Topic 210: Mountains and Molehills

Carol:

Little Engines That Can

I saw today’s  topic and immediately thought of the old adage “making mountains out of molehills,” which I  tried not to do before I was retired, when I really felt the pressure of juggling family and work. I made up for procrastination by being an expert time manager, and I focused all my attention at work on making it through my to-do list, no hanging out in the faculty lounge, no cups of coffee and shooting the breeze with my colleagues. I even got really good at helping my students learn how to navigate the molehills and mountains of their educational paths as they juggled school with family and work. But, I never really thought about reversing the adage and considering turning mountains into molehills.
 

There is a difference between NOT blowing something the mental size of a molehill out of proportion and NOT letting something that really is the size of a mountain paralyze you into inaction.
 

Gaining perspective, how to keep molehills from looking and feeling like steep, jagged, lung-sucking obstacles of mountains is about being realistic and patient. It’s about keeping your eyes on the next step or the next task without looking so far ahead as to lose your footing or sense of purpose.
 

Gaining perspective, how to turn steep, jagged, lung-sucking obstacles of mountains into manageable and satisfying little molehill challenges, is about being optimistic and patient.  The big challenges seem insurmountable, chronic, tragic—world hunger, economic downturn, environmental catastrophe, global violence.  But, turning mountains into molehills is all about strengthening the body, brain and spirit to attack tough challenges with skill and efficiency.  We can’t bulldoze the mountain, but we can learn how to conquer it a little bit at a time.
 

My engine search with “mountains and molehills” found several  interesting websites, mostly around the notion that a small group of people can effect change on a small scale and still make a difference. An interesting example is the website  Mountains and Molehills—Colorado’s Heartbeat.  It is basically an advertising site, doesn’t hide the fact, says it right up front that it serves “the needs of small business owners through affordable, effective advertising” (source: Mountains and Moles). But, the mission also includes a commitment to preserving the history and vitality of small town live, and its links celebrate the LOCAL, local business, local artists, local heroes.
 

A completely different website that pops up from the same engine search is called Repair the World, dedicated to inspiring service work among American Jews: “We aim to make service a defining part of American Jewish life” (source: Repair the World). This site does tackle the bigger, global issues of civil rights, disaster relief, child abuse, and social justice. But, it includes a section called D.I.Y with practical suggestions for making those issues local and personal.
 

Like I said, turning mountains into molehills requires a change of perspective to look positively at personal, creative problem-solving. Mountain climbers train rigorously for the work ahead, but they don’t do it just by climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. They practice on the little, local molehills too. And, what about the people who don’t have the strength, skill or resources to be mountain climbers. They can make a difference, too, with a little positive thinking…
 

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…. I know I can.

Sources:
Mountains and Molehills website.
Repair the World.

Megan:

Yesterday I took the day off to hang out with my friends Kelly and Chuck. When they left our house on Sunday, I gave them careful directions to help them avoid the various road repairs between here and Sedona – especially the construction on Mingus mountain. Then, the next day I drove to meet up with them and deliberately ignored all of the sensible advice I had given them. Not only was I stuck behind the Smelliest and Slowest Truck in the World, I also spent a full half hour completely stopped. Immediately behind me was an unmarked police car, and for the entire time we were stopped I worried about whether or not my registration was in date, if my tail and brake lights were in working order, what he would think of the dozens of empty beer and wine bottles I had in my trunk (Prescott has stopped recycling glass, so we periodically drive it over the mountain and drop it at the center in the Verde Valley). I was so fixated on the cop car, and the series of texts I was sending to Kelly and Chuck about my late arrival, that I didn’t notice when the traffic started moving again and the cop had to hit his horn.

Usually this would prompt me to speed ahead, especially since I had just lost 30 minutes. Once the pilot car turned around, the cars in front of me were long gone, but I had that unmarked car behind me so I crept along at the posted maximum speed limit (which at some places is only 20 mph) until the cop made a U-Turn and headed back over the mountain. I guess he was detailed to patrol the construction site. What a boring job.

Anyway, I called Kelly to let her know I’d be joining them shortly and we agreed to meet at  Red Rocks Crossing for a short hike and a swim in Oak Creek. She texted me directions, and once I noted that the turn was in Oak Creek, I happily cruised on my way. I know a lot of my readers are probably not familiar with the layout of the greater Sedona area, but I have been going there since I was a very small child and had been in the exact area less than 6 months ago. I don’t know street names, but I felt pretty confident I could find my way around. With that in mind, the fact that I confused the Village of Oak Creek with Oak Creek Canyon was incredibly stupid. 

It wasn’t until I passed Slide Rock that it occurred to me that I might be going the wrong way. And then I drove another 10 miles just to make sure. By the time I pulled over, I had lost another hour as well as my cell phone reception.  Luckily my GPS navigation worked, and I realized I was nearly 40 miles of winding canyon road north of where I was supposed to be. The reception came back about halfway through Sedona when my phone suddenly came alive with previously undelivered texts and voice mails, inquiring about my whereabouts with increasing concern.

I did eventually find my friends, (but not until I got lost twice more), and although they had been swimming and waiting for me for more than 2 hours, they quite happily stayed put and let me swim away my frustration for another hour. I slipped on the rocks, got swept away in about 8 inches of fast-moving water, and managed to dislodge a natural dam so I’m sure it was very amusing for Kelly and Chuck. They kept saying helpful things like, “This is your land. You grew up here. Why is this so difficult for you?”

Topic 192: The Glory of the Commonplace

Carol:

Glory Be to Poets               

“Nothing is so beautiful as spring—   
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;” ( from  Hopkins “Spring” 1880)

Summer monsoons have brought new life to my front yard; unfortunately, I don’t find “glory in the commonplace” when it comes to weeds. Mine are shooting long and lush, but I won’t add “lovely.” Such is the spiritual vision of Gerard Manley Hopkins that his poems burst with passion for the smallest details of his God’s creation.  In weeds, he sees God; I see the Devil.

George Manley Hopkins

I first encountered Gerard Manley Hopkins(1844-1889) in high school. The story of an Anglican convert to Catholicism who became a Jesuit priest intrigued me. He must have been a very complicated man of competing passions because, after he entered the novitiate in 1867, he vowed to give up his writing and burned of all his poems. He kept that vow until 1875 when he began to write again after a tragic shipwreck at the mouth of the Thames that killed most of its passengers, including a group  of Franciscan nuns. The result was his poem “The Wreck of the Deutschland” (source:  poetry.org)

   Whatever his inner spiritual and emotional battles, Hopkins created poems that play with language and rhythm. My favorite poem is “Pied Beauty,” which must be read out loud for its sound but also to experience how the mouth, tongue and teeth release the words: 


  “ Glory be to God for dappled things –
   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
   For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; “ (1877)

The poet who saw loveliness in a weed now praises cows and trouts and “all things original, spare, strange.” How can I greet the day any other way than with joy and gratitude for the commonplace? Glory be to Hopkins

I enjoyed Hopkins’ poetry for the same reason I had fallen in love with the poetry of E.E. (Edward Estin ) Cummings. A generation apart, an ocean apart, a worldview wider apart than that ocean,  yet Cummings and Hopkins shared a radical sense of form, stretching words and phrasing in new ways that challenge the reader to see the commonplace in new ways.  The first Cummings poem I read was “in just”

“in Just-
spring       when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles       far       and wee” 

In this poem, he celebrates a world that is “mud-luscious” and “puddle-wonderful,”
a world of youthful delight in the commonplace. This morning I found another  Cummings poem that takes me back to Gerard Manley Hopkins.  The Unitarian Cummings glories in the same world of the ordinary and divine in his poem “I thank you God for most this amazing”

“i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes”

I look back out my window and the world is waking up. In the distance a neighbor is throwing flakes of hay into the stall where his horses greet every morning with an exuberant kick of the hooves and gallop around the pasture. Glory be to Cummings. 

Celebrate the commonplace in your day. Read “Pied Beauty” out loud or listen to Cumming’s poem “I carry your heart with me” on YouTube. Glory be!

 

Megan:

The Glory of the Commonplace

This topic seems like it could be on a bumper sticker. Live for the Moment. Seek the Glory of the Commonplace. It has a certain Tolle-esque ring to it. That’s the second time I’ve used the suffix –esque this week, and it’s only Tuesday. I’m going to try to use it every day.

For some people, like my father, living in the moment is a desirable but often unachievable state. For others, like myself, it’s such a natural condition we need to remind ourselves to consider the future. Somehow staring at my toes and applying for jobs don’t seem to go well together. But yesterday I sat down to work on a job application and when I looked back up at the clock, four hours had passed. That hardly ever happens. I suppose losing track of time while writing a cover letter is a more productive example of living in the moment than staring at my toes.

By the way, the reason I am staring at my toes so much is because I got a pedicure over the weekend and my feet have never looked so cute. As my friend Noel put it, I got “taken for a ride” by the pedicurist. I could neither hear nor understand what he was saying to me, so I just nodded every time he raised his eyebrows and now I have flowers on my toes. For a lot of people, getting a pedicure might be a regular thing. Maybe they are used to having flowers on their toes. This is new for me.

Flowers! On my toes!

And I was so delighted with the result that I didn’t even resent the fact that my post-pedicure feet are so slippery on the carpet that I fell down the stairs. I ignored the rug burn that extended the entire length of my calf, more concerned that I might have chipped the polish. Priorities, people.

Anyway, right now I’m sitting in the living room writing this essay, and Bella is on the floor next to me chewing on a bone I gave her as a bribe to not be so annoying. 

What she is doing

 We’ve already had our walk, but it wasn’t long enough to put her to sleep. My father is off on a motorcycle trip, so I have to walk both the dogs. I tried walking them together, but on Sunday morning (shortly after I fell down the stairs), we were chased by a coyote and it’s a lot easier to cope with that kind of situation with only one dog. I threw rocks, but I could hear the rest of the pack approaching and for a moment there, I was pretty nervous.  So, now I walk the dogs one at a time. I go the same distance, but their walk is halved. 

What I wish she was doing

I didn’t expect I would enjoy these walks so much. In addition to the wildlife, I also get to watch the sun come up every morning.  I’ve watched the sunrise more in the past few months than I have in the past 20 years. Of all the places I’ve lived, I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as the Arizona sky. It’s easy to take for granted what you see everyday, but not this:

  

Image credit:

The sunrise image came from here.

Topic 184: On Keeping Step

Carol:

Oh Say, Can You Step

This weekend, I got out of step with the traditional rituals that mark America’s birthday as an independent nation in the making.   According to the U.S. Census bureau, a government agency which should know of what it speaks, the rituals of  4th of July include parades, fireworks and backyard barbecues.
 

The parade part I have always loved—any procession that includes music, costumes and marching in cadence. One of my favorite 4th of July parades was at Sequoia National Park in 1986. Enthusiastic campers from all over the world cheered and waved as the park employees processed through the visitors’ center either on foot in their official uniforms or riding on a variety of park vehicles (trucks, fire engines, jeeps, lawn mowers, anything that moves).  Prescott has two parades as part of  its annual Frontier Days. The official 4th of July parade on  Saturday attracts marching bands from around the country, equestrian groups, cloggers, and politicians, especially  during election time.  But, the best parade is the day before, the Kiwanis Kiddie Parade, which circles the Courthouse Square on Friday morning.  I was pretty proud of the “horse” Marshall rode in that parade when he was 3 years old, his tricycle sporting a mop for a tail and a painted cereal box for a head. Somehow, we didn’t make it to either parade this year.
 

I always liked the fireworks too, although I can count as many times fog or rain obscured the fireworks when we lived in California.  In drought-plagued Arizona we always wait for the announcement…will the fire conditions cancel the fireworks? When the kids were little, we went to the high school for the official Prescott display, picnicking on the football bleachers while we waited for the sun to go down and the music and fireworks show to begin. Lately, I have enjoyed sitting on our back deck with the same kind of anticipation for darkness to come, at which point we would begin to see one after the other—Prescott Valley, Prescott and then off to the left Chino Valley—the skies light up from the tri-city celebrations.  Last night, we had the best light show of all, magnificent monsoon lightning storms in all directions,  illuminating massive clouds and cracking thunder.  Soon the insects got to us, so we moved indoors; but,  I did catch a glimpse of the Prescott fireworks show from the window of our loft.
 

Barbecue?  Well, we’ve got a grill, but Megan and Marc are taking a nutrition class that espouses a plant-based (i.e. Vegan) diet. No oil, no dairy, no barbecued chicken, no big, thick juicy hamburgers or chips and dip. Saturday’s menu was Louisiana rice and beans without the Andouille sausage. The menu for 4th of July was steamed broccoli accompanied by a medley of barley, butternut squash, apples, and red peppers. Dessert was fresh strawberries dolloped with coconut milk ice cream. It was delicious actually, and especially so because I didn’t have to do the cooking (thanks, Megan).
 
So, what is Independence Day without the parades, the fireworks and the barbecue? Well, I may not have been keeping step with 4th of July traditions, but I did have family here to celebrate the weekend.  We set up the pop-up camper in the yard for a min camp-out, and the littlest family members played all over of our multi-storey house.  Frankly, I just didn’t have time to miss the parade, the fireworks or the barbecue.
 

P.S.  As inconvenient as it is to heft loads of groceries or laundry up all those stairs, sometimes I am really happy to keep steps.

Megan:

On Keeping Step

There’s something about dancing that must be instinctual. Babies dance all the time, often without encouragement. I’ve watched my little cousins, in the midst of another activity, suddenly do a little hop-skippity thing to the music, and then go back to what they are doing.  Small children dance without hesitation, self-consciousness or embarrassment.  That part comes later.

I remember, in first grade, being part of a dance group that performed to New Kids on the Block songs on the playground. In 1989, with crimped hair and sideways pony tails, three pairs of neon socks and white high stop sneakers, we certainly looked the part.  Have you seen Donnie Darko? We were like Sparkle Motion without the organization or motivation to get on Star Search. Anyway, some of the other girls in my class had taken ballet, tap or clogging, so they had some understanding of rhythm. They also had MTV. I had taken gymnastics and no cable. I was put in the back, even though I was the shortest and I remember knowing this meant I was the worst dancer, but I was still happy to be included.

The traumatizing moment came several years later on a Church trip to Universal Studios. I was walking through the theme park with my best friend Noel, when a familiar song came over the speakers. “I really like this song!” I said, and started dancing to it. It’s not that she laughed. I could have handled simple laughter. It was that she clutched her stomach in pain, and then fell onto her hands and knees, tears streaming from her face as she SCREAMED with laughter. For years after, bring it up again: “Remember that time you tried to dance?”  and then she would crack up all over again. I never danced (sober) in public again.

When I moved to England for the first time, I was introduced to clubbing by my housemates. I kept telling them I didn’t know how to dance, but they assured me that if I got pissed (drunk) dancing would be easy. This turned out to be true. Once I stopped being so self-conscious, dancing was fun again. And strobe lights make even the most awkward mover a rhythmic genius. An added benefit to all the dancing was the exercise. Despite a year of complete excess and unhealthy living, I managed to dance off more than 20 pounds.

This fall, nearly 10 years after I last danced in public, I will be taking a Zumba class at the local community college. I have convinced another friend to take it with me. She’s not the same one who laughed at my dancing, but since I regularly send her into paroxysms of laughter, I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea. But, I’m a more confident person now and I bet she can’t dance either.

Topic 182: First Impressions

Carol:

The Tricks Old Dogs Can Teach Us

On first impression, you might think Prescott is a sleepy little town full of old white-haired folks who drive too slow (or too fast) and spend their afternoons searching for the best early-bird dinners.  In reality Prescott is full of old white-haired folks –31% of the population is over 62 years old. But Prescott is anything but sleepy these days and people over 62 (of which I am one) have a lot to teach us about the quality of the “senior years.” In fact, a visit to two local organizations show just how energetic and varied the retirement community can be.

The first is the Rowle P. Simmons Community Center, home of the Adult Center, which   provides a wide range of activities and services for all adults but particularly meets the needs of a senior population for a gentle-on-the-wallet $50/year membership fee. Sure, you can sign up for the typical senior center activities such as bingo and bridge, but the Adult Center also houses the Veterans History Project (part of a national oral history initiative), provides one-on-one tutoring sessions for PC and Mac users, schedules numerous health and fitness classes—from gentle yoga to high-energy Zumba-- the Meals-on-Wheels program, and hosts political forums. And, the parking lot is always full. 

The second is the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute(OLLI)  on the campus of Yavapai College. The Bernard Osher Foundation, headquartered in San Francisco, provides funding for higher education and the arts, including OLLI programs at 118 college and university sites geared to older learners, who the Bernard Osher Foundation refers to as “seasoned adults.” A wide range of learning groups reflect the interests of OLLI members, who have a voice in choosing the curriculum and in facilitating the groups as volunteers.  In between a morning learning group discussing modern China or current events and an afternoon group studying Gilbert and Sullivan opera, OLLI participants gather in the college food court for lunch and talk, their own brand of non-digital social networking. OLLI members make a lot of noise, have a lot of fun, and epitomize the notion of “lifelong learning.” No grades, no required homework, but they show up for class, ask questions, engage in hearty discussion,  and let their facilitators know when they appreciate a topic—or not.

 So, what’s the message here for our daily theme readers who are at the other end of the demographic picture—under 62, not retired, not ready to get old (who is?). What can these “old dogs” teach you? Learn something new everyday, not because you have to but because you want to. Take a class. Don’t want the homework or stress of grades? Most cities have community education programs. Don’t have time? Turn off the TV. Don’t have the money? Many community education programs and activity centers such as the YMCA have sliding scale fees and offer scholarships.

My essay is on the short side today. That’s because I have to get ready for my OLLI class on mythology and human experience.  As a co-facilitator for the learning group, I have  research to do on trickster figures in world cultures, and the 25 participants in the class will have lots of questions.

Loki, the Nordic Trickster

Sources:

Osher Lifelong Learning Institute Prescott.  

Prescott Adult Center.  

Megan:

A Second Chance to Make a First Impression

Yesterday my mother wrote about our trip to New Orleans, so today I think I will fill you in on my experience. We made this trip so that I could attend the American Library Association’s Annual conference. For a week, more than 20,000 librarians converged on the city. Everywhere you looked you could see determined and sensibly dressed women (and men!)  carrying red ALA tote bags, and checking schedules on their smart phones. I’m sure the city, which has a huge convention center, is used to large professional conferences, but New Orleans has a special appreciation for librarians.

The ALA plans its conference years in advance, and in 2006, the Annual (as it is known) was scheduled to be in New Orleans. After Katrina hit, the ALA debated moving the conference but ultimately decided to proceed as planned. I spoke with people who’d attended the Annual that year, which was the first conference to be held in New Orleans after the hurricane.  One librarian told me that most of the stores were closed, and whole city blocks stood empty. She said that the city had bussed people in to work in the restaurants and hotels. Another woman told me how she would sit in a café reading and would be approached again and again by locals asking for her magazines. At that point, almost a year after the storm, nothing but essential mail was being delivered by the post office.  “Some people didn’t want to come to the conference,” she said, “but I thought it was our duty to come and just spend as much money as we could.” At the opening ceremony this year, Mayor Mitch Landrieu personally thanked the ALA for all it had done to support the city.

I didn’t attend that conference in 2006 because I was in England getting ready to start working at the prison. Though I had followed the news closely when it happened, it was hard for me to imagine the level of destruction and devastation Katrina had wrought on the gulf. And I’d sort of assumed it had been rebuilt by now. Certainly that was my first impression of the city, from the downtown area where we stayed on the edge of the French Quarter. From the pictures my mother posted yesterday, there was little evidence of the storm. The beautiful houses in the garden district all had a freshly painted look to them –as did the buildings in the French quarter. Aside from the slightly “new” look on old buildings, everything looked perfect.

As part of the conference, I spent one day volunteering in a school library. It was downtown, just off Canal street and a group of us were bussed there from the conference center. The bus driver either misunderstood our destination or decided to deliberately take us the long way, but we wound up taking what the school director called “The Misery Tour.” The bus headed uptown, beyond where the street cars stopped and drove through a lower-income residential neighborhood. These homes, though smaller than the Garden District mansions, were still average sized older family homes, with porches and yards and playground sets. It would have looked like a nice place to live except that half of the homes stood vacant, boarded up and caved in. On many doors and walls it was still easy to read the spray-painted code used by rescue teams in the days following the storm: an X with the date the home was searched, and number of dead or living inhabitants. 

 

I understand why it was necessary to rebuild the tourist areas first. New Orleans relies on the convention center and the tourist industry to fuel its economy, which has also been harmed by last year’s oil spill. And everywhere I looked in that damaged neighborhood, I saw signs of construction – houses had been lifted onto cinder blocks or simply rebuilt high off the ground. While we were there, local news reported the final safeguard to prevent another breech of the levies had just been put in place. A lot has happened in five years, just not as much as I’d expected. The ALA Annual is not currently scheduled to return to New Orleans, but no doubt we’ll get back there eventually. I hope I will  see more houses like this:

Topic 164: On Outgrowing One's Family

Carol:

The Lure of the Golden West

The 1930 census lists two transplants in Maywood, California, a tiny Los Angeles suburb  that had grown from a population of 1000 in 1924 to 6000 by 1930.  Winifred Fike from New Jersey lived at 4637 58th Street.  Texas-born Ed Scott lived a few blocks away at 5645 59th Street. What brought them to California?  Why did their parents uproot themselves from large, close-knit families?
 

In 1880, the population of Los Angeles was just above 33,000. Easterners had already been reading about California in Overland Monthly and Out West magazine   By 1876 the Transcontinental Railroad was completed and by 1887 the trickle of immigrants became a flood when 120,000 people came to Los Angeles in a single year, “drawn by the promise of pure air, warm sunshine and prosperity” (source: The West). By the time the Fike and Scott families arrived, the population of LA County had climbed to almost one million, and it would increase by another 135% to over 2 million by that 1930 federal census (source: Los Angeles).
 

Thousands of families headed West, pulled by a desire for a fresh start, the universal story of immigrants  seeking  a Promised Land of opportunity. To overcome the inertia  of habits and family connections, there must have been two forces at work, both a push and a pull.   The  private circumstances that pushed them out of the family nest are not told in the statistics of a federal census or a city’s population tables. But looking back to 1920 Fike and Scott census reports gives  a hint as to what catalysts set them on their journeys to California.   

There is no 1920 census report for Winnie Fike’s family. But  January 1920 death records show that her maternal  grandmother died after living with the family in Plainfield, New Jersey for almost 5 years. Did Grandma’ death release the family to pursue a secret dream? What conversations took place that led three neighborhood families to pack up their Model T’s and caravan to California that spring of 1920, a six-week trip that left them out of both the New Jersey and the California census reports?

Winne with Grandma, New Jersey

 Ed Scott’s 1920 census report shows him, his younger brother, Texan mother and step-father in New Mexico, the childhood home of Ed’s father, who had died in 1915.  What dream was Ed’s step-father following that took them to California? Or were they just trying to distance themselves from the ghost of a dead husband and the influence of his extended family? 

Ed with Grandpa, New Mexico

 

Did my father Ed miss his grandparents in New Mexico, did my mother Winnie feel homesick for her cousins in New Jersey and Pennsylvania? What about their relatives that stayed behind, who watched  loved ones ride off to pursue the lure of the West? Did they envy their intrepid son or daughter? Perhaps, they felt resentment that their brother or sister had let  wanderlust outgrow the families left behind?
 

Home is so Sad   (Philip Larkin)

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

Sources:
“Los Angeles.”  Wikipedia.
Larkin, Philip. “Home is So Sad.” Poets.org 

Burns, Ken. The West. PBS.org 
 

Megan:

My brother and I were the only kids in our neighborhood when we were growing up. We lived too far from town to spend much time with other children (aside from at school and at the sitter’s house), so we explored every inch of our wild back yard. We used to dig through the bushes, playing and screaming and running and fighting. Our 1.5 acres has never been tamed, despite occasional attempts. A collapsing fence still outlines the area where we kept the goat that came with the house. A sandbox stands empty in cactus and catclaw. There is half a tetherball pole, cemented into the dirt – the consolation prize after the guy who replaced our deck failed to complete the promised basketball court, itself a consolation for the pool I’d always begged for. My mother is the only person on her side of the family not to have a pool or a hot tub, and I think she should be ashamed.

But now, 20 years later, our neighborhood has changed. The number of houses has tripled at least. The elderly neighbors have been replaced with loud and active families, with trampolines and forts and 4-wheelers. Our middle-aged neighbors are now elderly. 

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to escape from here – from what I considered a dry and dull backward place. I loved my family, but I was eager to move far away from them, start out a new life, like my parents had when they were in college.  Until my grandparents moved to Prescott in the late 80’s, we had always lived hundreds of miles from anyone else in the family.  When I was in high school, a cousin moved to the area to go to college. Then came an aunt and uncle,  and then another cousin. The cousins married (not each other), had kids, and I moved back to Arizona last summer to find myself surrounded by family – with some still  far enough away to take vacations to visit.

I was so afraid that I would hate being back here that I didn’t even notice when I started to love it. If my MFA plan works out (or I find a job), I’ll likely be moving hundreds of miles away again, but this time I won’t be telling myself it’s forever.  There’s a lot of value in living close to family.  You learn a lot about yourself observing how people with the same blood can turn out so many different ways, have different values, take advantage of different opportunities. 

I’m still waiting to see how I turn out.

Topic 161: On answering advertisements

Carol:

Let Your Fingers Do the Walking 

I found my first apartment through an ad in the Riverside Press-Enterprise in 1970. My roommate from the dorms and I decided to find a place  off campus. We both left town for the summer, leaving the apartment search for our return. I skimmed the classified ads for a few days, wrote down the phone numbers of a few rentals, and spent an afternoon driving around once I had made appointments with landlords.  

 

Happy Home 1970

The place I chose was not fancy or new, but the price was right--seventy-five dollars for a furnished two-bedroom apartment downtown,  utilities included.  The apartment was the top story of an old, wood-framed house among many old homes that had been evolved from stately, one-family Victorian homes into semi-shabby multi-unit housing for university students. And, it had a certain eccentric charm. Most of my friends lived in places like it, but nobody had a bathroom you entered through the front hall closet or a bathtub in an alcove off the kitchen (no curtain).  The furniture matched the age and state of the house, shabby without the chic.  The house was a block from the railroad tracks, but we got used to the noise and the rattling windows of both the trains and the Simi Valley earthquake.
 

Happy Home 1987

Before the move to Prescott in 1983, Marc and I found  a real estate agent  instead of looking at the housing ads. The agent was efficient, made all the telephone contacts before we arrived in town, and arranged  appointments for a “look-see” weekend. Housing was so much cheaper than California that It only took one visit for us to find a house we liked. The realtor wrote up the offer, sending us off to dinner while we waited for the reply. A block down the road, we saw a “For Sale by Owner Sign” in front, not a house we liked, but a house we loved…and have lived in for 28 years
 

Happy Home 2010

 When Megan  got her job in England, the moving process was complicated. She was concerned about buying a car, setting up a bank account, and finding a place to live , so I decided to help her find living quarters by doing an on-line search. The process wasn’t really any more complicated than my perusal of the classified ads in 1970, or our appointment with the realtor in 1983, just different. Thanks to the Internet, I could plug in locations, type of housing, price range, and pictures and lists would pop up. up.  It was fun to see what kinds of places people in East Anglia were living in and paying for…until I started converting the rental costs from pounds to dollars and  their locations in relation to her job from kilometers to miles. Suddenly, the list of options shrank. But, there it was, a charming little flat with a courtyard, flowers and vine-covered walls. Could she answer that ad with the click of a computer key and arrange a look-see from 5456 miles away (8781 kilometers)? Although Megan will tell you quaint isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, especially in the winter without central heating, that little High Street flat in March, advertised on the Internet, was her home for four years.
 

I skim the classified ads in our newspaper everyday. Sometimes I look at houses that would downsize us from our 3-level house and acreage of weeds and critters. Who knows what I might find when I let my fingers do the walking.

 Megan:

As an unemployed person, I obviously spend a lot of time perusing job advertisements. But that’s not very interesting. So, when I need a break, I read the personal ads on Craigslist. I have never responded to an ad on Craigslist, but as far as dating sites go, my understanding is that it is not the greatest place to meet people. Other sites like match.com, eharmony and my favorite Alikewise, (which lets you select people based on reading interest) seem like serious sites for people looking for more than a hookup.

Anyway, Craigslist hasn’t completely caught on in Prescott. There are a few “men for women” ads posted each day, but nothing like the Portland or Bay Area sites.  Even with the poor selection, I still find plenty to amuse me.

Here’s one from today, perfectly in my age range:

seeing whats out there - 29
Well I would like to say what on looking for but I hate going into anything with set expectations lol. The title says it all, I'm looking to see what's out there and to hopefully meet a cool girl, please include a pic with a reply, I don't open anything without a pic. I will send a few back, oh please put cool girl in the subject line.

This poster is hoping to cast the widest net  but offers nothing for the reader to respond to, nothing to suggest that writing back wouldn’t just be a huge waste of time. 


This guy is probably too old for me, but I have to admit that the headline caught my interest. I wasn’t disappointed.

{Need a girl that can work it} - 41
Hi There. I,am looking for a girl that can take it all they are hard to find. I.am 5"11 and 205lb & lightskin. I have been here for 3yrs. I.am nice looking & body. I like to have a beer or two and fun to be with but i like to stay at home and cill to.I dj back in the days so i know how she shoud work it!!! so email me to get my # and we can talk for the frist time. Will see wear it gos we can go slow from there!! Be over 21 have a drink or 2 some wine. Look me up I.am at home. And if u need it now iam game.We can go swiming indoors or hit the spa its all up 2 u FEEL ME!!!!! Got to go. BE DF!!

I’m not ruling out internet dating. I know people who have had success with it. The thing is, sometimes I try to come up with personal ads for myself. What am I supposed to say? “I’m almost 30 and I live at home with my parents. I also don’t have a job.” I’m not in the mood for dating, not until I figure the other stuff out. So for now, the only ads I’ll be responding to will be for jobs.  And when I need a break, I’ll be reading the book I just got on preparing for the GRE.

Topic 143: Earth Bound

Carol:

Star Gazing

My favorite scenes of Huckleberry Finn are those where Huck and Jim left the high adventures of land for the river and the raft.  They hid on shore during daylight  while steamboats and smaller vessels carried passengers and freight along the Mississippi between the North and the South.
 

When dark began to fall and the river traffic subsided, Huck and Jim would set out again on their water journey. As midnight approached and the world nodded off to sleep, Jim and Huck relaxed their vigilance, looked upward at the infinity of stars, and began to philosophize:

We had the sky, up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened- Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. (Ch. 19)

As the two runaways allowed the raft to drift quietly in the current, they must have come as close as one can get, while still earth-bound, to the sensation of floating through space.
 

This scene captures a moment when we look up at the night sky, wonder at the immensity of it all, and consider our tiny part in the pattern of the universe. Such moments often lead to “what if” discussions—what if there is life on those stars, what if they are looking back at us, what if we could travel to the back side of the moon?
 

The great astronomers of the Renaissance, Kepler and Copernicus, must have looked up to the skies in wonder long before they shifted from the philosophy of  “what if” to the science of “what, when and how.” Even before Galileo’s telescope brought the stars closer to earth, people were imagining what it would be like to leave behind the boundaries of earth and fly up to the heavens. In the early 17th century, probably around 1600, an English bishop named Francis Godwin wrote the earliest science fiction book in English, The Man in the Moone, published under the name “Domingo Gonsales.” (source: Wikipedia).
 

About two hundred years later, a young Jules Verne spent summers with his family in a house by the Loire River.  He would later attribute those idyllic summers to awakening in his imagination dreams of voyages to inner and outer worlds. Did he too lie awake at night, gazing up at the starry sky and write stories in his head, the seeds of 54 novels, including From the Earth to the Moon (1865), Around the Moon (1870) and Off on a Comet (1877)?
 

What about Mark Twain?  The man who liked to tell the world he was born in the year of Halley’s Comet made fun of his older brother Orion Clemens for reading the fantastical works of Verne.  Did Samuel Clemens lie awake on the river, gazing up at the stars and imagining far-away worlds and drifting silently  in space?
 

The science and imagination of the 20th century finally made space travel a reality, and the first men to walk on the moon were probably childhood star-gazers themselves. When Apollo 11 landed on the moon in July 1969, Commander Neil Armstrong shared the reflections of his crew on their moon walk by beginning with a reference to Jules Verne.  Their historic mission completed, the men of Apollo 11 boarded their space raft and lay back in wonder as, earth bound, they saw above them the water-blue planet Earth hanging in the sky.  

From the Moon to the Earth

 

Sources: 
The Man in the Moone. Wikipedia. 

Twain, Mark. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  1885.              

Verne, Jules. Wikipedia.

Megan:

Bound to the Earth

Yesterday, I went to a presentation at the Prescott Public Library by Carolyn O’Bagy Davis, about her book Hopi Summer: Letters from Ethel to Maud, which is this year’s selection for the OneBookAZ project (every year in April, Arizonans are encouraged to read the same book and then talk about it with each other).  

The book is about a Depression-era Massachusetts family who took a 9-month road trip around the country.  In the course of their travels, they spent some time at Hopiland , which sparked a lengthy correspondence between the matriarch of the family and a Hopi potter. It is a true story and the author uses excerpts from a journal and photographs taken on the trip, as well as the letters themselves.  The book, which I have not yet finished, isn’t particularly uplifting, but it’s clear that both the author and her subject share a deep fascination with the Hopi culture.

In the book, Ms. Davis details some of the ceremonies and rituals undertaken by the traditional Hopi to appease the spirits, in particular the sacrifice of an Eagle who they believed acted as a messenger to the spirit world. The eagle would report that the Hopi were living in the proper way, and then the spirits would send rain for their crops. Ms. Davis assured the audience that although tourism and modern technology have altered much about the daily lives of the Hopi, there are still many who adhere to the traditional ways.

Ms. Davis’s presentation made me think about how a dependence on the earth and the weather for survival once led to polytheistic worship of these elements. I wonder if the shift to monotheistic religions which worship a deity “not of this world” has aided the divorce of  people from the land. It used to be that one appeased the gods by showing respect to the earth. I know there are people within the Christian, Jewish and Islamic faiths who consider stewardship of the Earth part of their responsibility to their god, but for the most part modern religion emphasize that life on earth is a temporary test of an individual, rather than a cyclical rhythm of a collective.

Setting aside religion, science and technology have also created a rift between humanity and the land. Now that we understand the science behind farming and cultivation, it seems that our humility and respect for the earth has been stripped away along with the mystery.

I’m really only musing about this idea and I’m not offering any real solutions. Sometimes I feel like it is too late – we (in the US, at least) are too accustomed to our artificial comforts to be able to return to the earth. And then I see evidence all around me, within my own family, of proof to the contrary. I’m no farmer, but maybe I could be.

Yesterday, when I was too busy to write, I asked Mom if we could delay because I was intrigued by the topic – mostly because it seemed ambiguous. Earth can mean the planet we live on, or the soil below our feet. Bound can mean tied or destined.  But after thinking about the Hopi and the “old ways”, I realize there is no difference between the planet we live on and the soil below, and bound, tied and destined all mean the same thing – inescapable dependence.

Topic 125: Beyond My Horizon

Carol:

Remember the Ladies                       

           

“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead."  Louisa May Alcott

Thank you, Louisa May Alcott, for giving American girls high aspirations through the story of four special Little Women.  Against the backdrop of the Civil War, loving Marmee struggles to raise her 4 children while their absent father serves as a chaplain in the Union Army. I might have liked history more if a teacher used Little Women as a window to the Civil War, or showed us the birth of a nation through the letters of Abigail Adams.  

Abigail Adams

March 1776 was an eventful time in our history.  The British had evacuated Boston, pulling out 11,000 soldiers, a sign of hope for leaders of the Revolution.  On March 31, John Adams received a letter from Abigail, another mother raising 4 children as an  absent father met with the Continental Congress in Philadelphia.  Abigail advises her husband: “In the new Code of Laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire you would Remember the Ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors” (source: America.gov).  

 March is National Women’s History Month. It honors women who wrote letters, marched, rallied, stayed behind, and  pushed to the front of the line-- all to gain the right to vote, raise healthy children, earn a fair living,  and dream beyond their horizons. March is a time to “Remember the Ladies.” 

 

March 8 was also the centennial of International Women’s Day. United Nations Secretary Ban Ki-moon read a  special declaration, Michelle Obama and Hilary Clinton honored “International Women of Courage, “ and countries like China, Bulgaria, the Ukraine and Russia celebrated an official holiday.  That morning’s New York Times did not have a single news article photograph about International Women’s Day. I guess they forgot to “Remember the Ladies.”

The Times did include two full-page corporate advertisements.  Goldman Sachs highlighted its “10,000 Women” program, a global project to expand business and entrepreneurial opportunities for women.  L’Oreal Cosmetics announced its annual “For Women in Science” awards in partnership with UNESCO to promote women scientists and provide fellowships to young women in science research. Both announcements are tangible evidence that we need to “Remember the Ladies” of the future as well as the those of the past.
  
Our little Prescott book club “The Distinguished Literary Ladies”  meets this evening to discuss Half the Sky: Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide (Kristof and WuDunn).  This  book is a sobering (and sometimes horrific) reminder that women around the world are still enslaved, living in abject poverty, suffering abuse and paralyzing discrimination.   The book is also about hope. The final chapter describes “Four Steps You Can Take in the Next 10 Minutes,” simple ways to connect with agencies and grass roots groups that make a difference in the lives of young girls and women around the world.

Every Spring, as I peel away the calendar from the chill of February to the hope of March, I think about women.  Their stories invite all young people to aspire beyond their horizons, to “believe in them, and follow where they lead.” 

 "Hope is a thing with feathers, That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without words, And never stops at all." (Emily Dickinson)

Thanks, Louisa May Alcott. Thanks, Emily Dickinson. Thanks, Abigail Adams.  Thanks, Mother and Daughter for your patience and support as I aspired to “move beyond my horizon.”

Sources:

Abigail Adams. America.Gov.  

International Women’s Day. http://www.internationalwomensday.com/

Kristoff, Nicholas D. and Sheryl WuDunn. Half the Sky. Turning Oppression Into Opportunity for Women Worldwide. Vintage Books: 2010.

Megan:

Beyond My Horizon

Over the weekend, I got an email from a friend of mine in England who worked with me in the prison library. It was a perfectly normal update, but it sparked a deep feeling of homesickness for the place I used to live. I received the message on my phone after having breakfast with a friend, and on the drive home I tried to figure out how I could move back to England and get my old job back and be happy again. Even though I wasn’t happy there, and I am not unhappy here.

The mind is a weird thing.

When I got home I yelled at my parents for not being perfect specimens of humanity, and then I cried in my room for a while.  The last time I was that upset, about that very thing, they put me on a plane and sent me back. But that was five years ago, in a better economy, and the reasons I had for returning to the United States are still true.

For all my recent talk about having a zen-like, in the moment contentment with my present situation, it’s just not always true. Last week was also the anniversary of when I handed in my resignation, even though I didn’t leave until June.  I know my recent frustration has more to do with feeling useless than missing an old life. And it seems when I don’t know what’s coming, I reflect more on what’s passed -- at least when I’m writing.

When we pulled this topic yesterday, I originally thought I might write about the landscape. Mom talks a lot about seeing Granite Mountain out the window.  Because our house sits at its base, the mountain is definitely the dominant feature of our view to the west.  I’ve only hiked it once, but as a kid, I spent a lot of time wandering the dry creek beds and horse trails in the valley. The ashes of my maternal grandparents were scattered there. Sometimes in a storm, the mountain disappears behind the clouds or the fog, and ever since childhood, I have found those moments thrilling and scary at the same time. It can be a little overbearing in its presence, because really it is the only thing to see if you look that way.

Looking to the east, our view really opens up. Whenever we have guests over, my mom takes them straight out on the back porch and says look at what we get to see every day. The view from our back porch encompasses all of Williamson Valley until it reaches the Bradshaw mountains about 30 miles away. We can see the San Francisco Peaks, in Flagstaff, almost 100 miles away.  It is a splendid view, but except for during the lightning storms in the monsoon season, and eating dinner on the deck in the summer, we don’t spend much time looking that way.  Our writing desks and chairs are turned towards the west, to Granite Mountain.

On a map, West is on the Left and East is on the Right.
On a time line, the Past starts on the Left and progresses to the Future on the Right.
For this reason, I think of the West as the Past and the East as the Future.
The Past is an ever present, semi-oppressive (but beautiful) mountain and the Future is an expansive, wide-open area that stretches for miles into the unknown.

  
                             

(Turn up your volume for the full effect)

Topic 121: Nature's Language

Carol:

The Sounds of Silence       

One of my favorite teaching exercises was meant to show students how to use all of their senses, not just sight. A computer classroom isn’t the best place for that with its controlled temperature and humming, buzzing and squeaking electronic universe.  We needed to disconnect not only physically but mentally from the land of tweets and texts.

The campus was built into the side of a hill. A few yards uphill from the road that loops around the classroom buildings, students in an Environmental Ethics class had created a primitive classroom in a small grove of pine trees. Just a circle of large, flat-topped rocks in a clearing, placed at random so as not to destroy the natural lack of symmetry. 

One fall evening I moved my Women in Literature students to this outdoor classroom. We would soon be reading essays and poetry by “nature writers” like Linda Hogan and Terry Tempest Williams, but we would  begin  with our own stories. As the light faded and the temperature dropped, we huddled closer together on the rocks, not just for comfort but because the rhythm and tone of our conversation changed…quiet, calm, focused, intimate. Stories moved around the circle, recollections of long-forgotten trips into the Sonora desert or the Mogollon Rim. The stories gained force, not with volume but with detail: the whooshing of a Class III rapids, the smell of pine needles underneath a sleeping bag, the sting of icy snow pellets against the face. We had to feel our way out of the clearing, holding onto each other as we returned to the sensory cacophony of the computer classroom.

Terry Tempest Williams listens to nature. She “interprets” the languages and contours of the natural world for “newcomers” just as a park ranger interprets the geography and biology of at Grand Teton or Bryce Canyon or Organ Pipe. Williams is a fierce and eloquent advocate for the environment, what she calls “bearing witness.” When she came to Prescott about 15 years ago, I heard her speak twice. Her passion for the history, landscape and environment of the West was quiet, the kind of “bearing witness” that causes you to lean over in your seat and pay attention with your whole body, not just your ears. She left such an impression of urgency and commitment on me that I couldn’t get her out of my mind for days.

Williams’ 1997 essay “Listening Days"  begins with a visit to her dying grandfather and ends with the simple announcement of his death, “peacefully at home in the company of family.” In between she reflects on sound and lets thoughts move her from conversations with her grandfather about his radio program to “tonal memory” to the big question of “what do we know.” She walks the readers into  the hills behind her home:

           The leaves have fallen, leaf litter, perfect for the shuffling of towhees.

           The supple grasses of summer have become knee-high rattles. Ridge

           winds shake the tiny seedheads like gourds. I hear my grandfather’s voice.

           All sound requires patience; not just the ability to hear, but the capacity to

           listen, the awareness of mind to discern a story.  A magpie flies toward me

           and disappears in the oak thicket.  He is relentless in his cries. What does

           he know that I do not?  What story is he telling?

Reading these lines as I look out my window and watch the reflected pink of the sunrise on granite rocks, I think back to those students in our outdoor classroom, re-tuning their senses to experience the languages of nature, adding their own voices to the stories of ancient grandfathers, prehistoric rocks, and magpie cries.

No cartoons today, no photographs.  Take a few minutes, move some time around, and head outside, see for yourself. Calm down, breathe and listen. Nature is speaking.

Sources:

"Listening Days" by Terry Tempest Williams website http://arts.envirolink.org/literary_arts/TTWilliams_listening.html 

Megan:

Nature’s Language

Many times I have heard visitors to the countryside comment that after the noise of a city, they find it difficult to sleep with all the quiet. I suppose the reverse is often true as well. I have lived in both environments, and where I live now, which is where I grew up, has the least amount of road noise.  But if you spend  time actually listening to the Arizona desert, you would realize it is anything but quiet. Between the crickets and the coyotes, the dampened crunch of deer hooves on gravel and the sudden scratching of startled rabbit fleeing through the bushes, plenty of sounds make their way through the apparent nighttime stillness.

Of course, it is easy to fancy for a moment that these nighttime sounds might comingle into a natural dialect, unique to this particular latitude and longitude but it is difficult to argue that actual communication is taking place. You hear the noises and you know you are not alone, that you share the space with other creatures, but there is no apparent interaction.

Recently, I have come across a number of facts and anecdotes which seem to confirm that although humans grow more remote from their natural neighbors, the flora and fauna may have their own languages, or some means of shared communication. We can acknowledge this possibility by observing the results of their apparent cooperation.

On March 3, a brief article was published by CNN Money which informed the public of a recall of the Mazda6 sedans because a certain type of spider had started building nests in the fuel system, which might ultimately lead to a fire in the engine. Usually you would find this sort of article on their Oddball news page, but because of the financial impact of a recall,the story had made it to the Money section. The article does not explore how or why the spiders came to develop this habit, merely commenting that there had been at least 20 occurrences of infestation. The company spokesman speculated that perhaps the spiders like cars that "go Zoom-Zoom" (the tagline for Mazda). But this article raises all sorts of questions (in my mind) about the communication powers of these spiders.

And then, over the weekend, I spent some time with my cousins, one of whom is the manager of a series of vineyards across the state. He mentioned that he is currently helping a new vineyard get off the ground on a pistachio farm. The owners are looking to diversify their crops because the pistachio trees do not consistently produce nuts. For a comparison, he mentioned that the pinyon trees so common in Verde Valley will occasionally, and for no observable reason, stop producing nuts for years at a time. And not on an individual level, he said. Entire groves will cease production together, as though they had a collective consciousness.  There are no consistent environmental factors to point to as a reason (he gave me a word for these kinds of trees, which I cannot remember and the Wikipedia articles do not support what he said. BUT he is one of the smartest people I ever met, so I believe him).

There are countless other examples of apparent intraspecies communication (or perhaps mis-communication), such as mass animal death – large scale whale beachings, the sardines in Redondo beach in the past few days—declines in the bee population.  

I’d rather not leave this essay on a negative note, so here is a more whimsical example of nature’s language. When I lived in Brighton, England, I used to walk along the seafront in the evening specifically to watch the starlings fly about in an acrobatic swarm. I’ve never been able to accurately describe what it’s like to watch, but luckily Peter Greenhalgh has compiled a video of the phenomenon on Youtube (warning: the music is sort of startling). Enjoy.

CNN: http://money.cnn.com/2011/03/03/autos/mazda6_spider_recall/index.htm?hpt=T2

Sardines in Redondo beach, LA Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2011/03/vaccums-may-be-used-to-remove-dead-fish-remains-will-be-use-for-fertilizer.html