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!

Hang up and drive!

Okay. It's inevitable that I write about people who drive and talk on their cell phones at the same time. Well, really, I'm writing about people who do anything with their cell phones in their hands--shop, walk, read. Am I the only person who thinks this is wrong? Am I the only person in the world who thinks phone calls should be kept private?

I'm working at the cash register in the bookstore. A customer comes up to the counter to check out and his/her cell phone goes off. With caller id and call back features standard on every phone these days, I think the call can wait--unless the person taking the call is waiting on a kidney or heart transplant, how important can such a call be? I'm trying to transact business here. It's just rude to expect a teller, cashier or customer service person to stand around and wait while you talk about your gynecological exam really loudly.

I have no mercy on these people. I go through my standard script, interrupting the conversation as often as I can. If the mood strikes me, I won't say anything to the customer at all. I just let the person intuit the total and proffer the credit card/cash/check at his/her leisure. I'm in no hurry.

Or I'm in my office at the college, just working away. Other professors are teaching in classrooms around me and, inevitably, someone comes walking down the hall, talking at the top of his/her voice. The conversation usually goes like this: "What are you doing?/No./I haven't heard anything./Do you know what she said to me?/She said..." Sounds really important, doesn't it? Who the hell cares what she said to you? You probably deserved it. Take it outside, now!

Ninety-nine percent of the conversations I can't help but hear seem stupid, not life-threatening or urgent or necessary. Are we so afraid of being alone with our thoughts that we need to be connected all the time? I just don't get it. I like quiet; I like silence. I want time to think without having someone babbling in my ear.

I have a cell phone only because my parents MADE me get one. My mother's afraid that, if I end up in a ditch, the police will need my GPS to find me (not likely!). But mom complains because I never answer it. I just don't turn it on unless I don't have access to long distance to call my kids, sisters, or brothers. But, when I use my cell phone, I'm usually in my office or in my PARKED car; I don't walk or drive while talking and I hate using it in public.

I drive 45 miles one-way to work every day and 45 miles back home when I'm through for the day. Inevitably, I can tell when the person driving in front of me on the highway is talking on a cell phone. The car speeds up and slows down, alternately and constantly, and the brake lights come on every few seconds. These drivers seldom use the cruise control. Sometimes, the driver is going way too fast--I've had talkers pass me going 80 or 90 miles an hour and they seldom have enough control over their vehicles. The guys talking behind me usually ride my bumper. One thing I know for sure is they seldom pay attention to their driving; they're too busy talking.



I want to get bumper stickers for my car: "Hang up and drive!" I think I'll tape them to all of the windows of my car, set the cruise control to 55, and see how many people take my advice.

I don't want to hear other peoples' conversations, phone or otherwise. Too much loose talk flies around us all the time; people just talk and talk and talk and say nothing. Why add more hot air to my breathing space? Stick to the moment--focus on the business at hand and return the call in the privacy of your own parked car!

At least we can choose to read (or not read) blogs!

Welcome to my reality!

Living in a small town, I've come to appreciate stillness and silence. I seldom receive phone calls or visitors, and I prefer my life that way. I spend hours every day, both at the college and the bookstore (when I work there!), dealing with people, with issues, with whatever; when I get home, I want a cocoon of quiet around me. I don't want to talk, except to my cats.

This is perhaps why I can't tolerate "reality" shows. Nothing on these shows is "real." It's all manufactured--how many of us are stranded on an island full of headhunters, having to scrounge for our daily bread and fight the other "strandees" for "immunity"? What's real about that? As for "The Great Race," for many of us, the "race" begins the moment the alarm clock scares us out of bed in the morning. We race to work, to lunch, to the drycleaners, the grocery, then race to get home to watch a "reality" show. Hey--I have enough trouble dealing with MY reality; I don't have time for someone else's.

I've thought about having someone follow me around with a video camera to capture the nuances and vagaries of my own day. How truly boring would that be? "And here's Ms. Smith chastising a student for not turning in an assignment." Or, "Here's Kathleen trying to decide which brand of toilet paper she should buy." Who wants to see that?

Well, that's how I feel about any of those shows on television that brand themselves as "reality." Hey, come live in my world for a while--worry about paying the bills and high gas prices and weather reports. Worry about free-ranging dogs chasing down your cats and mauling them. Worry about your parents' health and what's going to happen the day YOU fall down and break your leg when no one is around to help you.

Reality, I suppose is what you make it while you're just living your life; or, maybe, for many people, reality is what happens when you're watching "reality" on television. However it comes about, I'd still rather have my life than the million dollars I'd get for eating shark guts and taking out the competition by whatever dirty means necessary.

So, welcome to my world. It's boring, but it's at least "real"!

A Dog's Life

Don't get me wrong. Even though I am a cat person, I have nothing against dogs. Dogs are sweet (mostly), funny (when they aren't chewing up your $100 shoes), and lovable (if they are raised to be lovable). But, with my schedule and my definite independent spirit, cats just suit me better.

I don't need a fence to have cats; they ignore fences, true, but, if a cat is neutered, it usually won't stray far from its home. I can leave my cats for a week with ample food and water and clean litter boxes, knowing that they will not chew up the furniture or shred the feather pillows on my bed. Dogs, on the other hand, are high maintenance. A dog left alone for long periods of time will splinter the furniture and rip the wallpaper off the wall from boredom. Dogs need stimulation; cats just "vant to be alone." And, when they don't, they'll let you know.

The small town where I live does not have a leash law; dogs roam at will. Most of the dogs around here are big, usually hunting dogs, and they will chase anything that moves, from squirrels to skunks to...cats. About two Saturdays ago, three large dogs caught one of my cats on my front lawn; I thought they had mauled poor Boudreaux to death. He's fine now, but is not keen on venturing out the front door anymore, which makes me happy, but frustrates him. He has always been something of a bully, and it's just sad to see his lack of confidence (not to mention I have heart palpitations when any of my cats go out these days; I won't let them go out after dark anymore).

Dogs need to be kept home--at their homes. I don't want them in my yard bothering my cats or me. People who own dogs should keep them in fenced yards, inside, or on a chain. They should neuter their dogs if the dogs are not part of a controlled breeding program. Because my cats are neutered, they seldom leave my yard; they might go next door--the neighbor who owns the house next door loves cats; he has 5 acres and doesn't mind the cats hanging around because they kill mice and rats. My cats don't go in the road and they don't go across the ditch. I wish the dogs around here would learn from that. Better yet, I wish our town would institute a leash law and hire a dog catcher; maybe if we had a branch of the ASPCA, we could find owners who would keep them at home where they belong.

In with the Old, In with the New

I hate new year's resolutions. They're usually made under duress and most of us really do not believe we'll accomplish them. I like, instead, to think of everything I've accomplished (lots or little) in the previous year and think about what I'd like to do in the coming year/years.

This year I bought a new car and a house, learned how to knit socks on double-pointed needles (I'm wearing my first pair now!), taught 9 wonderful English classes, traveled to Boston and Austin, helped my relatives through two hurricanes, read too many books to list here, wrote a few nonfiction pieces, created a web site for an organization I belong to, and who knows what else--a thousand small acts of kindness, thoughtfulness, silliness, etc., that I wouldn't remember if I were zapped with a cattle prod. The year, in other words, has sped by in a blur, as years tend to do as I get older.

I feel more settled; I have a place of my own to come home to and more order (As if I really needed more of that! I'm such an orderly person--places for most things, and most things in their places). I'm cooking more and eating more healthy food; I knit like a fiend and am not afraid to attempt what looks impossible (ergo, the socks). I'm trying to be more cheerful; not being organically predispositioned to it, I have to work at it. I'm trying to create more time for me and what I want to do. I see it as necessary selfishness--if I'm too stressed doing all of these tasks for others and deferring what I want all of the time, I just get crabby. And I'm not pleasant when I'm crabby. It just makes sense.

So, yesterday, after the Christmas celebration with my family, I came home and sewed on my great-grandmother's treadle sewing machine and I finished knitting my first pair of socks. I gave myself the whole day and I felt good about it.

Now, I must settle down and do the work for my spring classes and edit some WWII oral history transcripts. But, when I have time, I'm going to work on another pair of socks and plan a quick trip to Austin.

Life is full--of interesting tasks, of opportunities. And I want to experience as much as possible.

Have a wonderful (and pleasant) new year!

Blown Away...

I sat under the carport at my brother's house Saturday, watching as he fried fish and onion rings for a family get-together. At one time, about 25 of my relatives from New Orleans and its surrounding areas had been quartered at various houses around Shreveport and Bossier City, but, today, we'd be entertaining the 15 or so who were still with us.

I began to get hot, so I went into the house to cool off and found two of my sisters talking with my Uncle Tony. Tony, his wife, Pat, and their son, David, had to be rescued from their neighborhood after Hurricane Katrina's storm surge flooded their house. They managed to hunker down with neighbors in the second story of the neighbors' house until help came. David had to be taken to a hospital in Lake Charles because he suffers from seizures if he doesn't have his medicine (he didn't) and my aunt went with him. My uncle was taken to St. Bernard High School and was later bussed to McAlister, Oklahoma. We managed to retrieve them from their various locations and bring them to stay with family.

As I was listening to my uncle describe the horror of the storm, I noticed that this was not the same uncle I had known and loved all of my life. He was a changed man, and not for the better. The Uncle Tony I knew was full of fun, always joking, always building, planning, teaching. This man, the ghost of my uncle, was subdued and depressed. My brother told me that he and my aunt had been sleeping almost all day, every day and that David didn't have a clue about what happened. I'm not surprised.

My uncle said that he had survived Betsy and Camille, so he figured he could survive this. But I think he learned his lesson. When the next storm hits, and there will be one, I hope he heads north as soon as the call goes out.

My uncle drifted off into conversation with my younger sister, and I turned my attention to my oldest sister right at the time when she said, "We're pretty sure Janice and Harold didn't make it."

Janice, my (great)cousin, and Harold, my great-uncle, were both probably in their eighties or nineties, and they were both "mentally-challenged"; I haven't seen either of them for many, many years--the last time I saw Janice was when I was a kid. Her mother, my great-aunt, was the "black sheep" of her family and, at some point, we lost track of both of them, until Janice's mother died and Janice was put in the nursing home.

When my great-grandmother was forceably removed from her house by her oldest son, Harold, who lived with her, went into the same nursing home that Janice was in, not that he knew who she was (or vice-versa, I'm sure). For Harold, this was liberation. My great-grandmother was a tyrant; she kept the cupboards and the refrigerator locked so Harold couldn't eat what he wanted when he wanted (she was afraid he'd eat everything, all at once). Of course, her idea of dinner was tea with bread and butter, which wouldn't even be substantial enough for me, and I don't eat much.

Harold and Janice were both victims of Katrina. He was in a wheelchair and she had a bad hip, so when the time came to get the patients out or leave them to die, the people, the administrators of that nursing home, who should have been looking out for them, who were paid to look out for them, didn't; they elected to save themselves and their families, rationalizing that these infirm, mental "deficients" would probably die anyway, so why bother?

They were warned, just as my uncle was warned. They had time to call for emergency help, and they didn't.

I'm just sick in my heart when I think about my cousin and my great-uncle facing the terror of the rising water. Listening to my my Uncle Tony describe what he, my aunt, and my cousin experienced when the water broke into their house, I can only pray that the end came swiftly and that they didn't suffer too much.

Hindsight is 20/20. Maybe if the rest of us would have taken this seriously, we could have rescued more people, including my great-uncle and my cousin. But, I know my relatives didn't believe this hurricane was going to be so devastating; and hearing them talk about it, I'm sure they have enough heartache without piling guilt on top of them, too.

Yes, it has been forever, or so it seems, since my last post. Much has happened since I last blogged. A new semester has begun, I've bought a house and moved about half of my possessions. I'm still settling in, so I'm feeling a bit dislocated and "out of joint," to steal a phrase from Shakespeare.

Moving makes me wonder why I have so much stuff. George Carlin has that great comic routine about "stuff"--about how we buy a house for our stuff and, when that house gets too crowded, we buy a bigger house for our stuff. All I can say is moving stuff is a pain.

Half my clothes, half my books and many of my bookcases are still at the old house. I can't really unpack much at the new house, because I need the bookcases; but I need to unpack boxes of books so I can have more boxes to pack more books. It gets very circular--one thing depends on another, which depends on another, endlessly. Right now, I'm exhausted. I don't think I can unpack another box, and I certainly don't feel that I have the strength to move any more boxes.

I've resolved this--if I don't unpack a box within six months, and I don't miss what's in the box, then the entire box is going to Goodwill. If I don't miss it, I don't need it.

My daughter suggested that I just go ahead and open a bookstore. I've always wanted to do that. My problem would be that I wouldn't want to part with any of my books, which defeats the purpose of opening a bookstore, don't you think?


The new semester has gotten off to an interesting start. I have four really good classes--every instructor's dream, I think. Most of the writing I've seen so far has been good. My 226 students have to keep journals and to create a blog for posting commentary about assigned essays. The blogs I've seen so far have been creative, as far as color schemes go; the essay commentaries have been variable, but mostly they have been insightful. I especially enjoy reading a post where a student has related the essay to him/herself. Being able to make connections between the essay and oneself shows a sense of thoughtfulness.

I'll pick this up again soon. I shouldn't stay away so long.

Catching Up

Haven't written for a while--not since my Boston trip. I wasn't entirely sure that I would be teaching summer school, but I did have a Freshman Comp class during the first session, which ended Friday. Good class--17 students; 15 of them showed up fairly regularly, one who disappeared after a week and a half, and another who attended erratically and, ultimately, stopped coming three days before the final. I don't understand that; if someone has paid money to attend a class, why doesn't he/she show up? That's wasteful. And dumb. I do know, however, that some students sign up for classes to get federal money to pay their bills (Pell grants), then don't attend. I try to report errant students as soon as I see that they're not attending class regularly--it's a college requirement--and I'll even attempt to contact the student. Mostly, though, I leave that to the student's college.

I enjoyed teaching the class. I haven't had the chance to teach the first comp class in a year. I've been teaching mostly comp/lit and advanced comp; in the fall, I'm teaching one comp/lit and three advanced comps (all of the adv comp classes are on T/Th--I'll be brain dead by the end of the day!). My problem with teaching more than one section of a class is that I feel as though I'm repeating myself. Sometimes, I can't remember which class I've told what. I'm sure this is how my mother feels--she has ten children, and she can't remember who she's told what, so she ends up repeating herself a great deal, usually to the same person (me!). In the spring, I'll have a chance to teach technical writing. I've done a bit of that, but haven't ever taught it, so that should be interesting for me and my students.

I've only been to Mr. Lester's once this season. He usually closes down around the first week in August, so I better stop soon. But I haven't had much time to cook lately, and fresh vegetables require immediate attention.

As for the grass, I've been procrastinating on mowing, so the grass is high and wet. We've had two days of rain and the ground is too soggy for mowing. I'm a bit wary of dragging an extension cord through high, wet grass; right now, I'm hoping the rain lets up and I have a chance to mow the grass soon. I thought about doing it this morning, but the grass is still too wet. And, it looks as though we're going to have another shower. I won't really have a chance to do it tomorrow (July 4th), because I'm working at the bookstore until 10pm. Oh well! Maybe the ground will dry up by Tuesday or Wednesday and I'll be able to do it then.

Gotta go. I've got some knitting to finish and housework to do.

Later.

Doin' the Wireless Thing...

In Boston, no less! This is my second trip in the last two weeks--five days in Austin, six at home. I left for Boston yesterday and will be here until Sunday, May 29th.

Are airplanes getting smaller? I'm not a huge person, but I could barely get me and my carry on bag and my purse into the space that was my "seat" on either plane, though, really, I had more room on the prop plane from Shreveport to Dallas than I did on the plane from Dallas to Boston. I felt really cramped. And, for what they charge for tickets, they could give us more than a thin bag of pretzels and coffee or juice. Plus, the flight was overbooked because the flight before mine was cancelled. I love to fly, but I need to figure out how to upgrade to business class without spending a fortune.

I'm in the Boston Public Library on Dartmouth Street, across from the hotel where I'm staying. The lower lobby boasts murals painted by John Singer Sargeant and, get this, ANYONE can get a library card that will give her access to the Internet FREE. My hotel wants to charge $10.95 a day for DSL, which is a ripoff, but, I guess if you don't want to hobnob with the common folk, you'll pay any price. It's quiet in here, the staff is friendly, the courtyard garden has a gorgeous pool, and there's even a coffeeshop that's open until 5pm. Imagine that--a coffee shop in a library--but you still can't bring your food or drink into the library proper. The signal here is incredibly strong and I'm really enjoying being away from the conference I'm attending--the American Literature Association. I love the conference, but, after a while, I need a break from academic types and some peace and quiet.

The session I'm chairing is at 8am tomorrow (Friday), so I'm hoping to get a good night's sleep and a light knosh before the panel starts. And, speaking of food, we've had some good stuff. Ate a great hamburger at the Globe yesterday and interesting Japanese at a restaurant called Kaya today. I like to be adventurous with food when I'm out of town since I hardly get much variety in S'port or in my little town.

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And for those of you who have been waiting, Mr. Lester's produce stand is opened. His hours are generally 8 am or so until around 4:30 or 5pm, Mon.-Sat.; he's not opened on Sundays. I think he even has some peaches right now, tomatoes and squash; he also sells local honey, so you might want to check that out too. I haven't been yet because I've been travelling, but I'm sure I'll stop by when I'm planning to stay at home for a while! Enjoy!

Now that I have wifi access, I'll try to write more in the next day or two. Later!

The End of Days

I'm always sad when a semester ends. While I enjoy planning for my upcoming classes, I find it difficult to let go of the current ones. I've come to know my students, most of whom--not all of them, but most--are intelligent, funny, and determined to give their best to their classes. I'm excited by their growth, by the changes in their writing and their attitudes, by the camaraderie they have developed during their shared class experience.

They move on; I move on. But I'm heartened when I see those bright-eyed freshman, who entered my class four years earlier, graduate. They've matured, they've learned, they've put in their time, and they are ready to go out into the wide world and make it their own.

If, as a teacher, I can touch one of them, make even one of them approach the world with a more inquiring mind, then maybe I've done something. If I can help them to think for themselves, I've done something. Every once in a while, a former student will come to visit me, long after he or she has left my class, to thank me. Sometimes, it happens after a year; sometimes, after four. But, every once in a while, I get something like this from a current student:

"But from you Ms. Smith, I learned that college teachers have interesting lives, too! Most of us could relate to you because you work more than one job and you also work with the general public like so many students do. I don't know if you or anyone else realizes it, but I feel that I got more out of lessons in your class than what I have to pay back in student loans. And you taught us in a way that forced us to teach ourselves. You did not "tell" us what we had to observe or take away from any assignment. Thank you for doing more than what you set out to do, even if you meant for it to be that way."

And that is why I teach--not for money, or for prizes--but for that.

If it's cold in April, this must be Louisiana

Woke up this morning to a cold rain on this, the last day of April, 2005. I thought I wouldn't need the heaters anymore, seeing as how spring supposedly has sprung. One thing I can say for Louisiana is that the weather is never boring--often scary, often surprising, but never boring.

As I've been driving home the last two evenings, I've seen several coyotes, looking lean and running fast. I narrowly avoided hitting two of them with my nice, new car. And, Thursday night, as I sat in my chair ruminating on the day, I heard them howling. Their howls are so different from a dog's--chilling, spine-tingling.

For the first time in many, many months, I have the weekend off. Of course, "off" is a relative term. What that simply means is that I can hang around the house in my pajamas; I don't have to physically go to either of my jobs. That doesn't mean, of course, that I'm not working. I'm taking time out to Blog a bit, but I have papers to grade and I'll spend most of today doing that. I wanted to mow the grass, but, alas, the rain prevents that.

This free weekend, though, allowed me to do something I haven't done in a couple of years--actually go somewhere and have some fun. Last night (my first Friday night off in a long while), I went to a party held by the Liberal Arts department of my college, stopped by the American Cancer Society fund-raiser, and stopped in at the bookstore where I usually work on Friday nights for a cup of coffee (as a customer, no less!). I ran into a friend there and talked to him until the first closing announcement. What a luxury!

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Today is my daughter's 30th birthday! Happy birthday, Dot! I can't possibly have a daughter that age (and she certainly doesn't look her age--more like 18). Well, I also have a son who will turn 25 this year. They grow up quickly. And, really, if they weren't my children, they'd be the kind of people who would be my friends. Talented, quirky, funny, creative, smart, and employed! Everything a parent could want in a child!