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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
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:
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:
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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 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.
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.
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.
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."
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."
Monday, June 27, 2011
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.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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!
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!
TMy 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
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
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.
Monday, June 20, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
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).
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).
Friday, June 17, 2011
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.
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.
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