The Pulitzer Prize in Fiction

The 2007 Pulitzer was awarded to The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, one of the best books I've ever read! It's Oprah's current pick, but don't let that deter you from reading it. It's post-apocalyptic fiction, stark--the language is spare for McCarthy. He writes the way Faulkner writes, usually, but, as the novel goes on, language begins to fall away and the conversations become more and more spare.

It's just a beautiful, awful, tragic, hopeful novel.

Read it!

Thinkin' About the Weather...

I should have followed my instincts and not planted my garden before Easter Sunday. It's just an old farmer's tale, but I ignored it this year. A student's boyfriend came over and tilled up some ground (I paid him for it, so there's no impropriety here!), and, in the process, the tiller belt broke. That should have been a hint, or, as I point out in my lit classes, "foreshadowing." I ignored it.

So, I planted my garden on Friday and then spent the entire weekend covering and uncovering the plants to protect them from the COLD temperatures. But, hey, what do I expect? This is Louisiana, and it's APRIL, for crying out loud--no way should we expect freezing temps. Tornadoes, yes. A freeze, no.

And, since we have had temps in the eighties during the daytime (until this weekend), I had turned off my heater. When I turned it back on for this latest cold snap, it wouldn't come on. Which means I had to call the heating guy to come look at it.

All together, a weird weekend.

But it gets better. Several members of my family, including my parents, spent the weekend in a cabin at Grand Bayou, which is about ten minutes away from my house. I've seen more of my family this weekend than I have since Christmas! They actually stopped at my house on the way to the cabin and on the way home. They never come out here because it's "too far" (which is silly because I drive 90 miles round trip nearly every day and no one thinks it's "too far" for me!).

Right now, I'm sore from trying to mow an acre yard with an electric mower. The guys who normally do this for me told me they would do this two weeks ago, and I haven't seen them since. I pay them well, but I guess they don't need the money that badly. But I hate when people promise they'll do something and then don't. That makes them liars, and I don't like liars.

I've been mowing the yard in increments; I managed to get a majority of the front and about a third of the back done, and I did it over three days. My next purchase? A riding lawnmower! Then I won't have to listen to people promise that they'll get it done. I can just take a ride around my yard and mow the grass at the same time.

But I did plant a yellow rosebush, my favorite color roses! Let's hope it survives the weather!

What I did on my Spring Break

Teachers always get those "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essays, so, I guess, this is my retaliation. Actually, I write one of these almost every year; I'm just upholding a tradition!

Let's see--I began the break by grading papers (so what else is new?). But, on Saturday, my plum trees arrived, so I planted them. One is a Victoriana, which is an English plum, self-fertilizing. This one is a dwarf, which means it will only grow to be about 5 or 6 feet tall. The other plum tree is a Stanley that I hope will help fertilize the other two plums I have on my property. The Stanley is also a dwarf. After a week, they've already started to leaf, so I guess I planted them okay.

For most of my break, I spent half the day grading papers and the other half knitting, cleaning or cooking. I finished two pairs of socks, a baby sweater, a pair of baby booties, and a shrug. But then I started two other pairs of socks. I still have a couple of sweaters, but those always take longer to finish.

I did get the car inspected! Hooray for me; and I worked at the bookstore one day. I edited three transcripts for my friends at the art gallery.

The weirdest thing happened on Wednesday, around 1am. I was sitting on the couch, knitting, when I heard something chomping down the cat food as though it was starved. I figured it was one of the stray cats that sneaks into the house every once in a while, but my cats weren't fussing as they usually do. I leave the door to the washroom open during the day and into the evening (until I go to bed) so I don't have to get up a hundred times to let cats in and out. The screen in the storm door to the outside was busted out when I bought the house, and I haven't fixed it. The cats can go in and out through that.

I got up and quietly walked through the kitchen and around the bar; just as I rounded the end of the bar, I saw the back end of a possum exit out the kitchen door.

I had seen the possum's back end once before. One evening, as I pulled into my carport, I saw its back end going over the ramp that runs up to the laundry room.

The possum doesn't seem to be afraid of the cats and the cats don't know what to make of the possum. They don't run away from each other; the cats just don't know what kind of critter this is.

So, my dilemma was to find a way to block the possum from getting into the house while allowing the cats to go in and out. I found some tall boards to block the bottom half of the doorway. The cats can jump over them, but the possum can't climb over--or, at least, it hasn't yet.

I've tried to get a picture of it, but, believe it or not, possums move pretty quickly when they want to get away. One day, maybe I'll manage, and I will post the picture here on the blog.

I spent the entire break working in one capacity or another, but I still managed to relax a bit. I'm not sure I'm ready for classes to begin again, but, this too shall end very soon. I'd like to say I'll have a relaxing summer, but, if my summer class makes, I'll be driving 90 miles a day to teach one class. Sigh! I guess the wicked really don't get a rest.

Spring is Busting Out All Over...

Well, here it is, again. My annual spring alert!

My Mayhaw tree has been blooming like crazy, which worries me a bit because I don't think we are through with winter yet. I check it periodically, just to make sure the buds and flowers aren't freezing; I think it's okay. The Forsythia I planted in November is beginning to leaf out, as are many of the trees I received from the Arbor Day Society, so I'm thinking spring is just around the corner. I hope the plum trees I ordered arrive soon. I ordered a Stanley for pollination (I have two other plum trees that need a pollinator) and a Victoriana (English) dwarf plum that is self-pollinating. And of course, all manner of flowering plants on my property are blooming, too--the Japonica, the Jonquils, the Narcissus. Today I noticed that my Azaleas are flowering.

I might be mistaken, but I think Mr. Lester's peach trees are beginning to bloom, too, which means that the vegetable stand should open in about 8 weeks (first week in May). This also means that the bulk of the hawk population should be winging its way back north by the end of the month. Most of them leave around Easter; since Easter's a bit late this year, maybe they'll stay around a bit longer.

I'm a bit worried about the bee situation, though. I saw a piece on CBS that discussed the dire straights that beekeepers are facing--bees are dying in droves. Without bees, we don't have pollination, and that can affect crops. I noticed, earlier in the winter, that the beekeeper who lives 12 miles north of me took down all of her beehives (she had seven). I don't see them anywhere else on the property, so I'm wondering if she has been affected by the bee blight. I'm thinking about buying some Mason bees; they don't produce honey, but they are good pollinators. They live in houses and lay their eggs in straws that protrude from holes in the bee house. It's a thought, and it's less costly and labor intensive than trying to raise honey bees.

Oh, and we have a new cat in our household. His ("its"--he's neutered) name is Golum--for the character in Lord of the Rings. A professor at the college needed a new home for him; the prof is allergic. Golum is settling in. The younger cats find him fascinating; the older cats, who don't even like each other, just stay away from him. I've attached a picture of him here and I'll attach it to my website (dotsmom.com).

So, that's the "state of spring" report from my house. As I'm typing this, I'm hearing my cat, Bubba, sneeze. I think he has allergies, too!

Here's a postscript to the Austin post--speed limits in Texas are just suggestions; I notice, on all of my visits there, that Texas drivers ignore the posted limits, pretty much.

I heard the news today, oh, boy...

Again, I have to thank the Beatles for a blog title, sort of (I read the news today, oh, boy...). And I did read the news--the obituary--but I heard it first.

The phone rang at 8:30 this morning. Normally, I don't pick up the phone until I hear who is on the line, but I was in the kitchen waiting for the coffee, so I checked the caller ID. My father's name appeared, so I figured my mother was calling me (my dad only calls in an emergency, usually late at night or when I'm in Austin).

I answered, "Hello?"

"I didn't wake you, did I?" My mother's voice.

"No, Mom. I'm just waiting for the coffee to brew. What's up?" I usually just cut to the chase.

"Oh, Kathy. Mr. Paul died yesterday." We chatted a bit about the cause and who was taking care of his one surviving brother and when the mass would be held. I promised to light a candle for him and say a prayer; we hung up after I said I'd stop by to see her on Monday.


"Mr. Paul" is Paul DeBroeck, and I've known him nearly all my life; he and his wife, Miss Mickey, were our surrogate uncle and aunt after we moved to Shreveport from New Orleans when I was seven. When we moved to north Louisiana, we left a large, loving group of relatives behind. The DeBroecks stepped in. Miss Mickey became my mother's best friend. She and her husband took care of us when my parents needed help, and I remember staying with them when my family went out of town--I was in college and couldn't take off.

I have never, and I do mean "never," met two more selfless people in my life. They did not have any children of their own, so every child was theirs. They devoted an extraordinary amount of their time to St. Catherine's Catholic Church in Cedar Grove. Miss Mickey (Her real name, I think, was Mary Michael because her dad expected a boy) wasn't Catholic, but she was just as involved in the church as her husband. They appeared to be two of the most contented, happiest people I've ever known. They were kind, helpful, funny people.


I remember the phone call I received when my son was just a baby. My dad called me Thanksgiving week--I want to say it was in 1981, but my memory is fuzzy--to tell me that Miss Mickey had been murdered, shot to death in their home at Wallace Lake. She and Mr. Paul were going out of town to visit their nieces and nephews. Mr. Paul came home from work and couldn't find her. Her car was gone, but the front storm door was unlocked--Miss Mickey never left her door unlocked out there, especially if she had to leave the house.

Mr. Paul looked all over the house for her; he called everyone he could think of, including my mother, because he thought Miss Mickey had gone into town. Finally, he saw a sheet draped over what he thought was something his wife wanted to take on their trip. When he lifted the sheet, he found her body. She had been shot point-blank in the heart; the bullet lodged in the concrete slab of the foundation.

When the police finally caught the guy who killed her, he was in Georgia. He had stolen her car and credit cards because he "just wanted to go home." If the guy had asked, she would have driven him to the bus station and purchased a ticket to take him wherever he wanted to go.


Mr. Paul survived any number of tragedies, always with a quiet dignity. His second wife, Clyde, slipped into Alzheimer's Disease a few years after they were married. Mr. Paul cared for her until her death. He cared for his brother Hubert until he passed away. I wonder if he felt like Paul Edgecomb in The Green Mile, that he was destined to outlive everyone he knew.

I never heard him complain; he never lamented. He lived his life with joy and humor. No matter what happened, people could count on him for anything at anytime. I hadn't seen him for several years, but whenever I did see him, he always had something kind to say to me.

In keeping with his giving nature, Mr. Paul donated his body to LSU Health Sciences Center for research.

If saints walk on this earth, I knew two of them. The second one died yesterday; I will say a prayer for him and to him.

You may be a lover, but you ain't no dancer...

The Beatles provide me with many blog titles. I don't know that I really have anything to write that relates to the title of this blog, but that line from "Helter Skelter" came to mind after I watched the video about the Beatles' Apple Corps and their recently-settled lawsuit with Apple, Inc. According to what I heard, everybody wins, including Michael Jackson, who owns an interest in Sony, which owns the rights to a chunk of the Beatles' catalogue. According to the news story, this will make much of the Beatles' catalogue available on iTunes, and, thus, the consumer (that's me, obviously) will have greater access to it.

Well, that might be good news to others, but I already, pretty much, own a huge chunk of the Beatles' catalog. I started collecting the Beatles' albums when they first came out on vinyl, though my copies aren't worth much, since I played the hell out of them. But I did manage to replace my albums with cds, as soon as those were available, and I have a few of them loaded on my iPod. If I could point to the band that pretty much defines my life, I'd have to point to the Beatles.

When the Beatles first appeared on Ed Sullivan back in the day, I remember making everyone in my family be quiet so I could hear them. Of course, I couldn't hear the band because the young women in the audience were screaming too loudly. Sullivan had to shush them several times. It didn't help. The only thing I wanted for Christmas that year was their latest album and that's all that I received (big family, not much money). I didn't complain. My sisters did, though, because I played that album incessantly. They couldn't wait for me to get another Beatles' album so they could hear something different.

My feelings for the Beatles run deep; when my husband and I divorced, the only thing he did that angered me was to sell my copy of the White Album in a garage sale. I can forgive my ex everything but that! I managed to replace it (on cd), but that particular album is probably worth more now than he got for it. I might have been able to retire on it.

The Beatles and their music span nearly every decade of my life (except for the '5os--that decade belonged to Elvis). They didn't last as long as The Rolling Stones, but they sure did age better!

John Lennon died soon after my son was born in 1980. When I heard the news, I sat in a rocking chair, holding my son while I cried. George Harrison's death saddened me, too. His contribution to music, while not as familiar to most people as John and Paul's, is profound; he should be remembered for all of his work, but people who don't agree that "Here Comes the Sun" and "Something" are two of the most beautiful songs ever written are not my friends. The tribute concert, performed exactly one year to the day of his death, is one of the most moving concerts I've ever experienced. And his son, Dhani, could be Harrison's clone.

I'm hard pressed to think of one important point in my life where the Beatles don't figure in. I feel as though their music is part of my DNA. I don't care who owns what--legally. As far as I'm concerned, their music belongs to anyone who grew up with it.

Life in the Fast Lane...

I went to Austin over the Christmas holiday (for Christmas, actually) to visit my children. This time, I made it from my front door to theirs in six hours and five minutes (on the Saturday before Christmas, no less). And I learned a few things along the way:

1. It is possible to tailgate someone going 70 miles per hour. I know. It happened to me three times, not including the police car I had to move out of the way for. I was flying down the road, looked into my rearview mirror, and was shocked to see my poor car being pursued closely by another.

2. Carnivores do live in Austin. I was beginning to think that everyone (almost) was either vegetarian or vegan, but my son took me to a party on Christmas day where the hosts actually served meat. I was surprised. And pleased.

3. It is possible to have too many cats. My kids claim 9 of their own. But, because they have provided the cats with easy access in and out of the house, every cat in the neighborhood comes in to eat. I counted at least four cats that didn't belong to them going in and out after a nosh.

4. If you leave Austin early enough the day after Christmas, you can avoid the after-Christmas-shopping crowd in nearly every town you go through. I didn't get held up once because of shopping traffic. In fact, I was only slowed down by the speed limit changes.

I enjoyed my visit, even though my daughter left on Christmas day to go to Oakland with her boyfriend. I had enough time to visit with both of my kids, so I was glad for that. I was happy to get back home, even though I had to spend an hour straightening up after my own cats. They had a really good time while I was gone.
****
Speaking of cars, mine is in the shop for repair. I'm driving this mafia rental car--a VW Passat-- and while it is a nice car, it's too big for me. Even with the seat pulled all the way up, my feet barely touch the pedals. Thank God for cruise control. AND it takes premium unleaded gas. I drive 90 miles a day when I have to go to the "big" city to work and premium is expensive. This car is going to cost me $50 by the time my car gets out of the shop; it really shouldn't cost me anything, since I wasn't at fault in the accident. I need to talk to my insurance people about this.
****
School begins again in 11 days. I'm not ready for it. I've spent most of my "off time" knitting. I knitted a pair of socks, a pair of slippers, a baby hat, bootees, and I'm almost finished with a baby blanket (the baby things are for my youngest brother and his wife--they are expecting their first child in February; the baby's a girl--her name is Ava). I'm working on another pair of socks and another pair of slippers. While I was in Austin, I knitted two hats and a scarf. And, if you get to Congress Street, visit Hill Country Weavers. They have a great selection of yarn (some of it is expensive, but worth it).
****
Well, I hope the New Year is good for all of us. I'm looking forward to summer already!

Cross-Town Traffic...

Okay. In the first place, I shouldn't have been on the bridge. I had planned to drop off the gift at my mother's house and go straight home. But, I reasoned, it would be nice to see my mom since I hadn't seen her since Thanksgiving, so I decided to cross the river and deliver the gift myself.

My sister was hosting a bridal shower for my niece. I hate those kinds of gatherings, so I had no intention of sitting through it. Silly me--trying to do the "right thing."

So, I'm driving up the bridge with a maroon truck following closely on my bumper. The traffic stopped; so did I. The maroon truck managed to keep from hitting me, thank the stars. I let the car in front of me pull further away to give me some space. I hate riding someone's bumper, even if traffic is stopped. All of a sudden, I heard "Screech" "Crunch" "Boom"; I looked into the rearview mirror in time to watch the maroon truck smash into the back of my car.

For a heartbeat, I just sat there, foot still on brake. I put the car in "Park" and stuck my head out of the window.

"Is anyone hurt?" I yelled. The driver of the maroon truck had exited his vehicle to check on the guy behind him. "No," he replied. "Good. I'll meet you at the bottom of the bridge."

I drove down to the bank parking lot at the end of the bridge, flagged down one of the police directing traffic and told him what happened. Then I gathered up my credentials and waited for the other drivers to join me.

A blue truck hit the maroon truck that hit me. I got off easy. My bumper is bent, I can't open my hatch, and I'm having a few muscle spasms in my back, but, other than that, I'm okay. I can still drive my car. The guy in the maroon truck ended up going to the hospital--he hit his head. The blue truck's radiator was busted, so he needed a tow. I feel all together lucky. Only my ego was bruised, and, of course, my perfect driving record came to an end.

In Louisiana, at least, if someone rear-ends you, it's that person's fault. But still, I hate being in an accident. So much paperwork, so much time, having to put my car in the shop to have it fixed. Someone's going to pay for a rental car, that's all I know.

What a great Christmas present for everyone!

If you are out and about, don't be in a hurry. And leave plenty of space between the car in front of you and your car. You'll be glad you did.

The End of the Semester (as we know it, and I feel fine...)

It's time, once again, for my semi-annual State-of-the-Educator report.

The fall semester has come to a close; grades are due Monday, but mine are posted already (Yay!), so all I have to do is take copies to the dean of the college and the chair of my department.

All was well until I made the mistake of checking my school email--I found a message from a student who has been chronically late with everything this semester; as a matter of fact, she's turned in the bulk of her assignments in the last week. When I gave her permission to submit her last paper late, she obviously took that as permission to turn in everything she hadn't given me this semester. So, when did she turn in her paper that was due on Dec. 6? This afternoon. At about 3pm.

I'd also like to know how someone could misconstrue this: "Do not email or call me about your grades. Dead Week in the cutoff for discussing your grade with me." Sounds clear to me. I deleted about ten emails from students telling me what grades they didn't have on the course gradebook. As if I didn't know. As if I wasn't working on filling in those pesky little squares.

I wish students were just as diligent about their grades during the semester, or about getting work in when it is due. But nooooooooo. At the end of the semester, though, they yell really loudly about how they don't want to fail and will I pleeeeeeeeease take their late work. I'm usually inclined, by this time, to say "NO!" And, if they catch me in the right mood, I will say "No."

I taught five classes this semester--four of them were composition classes. I read, on average, 60 to 100 papers A WEEK--and heard 60 to 100 complaints about having to write ONE paper or having to read something, for crying out loud, or having to post a blog before Saturday, about how much WORK they have to do for all of their classes, about having to work a job AND do coursework for school, and, geez, they don't have time for a social life, and... I could go on, but you get the picture.

So, for all my students who will read this blog (because some of them will), let me tell you what I did with my time--every class day this semester, I got up at 6:30am; I left my house at 7:30pm, arrived at the school around 8:15 or 8:30am (I live 45 miles away from the college). If I was not working my second job after I finished teaching my classes, or hanging around the university for meetings, I usually would get home around 1:30 or 2:30pm (after my 45-mile return journey; except on Tuesdays, when I taught my night class; I didn't get home until after 9pm or so). I would eat lunch, then start reading/grading papers, quizzes, blogs, etc. I usually worked at that until about 10pm. Most nights, I went to bed around 11pm. On weekends (did I have any weekends this semester? Oh, yeah, I took one weekend to go to Austin to see my kids; that set me back two weeks), I usually would get up around 8am and I'd being grading/reading papers no later than 10am.

And, of course, one or two days a week, I'd work my second job until about six pm, which put me home around 7pm; and I'd just start reading/grading until bed time.

And I usually had to stop in and visit my Mom once a week, or go grocery shopping, or clean out the litter boxes, or talk to my kids and help them with their problems, show up for various family functions (I have 9 brothers and sisters, around 40 nieces and nephews=quite a few family functions).

Is this a complaint? No, it's fact. It's the life I've chosen. If I didn't want to do this, I'd go back to being a secretary or administrative assistant or computer network analyst, or move to the Galapagos Islands.

And that's my point. If what you are doing is too daunting and the rewards too few, then give it up and go do something else.

Yeah, we all need to vent now and then, even professors. But if this is what you want to do, just do it and do it to the best of your ability. Get organized. And get the work in on time. And, if you have problems or questions or need help with an assignment, talk to your instuctor when these things come up, not three weeks after. It's moot by that time. And what can I do after the fact? At some point, I just have to throw up my hands and say "It's not my monkey!"

Okay, that's enough of that.

I was blessed with an abundance of really good students this semester--students who could write and went at it with their whole hearts, students who worked hard to find meaning in what they read and to understand literature's relevance to their lives. They make it worthwhile; they are the reasons I keep doing this, in spite of the students who drive me over the edge, or maybe "despite" those students. As long as I can find the students in my classes who want to be in those classes, I'll keep doing this.

To all my students, have a good break. And come back to school, if you come back, resolved to do the best that you possibly can in all of your courses. And if you decide on an alternate reality, send me a postcard!

Just leave me the birds and the bees...please!

This is the first "clear" weekend I've had since the semester began--I'll have to read papers tomorrow, and I have a few stragglers I need to grade--but I've actually had some time to work on my online class for spring and to plant my trees from the Arbor Day Society.

I joined the Arbor Day Society during the summer in retaliation for my neighbor cutting down 100-year-old trees. When I joined, the society promised me ten flowering or evergreen trees--I chose the flowering ones--and I subsequently ordered a number of other plants from them. The plants are inexpensive and provide me a way to spruce up my property without going broke. They all arrived at the end of this week and I needed to get them planted pronto. I wanted to have a planting party, but I just couldn't mobilize my forces quickly enough.

So, this morning, armed with a shovel and a rake, I went out and planted 20 plants. When I joined, I chose to receive 10 flowering trees: two Sargent Crabapples, two American Redbuds, two Washington Hawthorns, two White Flowering Dogwoods, and two Goldenraintrees. I later ordered five red Azaleas, two Southern Magnolias, and two Forsythias; for that order, I received a Red Maple.

Finding places for 20 plants/trees seems easier than it is. I tried to ensure that I left at least five feet between my plants, but I'm sure I'll need to transplant some of them next fall. I just needed to get them into the ground as soon as possible. I planted most of them along the fence in the backyard; I plan to create a bird/butterfly/bee garden back there. I already have Plum trees (I need another one of those for pollination; the Plums flower, but they don't produce) and two Mayhaws, so I'm off to a good start. And I have six White Dogwoods already; butterflies love those for laying eggs. I also have flowering Quince (also called "Japonica"--I love that word) and other assorted flowering plants whose names I haven't learned yet. In the spring, my yard blazes with reds, pinks, whites and yellows. I can cut flowers for my house and, while most of my flowering plants don't have smells, they are lovely to see.

If you like to grow plants, the Arbor Day Society is an organization I'd recommend. And $15 a year to help the environment seems cheap.

The only drawback is now I'm on every environmental organization's mailing list! I've received information from the National Audubon Society, the World Wildlife Federation, and the Nature Conservancy. And while the tote bags and bird feeders are tempting, I'd still rather have trees!

So, as Joni Mitchell sings, "Hey farmer farmer, put away the DDT now./Give me spots on apples, but leave me the birds and the bees...please." I want to think I'm doing my part to encourage the birds and the bees (and the butterfles) to hang around my house for a long time.

iPod Update...

Yeah, I like it.

I have 3 days' worth of music recorded on it (all LEGAL!) and I've gotten a season pass to CSI--every time CBS releases a new episode, it's downloaded to my computer. I've subscribed to six or seven podcasts, and I've downloaded several novellas and novels, among them, Heart of Darkness, Emma, The Death of Ivan Ilych, and A Christmas Carol. And let me mention that I've downloaded the entire repetoire of the Mercury Theater (Orson Welles et. al), including an interview with Orson Welles and H. G. Wells discussing War of the Worlds! I think I'm getting my money's worth out of this ingenious little toy.

I didn't know that a number of old movies are now in the public domain; I've found a couple of sites where I can legally download movies such as My Man Godfrey and Beat the Devil; if the movie is available in MP4 format, I can play it on my iPod.

Cool!

Flo

I remember standing on Magazine Street in New Olreans as float after float passed by. My grandparents were supposed to be on one of these floats, but I hadn't found them yet. After what seemed to be forever, the last float trundled towards me; there she was! I waved and ran into the street. As I reached the float, a masked woman reached down and handed me a brown-paper-wrapped package. When I opened it, I found, to my delight, a dozen glass-bead necklaces. These weren't the cheap, plastic beads that people fought to catch; these were the kind of beads that would shatter if they hit the ground. My grandmother saved them for me, just for me.

*****

I can't believe this. My first public poetry reading is scheduled the day of her funeral. I'm the only person in my family who can't go--not because of the reading, but because everyone else is going and I have no one to take care of my son. I am heartbroken; I am bereft. I can't say goodbye to my grandmother because I don't have a babysitter.

*****

My sister and I spent a summer with my grandparents. My grandfather was sick, too sick to work. My uncles were still running the shop, putting up gutters and new roofs on houses, so his business was still operating. My grandmother was going to cosmetology school, trying to learn to be a beautician. She was having a hard time; she had never had to work before, and she was afraid because her husband was going to die. He knew it; she knew it. My sister and I, though, didn't know it.

*****

I think maybe the illness came later. I don't remember, really. I do remember riding the train back to Shreveport with my grandmother; her first husband, my other grandfather, worked for the T&P Railroad, so we could ride the train free.

*****

Sometimes, I dream about my grandmother. I dream that she and I are sitting in her apartment kitchen, the apartment she lived in at the time of her death. A row of beer cans are ranged in front of her; she is smoking and her hair is in curlers. That yappy little Chihuahua, Sassy, is sitting on her lap. I hated that dog, and I know it hated me. Whenever I visited my grandmother, I would sleep with her in her bed and the dog would be banished to the bathroom. I understand why the dog hated me, but it wasn't my fault. I don't mind dreaming about my grandmother, but I wish the dog wasn't with us.

*****

When I divorced, I felt a special kinship with Flo. After all, she was the only other person in my family who was divorced. I felt it was one of our special bonds. She liked my ex-husband (well, so did my family), but she understood. Sometimes, you just have to do what you have to do.

*****

I remember one of her poker parties. The special dessert that night was a half of a cantaloupe with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the hollow where the seeds used to be. It's still one of my favorite treats.

*****

Her complete name when she died was Florence Albertine Augustine Kurz Twohig Schubert. Her friends called her "Flo." She hated her two middle names. The last three names encompass a huge cross-section of my family history.

*****

I know why my mother disliked my grandmother. Flo was my father's mother--that's the "Twohig" in Flo's name. But, when Flo divorced my Grandpa Twohig, she married my mother's father, Grandpa Schubert, whose wife had died in childbirth. Sounds incestuous, but it's really not. My mom and dad were teenagers, and it wasn't likely that Flo would have more children. So, I guess you could say my mom and dad are step-sister and -brother, but, again, it didn't really matter by then. Flo and my Grandpa Schubert were childhood sweethearts. The story I heard was that her parents wanted her to marry someone who wasn't a day laborer. My Grandpa Twohig worked for the Texas and Pacific Railroad, so he was "white" collar. I think my grandmother married him just to get away from her mother, who was a tyrant. But my great-grandmother is another story.

*****

After my grandmother's funeral, the women went to her apartment to divide her possessions. My mother had asked me, before she left for New Orleans, if I wanted something in particular. I did. My grandmother had a collection of porcelain, and that collection included an old Chinese man and woman. The man held a fishing pole; the woman held a teapot. I loved those pieces. When my mother came back home, she brought me, instead, a porcelain boy and girl and a scarf. My aunt, my grandmother's daughter, claimed the man and woman. I was glad to get anything that belonged to Flo.

*****

Over the years, my mother has surprised me with other possessions of my grandmother's. She has given me two rose pins and the last strand of glass Mardi Gras beads my grandmother had. When I started collecting bee pins, my mother came out with a silver bee that was Flo's. Who knew that my mother would withhold those things for me?

*****

I think my grandmother is trying to let me know she's here, haunting me. The cats have broken the boy doll twice; the silver bee pin has disappeared, as has the scarf. I'm beginning to feel like the little boy in The Sixth Sense, except I don't see dead people. I just know my grandmother is around me, watching, just waiting for the right moment to show herself to me.

Austin City Limits...

Okay, I admit it. I goofed off this past weekend.

Instead of grading papers, I went to Austin, TX, to visit my kids and watch my daughter, Dorothy, in a performance. She was part of a cabaret show, "Inside a Broken Clock: A Tom Waits Peepshow," which consisted of a series of vaudeville-type skits set to Tom Waits' music. It was bawdy, it was ribald, it was FUN! And how long has it been since I've done anything remotely FUN?

Let me back up. I left for Austin after my 9am class on Friday. I hit Round Rock about 3:45 in the afternoon, confident that it wouldn't take me more than an hour to get to my children's house in East Austin.

Boy, was I WRONG. I usually get into Austin just after the lunch rush, but I had forgotten that the afternoon "rush" hour begins about 2:30pm on Fridays. The traffic going out of Austin was moving at a dead crawl; going towards downtown, the traffic seemed to be flowing smoothly. I was confident that I'd be off the interstate in no time.

Again, I was WRONG. I clipped along at a comfortable 65mph until I hit Braker Lane. Then, stuck behind an 18-wheeler, I moved (when I moved) at 5mph until I reached my exit--an hour-and-a-half later. Getting on to MLK Drive was easier, but, again, after about two blocks, I again crawled along at 5mph until I passed Airport Drive.

I managed to pull into the driveway at 6pm. The note my daughter left me said that my son, Daniel, would be home by 6pm, but that he had a show that night. He's a rapper--no joke, he's pretty good. Dorothy wrote that she wouldn't be home until midnight or so.

I read, I knitted, I scrounged around the kitchen for food. I finally crashed about 11pm without having seen either of my kids. Daniel came in around midnight and he and I had a brief conversation; he had to get up at 7am for work on Saturday. I heard Dorothy come in, but I was exhausted and couldn't open my eyes.

Regardless of where I am or how late I stayed up the night before, I normally wake up anywhere from 7am to 9am. I couldn't sleep late to save my life. But, this past weekend, I got up extra early because my sinuses flared up and I desperately needed to find a drugstore. I can't find my way around Austin without a guide and Dorothy usually drives me wherever we go.

To get directions, I had to wake her up. Not a good idea. My daughter doesn't like to wake up early and she resists all attempts. I stood in the doorway and called her name. She instantly popped her head up from the pillow and----she was bald. She had shaved off all of her hair. Bald as a baby. Really bald.

I was speechless and it took me several heartbeats to stammer out my request for directions, but not before I blurted, "What did you do to your hair?"

She laughed--"I got tired of it. This is so much easier to deal with right now."

She gave me directions to the drug store and crawled back under the quilt.

I took off for the drugstore and the grocery, came back, made a pot of coffee and waited for her to get up and explain why her head was bald.

I never hasseled my kids about their hair or clothes or anything else that wasn't important. They both have their own styles--they don't need me to tell them how to dress. So, when Daniel grew his hair down his back in high school, the only person who complained was my mother. When he shaved his head his freshman year of college, my mother complained about that. I just couldn't figure out why this was an issue. And I still can't.

Now, for my daughter to shave her head--again, it's her hair. She's dyed it red, blonde, black, orange, pink--every color imaginable--and she's chopped it short and let it grow. It's only hair. But I hadn't seen her bald since she was born. Actually, it makes her look taller. Hmm...I wonder if that would work for me?

So, there I was on Saturday, sitting in the restaurant where my son works, surrounded by bald people--my daughter, my son, and my daughter's boyfriend. I felt out of place. But once I got used to it, I didn't think about it again (until now).

I think both of my kids look fine; they have unique styles of dress, unusual tattoos, and rich social and artistic lives. They are living the lives they want and I couldn't be happier for both of them. One thing they aren't is boring and that's all I care about.

Somebody Stop Me...

Okay, I've done it, what I'd promised myself I wouldn't do. I resisted the temptation as long as I could.

I bought an iPod!

I've become a mass consumer. I've fallen prey to the hype.

Not only did I buy an iPod, I bought iPod accessories!

Oh-my-god! I'm accessorizing an iPod!

I don't even accessorize my outfits and here I am buying "things" to make my iPod experience more enjoyable and intrusive.

Let me explain myself more clearly before I descend into hysteria. I really like podcasts. That's often how I receive my news blurbs (I subscribe to both ABC News and CBS News podcasts); I also like to download audio books (Librivox.org) and other audio and video. One of my other favorites is a general site, Podcast.net, where I can pick and choose what I want from a wide variety of genres and interests. Podcast has a good list of literature sites; my favorite is a Creative Nonfiction site (Podlit) where I can listen to Lee Gutkind and Natalie Goldberg discuss issues in this genre. Since I teach creative nonfiction in my advanced comp classes, I'm interested in hearing what the "masters" have to say. I'm also interested in creating podcasts for an online class I'm planning for next semester, so I've immersed myself in learning everything I can about them.

So, I bought a 30G video iPod from the Apple Store--but, because I wasn't sure I would like it or use it much, I bought a refurbished iPod. It cost me loads less and, if I decide the technology is for me, I can always invest in a more expensive one later. But I also bought (from Overstock.com, another favorite shopping site) an iBlast, which is a speaker system that sounds great and charges the iPod while I'm listening to it, and a tuner for my car so I don't have to change out CDs all the time. Changing CDs in my car is cumbersome--I can get them out, but I can't get them in. This way (as I reasoned it), I can listen to my music without having to carry all those CDs around with me; in addition, I can view video news broadcasts and movies (not when I'm driving, of course!) without having to carry around DVDs or a television.

It all sounds logical, but I'm a great rationalizer. I can convince myself that something is great if I really need to. Only time will tell, though, if this really is a good investment of my hard-earned disposable income. I did manage to get everything transferred (or "synched" in the iPod lingo) and I did listen to one of the podcasts from the Bill Moyers' NPR series on "Faith and Reason" as I fell asleep last night. I downloaded some video from [adultswim] and watched the performances of a few rap artists (something I'm not usually inclined to do, unless the rapper is my son, Daniel). So maybe this investment will prove beneficial. Maybe it will broaden my horizons. Who knows?

Does anyone know of a support group for iPod dependency, in case I get too wrapped up in this? I know me--I have a knitting obsession already; I don't need another obsession.

So, I just want you to know, if you say "hello" to me and I don't respond, I'm probably plugged in to my iPod. Tap me on the shoulder, wave your hands in front of my face, or yank the earphones out. I'm not ignoring you, I'm wired.

I Owe My Soul to the Family Store (of stories)

I open the door of the china cabinet to retrieve a teapot and a porcelain cup and saucer. Tea time is when I relax and I like to make it special, since I do it so seldom.

As I reach in to get the necessary tea tools, I spy the Quaker Man, a doll I’ve had as long as I can remember. It is part of a set—my older sister has his female companion—that my father brought back for us when he returned from his four-year Army stint. Dressed in his German folk costume, Quaker Man is moth-eaten and shabby, from his black, broad-brimmed hat, to his claret coat, to his orange vest and gray flannel pants. His poor socks are so faded and dingy white. His shoes, if I remember correctly, were black, but I have no idea where they are. I probably lost them in my severe neglect. Until I bought my house and unpacked him, he languished in a box in a bathroom closet for three years.

I remove him from his domed display and take a good look at him. For the first time, I notice he also sports an off-white bow tie. Such a jaunty touch and one that I never noticed in the 50+ years he’s been in the family.

I wonder why I keep him, but, in the same thought, I smile, remembering how my father ended up in Germany to begin with. The story is a family heirloom, one my mother delights in telling and one my father never contradicts. Prompt her just a little and she will tell it with a sparkle in her eye, while my father sits stoically; the only sign of his annoyance may be an increase in the television’s volume in a vain attempt to drown her out.

As she tells it, when my sister and I were very young (around ages 2 and 1, respectively), my parents were separated. My mother was standing with us, waiting on a trolley to take us back to our Aunt Claire’s (not really my aunt) where we were living. She had twenty cents in her purse, enough to get us home. My father, who was working as a lens grinder at the time, was not giving her any money for our support. And, to top it off, he had given her engagement ring to another woman (why he had her ring is something that has never been explained, adequately, to me).

My mother was furious. She didn’t know how to make my father give her money for us. We were sick; we needed medicine. We had just been to the doctor and both my sister and I had colds. Mother didn’t have the money to fill the prescriptions and she was, as she says, at the end of her rope. As we were standing there, she noticed an Army recruiting station across the street. At that very moment, she says, she had a most brilliant idea.

My mother is proof that level of education does not equal smarts. She never graduated from high school, but she’s the smartest person I know. She marched us across the street to the Army recruiting station. Her question to the recruiter was straightforward: how could she go about having my father drafted?

This was a risky move—it was 1952, during the Korean Conflict. My mother was taking a big chance; my father could have been sent to a very dangerous place. She didn’t want him hurt; she just wanted him to suffer. The recruiter questioned my mother regarding her situation. Was our father supporting us? No. He patted my mother’s arm and said, “Leave it to me.”

And, so, my father was drafted and, because he had dependents, he was sent to Germany instead of Korea. Yes, it was difficult—he’ll at least admit to that. But, at the same time, he learned to snow ski and he and my mother had time to work out their differences through the mail. My mother received her support through a monthly allotment from the Army. Everybody was (mostly) happy. It must have had an overall positive effect; they’ve been married for 58 years (this October) and they have ten children, numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Certainly, the situation caused some tension in my father’s family. When his father died, my parents had to go through my grandfather’s papers and personal effects. In my grandfather’s desk, my father found a piece of paper with this one line penned on it: “The damn fool let her put him in the Army.” That probably explains why, throughout their marriage, my grandfather called my mother “Jo Anne,” not “Joan,” which is her name. That has to mean something.

Many, many years later, at Christmas, my father brought in a huge box that contained my mother’s present. She unwrapped the first box, which led to another box, which led to another box, until, about ten boxes later, she retrieved the last box. She opened it and, there in red velvet, was a half-caret engagement ring.

Sometimes, I think my parents held on out of spite; other times, I think they’ve stayed together because neither of them wants to be the one to give up. I don’t know why they’ve endured or how they’ve endured and I’m not sure they’ve always been the best representatives of marriage on the planet. Whatever the reason, they have managed to make their relationship work and I’m glad they are my parents.

As with all family stories, I take this one with a gallon of salt. I don’t know if my father doesn’t contradict the details because he doesn’t remember or if he doesn’t want to expose my mother’s story as a fraud. I have to think it’s mostly true, since so much of their life together hinges on that one incident. As legends go, it’s one of the best I’ve ever heard.

As for the doll, I sometimes think I should give him away or retire him to another box. But he is a constant reminder that I can always count on my mother for another story. And, with every story, I learn a little more about what makes me the person I am.

Note: To any of my students who read this, this is my attempt at a portrait/personal essay. It is only a model and is not representative of how I think your essay should be written.

Short People

I'm not easily startled by news announcers; I've seen and heard too much on network news, so very little surprises me these days. But, the other day, I heard something that made me put my coffee cup down and sit up really straight.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I reconsidered what the announcer said: "Some doctors are now treating shortness as a disease." Pardon me? Shortness as a disease? Now, I'm not consulting a dictionary here, but I thought a "disease" was something that was debilitating, life-threatening, and/or requiring medication. Somehow, in my mind, "shortness" doesn't quite measure up (ha ha).

My incredulity might be better understood if you knew that I'm 4'9" tall (yes, "tall"). While "shortness" has served me well as a topic of conversation with strangers in elevators, it hasn't seemed to affect my view of who I am. For some reason, I don't equate my height with my abilities or my worthiness. Call me crazy, but I think a person is more that a measurement chalked up on a doorframe (just so you know, my parents never did that to their 10 children). Where my height is a disadvantage--reaching high shelves or cabinets--society has provided a solution (it's called a "ladder"). In my own home and office, I don't put things where I can't reach them. I'm a sensible person.

When I was about a year old, so the story goes, my mother became concerned because I wasn't gaining weight and I wasn't growing. She schlepped me to a doctor who ran every test he could. At the follow-up conference, the doctor asked her, "How tall are you?" My mother replied, "Five feet." The doctor smiled and said, "There's the answer to your question. She inherited your genes."

Perhaps I overcompensated by studying hard and working on my smartness factor, but, I have to honestly say, that I don't think about my height unless someone calls it to my attention. I don't go around wishing that people would treat me like a "tall" person; it doesn't occur to me that it's a "problem" for me--other people seem to have problems with it, though.

And I think that's why parents want doctors to treat shortness as a disease--it's not the kids who usually have trouble with height, it's parents. They don't want their sons to be passed over (sorry) for promotions at work; they want their sons to play basketball and get those scholarships.

For women, maybe, shortness works favorably (or not). Some people think we need to be protected; some men think that, because we're petite, we're pushovers (in more ways than one); some women might think we won't stand up (sorry, again) for ourselves. People have weird ideas about other people--if we're not judged by our height, we'll be judged by our gender or color or religion or anything that anyone finds objectionable/different/strange.

But my concern goes beyond this whole judgment thing. If we start engineering height, what's next? Eye color? Intelligence? Physical beauty? Does the name "Dr. Mengele" come to mind? We've already begun in vitro procedures to eliminate or reduce a fetus's pre-birth conditions, such as heart problems. I don't think this is wrong, especially if it increases a fetus's chances for a birth/childhood free from constant medical treatment. But these other qualities are aesthetic, not medical. Having a child who's chance for making the NBA increases doesn't seem as crucial as having a healthy child.

Yeah, I've heard about those surveys that say that short men are frequently passed over for promotions, that people perceive them as weaker, etc. I say it's all in their heads. The best treatment for "height deficiency" is a healthy self-esteem, especially in parents.

As for me, I'm often tempted to turn the tables on those strangers who ask me about my height. I'd like to ask them "How much do you weigh?" or "What's your IQ?" and see how they like such a personal and/or irrelevant question. But, you know, most of them wouldn't get it. I'm not out to change the world; I'm just working on myself.

Back on the Chain Gang...

Well, the new semester has begun and already I'm losing my voice. This always happens the first week of school. I'm not used to talking this much--during the summer, I'm not in constant communication with anyone except the cats; no point in talking to them since they won't answer. So, third class into the semester, two more to go today, and I'm beginning to sound like a hoarse bullfrog. This, too, shall pass, unless I strain my vocal chords.

I'm excited to see a number of my former students in my classes. Familiar faces help with the new semester butterflies--for them and for me. I have five classes this semester, quite a load by anyone's standards. One of those classes is an Introduction to Literature class; this is the first time I've taught it and the class is huge--35 students registered, but it seemed as though I had more students than that, even though several on the roster did not show up. I'm looking forward to it, however many students show up. I enjoy any opportunity to talk about literature.

I didn't get much done around my house this summer; I actually did "take it easy"--cut my hours at the bookstore so I wouldn't have to drive so much with these high gas prices and, instead, I worked on editing transcripts, a job which I could do in the comfort of my study. I enjoyed the two new kittens added to our household, Buddy and Bubba--the yin and yang of kittens. Kittens are really entertaining, but it's also like having little children--they get into everything. I had to "child proof" the house to keep them safe.

My neighbor finally put up a privacy fence, which suits me just fine. Now I don't have to look at all of the stumps from the trees she's cut down. Her beautiful wooded lot is now pocked with stumps--some burned. She uprooted and burned all of the azaleas on her property, too. I'm glad the fence hides most of it. It doesn't, though, mute the sounds from the chainsaws as she continues to cut down hundred-year-old trees.

My friends and I are going to have a tree-planting party in November, though, to try to make up for her destruction. The Arbor Day Foundation is sending me ten trees--dogwoods, crape myrtles, etc.--and we plan to make as much noise as we can while we're planting. I can't understand why someone would cut down healthy old trees. I understand pruning; I don't understand decimation.

The semester beckons! More later.

Ah, laziness...

Something can definitely be said for laziness. I turned in my grades last week, showed up for a book discussion at the bookstore, celebrated Mother's Day with my mom and large family, and today is the last of my "obligations"--college graduation. I find this to be a big bore--four hours of pomp and circumstance, 45 minutes trying to get out of a packed parking lot, and another 45 minutes driving home. I should get back home around 10 or 11pm. Yuck! I'm happy for the people graduating, but the boredom of it all almost makes me comatose before I get to it.

I haven't spent much time at the bookstore in the last two weeks, for which, I hate to say, I am grateful. I've been sitting in the backyard watching the hummingbirds chase each other around; I have two pair of Cardinals, Mockingbirds and a ton of Blue Jays to entertain me. Not to mention, my new neighbor's dog, Sampson, a tiny Pomeranian, who barks himself hoarse over my cats (and they just love to tease him). Poor Sammy! He's going to choke himself trying to get to the kittys. Hopefully, my neighbor will get her fence up soon so Sammy can run himself ragged chasing the cats up and down the yard.

I planted some squash and cucumbers, rather late and, perhaps, in a too-shady spot. But, if the bugs or birds don't get the seeds, maybe something will grow. I finally planted the Tarragon my friend Walter gave me. And I've managed to mow the yard twice! The Mayhaws are going great guns, so maybe I'll be able to make some jelly later in the summer or in early fall.

I haven't exactly been lazy, but I finally have the time to do some of the things I want to do. I have a stack of books waiting for me--I really want to tackle Seven Types of Ambiguity by Elliot Perlman--and I need to write more. My writing group is heating up and I want to have something for our next meeting. And, of course, I need to work on my courses for the fall--one freshman comp and three advanced comps. I also need to work on the online class I want to teach in the spring. I have a great deal to do and more time to do it.

So, stop and smell the honeysuckle, watch the hummingbirds, laugh at the neighbor's dog. It's summer, so let's all chill!

And in the end, the grade you get is equal to the grade you earn...(sorry JPG&R)

It's that time again--the end of a semester. Along with the final papers and the final exams come the final grades. Some students will be happy; some will not. And, no matter how often I remind them that they earn their grades, I will have a few outraged, unhappy students. Oh, well. One of these semesters, probably the one where I retire, I'll get a whole group of students who "get it."

I both love and hate semester's end. I love it because I get a break from constant paper-grading and student kvetching, committee and faculty meetings, night classes, etc. While I'm in the middle of it, I'm fine. But when the end comes, I'm so ready for it. I always say I'm going to take a day to sleep, but I usually get antsy because of inactivity. I'm used to go, go, going, all the time--teaching, working my part time bookstore job, editing interviews for a local museum, painting windows for my sisters in Houston; I have difficulty slowing down. All that will change is the teaching and grading of papers. The rest will still need to be done, and I'll add some other projects--I'm in the middle of knitting socks, a sweater--and I've got a stack of books I want to read. And I need to finish unpacking and moving the rest of my "stuff" from my former house. So the summer will be full, even without school.

I hate the end of the semester, though. I have so many papers to grade and grades to average and post. But I hate that I'm "losing" my students. I've grown fond of most of them and some of them have had such difficult semesters that I worry about them. I hope they'll keep in touch, but they don't always. I can honestly say that I have a few former students who are friends of mine; they keep me posted on what's happening in their lives long after they leave my classes. I'm proud of the ones who have graduated and wish them the best. I hope I've helped them in some small way. I know they've helped me become better at what I do--my students "force" me to be a better teacher.

So, ciao to all my students. And ciao to the ones I'll meet in the fall. I hope we all have a restful and pleasant summer.

And the seasons, they go round and round...

Well, it's that time again. Mr. Lester's peach trees are just beginning to bloom, so that means that his produce stand should open in about two months, sometime in May. Only the trees closest to the road are blooming right now, but, I expect, in about a week, I should see the ocean of purple-pink as I come around from the bridge. I can't wait! His peaches are wonderful and I look forward to the first peach cobbler I can bake with his peaches. And, I'm almost out of honey, so I'll need to get my annual supply from his stand.

It seems as though I just wrote about this, but I know it's been a year. How quickly time passes. Everything I do centers on semesters--that's pretty much how I gauge my life and my time. The spring semester always seems shorter than the fall semester, which is silly, because they are both 16 weeks long. We're halfway through now; where has the time gone?

Spring here means wind. I've been to Chicago and, yes, it's a windy city. But this area could rival it. Today, the Red River sprouted whitecaps and I had to drive with both hands on the wheel. I have, I think, a pretty sturdy car, but I couldn't keep it on the road. This is the second day this week with a lake wind advisory from the weather guys. I didn't see any fisher people out today--smart people!!

Kites, anyone?

"And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captured on a carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look
Behind from where we came,
And go round and round and round
In the circle game."

Thanks, Joni Mitchell, for that thought!