Still grading essays (it's a big class). Still no resolution to my problems with assessing discussion and uploading from a spreadsheet. (I did get a response yesterday, but it wasn't helpful.)

Today I was working in my class and thinking how I am amazed by the number of students who write "Ms." or even "Mrs." when they email me. Occasionally one even risks "Gina." When a student calls me Gina to my face, I assume it is for one of three reasons: 1) I seem nice and not hung up on status; 2) they are nontraditional students in age 3) my last name is hard to pronounce and they are more nervous about screwing it up than they are about being presumptuous (although I believe this last one has become less common, since the former mayor of NYC became a household name - now everyone, students and others, proudly attempt my name but invariably append "i" rather than "o").*

The reason they call me "Ms." (or "Mrs.") confounds me, however. I don't believe they intend to be disrespectful, or to attack the power imbalance (except on rare occasions, when that was definitely true). They are used to it from high school? They mostly have graduate students as instructors? I don't seem as if I could possibly have a doctorate? (But using "Professor" avoids that issue.) They philosophically believe that only MDs should be called "Dr."? (I know there are people in society for whom that is true, but I find it doubtful in an undergraduate at a public university.) They read the Chronicle and have noticed the convention in that paper? (Again, doubtful.)

I don't (usually) correct them, even though I think they should know enough to call me "Dr." or "Professor." The "PhD" is after my name on the syllabus, after all. In class on the first day, I write my name with the "Dr." in front of it on the board and I tell them about my qualifications in the go-around. In the online class, I have a bio that details my education and experience.

"Mrs." makes a lot of assumptions -- and besides, my surname is my patronym! "Ms." was what I used before finishing my doctorate. (I can't remember the last time someone wrote "Miss" but I never used it, came of age in the Ms. decade. Occasionally, an international student will say "Miss," and this I understand to be cultural.)

Even though I don't embarrass them by calling attention to their mistake, sometimes I will use a discussion of a theory as an opportunity -- say, Domain Theory -- to use students calling me by my first name without asking first or making assumptions about my marital status or level of education as examples of violations of social convention; although there are no intrinsic consequences from the action, as there are for breaches in the moral domain (where intrinsic harm is caused), it is a rule that is socially agreed upon. Another example I use is when we discuss returns to education, and are covering what is a learning society (credentials determine income and status): I tell them a story that always gets some laughs about people treating me differently, when they discover I am not an associate at Stewarts (as they assumed), but am instead college faculty.

Does it seem petty to care about such things? Or is it status "monging?" My parents think everyone everywhere should call me "Dr." because it was a significant accomplishment. I was a first generation college student and it took 22 long years to walk across the stage and be hooded and they are very proud.

Back to grading, doc. (A few of the clever ones who want to be cute call me that and it warms my heart...charming without being disrpespectful, no "tor," no pronounciation issues, no too-familiar first name but it isn't distant either.)

*Added: My name is also hard to spell (even my maternal grandmother couldn't remember) so that might be a reason for writing my first name instead of my last. You wouldn't believe the spellings I see. Long ago, I mentioned it in a story about succumbing to mail order offers that I wrote when I was a kid: "the personalized pencils which proclaimed I BELONG TO GINS GINLCANO."

 

It's like a sauna outside! So no stove. Tonight's dinner (plus lentils, hummus, Chobani plain yogurt dip and Food That Tastes Good multigrain chips). I bought the big tomatoes on the left, but that will be the last tomato purchase for a while. After this past weekend, I have plenty of cherry and grape tomatoes like the ones on the right, and other larger varieties coming very soon. This must be close to the earliest I've ever been picking tomatoes. My sister grew the lettuce, and I grew everything else (besides the tomatoes, Italian and curly parsley, spinach, basil, chives, cilantro).

 

I was looking for these jpegs to post for July 4 - couldn't find them, gave up. I found them today! It's OK, like Elwyn's birthday month we can have an Independence month. Someday I will restore the collecting virtual museum, but until then, here are the flag / statue / patriotic ones. (I may have others now, I made these scans a few years ago.)

We call this "have basil will travel" because I take this plant back and forth between Castleton and Samsonville, sort of like Sam, Sophie and Theo Cat. Salad Caprese is a must!

Weekend was unbelievably busy. Visited Long Island on Saturday.

 

Headed to Bridgeport from Port Jefferson on the ferry.

Spent Sunday in Samsonville, where the lillies and bee balm are blooming. The pool is improving. Met our new grandnephew, yay!

Back in Castleton, the tomatoes have really arrived! And the aggravation with blackboard patiently waited for my return (not to worry).

Finally, calling all Capital District and thereabouts carnivores: go to the Troy barbecue competition on Saturday and vote for General Joe's BBQ for the people's choice award!

So. Is it unreasonable to expect more than an automated response after two days? To then follow up and hear nothing? Even if it is only "you've really found a glitch, don't worry, we're working on it?" Hello?

There are things I don't write about here. Some personal things, some professional things. I'd like to write a lot more about this. Suffice to say, I believe instructional support has to be 24/7, 7 days per week. Or at least 12/7, 7 days per week. It was that way "back in the day," in the infancy of online delivery. Faculty really had a partner. Part of the job description was that time was flexible, people worked from home a lot and were often available, or at least the turn around was fast and not dependent on time of day or day of the week. It was necessary to break the outdated concept of "seat time." For the level of commitment required, there was a lot of freedom.

Sadly, my experience since our campus absorbed this function has been we follow a 9-5 model, 5 days per week...with generous vacations that are often ill-timed. Imagine if the instructor worked that way!

Seventeen essays done, twenty to go. (A few students didn't submit one.) The first writing assignment is often a rude awakening for some students that she really expects us to buy the books and read them. I'm burnt. Time for a break.

 

This week's harvest! :-) 

I always say bugs hate me -- but maybe that should be bugs love me? They love chasing me, swarming me, stinging me, biting me, sucking my blood, injecting me with toxins, giving me diseases. And I won't even kill them (unless they are eating my eggplant or cucumbers, but even at that, my methods of control are relatively benign). Fine -- hate me, love me, but they will not keep me inside.

I couldn't wait any longer for an answer to what is wrong with the reporting tool, so I manually went through and corrected the data! I felt like I was back in the early days of online delivery. I won't be doing a midpoint report to students if I have to use this method, so I hope they find a work around soon. This has delayed my essay grading, but I still managed to get seven done. Only about 30 to go!

The hoe out the office project came to a screeching halt as soon as I got sinusitis. I believe the dental visit was the cause, but exposing myself to all the dust contributed. It's too bad, as I was on my way to completely transforming the space. As it is, I made a big improvement, more than I have done with all my "paper" etc. in years. I was thinking a minimalist, or even that woman who writes (or used to write?) the getting organized blog for the TU would probably have to be hospitalized if they visited my home office. Or at least they'd think I should be hospitalized. It's funny, because when we discuss philosophy in my classes, I use my disdain for materialism as an example of something I must tolerate in others in our society. Yet, here I am, attached to "stuff." I suppose I see a difference in being a saver v. being a consumer.

Anyway, before my teeth and sinuses decided to rebel (reading the above, I wonder if that was psychological?), I had intended to scan and post something wonderful here for Independence Day. Occasionally when doing extreme paper sorting and organization, one scores a find that's like meeting up with a long-lost friend. When I found this newspaper article again, I was delighted, in particular because the electronic version is on my lamented Iomega drive. Scanning it using OCR isn't really possible (at least as a fast job) since it is in columns. A PDF would have to be on my (Verizon-hosted) website, and that is where it will go eventually, but in the interest of speed and simplicity, I will share it here as a series of JPEGs instead. I decided to take the time today while Blackboard is not cooperating. Can't just allow paralysis to set in!

This was published in the Kingston Freeman on 20 March 1929, and was a reprint of an article about Benjamin Turner's July 4, 1876 speech at Crispell's Grove in West Shokan.

Still waiting on a solution to my troubles with blackboard. Anxiously waiting...it's only a six-week course and it will be half over this weekend.

The plants love this heat...but I do not. However - I picked tomatoes! "Only" grape tomatoes, but still. I picked two last week, today there was a handful. I also picked wild blackberries. I am enthralled by wild fruit! I will brave thunderstorms, Lyme disease, heat exhaustion for a half cup. Remember bugs hate me! So far I have gotten two bee stings this summer. Luckily I am not allergic to them.

Flames
1997

"SINCE YOU OBVIOUSLY PREFER SOMEONE ELSE'S OPINION OVER MINE,"
shouted the e-mail message to someone else
copy to me
"YOU CAN JUST DISCUSS THIS WITH HER,"
it continued
no doubt her is me
"AND I THINK YOU ARE HARRASSING ME,"
the sender was at a full rolling boil
I don't want to discuss this with anyone
"YOU ARE PURSUING ME RELENTLESSLY, LIKE A GAME OF CAT AND
MOUSE,"
too bad
the ice cubes I drop in have no effect
"WHILE OFFERING NO PRAISE FOR ME TAKING ON THIS PROJECT IN THE
FIRST PLACE,"
but the oil the recipient drizzles in
does

Doing the early assessments - something that should be a snap - has turned into a nightmare with the Blackboard upgrade. AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!  (But there should be some symbols in there too, to really capture the sentiment.) I am glad I volunteered for the pilot so I can upgrade when I only have one class to worry about, though.

I'm glad I said screw it over the weekend and didn't bother working on hardware installation in the Samsonville computer, because then I would have ruined an otherwise lovely day. I didn't bother switching the CD drive from one machine to another because I was afraid it would be time consuming and aggravating. Well, I'll bet it would have been a snap, but that hardly matters. Uploading the usual feedback for early in the class was a nightmare on its own! OMG. I finally did it about an hour ago -- I think. I can't see what students see in Blackboard 9.1, so who knows. My head is numb!

Wow. This post says it all: Vick Again.

Happy Independence Day!

Great weekend, even with the continuous downpour yesterday. What does rain matter, when eggplant parm is on the menu?

The pool is one shade lighter...

About the technology, I said "screw it!" That means a long day tomorrow...oh, well.

My lacecap hydrangea

The pool is still green! But it's getting there. This is the first summer in two years that Bob can actually work on it the way he wants, so that's good. It will clear up eventually. It is trickier with a Baquacil pool than it is for a chlorine pool, but it's worth it. Fun, beautiful day anyway. I didn't go in, wouldn't even if it had been crystal clear. The water needs to be really warm to entice me and that generally doesn't happen this early in the season.

Technology here is irritating, though. Our home phone connect is not working now that the leaves are on. I have to put the device out in the yard near a tree to get even minimal service. So, we have to get out of that contract and get another phone provider. Then, I had hoped to do some work on my class - cannot have 42 students in an intensive six-week long class and expect to take weekends off, even holiday weekends. But my various machines are not cooperating. I think I will have to cannibalize a couple tomorrow, take the CD Rom from one and put in in another - or maybe just say screw it. That will make next week really difficult, though. What a hassle!

I agree with Matilda. "Cottage cheese and tomato soup might be low on calories, but it's not Italian lasagna." Yuck. Tomato soup and cottage cheese! Reminds me of my brother's childhood (non-Italian) friend. This was the days before pasta was part of common lingo. In fact, we called it macaroni. The word "noodles" meant egg noodles to us. Once my mother was making lasagne for dinner and this friend said to her: "I don't like those flat noodles with that pasty cheese." We thought that was so funny. Probably did not like the "sprinkle on" cheese either (another family joke). Meanwhile, I put grated parmesan on ice cream and cereal. Well, not really, but just about.

A comment on the blog (articles don't permit comments) said this fluff piece is an effort to humanize the governor at a difficult time in the Capital District. True. I guess the TU is always willing to step up.

My Second Lesson in Leadership
1997

During college I worked full-time at a funky plant and gift shop called "What's Upstairs?"  Owned by Joe and managed by his small harem, his son Joey and I were the only employees. Joey worked Thursday nights 5-9 and I did the Monday to Saturday shift, 10-5:30 daily. Oversight was light and I basically ran the place, paying myself $3 per hour out of the register.

Joe was a charismatic hippie who drove his microbus or ancient Caddy to craft shows all over the middle-north east. When he stopped in he would discuss his business and life philosophy with me, while sporting his signature leather cap on frizzy salt-and-pepper hair.  He had creative ideas for business names, such as "Gifterrarium" and "Sincerely Yours."

Young as I was, I took him with a grain of salt.  It was a good gig for me, a place where I could study for my full-time schedule of night classes and visit with friends, while being quasi-in charge. I never questioned that the owners were rarely around, came in at night and only left me brief notes with boxes of merchandise to unpack. I guess I did think having the manufacturer's tags cut off of everything was odd. I couldn't figure it out, so I forgot about it. I figured it was better than my other option, waitressing in a pizzeria.

One day I arrived at the shop and the door was broken in. Four plainclothes BCI agents were inside. "Do you have identification?" I demanded, remembering what I had learned from cop shows on TV. They most certainly did, I was cooperative, and I made friends for life.  They had a warrant for Joe for eleven counts of grand larceny and fraud, and so I helped them to pack up the products they planned to confiscate. Apparently, Joe had made up wholesalers to give himself credit references so he could order merchandise for a variety of phony gift shops, and then sold the merchandise without tags for less than suggested retail price, never paying any of the bills. Any junk which remained was dumped at "What's Upstairs?" This went on for years and years.

The cops advised me to work there no more, and even tried to convince me to become a State Trooper instead, going so far as to drop off a copy of the exam application at my apartment.  I was intrigued by the idea. The troopers assured me the beat cop aspect of the job would be short-lived for me; I would be a detective in no time. But I demurred due to my fear of guns, loathing of athletics and that pesky driver's license!

My friends urged me to steal everything that I could before I left the store, but I didn't. It was hard to leave that place, because I didn't want to abandon the plants which had not been confiscated, since I knew no-one else would water them. They had done nothing wrong. I went back a few times to take care of them, but eventually I had no choice. I said a sad goodbye to the huge corn plant, umbrella tree and cacti, nailed the door shut, and left a note with my keys inside. And then I went home. Later I learned that Joe hired an expensive attorney, and because his harem members had signed for all of the stolen products, the charges were pinned on them, and they were left with the public defender.

I'm trying to do some scholarly writing. It's like pulling teeth. (I did not just write that! My teeth are [almost] fine now, thank you neti pot.) BTW, if you have stumbled here from a search for neti pot and sinus infection, I encourage you to get over your reluctance and try it. You won't be sorry, it works like a charm. Cured me in a week. I did it every 3-4 hours when it was bad, then gradually tapered off to twice a day, then once, and now, not even that often. Not sure if I will stop entirely, probably, maybe just doing it rarely, occasionally, as needed. But if you are lingering because you are looking for instructions...here's not the place. For those details, you'll have to go elsewhere. There is no shortage of sites.

Back to the scholarly writing. Aside from "cultural ties to the area" (an academic once asked me if that is why I didn't move), and a dislike for meetings...not feeling like churning out research for the publish or perish grind is a major reason why I'm happy as an adjunct. It isn't that I can't do it, it's that I would so much rather write in a different style.

I've been thinking about what a wonderful example the marriage equality debate, negotiation and legislation are for toleration class, because it combines all three types: political, moral and social.

It is important to keep in mind that toleration is not the opposite of prejudice. It implies an action, not a feeling. It is the opposite of discrimination. It involves compromise. It is important in a society that values diversity, peace, and equality. Also, it does not mean "celebration," it just means "putting up with," and demonstrating intentional self-restraint from persecuting.

Political toleration involves acts in the public sphere such as government allowing free speech and free assembly. Moral toleration involves acts in the private sphere, such as personal relationships and sexual behavior. Social toleration involves characteristics that one has since birth, such as gender, race and ethnicity, or has acquired during early socialization, such as religion and language. Toleration's roots are in religion (see John Locke's (1689) A Letter Concerning Toleration).

In this case, it was a perfect intersection of all three types of toleration: securing political toleration for gay people without infringing on political toleration for religious groups, and it involved moral toleration of private behavior, as well as social toleration of gay people and for religious practices. I can hardly wait to add slides to my presentation this fall...

Political toleration is often the easiest to understand, and since it involves government, it sometimes is considered the most important. Generally speaking, groups desire toleration to replace the opposite, intolerance, persecution and discrimination. However, once toleration is common, most of the time the object becomes political rights. Simple "putting up with" is no longer sufficient, the goal is securing rights. Political toleration can be thought of as a continuum: 

More of my beautiful roses, wish I had a better camera:

During the summer we eat solely out of the garden as much as possible, and when it is hot I try not to turn on the stove at all. Last night I made a wonderful summer salad. It was gone before I remembered to take a picture!

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
1 tomato, chopped
1 cup fresh spinach, torn into pieces
1/2 cup alfalfa, kale, radish, broccoli sprouts (blend or any one or combination)
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1/4 cup fresh curly parsley, chopped
1/4 cup fresh Italian parsley, chopped
1 T lime juice
1 T olive oil
1 T water
1 t fresh garlic, minced
salt and pepper to taste

We ate it with Food That Tastes Good sesame chips, hummus, and plain Chobani yogurt. Yum!

This letter was in Dear Annie today:

I hope you will print my pet peeve so retailers will take notice. No matter where I shop, no one knows how to properly give change. If I pay $20 for a $15.95 purchase, the change is handed to me in a pile of coins, bills and a receipt. I have to fumble to count it.

I cashiered many years ago. I would give the customer the nickel, saying, "And five cents makes 16," and then count out the remaining four dollars, saying, "Seventeen, 18, 19, 20." Most cashiers today can't add or subtract without the register to do the thinking for them.

[deleted some stuff]

And last but not least, why is the receipt so long? Imagine how much paper could be saved if they skipped the surveys and advertising.

I absolutely agree with the letter writer. The over-reliance on technology for simple math has erased the ability to make change, estimate, and do calculations in the head. (I didn't agree so much with the deleted portion, which had to do with the greetings and thank yous offered by clerks. I don't mind someone saying "have a good one." Better than sullen silence.) And I too think the coupons etc. on the receipt are a waste.

This reminded me, over the weekend I was in Hannaford quite late one night. There were two teenage boys behind me, with a milk and a brown paper bag. I didn't have an overflowing cart, but I did have quite a few items. The packer said, "I can take you over here," to the boys, but they didn't make any effort to follow him to the next check-out line. It was taking a bit of time to take care of my order, and their two items kept getting mixed in with mine and had to be moved back several times. So eventually I said to them, "he said he would take you at the next line." They ignored me.

After we were done, Bob and I speculated that they were shoplifting something in the paper bag. He thought maybe the cashier at my register was in on it and they didn't want to risk the other line. I thought maybe it was drugs of some kind, don't kids snort some OTC things? Perhaps it was something expensive like batteries or condoms. Or maybe it was just a candy bar or extra donut. Still, they were so transparent.

Added: This TU note isn't true: "Within each category, blogs are sorted by latest posts. Blogs that have posted within the last 36 hours display a thumbnail image." 

I have written probably about 25 variations of the story in this and the prior post, starting in around 1980. I eventually turned the first version (may be lost) into a radio play (definitely lost). The short variant below is one of my favorites.

A Lovely Ghost Story

Standing at the side of the road you can see the notch. That's what it is called, a place where the mountains come together, not with their usual curvy slope, but abruptly, in a "V." Almost like a mistake, except that God doesn't make mistakes, even surprisingly beautiful ones.

Opposite the notch is a big, open hay field. The narrow road twists through it and over a little bridge where my brother had a car accident as a teenager. In the back of the field there is a hill, small compared to the mountains, and at the top of that hill stands the house.Beside the simple farmhouse is an old barn, and there is a magnificent oak tree between these two structures.  It has been years since this was an operating farm, but somehow it was saved, unlike so many others, from being chopped up into a housing development.  It was probably purchased from the distant relatives of the old gent whose family always owned it by a weekend resident from New York City, some advertising executive with enough money to afford to keep it intact. As a kid I dreamed that person would be me, and I would live there someday, except that even then I didn't plan a
career on Madison Avenue and I'm not from New York City.  But I was inspired by the idyllic setting, the perfect backdrop for the lovely ghost story I had heard about that place.

My grandfather played the fiddle when he was a young man at summer dances in the barn at that grand old farm. Young people came to hear the music and to drink hard cider. The couple who lived there at the time had some marital difficulties, and the woman was known to be having an affair with another local man. The husband was aware of these rumors, and at one of the many dances, his jealousy got the best of him and he put strychnine in his rival's cider. The woman's lover drank the poison mixture and fell ill at the dance. The town doctor was present, and performed an operation on the man, right in the barn. He removed some of his stomach, and buried it under the oak tree beside the house. This man lived for many more years, and that night the dance went on, even merrier than before the incident. When the husband realized his plan had failed, he vanished, unnoticed, from the festivities. As the party broke up and the revelers left the barn, they stopped in their tracks, staring in horror at the oak tree. There, in one of its massive branches, hung the limp body of their host.
  
If you stand near the road in front of that farm on a hot summer night you can hear the sound of violins wafting toward you in the air. Prompted by the sweet music, turn from gazing at the notch and look toward the barn.  Then you will catch the faint sounds of young lovers laughing and dancing.  Suddenly you will notice the majestic oak tree. And there in the moonlight, hanging from a branch, will be the figure of a long-dead, jealous man, gently swinging in the breeze.

The version below of this story was published in 1998 in a now-defunct online literary journal called Visions and Voices. (See the post above for more details.)

A Lovely Ghost Story


Ted parked the car at the top of the winding driveway. The massive oak tree between the house and the barn partially shaded the spot.  A loose shutter banged in the wind. Mrs. Welch, the realtor, started talking before I was out of the car. Obviously she was afraid we would be unimpressed by the farm.  I stole a look at Ted and could tell his thoughts by his expression. I stifled the urge to laugh and followed Mrs. Welch into the house.

We admired the gigantic open staircase, the lovely hardwood floors and the huge country kitchen. Mrs. Welch was babbling at this point.  Something about this place made her uncomfortable. Finally she paused to take a breath in her sales pitch about the investment potential of this handyman special. Ted seized the opportunity.  "We'd like to return to your office and make a bid." I spent a moment wondering why Mrs. Welch appeared to be surprised, then allowed myself to experience a feeling of perfect happiness. I knew that this farm was ours.

The whole place needed a tremendous amount of work and after we moved in, we began the endless job of clearing the brush from the fields, repairing the barn roof and making the house livable. Decorating was a few years down the road. One day Ted returned from a trip to the store accompanied by another young man.  "This is Joe," Ted explained. "He's our neighbor."

I stopped painting the kitchen windowsill and grasped Joe's extended hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said, then added "sorry," when I noticed that my handshake had left him with a streak of white paint on his palm.

"That's O.K.," he responded cordially, "I'm a veteran house renovator." We all chatted for a few minutes and finally I wrapped it up by inviting Joe and his girlfriend, Rachel, over for dinner the following weekend.  Later that evening while relaxing with a drink, I heard Kirby, my affable mutt, barking ferociously outside. I went to the door and called him.  When he failed to respond, I followed his growls until I discovered him. 

"What is it, Kirb?" I asked, looking around.  It was a beautiful night, and I paused a moment to admire the breathtaking stars. Suddenly, I heard someone behind me. Startled, I spun around. "Joe!"  I exclaimed. "You scared me."

Here's the 8 minute video that my nephew Tom created from the interview I did over Memorial Day Weekend. It's called "Guitar Maker." He'll be entering it in film festivals. I'll be writing an article (and using his stills). The full interview is more than an hour, and my angle will be different. We've been talking about doing this project for a while, so it was good to finally get going. Our original interview date after Christmas had to be canceled due to weather.

Tom was listing off all the other interviews we should capture. It's true, we have very, very rich resources to tap. I remarked to him, we could quit our jobs and do this full-time, we have so many wonderful subjects. But alas, I've learned (and it is not a happy lesson) that is an option only open to the born elite.

We saw Tree of Life last night. It was an interesting movie, worth seeing. Certainly not something to go to if you are in the mood for trite or funny. I knew what to expect going in, so that wasn't a problem. There were some sections that were hard to watch (because the weirdness went on for too long) and other sections that were hard to watch (because the scene was highly charged). The first "hard to watch" is a criticism; the second isn't. Overall, I would say I liked the movie, although "like" isn't necessarily the best word to describe the feeling. It was a think piece, a movie that probably needs to be watched more than once to fully absorb all the nuances. An unqualified compliment: Good performances all around.

We rarely go to the movies so close to opening night (which was Friday). It was packed, something I dislike. I have serious personal space needs, even more so in the summer when I see fewer people. I prefer to sit in the front, but we weren't late and still we were forced to sit too close to the screen. Ow. (But the legroom was good for Bob.) When movies are packed at mall theatres (as is often the case), it is so unpleasant, because the level of rudeness is off the charts. That is a major reason* we rarely go to any theatre besides the Spectrum. As usual, the audience was serious and relatively polite, so talking wasn't a problem last night even with the crowd, once the movie started everyone was fairly quiet. I was nervous at first because the woman next to me had her smart phone out and she was texting like mad during the previews. She even did it a little at the beginning of the movie, but it was as bright as a flashlight - a beacon to all that she is a self-absorbed jerk. After trying unsuccessfully to hide it (and maybe sensing my look that could kill, even in the dark), she snapped the thing off. What a relief.

Once the movie ended, I heard a man exclaim "Thank God." Also there was a lot of chatter, as people were discussing the meaning. That's always a good thing, to me it means it was worth the price of admission. Although some remarks that I overheard were c-l-u-e-l-e-s-s! C'mon! [I'm in summer mode, and don't have to be the nice professor who says there are no silly comments or stupid questions...] Anyway, I interpret the man's relieved exclamation to mean he didn't like it - or maybe he was just expressing that it wasn't an "easy watch." (True.)

*the other three: 1) the movies are too d-mn loud; 2) they do not usually have "good" movies; 3) their overpriced popcorn sux.

More Biscuits. Very funny post!

And there's this thoughtful and interesting piece. I was going to comment there, but decided I didn't feel like mixing it up with the usual anti-Catholicism and assertions (for instance "intelligent people walk away). Sigh. Everywhere I look there is a need for toleration. Why can't people express their ideas without resorting to stereotyping?

Added: Had to stop reading. Not the above linked posts, but some others, comments in particular. All I can say is: Wow, there are some catty people in this world. High School redux.

This story was almost lost! Thanks, J. What a relief.

Tacos, Anyone?
original drafts 2001-2011

On a Thursday night toward the end of summer, the phone rang. Gwen was sitting right beside it, so she did something that she almost never did; she answered it.

“Hello. It’s Sam,” said the caller. Gwen winced.

“Sam!” She tried to make her voice convey warmth that she didn’t actually feel.

“It’s so good to talk to you. Oh, I miss you so much,” came the reply.

She’s drunk, Gwen thought. But instead she responded mechanically, “I miss you too. I’m glad you called.” She was a bad liar and she knew Sam could probably tell that’s what it was.

“I’m not drinking. Everything is fine. I tried calling you a few times but you weren’t home and I didn’t want to leave a message.” It almost sounded rehearsed. Gwen could imagine Sam crying as she spoke.

Gwen wasn’t sure how to respond so she said, “oh.” She paused. “So what have you been up to?” She pretended it had been five days and not five months since they’d last spoken.

“Everything’s really good!” Sam hid behind a phony Valley Girl accent. “I met a guy! We’ve been together two months. He’s great, he’s really great.” I met a guy too, thought Gwen. We’ve been together 18 years.

But instead she asked, “that’s great, what is his name?” She wanted to ask his occupation too, but chickened out.

“Ken,” said Sam. “He’s really, really cute. He’s like, so funny.” She giggled. Oh brother, thought Gwen. Why did I answer the phone?

“That’s great.”

“Yah, it is.” More tears. “And I know he really loves me, but sometimes I feel smothered.”

Now it was Gwen’s turn to play Valley Girl. “So...what have you guys been up to?!”

“Oh, not much. I really, really miss you.”

“I miss you too” Gwen said mechanically. The conversation dragged on this way for a while; Sam alternately giggling and crying, Gwen playing with the telephone wire, trying to think of what to say next, and hoping not to seem too fake. She tried to figure out some way to get off the phone. “Why don’t we get together?” Gwen hoped she wouldn’t regret the impulse.   

“O.K.” Sam replied quickly. “There’s a free swing concert this Friday.” Gwen was surprised not just by the suggestion, but that Sam had any suggestion at all. Maybe this time things would be different and Sam did have her act together a little?

“That sounds great. We’ll meet you there at 7.” Gwen rubbed her ear after she hung up the phone. It felt hot.

Happy Birthday Anne! I know she's not a reader of GBP but I wanted to mention it here anyway. And not because she's 50 three months before I will be :-)!

Competing Conversations
original drafts 1999-2011

The window was splattered with mud; a thick, dusty, caked-on mixture of grime from the city streets and salt, signifying late winter.  Gwen stared at the glass anyway, alternately seeking patterns in the filth, the next moment looking through the dirt at the row houses as the bus rolled by them, and finally sometimes seeing nothing at all, not even the man sitting in the seat two inches in front of her, much less the splatter pattern or the street scape.  It will be O.K., she repeated silently, in her head.  Just a brief visit over a cup of coffee.  Nothing more.

I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me, suggested Sam.

Hearing was another matter.  There were sounds, but not the whining little child the woman up ahead was trying in vain to quiet, or the chatter of a couple of school girls, on their way to shopping at the mall. What she heard was in her head, and it was echoed by the drone of the bus engine and the din of the many passenger conversations.

I thought you hated me, accused Sam.

Gwen shook off the daze, tried to think of something else.  But her mind forced her back to Samantha, sullen Sam the little girl, silly Sam the teenager, stuck-up Sam the young woman, and then the S-words stopped.  Unless, she thought, she kept the alliteration but forgot about euphemisms and finished the sentence with Sam the souse.

You can’t save her, warned Father.

In her mind’s eye she saw the first day she’d become aware of Samantha.  Third grade.  Age eight.  The teacher, in one of those flashes of teacher ignorance, or maybe it was simply that in those days there were no blended families, no stepparents, no half-brothers, no life partners, or at least no acknowledgment of such politically correct modern creations, said, “go around the room and say what your father does for a living.”  They had been playing that game a lot in class; it was an exercise in math, one the teacher used to illustrate sets in probability theory.  Except that on the bus that day Gwen remembered in third grade it wasn’t called theory, or even probability.

It’s your cross to bear, observed Mother.

So the students would go around the room and say how many rooms there were in their houses, or how many pets they had, or the names of the towns where they were born.  That day most of the dads worked at IBM or were self-employed in some type of small business, Gwen being part of the latter group.  When they got to Sam, there was a pause, and then she blurted out, “I don’t have one.”

Nothing, said the teacher.

Thirty little heads turned to stare.  That day is probably not even a dim memory for most of her classmates now, but Gwen remembered.  She glanced at her watch, then recalled the batteries were dead and so her wrist was bare.  She rubbed the spot where it should be.  Wondered how different Sam looked now, after not seeing her for a few years.

They won’t let me eat until after they finish, confided Sam.

Probably still young, even after her years of hard living.  Gwen thought about the hours Sam spent fussing over her appearance in high school, ironing even her jeans, curling her hair.  Even when she only had two outfits to wear, in the days before she ran away from home and came to Gwen’s house.  Changing Gwen’s life forever.

Don’t make me go back, begged Sam.

It wasn’t until then that Gwen realized they really had nothing in common, and that Sam’s family situation and its results were more complicated than she could understand.  But how could Gwen hope to address that without seeming like an unfeeling bitch?  There was no easy way.

You’re a bad influence, screamed Sam’s sister.

They missed the bus nearly every day, Gwen because she slept until ten minutes before its arrival, Sam because of the hours she passed in front of the bathroom mirror.  But those were the good times, Gwen now realized.  Sam’s future was bright at that point, and her wonderful, irreverent sense of humor carried Gwen many times through what might otherwise have been a dull high school experience.

You’re so boring, sneered Sam.

What went wrong, Gwen wondered, but in her heart she knew the answer.  Years of bad living can’t be erased so easily.  There are reasons for trite cliches.  Apples really don’t fall far from trees.

It wasn’t my fault, Gwen told herself.

She remembered that awful episode, the night she cut Sam out of her life.  The night Sam demanded she choose between her friends. Why did she force the issue? How could she not know the choice Gwen would make?

If you were my friend you’d stay with me, pleaded Sam.

She remembered Sam drunk, crying, locked in the bathroom, screaming that Gwen should either stay and mind her own business or if she left, then they’d never been friends at all.  Remembered that she promised herself it was the last time she’d be there.  Remembered the feeling of freedom she felt as she ran down the stairs, away from Sam at last.

I’ve been sober for five months, announced Sam.

After seven years, Gwen knew it should have been a welcome phone call, but she had learned that alcoholism wasn’t Sam’s only problem. There was food.  And men.  She demanded constant assurances that she was pretty, smart, loyal, hard-working, loved.  Without the bottle to hide behind, Samantha would have to confront her problems.  She’d have to learn to cope.  She’d need support.  Lots of it.  Gwen knew relapses were common.  And it had been so many years since Gwen had been involved.  Too many years.  She recognized the splatter pattern on the window.  It was storm clouds starting to fill the sky.

We’re not in high school any more, whispered Gwen.

Awesome example of an effective lesson plan.

It's no secret that I can't stand the political reporting at the TU or the (so called) political show on YNN, for lots of reasons, some that I have detailed here in the past. Both make my teeth hurt (again, hat tip to my old boss). Currently there are two things that are driving me crazy (aside from the usual - the in-general snarky tone, the total ignorance of far too many subjects including recent (to anyone over age 30) political history, blatant nepotism, and the hiring of someone who overlooks [ie, condones] plagiarism): 1) they have labeled the tax cap / rent control bill "the big ugly" (how completely lacking in charm and creativity) and 2) the level of impatience they display with getting the session over. What's the hurry? The legislature can work the entire summer as far as I'm concerned. In fact, why shouldn't they? Because it infringes on some smug newsie's vacation plans? You're supposed to be reporters, for goodness sake! Have some class and do your job with a smile...a real one, not a smirk.

The link is here for contacting the governor to tell him to sign this bill, which passed both the Assembly and the Senate.

So far, I am super impressed by the neti pot! It works wonders, way better than decongestants, NSAIDs, steroids, antibiotics. It's awesome. Keeping my fingers crossed that this will be the end of the problem...no additional dental intervention needed. Please.

I started to feel a lot better yesterday, jumped up, ran outside, weed whacked the grass and watered the plants. Picture time!

 

I grew everything in this delicious salad except the tomatoes!

T

My tomatoes are still a few weeks away

The beautiful "vintage" pink rosebush is blooming now though!

Every year I think the same thing: "this is the best garden ever"

The white wave petunias do seem to be especially prolific this year 

This is getting a lot of attention. It would be nice if magazine staff and commentators had a rudimentary understanding of statistics. Here's just one criticism: A self-selected sample is not scientific. I'm not saying the article isn't interesting, but it is not a meaningful ranking. In fact, it reminds me of the college party school designation, which is based on students' voluntary participation. It might sell papers, but it doesn't have any other value.

I got a neti pot. Seems to help. (TMI?)

Had a great weekend, what weather! The animals are exhausted today. Bob checked Sam for ticks last night and found a beetle and a slug in his hair! Everything worked out great in the "grid" arena, I got the wireless working and now the lightening rod cable is disconnected. What a relief.

My summer class starts today. Enrollment is huge, but I don't expect it to remain that way. The summer online class is very intense, and students always drop when they see what is involved.

I have full-blown sinus problems at this point. Apparently, it is of dental origin. Thanks a lot! I am a miserable patient and will likely accomplish very little until it clears up.

I write from Samsonville, where the hydrangea is blooming, Teddy is thrilled to be outside, the internet is working...and the pool is a lovely shade of green!

I got so aggravated with the tooth issues that I said screw it with this least effective dose BS, I want a good night's sleep and I am tired of being preoccupied with the pain. I took one of the 600 mg ibuprofen that I have from when I had oral surgery two years ago. I slept soundly and took another when I woke up. What a relief! Apparently it might take a couple of weeks before my teeth settle down. My liver and digestive system will just have to be good sports. I am not having my weekend in Samsonville ruined by aching teeth.

I am not afraid of the dentist, and don't mind going. I have been going to the same one since I moved to the Capital District. I never had any major problems until I turned 40. Then I started getting sensitivity, and eventually needed a crown, followed a couple of years later by a root canal in the crowned tooth. The crown had to be drilled through since it was less than five years old. That started all sorts of problems, since pieces of the crown kept coming loose. Before it was replaced (five years to the day), a molar on the other side needed a root canal and crown.

During these various visits and procedures, a new dental assistant was hired. I had two especially bad experiences - both the dentist's fault, although one was caused by the assistant. (The latter post is long and details lots of dental events - to cut to the chase, she gave him the wrong compound for making an impression, they had an argument right in front of me, and my bite has been off ever since.)

Two years ago after lots of drama (described in the second linked post) I had to have that second crowned tooth pulled. I went back to the oral surgeon a couple of weeks ago for a consult and because I needed to talk to someone about how upset I am over my teeth problems. This specialist is extremely nice and easy to approach. Not that my own dentist is not nice. He is, but there is a lot of water under the bridge and I think he may feel a little guilty about my messed up bite. One time I even had to take a picture in of me that was taken before my bite changed to show him the difference, because he was insistent there was nothing wrong.

I never had any problems with my teeth, was kind of smug about it, in fact - and now here I am, with constant problems and dental visits that I dread. Before this cleaning, I seriously considered going to a different dentist, but after the consult (when the oral surgeon essentially told me that there was no way to get my old bite back), I decided to buck it up and stay with the practice. And what happens?! Another bad result. It's like I am jinxed or something, paying the price for all those years without problems.

When I search to see if anyone else has had this issue after a routine cleaning, all that comes up are people who have dental phobias and haven't gone for a cleaning in years and now need to have all sorts of work done, or else folks who need to have a periodontist do a deep cleaning. No-one like me at all, who goes for regular cleanings and suddenly has a major issue.

I am not sure whether to give the practice one more shot or if now is the time to go somewhere else. A minor pet peeve is that they always play the radio kind of loud while working - and talk to each other the whole time. I am a person who prefers natural sound, and concentration. I guess I don't mind the drill being drowned out by music, but the dentist and it seems all the workers have strong affection for Barbra Streisand and music of that nature. I am far from a musical snob, and will tolerate just about anything, but Babs falls into the category of "songs Gina hates" (Bob coined that one, and it's now a genre). Let me put it this way, it's about the last thing I feel like listening to when Novocaine has crossed over into my eye, and the dentist is fighting with staff about making a mistake (on me).

The Sweater
1998

Samantha was wearing the orange cowl neck sweater the night she ran away. Gwen's mother had given it and a brown turtleneck to Sam for her sixteenth birthday five days before. Gwen handed her the gift after placing a small, homemade cake on the table in the downstairs cafeteria at school. A hundred other kids were swirling around the tables, fighting their way to the lunch line, but none of them noticed the birthday party.

No-one celebrated her birthday at home, either, because she was "on punishment." Her older sister, Sally, was a psycho bitch. They lived with one of Sally's boyfriends, a macho guy from the city in a house that had been Sam's and Sally's grandfather's. Sally got a monthly disability check for back injuries from a car accident she'd had a few years before. That money, plus Sam's Social Security check, allowed Sally and the boyfriend to sit around the house, drinking and getting high, watching television, arguing with each other and planning chores for Sam. Mostly Sam obeyed them, cleaning the house, painting the garage, mowing the lawn, washing the dishes and doing the laundry while they sat in the living room, which meant she rarely had time to go anywhere. She had no other place to live, and she loved Sally, even if she was crazy. Sam saw her father only once a year after her parents divorced during her infancy, and after her mother's death she didn't want to stay with him. He didn't outlive her mother by much anyway and now even her grandfather was dead.

So Sam did the chores and put up with the fights. She tried to forget that her front tooth was rotting and she needed to go to the dentist. Sally wore dentures and didn't think teeth mattered; besides, it would cost money and they didn't know a dentist. She didn't ask to go to high school events because they would have to drive her, and, they'd remind her, there still was more housework to do; the answer would be no. Every night, the boyfriend made her wait until he was done with dinner before she could sit down and eat. She never could have a piece of cake, because he loved sweets and didn't feel like sharing. She wasn't allowed to have company, but that didn't matter because she didn't want to invite anyone over anyway. Occasionally, if she worked really hard and got everything finished, they would let her go to a friend's house for the weekend. Sam used to have two friends who would invite her over, but Amy had moved away, so now there was only Gwen. But then Sally and her boyfriend started to pick on Sam more often, accusing her of stealing kitchen utensils and even the boyfriend's underwear. "As if I like touching that slime's underwear, "ewww," she thought. When she denied it, feeling guilty because although she hadn't taken the missing items, she had found ways to sneak food, they accused her of lying. She was grounded, and had to scrub the house immaculately. Clean the bathroom grout with a toothbrush. Move the stove and vacuum under it. She wasn't allowed to use the phone, and because the offense had been committed two weeks before her birthday, it would not be celebrated this year. Sam thought calling it sweet sixteen was pretty stupid.

But Gwen and her mother had remembered. Besides the two sweaters she got for her birthday, her entire wardrobe consisted of a pair of jeans, a pair of overalls, a pair of worn-out sneakers and a tee-shirt. The air was chilly in November and the sweaters would come in handy, but she'd have to hide them in her locker or Sally would take them away.

Five days later, her sister found out about the sweaters anyway. Sam was called to the principal's office because Sally was there and had told him that Sam had drugs in her locker. They searched Sam's locker and didn't find any drugs, but that's when Sally saw the sweaters. When Sam got off the bus that afternoon, Sally and her boyfriend were waiting. They insisted she had stolen drugs from them, and Sally gripped the sweaters, demanding to know where she got them. They cursed at Sam and got more and more drunk for a couple of hours, then finally passed out. That was Sam's opportunity; she took the sweaters from the couch near Sally, careful not to wake her up, put on the orange one with her overalls and tiptoed out the door. Once at the end of the driveway, she ran up the road.

I haven't been able to put my hands on this clip in a while - so it was nice to run across it while sorting in the office today! I call this story Christmas Paper, with no extra tagline. The editor made "paper" plural, and added "home for the holidays." I didn't mind. (That much.)

There is no better remedy for toothache than mulching the garden! Way better than ibuprofen. I don't have a toothache exactly, but it is more painful than simple soreness. This never happened to me before, I am not sure what is up. I guess I must have had some "deep cleaning" techniques, since I know that procedure often results in pain and senstivity afterwards. Anyway, I just came inside. The last gardening task is done - now it is just watering and picking (still some things left in S'ville, though). It is very hot in the sun! Everything is doing smashingly well.

I can't think of anyone more worthy of this honor.

Unrelated: And this is a tiresome story. I'm something of a detective, but without closely examining the photo in question and knowing the dynamics of the school relationships, I cannot tell whether this was a prank, or a mistake at the printer. It strikes me as much ado about nothing, however.

I know this article says the yearbook printer is absorbing the cost even though it wasn't their fault, but there were two other errors, at least one of which was definitely their fault: the name of the school on the spine of the book has an upper case letter where there should be a lower case one. (The other mistake was text printed over a picture.) So even without the altered picture, the printer didn't exactly do a top notch job. Interestingly, the article does not mention either problem, and simply continues the assertion that the photo was maliciously altered.

Cutting pictures out? Calling the police in? Ridiculous. I mean, I know bullying is awful (I wasn't exactly a member of the popular club in high school) but this is taking things to an extreme. Granted, these volumes were a lot cheaper in the past, but my last name was misspelled in my yearbook (with all those diphthongs it would have been more shocking if it had been spelled correctly). I don't remember anyone caring about that (even me). I saw the picture on a news report, and it might just be a printing error. It's very subtle for a prank.  But, I suppose that may be why it slipped through and the perpetrators knew it would. However, even if it was purposefully doctored, so what? Why the hysteria, the threats of lawsuits? "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?" Film at 11. I'm reminded of my students complaining about the cancellation of Fountain Day. With wars, unemployment, a slow economy, tornado damage...this is what you get worked up about? Welcome to the real world, I say. Hothouse flowers need not apply.

Maybe that seems mean and uncaring. I know the political environment of school is no picnic, and also that schools are under the microscope about everything these days, bullying included. Maybe the girl is a likely victim, which is why they jumped to the conclusion that it was done on purpose, and there was no way they could hand them out without repercussions. (Why does the Steve Buscemi phone call in Billy Madison come to mind?) Even at that, this was completely mishandled. Why didn't they move to have the yearbooks (or just the page) re-printed before this hit the front page as a scandal, and schedule a signing day over the summer for the seniors?

I had my teeth cleaned yesterday and they are really bothering me today. (Tooth issues share the stage with reading glasses as one of the joys of aging - not!) Three guesses why this made them hurt worse. Here's a hint. It isn't the nausea-inducing smugness of the comedy routine. Oh, the irony.

Added: I have to give credit where it is due (even more so in this case). In another life, I worked for a man whose favorite line was "it makes my teeth hurt" whenever there was a problem.

Unrelated: I'm sifting out items in my office reorganization that I've had in here for a long time and don't want in the room any longer. It's a tiny room and some of this stuff has been stored in it for over 20 years. Some of it is good stuff, I just don't use it and also don't have any space for it. It's either me or the junk at this point. My mother has told me that sometimes she tells my father, one day she will walk into his garage workshop and find him tangled in a spider web, there are so many lurking among all his treasures. It's kind of the same thing in my office.

One thing that is taking up the area under my computer table is The Writer magazine. I loved that magazine. I subscribed for years and saved every copy. Then they sold (I think), moved from Boston and changed the format - result was that the new version sucked. I subscribed for a while to give it a chance, then dropped it. I also subscribed to Writer's Digest, although not for as long as The Writer.

Anyway, the old magazines take up a lot of space and I doubt I will ever look at them again. I can't stand having a yardsale, so I have been reviewing craigslist, ebay and freecycle to see if any of those would work for the type of stuff I have. Most of what I have to get rid of are books (publishers send me all sorts of review copies to consider assigning in my classes), magazines, and office supplies. I have tons of gently used notebooks, from when I assigned a paper journal to students.

I was surprised to see that the secondary market for The Writer might be more than I knew. I don't go to ebay as much as I once did (remember when that was the website everyone was always on, sort of like facebook now? We were in love with buying and selling stuff on our online yardsale). It seems The Writer and other magazines are items on ebay that are mainly sold in buy-it-now extended listings from used bookstores.There are very few auctions of bulk lots of the magazine, one I saw was $40 for 41 magazines.

The stores are using ebay sort of like a sales database. So it may take a while to sell the magazines, but they charge $7-$10 each. I'm not interested in selling individual magazines, don't care to become a long term ebay e-seller, but that they have more value than I figured is forcing me to carefully consider how to go about getting rid of them. Nothing is ever easy!

As for the other stuff, Bob says it is OK to throw good things away. I say it isn't. Not a surprise really, he was always pretty anti-recycling in the days when it was being debated and was optional and at first he endlessly complained about having to "wash garbage." But I will find a home for them, not to worry. Last resort, people will take just about anything out of a "free" box on the sidewalk.

For Sale
(original drafts 1997-2009)

Village 2-Story, 2 BR, 1 BA, New Vinyl Siding, All Appliances, $59,900 read the ad that was eventually placed.  The caravan of realtors came today, marching single file through the livingroom, down the stairs to the kitchen, then up those stairs again, and up the second flight to the bedrooms.  There was a little traffic jam on the landing that serves both sets of stairs, as the high heeled women, and one grey-suited man, navigated the steep turns.  In a grander house it would be called a spiral staircase.

When Uncle Bob visited, he said it reminded him of a boat. I try to remember why I liked this house.  The price, certainly.  It was livable, and considering the price, that was a miracle.  Plus, it was different.  When we finally decided to sell it, the realtor looked down his list of house styles and chose "2-Story," pausing for a moment to consider "Colonial."  I remembered what I learned in a class on architectural history and told him it was a Temple House, but that wasn't on the list.  Tall, with a tiny footprint, it is actually three stories.  It certainly isn't a colonial, though it is more than 100 years old, built, I imagine, for workers from the piano factory down the hill.  That factory thrived when railroads were king, sparking the construction of the bungalows, four squares and temple houses that line village streets.  The factory is long gone, but this house is here still.

We are eager to sell it, full of dreams about what our new place will be like: Two bathrooms.  A garage.  A real dining room.  An acre of land.  A swimming pool. Mountain views.  Space for a big vegetable garden, instead of the puny four-by-eight square where I manage to wring out a surprising number or tomatoes and cucumbers every summer. I imagine hardwood floors and a dishwasher and oriental carpets.  The new house is immaculate, for in my vision I have somehow purchased house cleaning skills with the real estate.  Of course, there's a spacious room for writing.

Tied up in that fantasy was always a drive to be a published writer.  But that desire could not wait, and so I spent many hours writing in the small second bedroom of the 2-Story, Colonial Temple House.  Surrounded by books, listening to music, quietly typing.  Initial inspirations come most often not in my third-floor writing area but in the kitchen, sitting at the table. In both spaces, my companions have been dogs, cats, and a fevered imagination.

When we bought this house, there were pennies in all the doorways.  Not a believer in superstitions, I removed them on the day we moved in.  In the ten years since, I've sensed nothing in these rooms but happiness and good luck.  "You have a lovely cat," said one realtor as she passed by me in the living room, where I was standing, restraining Rudy, my young hound dog, from jumping all over her Sunday best.  "I like your flowers," offered another.  "You've really fixed up this place nicely."  And then they were gone, in and out in less than ten minutes. 

I released Rudy's harness and relaxed.  My eyes scanned the room, trying to determine what the caravan might have thought.  I was scrubbing frantically until moments before they arrived, and barely had time to appraise the results of my efforts.  It looks good.  Shows well.  It is not bad for a modest little house that is just over 900 square feet. Then I notice a crack in one of the pine floor boards, and remember that it was caused by dancing. Dancing during one of the many parties of our twenties. 

I surveyed downstairs and decide I should have washed the bathroom window.  Then I smile as I recall the room's horrible state when we bought the house, and the two weeks we went without one while renovating it. There was no money for a contractor, so we did it ourselves for less than a thousand dollars, guided by telephone conversations with my father about plumbing. Outside, I am thinking of the family barbeque we had one year on Labor Day weekend when I see the scratches in the green paint on the bottom of the kitchen door. Howie's scratches.  Howie, my beloved fifteen-year-old dog died in this house.

A week ago, in the mail at this house, I received my first acceptance letter for one of my stories.  One piece of my vision unravels a little, and I see that I have already grasped it.  I wrote that story, ten others and a book in my small writing space without a mountain view, upstairs in this house.

I'm posting this link mostly because putting it here works better for me than a bookmark. I have a lot of things going on - including a massive reorganization and clean up of my office (way way way way way long time coming), mulching the garden (the only thing I want to be doing, and this weather is making it really hard to wait until tomorrow) and working on my study. So I can't immerse myself in this report, but I will - before I put the links and commentary in my summer class. I will have to do that by July 18, when we start to cover educational policy.

Just a couple of quick notes on it, though. First, it's great that some districts and parts of the state have seen an increase in high school graduate rates. However, just like with the "Did you know?" poster campaign, I have a really hard time not focusing on the remaining slice of the pie, the 27 percent who do not graduate! What is there today in terms of opportunity for young people without high school diplomas? It isn't like the early or even mid-20th Century.

Also - no surprises here. Working on college readiness used to be a big part of my life. That was the whole point of the program I directed back in the '90s (if you are wondering, "He Has a Way with Words" was not about that program). I found that 49 percent of SUNY students who participated and 59 percent of all students who participated (when they were juniors in high school) would place in remedial math in college.

Also, unrelated: S'ville house is back on the grid! YAY!

I'd like to think it was my email that convinced him.

I just tried to go to this restaurant. It's a kind of a funky place, very cute. The food is great, especially if you like things like whole grains, hummus, interesting salads and bean soups, as I do. But about the past five times I've tried to eat there, it has been closed. Every time has been during regular business hours - breakfast or lunch, weekdays or weekends, and not five minutes before they close. Banners and sandwich boards are all on display. Sorry to say, I think that is the last time I attempt to go there.

He Has a Way with Words
original draft 1997

I struggle to get the look on my face just right. It's not a a friendly face when I am not smiling. I don't want to seem closed minded or judgmental but the only alternative, sucking-up, isn't possible. I fidget, rest my chin in my hand, try to appear attentive. The speaker is repetitive and never makes eye contact. After a string of these meetings his ideas are not new and I am thankful to at last be numb. The others around the conference table display a mixture of boredom and distance. We avoid each other's glances.

At today's session we have visitors, representatives from a vendor of standardized testing materials.  Occasionally I risk looking at our guests and notice they are uncomfortable too. I am relieved.  My numbness is punctured every so often by the sting of a word or phrase.  He describes the old trustees, those holding the minority opinion on our board, as dissidents. Says he wants to close doors of objection. Defines history as a subset of a broader context, the study of Western Civilization. Names geography, western civilization and economics as the three most important subjects to test.

I am reminded of colorforms. Recently I bought them for the birthday of my friend's daughter, and in my imagination his fine gray wool suit changes to a uniform, complete with a cap.  In this vision, he is not lecturing, but barking orders.  Those sharp words, which have torn my blanket of numbness, float in the air. Dissidents. I see each letter materializing before my eyes, hanging there, animated.

He pushes the sales reps and data analysts to promise to meet his ridiculous deadline. They are hesitant, but don't want to lose such a large account. I can see the argument playing itself out in their heads. "Thousands of students to test!" on the one hand; "our professional reputation!" on the other. "I don't care if it's sloppy," he tells them, waving. The words dancing before my eyes evaporate because there is a new tear in my blanket.  Instead I see a door, and me sticking my foot in it as it closes.

He has to leave before we do and the atmosphere in the room breaks just a little. The test vendors ask us if we have any questions. "You wouldn't do that, would you?" I want to know.  "What?" says the woman across the table from me. "Make a sloppy test?" "No." She vigorously shakes her head. The others nod in agreement. The door disappears and I settle back under my blanket.

I noticed this in the paper yesterday and I see it is in the blog area today. I am working on research for the Academy about this program and was at the show's opening a few weeks ago, it was the culmination of the fifth grade's unit. I think it is great that this was covered in the TU, but it would have been nice to see this article run before the show closed, don't you think?

I got another non-robo call (amazing again), this time from NYSUT, using the same tactic: "I'm going to transfer you right now to your state senator" but this time, the issue was the tax cap. I said no again. She was more polite, observed the social niceties, said goodbye before hanging up, the Miss Manners in me (perish the thought) was pleased. She's lucky I don't do phone advocacy, though, because I favor a tax cap (although I am not bothering to involve myself in pro- advocacy, so I suppose I don't care that much), but she didn't ask. I guess the assumption is that someone on NYSUT's calling list would never feel that way?

I've been using fresh herbs from the garden for a while, but yesterday I picked spinach! So today I decided to start a batch of sprouts. In a couple days I'll be able to make salad that is completely homegrown. Of course, it will have to be made only from greens since the tomatoes and cucumbers are a long way off, but still! The best thing about summer has arrived.

I've been attempting to reconstruct some of the things that are on the Iomega drive, and store them someplace relatively safe. Sure, blogger might betray me too, but it has been pretty good to me for over nine years, while hard drives, diskettes, zip drives, flash drives, writable CDs have at one time or another, often at the most inopportune moment, decided to fail me big time. So that's the reason for the series of recent posts with the "my writing" label.

Bus Ride
original drafts 1997-2007

The bus smells like pee. The driver recognizes me and smiles. "So we have two for Castleton tonight," he says. I take a seat near the back and begin my mental narrative. I want to write about Aunt Jean, and hope to use the ride to summon inspiration.

If funerals can be beautiful, hers was. Except for the singing. I think of the Reverend singing hymns off-key, of Sylvia's lovely eulogy, of the gentle breeze in the Bushkill Cemetery, of my cousins. But my mind keeps going to a name, Valentine Green. If I was an actress, I would use it as a stage name. Valentine Green was an attractive woman in her seventies, the wife of my writing tutor. When I met her during my college days, she told me she thought I was a dancer. Certainly not a singer, and not from a singing family, as those hymns at Aunt Jean's funeral demonstrated.

We cross the bridge over the Hudson, then pass the K-Mart in Rensselaer. By now I am lost in thought. Aunt Jean taught me how to type one summer, on her sturdy IBM typewriter, set up in the porch which served as the office for Uncle Bob's business. It was my first job. I typed "I" instead of "1," not understanding the difference, since the child's typewriter I used at home didn't have "1." She showed me my mistake but used the envelopes I had typed anyway. In later years, Aunt Jean was fascinated by computers, and I had the chance to compensate for the typing lessons by helping her to use email when she was in the hospital. Some of the nurses would have preferred my visits be sans-laptop; they felt the Internet might be too "exciting" for her, but Aunt Jean and I defied them. No regrets.

If I had to say just one thing about Aunt Jean, it would be that she loved to read. She gave me many books when I was a teenager, mostly Gothic romances by someone whose writing we both admired, Georgette Heyer. She got them from the rare books business where she worked at that time. Once I was finished reading them, I would pass along those old books to my grandmother, Mimmie, another avid reader.

The bus is mostly empty now, having dropped off many of its passengers in the 1940s development known as Hampton Manor. I realize the driver is speaking to me, but I have not been paying attention, and am sitting too far from the front to hear anyway. He repeats his question several times before I get up and move closer. "Is the air conditioning too high?," he wants to know. "No, it's fine," I reply, annoyed at the interruption, although I know he is just being polite. The only other passenger is a regular rider, a greasy-haired woman who always spends the entire ride in a conversation with whichever driver gets stuck with Bus 32. Except that it isn't really a conversation, since it's one-way. She never seems to mind that he doesn't answer. He couldn't even if he wanted to, since she never pauses.

The driver is once again occupied with her endless monologue, so I try to resume my thoughts. Valentine Green intrudes. I remember her shoulder-length gray hair and expressive hand gestures. She was a retired actress. Perhaps, I think, it is simply too soon to write about Aunt Jean. The bus stops to discharge the woman, still talking as she exits. She retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her jeans, shakes one out, and gives a big wave to the driver. He asks me if I am getting off at the same stop as last time I rode the bus. "Yes, by the Lutheran church, where the street changes to one-way." "Well, then I guess I know which way I'm going," he says. On the Castleton bus, CDTA route maps are just a suggestion.

Back to inspiration gathering. When my sister was in the fourth grade, Aunt Jean volunteered to work at a book fair held at the school. Tables of books lined the hallway, and each class took turns going down to shop. After wandering through the aisles, Janette spotted a spiral-bound Betty Crocker cookbook for kids. Although the little book cost only $1.50, that was $1.50 more than Janette had, so she put it down and returned to her classroom. She noticed that all of the “smarter” students had purchased a couple of books, or at least one. Later that day she saw Aunt Jean, who presented her with a small package. Unwrapping it, Janette had to blink back tears. So Aunt Jean had noticed. Back with her classmates, she proudly displayed her book from the fair, Betty Crocker’s Cookbook for Boys and Girls. Just like the better-off kids. In the more than forty years since that day, Janette has baked every recipe it contains.

Fear of critters consuming my garden sprouts trumped mosquito annoyance, and the garden fence is up! On the first nice day (ie, not overcast, not raining, not 100 degrees) I'll mulch it. I'm thrilled to not have to worry about groundhogs, deer and rabbits, but considering how much bugs hate me, maybe I should have been more concerned by the parasites...hmmm...