there, an outbreak in a third world country, totally preventable and treatable.
Meanwhile, today I am thankful that the week of long hours is done and I have not only survived, I have progressed!
Still, resting in the middle of the day is not the same as keeping regular hours, getting to bed at a decent time, having uninterrupted sleep. My whole system is objecting. My head aches, my throat is raw, my voice raspy, my stomach churning, and most of all, my glands glanding. I know the odd hours will end soon. It is a blip on the radar soon to be long forgotten.
I marvel that I can even attempt this week long push, marvel that I don't collapse as I would have even a year ago. My body is recovering. The joy of knowing that I am created in such a marvelous way as to withstand not only the damage of the horrible disease but also the toxicity of the treatment amazes me.
Truly, I am one of the fortunate ones. So many I know have succumbed to the ravages of disease and/or drugs. I am blessed by the efforts of groups like the Lance Armstrong Foundation who are raising awareness, money, and resources for research and assistance. A time will come, I have no doubt, when cancer will no longer be the death sentence it used to be. Someday it will go the way of polio and whooping cough - a rare incidence here and there, an outbreak in a third world country, totally preventable and treatable.
Meanwhile, today I am thankful that the week of long hours is done and I have not only survived, I have progressed!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
First Rehearsal
Over the summer, I had read through hundreds of new choral scores, talked with other church choir directors, attended other church services, explored ideas about improving worship, met with the pastor and the pianist to discuss the fall services, ordered materials, studied voice, collected vocal warm up exercises, and bought my previous voice teacher's new book. I had charted a plan to improve vocal techniques, especially targeting the more mature singer, and practiced!
Still, I felt not quite ready for our first rehearsal of the church year. I wanted desperately to make our time together fun and enjoyable as well as productive. Our opening pieces were a bit more challenging than I usually select for season start-up, but they went well with what the Pastor would be preaching about. It would be a challenging year since our pianist had given his notice and we would be looking for a new accompanist.
I gathered my lesson plan, music folder, CD, and hymnal and boldly entered the sanctuary. People were already gathering, and there was a certain buzz in the air, an excitement I hoped would last a long time. I was delighted to see so many people - both last year's members and a few new faces. We had to set up some more chairs - how delightful! We stretched to an upbeat version of Psalm 23, buzz lip trills, stretched our vocal cords, and sang some thirds, all in preparation for diving into our opening song of the season.
The time flew by. Before I knew it, an hour and a half had evaporated. It felt good to be working on music again, learning notes, getting the sense of the song, feeling the music, becoming the song. It is a good thing to sing praise unto the Lord! Especially with people you know and love.
Still, I felt not quite ready for our first rehearsal of the church year. I wanted desperately to make our time together fun and enjoyable as well as productive. Our opening pieces were a bit more challenging than I usually select for season start-up, but they went well with what the Pastor would be preaching about. It would be a challenging year since our pianist had given his notice and we would be looking for a new accompanist.
I gathered my lesson plan, music folder, CD, and hymnal and boldly entered the sanctuary. People were already gathering, and there was a certain buzz in the air, an excitement I hoped would last a long time. I was delighted to see so many people - both last year's members and a few new faces. We had to set up some more chairs - how delightful! We stretched to an upbeat version of Psalm 23, buzz lip trills, stretched our vocal cords, and sang some thirds, all in preparation for diving into our opening song of the season.
The time flew by. Before I knew it, an hour and a half had evaporated. It felt good to be working on music again, learning notes, getting the sense of the song, feeling the music, becoming the song. It is a good thing to sing praise unto the Lord! Especially with people you know and love.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
In Full Bloom
I couldn't resist. Its not often that you can get a dozen roses for 6 bucks! But Walmart was running a special. The bouquets were all mixed colors, and every bouquet unique. Some had a preponderance of yellows, others of oranges, others of red. The flower heads were tightly closed, some bent and twisted, others ramrod straight.
I hovered over the buckets of wrapped selections, picking up one, then another, turning them around, trying to find the best collection. I settled on one that had no preponderance of any one color, just a nice mix of all the hues - light and dark pink, white, deep and light yellow, red tinged, apricot tinged - a veritable rainbow of delight.
I tucked them on the dashboard of the car and ported them about as I ran my other errands and completed the checklist of 'to-dos.' First thing I did when I arrived home was shuck the plastic wrap from them, snip off the ends, and tuck them into a glass vase filled with water laced with the packet of bloom saver that had been rubber banded tightly about their stems. I changed vases twice, going for the most advantageous showcase I could muster.
They came with plenty of greenery, both their own rose leaves and a few ferns tucked in next to the baby's breath. I fluffed them out, spacing each rose evenly from its neighbors, giving it plenty of room to breathe and stretch out. I set the whole dozen on top of the TV cabinet near the front window. A few days later, I was rewarded with fully opened faces each proudly displaying its natural beauty, its jewel-like color, its precious layers of intricate petalage (OK, I made that word up, but you get the meaning).
Days later, they are still pristine, still in full bloom with no decay, still medicine for the weary soul. Their very presence in the room brings a calm quietness, a simple joy. Without meaning to, they fill the landscape sans domination. I wish all the medicine I take were as undemanding financially, as free of side effects and as competent at their task as they are. I hope they last for weeks. The only thing that would make them more perfect would be if the rose growers could figure out how to send them to us with that heady fragrance of wild roses. But then, I suppose we would experience those unwanted side effects of bees and sneezes.
I hovered over the buckets of wrapped selections, picking up one, then another, turning them around, trying to find the best collection. I settled on one that had no preponderance of any one color, just a nice mix of all the hues - light and dark pink, white, deep and light yellow, red tinged, apricot tinged - a veritable rainbow of delight.
I tucked them on the dashboard of the car and ported them about as I ran my other errands and completed the checklist of 'to-dos.' First thing I did when I arrived home was shuck the plastic wrap from them, snip off the ends, and tuck them into a glass vase filled with water laced with the packet of bloom saver that had been rubber banded tightly about their stems. I changed vases twice, going for the most advantageous showcase I could muster.
They came with plenty of greenery, both their own rose leaves and a few ferns tucked in next to the baby's breath. I fluffed them out, spacing each rose evenly from its neighbors, giving it plenty of room to breathe and stretch out. I set the whole dozen on top of the TV cabinet near the front window. A few days later, I was rewarded with fully opened faces each proudly displaying its natural beauty, its jewel-like color, its precious layers of intricate petalage (OK, I made that word up, but you get the meaning).
Days later, they are still pristine, still in full bloom with no decay, still medicine for the weary soul. Their very presence in the room brings a calm quietness, a simple joy. Without meaning to, they fill the landscape sans domination. I wish all the medicine I take were as undemanding financially, as free of side effects and as competent at their task as they are. I hope they last for weeks. The only thing that would make them more perfect would be if the rose growers could figure out how to send them to us with that heady fragrance of wild roses. But then, I suppose we would experience those unwanted side effects of bees and sneezes.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Cicadian Rhythms
What a day! Students are back, Drew is getting up earlier, Kiel needs transportation, the day slams into existence before your eyes are barely open! There is no keeping of any schedule. You just do what's next on the list as soon as you can address it - and pray you keep up! We are jerked into full academic mode sans gentleness.
This week my days are stretched unusually long as I return to work at 9pm after a long day to train a new Evening Building Supervisor. I knew it would be grueling staying until midnight, but there is no help for it. Somebody has to show the new kid on the block how to do the job, and some things can't be understood out of context. So I step into her time frame until she is comfortable being on her own. It's only a few days, but it taxes my limited endurance.
Tonight I had seminary class until 10, so she is already on her own for an hour. She has enough to keep her going until I arrive. I settle in for the lecture on church activity during AD 30 to AD 150, trying to wrap my brain around the early church fathers', experience what they encountered, think with a first century mindset. It is difficult to see why some issues were such a big deal then - after all, circumcision is a pretty moot point these days. Still, it provides interesting discussion material.
We break at 8:30 for our personal faith training in the upstairs chapel. We explore God's presence in the mundane and normal, talk about how God touches our lives in the ordinary, learn to appreciate the eternal moments in our interactions with life. Ten pm comes round before I realize, and I make my way down the stairs and out into the dark night, relishing the August evening dappled with the warm glow of streetlights and lighted windows.
I take a deep breath of fresh air to clear my head. Cicadas are singing lustfully, their drone punctuated with tree peepers' high pitched mating calls and crickets' courting calls, their laid back pace indicative of the chill in the night air. I stand for a minute before plunging into the library world to take up the challenges of the circulation desk at this late and hopping hour.
The music of the night fills every inch of sky, inviting the whole world to dance, to join the chorus and sing. I glance down the sidewalk to see who is watching. Groups of student gather here and there, chatting, laughing, hugging. They pay me no mind. I twirl about freely, letting the weight of long hours slip away. My circadian rhythm is indented by the cicadian song. It feels good, like skinny dipping in a heated whirlpool, floating, lightly massaged with the effervescence of the insect symphony. I hum under my breath, songs I am working on for PrayerSong. How happy to have summer wrapped about you despite the hard day. I shall sleep well if ever I get to bed.
This week my days are stretched unusually long as I return to work at 9pm after a long day to train a new Evening Building Supervisor. I knew it would be grueling staying until midnight, but there is no help for it. Somebody has to show the new kid on the block how to do the job, and some things can't be understood out of context. So I step into her time frame until she is comfortable being on her own. It's only a few days, but it taxes my limited endurance.
Tonight I had seminary class until 10, so she is already on her own for an hour. She has enough to keep her going until I arrive. I settle in for the lecture on church activity during AD 30 to AD 150, trying to wrap my brain around the early church fathers', experience what they encountered, think with a first century mindset. It is difficult to see why some issues were such a big deal then - after all, circumcision is a pretty moot point these days. Still, it provides interesting discussion material.
We break at 8:30 for our personal faith training in the upstairs chapel. We explore God's presence in the mundane and normal, talk about how God touches our lives in the ordinary, learn to appreciate the eternal moments in our interactions with life. Ten pm comes round before I realize, and I make my way down the stairs and out into the dark night, relishing the August evening dappled with the warm glow of streetlights and lighted windows.
I take a deep breath of fresh air to clear my head. Cicadas are singing lustfully, their drone punctuated with tree peepers' high pitched mating calls and crickets' courting calls, their laid back pace indicative of the chill in the night air. I stand for a minute before plunging into the library world to take up the challenges of the circulation desk at this late and hopping hour.
The music of the night fills every inch of sky, inviting the whole world to dance, to join the chorus and sing. I glance down the sidewalk to see who is watching. Groups of student gather here and there, chatting, laughing, hugging. They pay me no mind. I twirl about freely, letting the weight of long hours slip away. My circadian rhythm is indented by the cicadian song. It feels good, like skinny dipping in a heated whirlpool, floating, lightly massaged with the effervescence of the insect symphony. I hum under my breath, songs I am working on for PrayerSong. How happy to have summer wrapped about you despite the hard day. I shall sleep well if ever I get to bed.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Angst
The first day of a new academic year brings with it excitement, expectations, energy, and stress! Some of my staff have found little ways to tell me of their fears - they worry that they will not be able to handle the maelstrom of activity, worry that they will forget something, leave important tasks undone, let people down. It is a natural concern.
Unlike athletes, we do not get to practice for hours ahead of the event, have no opportunity to do warm up exercises. We plan, anticipate, organize, think ahead, and prepare, but suddenly the day is upon us and we are swept along with a forceful tide that has a mind of its own. Rather like experiencing a mini Katrina.
Stuff derails, unravels, fall apart, quits working, develops a bug, and just plain creaks at the seams straining to accommodate everyone, deal with the inevitable meltdowns of freshmen trying valiantly to learn to cope on their own for the first time, learning to deal with the roadblocks and detours as gracefully as they can. Confusion, short tempers, tears spring forth suddenly and clear away at least as fast.
My staff warn me that they may not get things done in a timely way, that they may seem dysfunctional at times, that they will not be their usual selves. I understand. Unlike most people, when things speed up, I am energized. I somehow fly faster, see more clearly, handle more stuff, multi task better. But it is short lived. Like a jet out of fuel, I eventually crash and burn. This year I am guarding against such silliness. I plan breaks, purposely get away at least once a day, remind myself that the library will not fall down in a heap if I am absent for a few hours.
So far its working pretty well. Of course, it has only been one day . . .
Unlike athletes, we do not get to practice for hours ahead of the event, have no opportunity to do warm up exercises. We plan, anticipate, organize, think ahead, and prepare, but suddenly the day is upon us and we are swept along with a forceful tide that has a mind of its own. Rather like experiencing a mini Katrina.
Stuff derails, unravels, fall apart, quits working, develops a bug, and just plain creaks at the seams straining to accommodate everyone, deal with the inevitable meltdowns of freshmen trying valiantly to learn to cope on their own for the first time, learning to deal with the roadblocks and detours as gracefully as they can. Confusion, short tempers, tears spring forth suddenly and clear away at least as fast.
My staff warn me that they may not get things done in a timely way, that they may seem dysfunctional at times, that they will not be their usual selves. I understand. Unlike most people, when things speed up, I am energized. I somehow fly faster, see more clearly, handle more stuff, multi task better. But it is short lived. Like a jet out of fuel, I eventually crash and burn. This year I am guarding against such silliness. I plan breaks, purposely get away at least once a day, remind myself that the library will not fall down in a heap if I am absent for a few hours.
So far its working pretty well. Of course, it has only been one day . . .
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