Topic 179: On Being Worth Knowing

Carol:

   

                Vocabulary Lessons

Things are worth knowing as well as people. 

I think it’s worth knowing how to read cookbooks.I have lots of cookbooks, some of which I bought for their photographs or drawings-- like my cookbooks from Provence. I still have the first cookbook I ever owned, Betty Crocker’s Cookbook for Boys and Girls (1957), which I  use once in a while because the recipes are uncomplicated and jargon-free. The vocabulary of cooking can be daunting, an extensive polyglot when we evolve from basic to gourmet, from child’s play to Childs’ play : Bechamel, Bernaise, Bordelaise, Hollandaise, Meuniere.  The serious cook learns how to move from “eggs in a frame” to “egg soufflé,” how to master the wrist movement for flipping, folding or whipping an egg.  And the master chef learns the difference between a dash of this and a soupcon of that, a pinch of this and a hint of that.

A Tort. In case you didn't know.

I think it’s worth knowing how to read music. I enjoy looking at a piece of music and being able to read it just like a book because it has its own vocabulary, tells its own story.  The composer not only shows us which sound to sing or play, but how quickly or slowly to play it, how long to hold the sound, and even what mood to express. The writer gives us less to work with although descriptive words like adjectives and adverbs help create the mood. I like looking at a piece of music and hearing it in my head, imagining my fingers picking out the notes on a piano.  I can tell by looking at the following piece of music by Chopin that I would butcher it if I didn’t practice a little bit at a time. Its speed “andantino” is a little faster than andante, which has “vigor or spirit.” The piece also has three sharps, which adds another layer of difficulty for me as my fingers are required to stretch ever so slightly up from the white to the black keys.

I also think it’s worth knowing how to read maps. I love maps, and my family teases me because I pour over maps and prefer  a wrinkled and torn paper roadmap to even the most soothing computer voice of a GPS.  Reading maps is like reading music. There is a vocabulary of sorts to map-reading, knowing what the thickness and color of a  line says about the condition of the road, whether or not its route is scenic or speedy, whether it bypasses a major city, etc. City maps are not only useful for navigating new places, but they  show a “mood” by how the streets are laid out (mathematical grids or whimsical snakes), how many parks and natural spaces are incorporated into the design of the city, where the public transportation lines go.

 

I guess I am passionate about all kinds of reading: the vocabulary, notations and abbreviations that translate the three-dimensional world of sound, sight and taste onto a flat page. I may not be a gourmet cook or a world-class musician, but I think it’s worth knowing that a torte differs from a cake in that it contains almost no flour, that I can find  my way from a cheap hotel on the outskirts of Vienna to the five-star Sacher Hotel to indulge in a piece of delectable chocolate Sachertort before I plan the shortest route to from the hotel in the first district to the third district  Konzerthaus  for an afternoon concert of Viennese waltzes.
 

Oh, yes. I absolutely believe it’s worth knowing another language. Vocabulary Lesson #1:

Source:
Sachertort: Simfan34. Sachertort, Café Sacher, Vienna. Wikipedia 
        

Megan:

Networking for (Insecure) Dummies

I suppose, on a social level,  most people consider themselves worth knowing. I certainly do. I’ve said before that it takes some effort to get to know me. As is probably the case with a lot of writers, I’m more confident on paper than I am in person. I find small talk with strangers excruciating. I’m trying to work on that because I hate being the person at the party alone in the corner or hovering around the one person I know. I don’t want to stand around with the other outsiders; I want to participate. As usual though, I’m starting slow. I made a joke with the barista at my regular coffee house. I comment on the weather with my softball teammates (most of whom I don’t know). By the end of the season, I might ask about their weekend.

But there’s another way to look at this topic, and that is being worth knowing career-wise. I’m talking about professional networking.

To aid in my job search, I have “liked” and subscribed to a number of advice columns and library list-servs. I followed the advice about “branding” myself and establishing a professional presence online. I joined relevant groups on LinkedIn and followed big names in the library profession on Twitter. I made business cards.

What I haven’t done is joined in the conversation. In the job seeking circles there are numerous threads and discussions about the effectiveness of personal branding etc. There are also a lot of complaints about the economy, library closures and long-term unemployment. I find these topics depressing and unhelpful. If I sit around participating in the whining circle, I start to remember that in addition to being unemployed,  I’m turning 30 in a few months, I live with my parents and I am single. The male version of this cliche would be playing video games in the basement. But I’m writing blog posts in the shed about how I have nothing to contribute.

This is all the more frustrating for me because I used to be worth knowing. The community of prison librarians in the UK is  small, but  active. When I worked at the prison, I was on the national committee. I was a person other people called for help, for advice, and for information. I helped plan and execute training days and annual conferences. Professionally, I had a lot of potential and I was ambitious and … I totally burned out. But that was because of the prison, not the job.

Anyway, next week I’m going to New Orleans for the ALA annual conference. I will be volunteering in a school library and attending a job fair. I will make jokes and talk about the weather. I will go armed with a fistful of resumes and business cards and if anyone follows the address to my website they’ll be directed here.

Um.  I may not have thought this through.

Topic 178: Earth Odors

Carol:

Hawaiian Holiday       

A honeymoon in Hawaii seemed out of reach as my law student fiancé and I planned our wedding.  We would have been happy with a camping trip to Sequoia; but, thanks to a resourceful travel agent, we got a package deal to Honolu for $50 extra that included a stop-over in California for the wedding. Most visitors to Hawaii will talk about the vibrant colors of the vegetation, the deep and clear pools of water, and the dramatic vistas from atop the volcanic islands’ highest peaks. I remember the smells.
 

The first smell I remember is the fragrance of flowers.  The lei I received as I stepped off the plane in Honolulu was a surprise, part of the honeymoon package.  I think the lei was made of white plumeria, and its fragrance filled our hotel room that first night.  The sweet scent was already familiar to me because in high school I had been asked by a neighbor to write an advertisement for a Hawaiian perfume she was selling in her Canadian gift shop. Everywhere we went on Oahu and Kauai, we were met with the scents of blooming plumeria and orchids.  I wore a flower in my hair from the lei for several days.

 

Another smell I remember is dead leaves, the rich loamy blanket of decaying vegetation that nonetheless smells clean and dusty in a good way. While visiting a park near Honolulu, Marc decided that it would be fun to venture “off the beaten path” of the designated walkways (smooth and asphalt-topped therefore “boring” I guess). As he pulled me into the bushes beside the path, I looked down at my flowered muumuu and pink suede clogs and thought for a moment that maybe I wasn’t dressed for adventure, but hey it was my honeymoon and my new husband assured me it would be exciting to explore the forest of tropical trees and plants in search of…birds, insects? As I gingerly made my way through the heavy growth, the vegetation under my feet grew deeper and “spongier,” and my feet sank deeper into the leaves the farther we moved. When I inevitably fell face down into the bed of leaves and branches, I was already perspiring from the humidity and ready to return to the safety of the walkways. As I pulled myself up and tried to scrape off the dirt on my face and dress, I saw a foot away a discarded beer can. So much for adventure “off the beaten path.”
 

I should have known better when later in the week Marc took me sightseeing to an area near a volcanic crust. Where that spot is I can’t recollect after 38 years, but it was probably somewhere along the Pali highway near the Koolau Volcano. I may not be able to remember the place, but I remember the smell, the powerful odor of sulphur and rotten eggs. Despite warning signs, Marc convinced me that it would be a unique experience to walk out onto the lava crust—just a little ways—to get a closer look at a steaming, yellow-green deposit of rocks. The first few steps onto the dark volcanic rock were firm, but suddenly I could hear the crunch as the ground underneath sunk an inch or two with each step. As the odor of the sulphur became overwhelming, I suddenly imagined the headlines as the Honolulu newspaper reported a young honeymooner falling to a hot death through a crack in the volcanic crust. Another tourist who ignored the warning signs—and common sense—in search of adventure.
 

The strongest odor I remember from our Hawaiian Holiday is not the sweet fragrance of the plumeria but the not-so-sweet odor of …FEAR. 

 

Megan:

Bella Smells

A few weeks ago, I took Bella with me when I went to Cornville to babysit my cousin’s kids. When I let her out of the car, instead of going to greet the kids she ran haphazardly through the big yard, nose on the ground, tail straight up in the air. It wasn’t the first time I’d brought her there, but it was her first time off leash. My cousin’s son, who hadn’t met her before, asked why she was running around smelling everything. I said to him, “Imagine if you went to a new place and it was full of toys and food and kids you never played with before, and everyone was calling your name.” That’s what I think it’s like for dogs sometimes.

Chasing a fly

I don’t always understand how Bella chooses what to be interested in although sometimes it’s obvious. I know that, as a retriever, bringing me long dead animals is instinctual for her. She’ll dig through a pile of laundry to find an used tissue or a handful of dog treats I left in a pocket. But I don’t know why, when she stops to sniff poop, she’ll ignore one kind and eat another. I had to pry the same (progressively smaller) ball of manure out of her jaws three times this morning.

Sometimes in the middle of a long drink of water, she’ll pause, growl and then start digging in the bowl, knocking it over and spilling everywhere.  When I took her to Cornville that day, she reacted the same way in Oak Creek, snapping at and digging in the water. I want to get a kiddie pool and see what she does, but my father is not interested in paying for one just to satisfy my curiosity. Bella was too timid to get all the way in the creek,  and was content to eat the remains of a crayfish she found on a rock. Of the four of us, I was the only one who managed to get caught in the current and swept down stream. I was still holding onto Bella’s leash, so she trotted along the bank with me while I tried to grab something or catch my footing. The kids thought this was funny.

Before I got swept away

After we went swimming, we got some fast food to eat in the car and Bella made herself an enemy to those children forever. They were already nervous around her because she’d jumped on them, but when she smelled the grilled cheese and popcorn chicken she went into a frenzy. I was driving so I couldn’t react right away and the kids screamed and cried as she first stole the sandwich and then buried her face in the container of chicken. The children’s tears were nothing compared to mine on the drive home as she produced odors that made the little hairs in my nose burst into flame.

Similar to what happened to the chicken

Bella’s grown so much the past few weeks that she’s almost as tall as Milo. She can stretch and span the width of the bed and it’s harder for me to sleep well when both dogs are with me. We always start in the same position: me on the right, Milo curled up on the pillow next to me, and Bella down by my feet.  But In the middle of the night, she still likes to scoot up next to us, and usually wakes me up with a wet nose in my armpit.  I guess she’s comforted by the familiar smells of her teachers and friends. She stays there for a minute and then moves again, this time resting her nose by Milo’s butt.

Topic 177: Making up one's mind

Carol:

Eenie Meeny Miny Mo

Megan and Marc and have taken the dogs on an extra early morning walk. They are both trying to increase their exercise and decrease their protein intake while taking a nutrition class at the college. Meanwhile, I am feeling a little bit of pressure to get this essay underway before Megan gets back and starts asking me how far along I am. It isn’t that I don’t have any ideas or that I am particularly slow as a writer. It’s just that I often have a problem making up my mind about what to write about.
 

For instance, the first thing that came to my mind for today’s essay was coin flipping. What was the history of using “heads or tails” to determine an outcome? Or, even “rock, paper, scissors,” which I usually played with someone to decide who had to take out the trash, or the dog, or do the dishes.  Drawing the short straw is another “device” for helping people make decisions.
 

Another idea that came to my mind was hung juries. Megan had to report for federal jury duty yesterday, which she used as an excuse for not writing her essay even though she got herself eliminated by 10:30 a.m.  A few years back I made it all the way to the final jury selection and opening arguments because the judge, prosecutor and defense attorney—all of whom I knew—thought I could be fair and impartial.  When they were conducting the “voir dire” on the panel of prospective jurors, they didn’t ask what I think is one of the most important questions, “Do you have trouble making up your mind?”  I thought about that at the time as I had a certain fear that we would end up in a Twelve Angry Men-like protracted deliberation while 11 men and women stared at me as I tried to decide “guilty” or “not guilty” Luckily, the case settled in one day and we were excused from jury duty.
 

Just as a point of interest, my intensive research on Wikipedia uncovered an unusual trial that used “rock, paper, scissors” to determine an outcome. In 2006 a federal judge in Florida who apparently got tired of the protracted and petty bickering between the opposing sides over where a deposition should be held.  Judge Gregory Presnell subsequently crafted an elaborate ruling that the two sides should meet in a kind of “hand duel” using rock, paper, scissors to determine the location of the deposition. According to Wikipedia, the ruling was intended to “shame” the litigants by showing just how extreme their dispute had become (source: “Rock-Paper-Scissors”).
 

Currently, being retired, I don’t have a lot of pressure on me to make up my mind on anything other than a choice of restaurants and menu items.  I get around that by letting the other people in the car hash out where we will eat, and then by always ordering last so that I have just that little cushion of a few extra minutes to “eenie, meenie, mo” the menu options—burrito or taco, burrito or taco.
 

The dog walkers are back, and I can hear the sound of spoons hitting bowls as Marc and Megan consume their healthy morning helpings of oatmeal. I like oatmeal, but for me it’s a winter breakfast and I can already tell this is going to be a hot day. When they asked if I wanted some, I didn’t really have a problem making up my mind.  “No thanks,” I yelled down, “I’m too busy right now to eat. I can’t make my mind up what to write my essay about.”

Source:
Rock-Paper-Scisorrs. Wikipedia.

Megan:

I Changed My Mind

I thought we’d written on this topic already. I searched the archives and although this is a new topic, I’ve already written on it a number of times. When we started this website, I didn’t want to call it a blog because I associated it with online journaling and this wasn’t supposed to be a journal. Except that writing familiar, personal essays by its very nature involves writing about the familiar and the personal, so it’s sort of turned out like a journal anyway (well, my essays have).

So, I’ve already written about how I made up my mind to quit the job in the prison, how I decided to move back to the USA (one year ago today), how I made up my mind to write The Book, to apply for an MFA, to get a puppy, to become a vegan and get in shape.  I make up my mind a lot. I also change it a lot. Sometimes after it’s too late.

I’ve been having more days where I changed my mind about quitting that job and moving back to the States. I found out that there was a surprise inspection of the prison back in January, and that the report had just been published this week. I downloaded it and skipped right to the part about the library. There were no recommendations for improvement. I’m not going to say that I’d hoped the library had failed in my absence, but since I’m having such a difficult time finding a new job, I sort of wished there was evidence that my old one missed me.

I’ve changed my mind about writing because I’m not in the mood, changed my mind about the MFA because I’m afraid of not getting in. I’ve changed my mind about going vegan because even though I watched a very compelling video last night in class about how dairy proteins cause cancer, I came home and ate cheese and crackers at 11 at night because the garbanzo bean salad I had for dinner was not adequately filling.

I changed my mind about the puppy because she’s causing problems in the family. I want to blame the set back in her housetraining because we were gone for four days and although my father walked, fed and watered her, he’s just not a dog person and she probably didn’t get the level of attention she needs. But the fact is, she wasn’t completely trained before we left on our trip. Also, she’s weird. I can walk her for an hour in the morning and she won’t squat once, but in the hour before bedtime she has to go every five minutes.

Anyway, I’ve been changing my mind a lot. And I’ll change it back again. I’m still going to do all those things (and keep the puppy).  And maybe some day I’ll look back on this frustrating and transitional point in my life and think of it as the point where I finally got it together.

Topic 176: Backyard Gardens

Carol:

Why I Don’t Have a Backyard Garden

I have had a subscription to Sunset Magazine for over 30 years. I originally bought it for the person I wanted to be someday, and I still read it for that fantasy woman who grows heirloom tomatoes in container gardens, weaves baskets to harvest the tomatoes, and has all the latest tools carefully arranged in a quaint potting shed. June’s Sunset cover article is “Create a Dreamy Backyard Retreat,” which set me off on another imaginary trip to a future where I actually have a dreamy backyard retreat for reading, meditating, and munching  healthy snacks featured in old issues of Sunset Magazine.

Brother's garden, Phoenix, AZ.

I guess it’s time to just admit that I enjoy reading about my fantasy life more than actually doing the work to make it come true, including  the notion of a little haven of zen-like quiet and English country, blooming color built off the  the cement pad behind our basement.  Here is why that will never happen:

(1)    Irrigation: water is a big issue in Arizona, and we have had our share of water problems in Williamson Valley. We used to have spigots in the back to attach hoses to water the apple tree my green thumb father planted behind the house in 1983. The tree died in 1984, and we disconnected the spigots a few years later  after a winter freeze that cracked the pipes and spewed water through the basement into the non-dreamy backyard. An irrigation system would solve the problem, but it would also  send our water bill skyrocketing and completely offset the effect of the various water-conserving appliances we have installed.

(2)    Labor: our back property slopes downhill, giving us a nice view from the top floor of the San Francisco Peaks but also  three flights of stairs to the basement, which has the only direct access to the backyard. Walking around the sides of the house to get to the backyard means tripping through the rough, granite-strewn terrain and risking injury from cat claws and cacti, the natural botanical  inhabitants of our yard. Not to mention the hard work of bending over with my creaky knees to pull thorny weeds or hauling buckets of water during drought season.

Other brother's garden, Newbury Park, CA.

(3)    Skill/Talent:  whatever you want to call the knowledge and creativity that makes a green thumbed master gardener, I don’t have it. My parents had it, my siblings have it, their children have it. My husband doesn’t have it, nor does he want it. (He was greatly relieved to buy a property without a blade of grass). My own efforts to maintain a primitive front yard garden of drought-resistant local plants are sporadic at best, and I celebrate when a single Iris blooms after a May frost.

Niece's garden, Newbury Park, CA.

(4)     Critters: those granite rocks and native plants attract all kinds of high desert creatures. Visitors to our yard have included javalina, skunks, snakes, lizards, rabbits, owls and road runners, tarantulas, scorpions and deer. We enjoy even the scary creatures from afar, but I don’t like thinking about them as part of a “dreamy backyard retreat.”

My backyard.

You get the idea by now that I can concoct any number of excuses for not having a backyard garden. The main reason is actually pretty simple. I love visiting my green thumb family and friends. I like sitting in their gardens sipping iced tea or reading Sunset Magazine while they stoop or stretch and prune, complain about their water bills, show me the bloody scratches from their thorny weeds and announce that they imagine themselves someday—after winning the lottery-- relaxing in a “dreamy backyard retreat” while a professional gardener does all the work.  

Megan:

 

I did not write today because I was busy thinking of an answer to the above question. I have since been dismissed because of my employment history, family connections to the legal profession and a confessed, innate mistrust of law enforcement. I am relieved because I am going to New Orleans next week for a job fair and jury duty would have interfered with those plans.

Service Interruption

We are in California for a few days and will be back on Tuesday. 

Have a great weekend!

Topic 175: Late Arrivals

Carol:

Warning: Baby on Board           

Dear Readers: if you are the kind of person who gets bored when women tell birth stories, this essay is not for you. Mothers never forget the events and emotions surrounding childbirth, and I simply could not pass up the opportunity to tell one that so perfectly fits today’s topic. I realize that the “normal” range for the gestation of a human baby is really a couple of weeks on either side of 40 weeks (259-294 days). But, Megan was really late. Three weeks.
 

I’m talking about 3 weeks after my obstetrician told me at my mid-August check-up that there was a 50-50 chance I would go into labor within the next 48 hours. So, what happens when a first-time mother gets news like that? Does she go into a frenzy of last-minute “nesting,” obsessively refolding stacks of tiny baby clothes in the brand new nursery, furiously cooking and cleaning so that the house will be in order when she arrives home with the new baby? I took a more placid approach and packed that little suitcase for the hospital and pretty much sat down to wait.
 

I felt  a tremendous relief that very soon—50-50 chance within 48 hours—I would be freed of sleepless nights in the California heat of August, continuous indigestion and swollen feet.  I contacted  friends and family  in expectation of a new baby within a week.  But, most of all I remember the mounting frustrating as that 48 hours went by, then a week, then two weeks. Meanwhile, the phone was ringing as well-meaning friends and family checked in to see if this baby was ever going to come.
 

The waiting, of course, spilled over into Marc’s routine.  He was a public defender whose office was about a half hour from the house, and this was before the advent of the cell phone or even pagers really. Sooo, I started going to court with Marc everyday, sitting in the back of the room while he handled a variety of cases. I could only fit into one dress at the time, so I’m sure there was a lot of talk at the courthouse about that crazy pregnant women in the flowered muumuu hanging out at court.
 

Right about the time that a woman gets to that outer end of the “normal gestational range,” official things start to happen. For me that meant driving about 15 miles down the coast to Scripps Hospital in La Jolla for stress tests that would check the fetal heart rate for signs of distress.  By the second test, my obstetrician decided it was time for medical intervention, and September 26, 1981 was scheduled for inducing labor.
 

Wednesday, September 24 was pretty peaceful and Marc and I were looking forward to a relaxing evening in front of the TV as we counted down to our final day as a childless couple.   The contractions began mid-afternoon, we drove into the hospital parking lot at 11 p.m, and  Megan was born by C-section at 4 a.m on September 25.
 

That might be the end of the story of how our first child was a late arrival for her own birth-day. But, she had another surprise for us and that three-week delay was just a warm-up. At 7 a.m. on September 25 our red-headed curly-top baby was transported by ambulance to a neonatal intense care unit in San Diego.  Our supposed-to-be August baby slept in her  brand new nursery for the first time in  November. Six weeks after her birth.

 

But, that’s another story. And my late baby girl hates it when I’m late.

Megan:

 Please check the arrivals gate 

for any friends you forgot to collect

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I am a compulsively early/on time person. This quality came in handy once when I was on the way to the airport a few years ago. I was flying from London Luton airport to Prague to spend Christmas with a friend.  Not far from the airport, my car stalled in the middle of a roundabout and wouldn’t start again. A helpful police man pushed the car onto the median and then went on his way. I would have been quite happy to abandon the car  as long as I didn’t miss my flight, but the policeman didn’t offer to give me a ride. My point though, is this: even after the tow truck arrived and took my car to the garage, jumped it and checked it out and then gave me directions to the airport, I was still 3 hours early for my flight.

I’ve missed a number of flights in my life, but it’s never been because I overslept or didn’t get to the airport on time. Usually, I’ve missed connecting flights on international trips after the original flight was delayed. Most recently,  my New Years travel plans to Colorado (to meet the same friend who used to live in Prague) were delayed by unexpected snow fall here in Prescott. That was extremely frustrating, but I still managed to make it to Vail before midnight on New Years Eve.

Although I am meticulous about confirming travel plans and getting to the airport on time, I have friends who are not. Twice I have arranged a visit, once to DC and once to LA, only to have my friend not show up to meet me. In fact, my friends had forgotten I was coming that day at all. Both times were before cell phones became ubiquitous, and tracking them down was difficult. When I finally reached my L.A. friend (Kelly!), not only had she forgotten I was coming (all the way from England), she had taken her own trip to San Diego and wasn’t due to return until the next day. I wound up taking a shuttle to my uncle’s house in Thousand Oaks, where I was welcomed by my surprised relatives who hadn’t even realized I was back in the country.

The DC friend, who is also the Colorado and Prague friend, had to borrow a car to come get me after she’d forgotten, and I sat at the Baltimore airport for 3 hours. In her defense, that was the first time I’d visited her, and on the countless times we’ve since arranged to meet all over the world, she's never forgot me again.  And neither has Kelly. But I always call or text ahead of time, just to make sure.

Topic 174: The Humor of Cartoons

Carol:

    The Laugh’s  On Us

I was going to write about Gary Larson today because he’s one of my favorite humorists.  But, over the years I’ve spent a ton of money on Gary, giving out Far Side memo pads and Far Side calendars to friends and family members as gifts. He doesn’t need my money or my publicity, so today I pay homage to several more of the family whose Gemini birthdays I mentioned earlier this week in Topic 173.
 
Brother Hugh (June 9) was born on his maternal grandfather’s  birthday. I don’t know when Grandpa Fike started scribbling in words and pictures, but his letters from the 1930’s and 40’s showed an almost whimsical flair for language.  And, he loved Hugh’s cartoons.  In 1945, Grandpa Fike wrote to my mother in Texas: “Hate to have you so far away.  We will just be a name to your boys.  I expect to see Hugh develop into an artist or cartoonist even if it is hard working crawling up hills.” In 1947 Grandpa Fike sent Hugh and Doug a birthday letter typed in red (For a Red Letter Day) along with  “a little money so that you can have the fun of spending it just as you wish, foolishly or wisely, as you prefer.” Hugh’s thank-you note included illustrations of his purchase:

 

By the early 1950’s, Hugh had gone public—with cartoons for the “Queensboro Quack” newspaper and then as art editor for his high school newspaper. His drawings also began to take on political overtones.  In response to the McCarthy hearings, Hugh created a fake ID that made him a “card-carrying member of the Communist Party,’ almost getting himself expelled when the Principal found out.  By the time, Hugh finished College, my mother had started a collection of his illustrated letters which she put in a box with the letters she kept from Grandpa Fike.
 
Brother Doug (June 11) is a scribbler too although he is more of a word guy than a picture guy. He designed a fake ID in high school too; it made him a "card-carrying member of the Mickey Mouse Club,” and it matched the large Mickey Mouse he had painted on the front of his junkie old sedan. And, that same box of treasured letters that belonged to my mother contained hand-made Valentines and birthday cards Doug had sent over 30 years.
 
I guess it was inevitable that he and Hugh would find a way to combine their talent with words and pictures to start a greeting card company. They conducted their own market research at a family gathering, waiting until my mother was busy in the kitchen before unveiling some of the more risqué messages for our review. Hugh designed the cartoons, Doug designed the messages, and they achieved enough success to catch the attention of a major card company and national distribution.

 

That box of letters and pictures my sentimental mother kept eventually came to me when she died, and I keep it next to the boxes of letters and drawings I saved from my big brothers and other family members. My two children may not be Geminis, but they also have a unique gift for capturing humor into word and picture.
 
Somewhere in all of those complex maps of human DNA, there has to be a marker called “scribble and doodle.” I would create a cartoon to illustrate—a humorous doodle—but I only got the “scribble” part of that DNA inheritance.

Megan:

Cartoons are distractions too

If you've spent any time on this website, you've probably gotten to know me quite well. 

(If you spend any time on this website, there's a good chance you already know me quite well).

I have problems with motivation and procrastination. For quite some time now (like since I was a teenager), I've intended to get in shape and generally be a healthier person but I haven't been properly motivated. There's just too much to distract me:

 

Like spending time with my friends.

 

And going to the movies.

And now that I'm planning to take the GRE and apply to MFA programs, I've suddenly lost all interest in writing. It's sort of like how I'll go days without doing basic chores like laundry and the dishes, but as soon as there's a job to apply for, I have to get all the cleaning out of the way. 

So, this is what I've been doing instead of working on my MFA applications (or applying for jobs):

I take the dog for a walk every day.

I'm taking a Pilates class.

And a nutrition class.

I am so uninterested in writing right now, that I've resorted to exercise and eating healthy.

(Not that I'm particularly enjoying it.)

Happy Birthday Carol!

Topic 173: Dangers of Narrow-mindedness

Carol:

June Star-Gazers

In America, June is the traditional wedding month although I can’t think of a single person in my family who got married in June. Not that June isn’t a big celebration anyway—six family members have birthdays between June7-15, their ages ranging  from six to seventy-six. We are celebrating the 50th birthday of one family member next weekend in California, all those Geminis in one place.
 

I confess a certain fascination with Astrology, enough that I kept the newspapers with the astrological forecasts on the dates my children were born. And, I do take a quick peek at the daily horoscopes, which I only share with my husband if they back up a brilliant idea I have concocted or make dire predictions about my Libra spouse’s day.
 

We got behind in our schedule today (as always happens when the cleaning people come), so I promised another Libra in the family that I wouldn’t spend too much time lingering over the dangers of narrow-mindedness, keeping my research to a minimum. So, I thought I was on pretty safe ground choosing astrology because I do know my Sign. So, what do I find out? That I really needed to have my birth chart cast to examine the alignments between the planets for a more accurate analysis of my “predispositions” and that I not only have a Sun sign but a Moon sign and an element and a ruler. Too much for my brain to handle this afternoon.
 

I did find a site I like, which means the description of Geminis is to my liking.

A pure Geminean is a person with whom it is almost impossible to argue for any length of time. His/her mind is so subtle, moving ahead like quicksilver, that one can never be quite sure what one is arguing about. Gemineans have golden tongues as well as quicksilver minds; like the monkeys of Chinese Astrology, they can charm the birds off the trees, induce others to follow courses of action which they don't really think advisable, and fascinate almost anyone they wish.   (source: Futurescopes.com)

Well, I can tell you that we June borns’s DO like our debates and WILL argue for any length of time on any subject. My mother, who was not a Gemini, used to start every family gathering with the admonition “No arguing, no politics, please.” Yeah, right! And since the Geminis in my family not only represent a variety of ages but a variety of political and religious viewpoints, we have lots to argue about. And, we do it loudly. Just ask the family members who don’t have June birthdays.
 

Apparently, astrology wasn’t all that popular in American until after World War I when a British astrologer named Nayor started putting horoscopes in the daily newspaper. An interesting website called “North Texas Skeptics” notes that 90% of Americans under 30 know their astrological sign and that there are 10,000 astrologers in the United States and only 3,000 astronomers. And, according to the same website, Americans spend over 200 million dollars a year consulting those 10,000 astrologers while only about 100 million dollars is spent on non-space related basic research in astronomy. Now, that’s scary!
  

 

Sources:
Astrology Fact Sheet. North Texas Skeptics.       
“Gemini—characteristics and profile of the Gemini man, woman, child and baby.”   

Megan:

This is one of those topics where I think it’s gonna be a good one until I actually sit down to write about it and everything I want to say is obvious and cliché. Being narrow-minded limits a person, makes informed decisions impossible, and contributes to discriminatory practices. Broadening a mind can be done through reading and research, but is probably best achieved through action. For example, one can read about other countries and cultures, but travelling and meeting new people in real life is much better.

So, there. Essay done.

 *   *   *

What’s that? Ninety-two words isn’t sufficient?

Ok. I’ll tell you why today’s essay is so late (it’s almost related).  Now that I’ve been unemployed for a year, I’ve decided it’s time to take some classes and acquire some new skills.  I’m starting slow though. I’m starting with PE.

A few weeks ago, my father emailed me a brochure for a weight loss and nutrition class. He never emails me, and I took this as a hint, so I deleted said email and cursed him loudly in my mind. This was not a complete overreaction on my part as he has a history of encouraging me to lose weight (or as he puts it, “eat healthier”).  There was also the time when I asked him how much it would cost to go to Hawaii, and he said “It ‘s free but you should put a dollar in the basket when it passes.“
I paused and then said, “What is it you think I just asked you?”
“How much does it cost to go to OA?”

See what I mean?

Anyway, after the anger subsided, I whined about the email to my mother who told me that my father had been hoping we could take the class together and that softened my heart towards him a little bit.  So I went ahead and registered, had a look at what else was on offer and signed up for Pilates too.

The first Pilates class was this morning, which is sort of the reason the essays are late (other reasons include but are not limited to the early arrival of the cleaning service, an emergency load of laundry, and a sudden desire to rearrange the furniture in my bedroom).The last time I took a Pilates class was about ten years ago, and I weighed at least 60 pounds less. Pilates is so much harder than it used to be. I almost died.

It will be interesting to see how the next 8-10 weeks go with the two classes. If I  am able to apply what I learn in the nutrition class, then Pilates will get easier. And I might end up with a narrower waist and a broader mind (I told you I could make it relate).

Topic 172: Female Orators

Carol:

“From Many, One”

When I hear the word “orator” I think of the old-time speechifiers who used  rich language, powerful intonations, and carefully orchestrated pauses to persuade and captivate. The first one I remember as a child was Illinois Republican Senator Everett Dirksen in the 1950. I didn’t agree with his politics generally, but I loved to hear him speak.
 

Oratorical skill is more than the use of voice; it is a command of language, and that I can appreciate whether demonstrated in a bass or soprano voice. Of course, a captivating voice and a good vocabulary don’t make up for lack of substance. Firstly, a great orator must have a strong message and a commitment to that message.
 

The first time I heard Texas Democratic Congresswoman Barbara Jordan speak was in 1976 when she gave a keynote address at the Democratic National Convention.  I didn’t know who she was at the time, but as she began her speech, I know I stopped my multi-tasking and drew closer to the television. I thought to myself, so this is what is meant by “a commanding voice.” I also remember thinking at the end of her speech that this was a woman whom I would support for the Presidency.  She invoked Thomas Jefferson at the beginning of the speech and ended with Abraham Lincoln, pretty powerful orators themselves, but this essay is about female orators, so I will quote her words from that speech:

a spirit of harmony will survive in America only if each of us remembers that we share a common destiny; if each of us remembers, when self-interest and bitterness seem to prevail, that we share a common destiny. (source: American Rhetoric. Top 100 Speeches)
 

I guess I wasn’t the only person awe-struck by Barbara Jordan’s power as an orator. University researchers who polled leading American scholars to compile the Top 100 American Speeches of the 20th century list Jordan’s 1976 speech at #5 and her 1974 statement on the articles of impeachment for Richard Nixon as #13. That list, by the way, includes a significant number of speeches by women of varying politics and eras: Eleanor Roosevelt, Ann Richards, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Margaret Sanger, Margaret Chase Smith.

What I didn’t know when I heard Barbara Jordan speak at that 1976 convention was that she had already been diagnosed 3 years earlier with multiple sclerosis. She hid it well, but in 1979 she retired from politics and became an academic who taught ethics at the University of Texas Austin.  I saw her speak again, 4 years before her death, at the 1992 Democratic Convention where she touched on many of the themes from 1976 that had made her a significant force in the Civil Rights movement,  equal rights for all Americans and a firm belief in national community and civility:
 

Our strength in this country is rooted in our diversity. Our history bears witness to that fact. "E Pluribus Unum" -- "from many, one". It was a good idea when it was founded, and it's a good idea today. From many, one. That still identifies us still identifies us. (Source: American Rhetoric.com)

A fundamental principle of good writing is the notion of “show not tell.” What better way to end this essay than to let Barbara Jordan speak for herself. (We aren't able to embed the video. Not sure why.)


Sources:
Barbara Charline Jordan.  Democratic National Convention Keynote Addresses American Rhetoric. Online Speech bank.
    1976 Speech 
    1992 Speech
Top 100 American Speeches of the 20th Century.

Megan:

In the prison library, I once got a written request for a "bok that teeches you how too do oritory." For this prisoner, speaking clearly and well was a skill he wanted to develop as he was appealing his conviction and representing himself. I found him a book on making speeches and reminded myself that intelligence is not always dependent on literacy although I did not have high hopes for the success of his case. This same prisoner also asked me for a list of every law book ever published, because he wanted to buy them all.

Anyway, I grew up performing in Christmas pageants and participating in the Liturgy of the Word at church, so public speaking was never really a problem for me.  I did it without thinking. As part of my final thesis requirement in college, I had to read some original writing in front of a large group of my peers and I got nervous for the first time I can remember.  The writing was personal and I thought I might start crying. It always annoyed me when other people got emotional while reading out loud and I was mortified. My voice shook and no one could hear me. 

In library school I had to do several group presentations, and in the Management class I was part of a group that imploded mid-semester due to personal conflicts, bad tempers and mental illness. Standing unprepared in front of the class with no one in the group willing to look at or speak to each other was probably the most awkward and embarrassing moment I’d ever experienced. I’d known it was going to happen though and warned the professor (and also checked that failing the presentation didn’t equal failing the class).

So, I suppose those experiences were in the back of my mind when, after I’d become a professional librarian, I was asked to introduce a speaker at a national conference. I wasn’t the speaker, mind you, I was only supposed to introduce him. I went to the chair of the committee and asked if I could switch tasks with someone else. The Chair interpreted my request as an admission of a full-fledged phobia, and not as the lazy-don’t-really-feel-like-it mumble that it was. His concern was so great that for the rest of the conference he kept passing me information about public-speaking courses and practical exercises in overcoming fears. I couldn’t correct him because I knew how unprofessional it was to back out of an assignment for any reason other than extreme terror.

He left the committee after that conference and by the time the next one rolled around no one remembered my “phobia” of public speaking. By that point I was more confident professionally anyway. I gave a series of lectures around the county on prison librarianship and, as long as the subject is libraries, I’m fine speaking in groups of any size. But put me in a social setting with people I don’t know, and I’m lucky if I can remember my own name.

Topic 171: Judging by Appearances

Carol:

The “Judging By Appearances Pink ‘N Blues”

In the late 1960’s, Virginia Slims used a logo to capture a new niche, young and hip women smokers. I’d like to think the slogan “You’ve come a long way, baby” was more than a catchy marketing gimmick, that women—people—had come a long way toward breaking stereotypes and moving beyond superficial appearances, but recent news  show that we still make judgments  based on gender stereotypes.
 

Take the story of Storm Witterick, the Canadian baby whose parents decided not to reveal the gender of their third child, delivered at home last January. Their decision twittered and Facebooked into an international controversy, a heated and polarizing debate about gender bias and child-rearing. Some people argue that “social experimentation” on children is tantamount to child abuse; others praise the family for defying stereotypes  that go beyond pink and blue wardrobe choices.  Not that it matters to Storm with his/her beautifully, chubby cheeked smile in photos. Not that it matters to Storm’s older brothers who also look happy and content even though, omigod, they  express their individuality with gender-bending clothing, colors and hairstyles. The Witterick children certainly looked happier than my friend’s son who came home crying from kindergarten in 1986 because the teacher wouldn’t let him cook in the play kitchen with the girls.
 

Or, what about the “SlutWalk Protests,” a global reaction to an April 2011 comment by a Canadian policeman who suggested to a group of Toronto law students that women could avoid being “victimized” if they stopped dressing like sluts. The idea that women are “asking for it” if they dress a certain way is not a new one, but  this particular remark set off a wave of protests around the world after it found its way onto Facebook.  SlutWalk marches have been held in Canada, the United States, Australia and Great Britain. Rallies have attracted all manner of folks in all manner of attire.The “in your face” reactive tone of the SlutWalk movement now includes rallies with workshops on stopping sexual violence and educating law enforcement and public agencies about sexual assaults. Five thousand people were expected to show up at a rally planned for London.
 

I’ll end with a favorite recollection from teaching at a community college where the rich mix of students simply defies stereotyping. I overheard an early morning conversation between two women and a man in my composition class. One of the women was probably in her late 30’s and wore the typical “uniform” of generic blue jeans, tank top and sweater, no flash or boobage . The other was younger and much edgier, with vivid maroon hair, the generic blue jeans, tank top but no coverage so that the head and wings of the large, intricate and quite beautiful dragon tattoo on her back spread out from underneath the straps of the shirt. The man was a bit older, a Vietnam Vet with a scruffy beard and generic blue jeans, a Harley Davidson tee-shirt covering the beginnings of a beer belly. The Vet was doing most of the talking. The women punctuated the conversation with clucks of agreement and nods of understanding, full of compassion for a fellow single parent’s frustrating efforts to get his three little girls to sit still long enough to brush the tangles out and braid their hair.
Gotta run, She Who Must Be Obeyed wants to see Kung Fu Panda 2, and we know who is top dog in this household.

Sources: “SlutWalk’ Marches Sparked by Toronto Officer’s Remarks.” BBC News US & Canada. 8 May 2011.

Stampler, Laura. “ 'Genderless' Baby Raises a Storm of Controversy.” Parentdish.com 26 May 2011
  

Megan:

The Appearance of Being Judged

You might have noticed yesterday that I’ve changed my avatar in the cartoons to reflect my haircut. A few weeks ago, in an impulsive and emotional mood, I went into a local discount hair salon and cut off nearly 24 inches of hair. I guess I was thinking, “Change my hair, change my life.” I have a friend who, after he split up with his long-term girlfriend, cut his hair and shaved his incredibly bushy beard. It’s a common enough ritual. Thing is, I thought having shorter hair would mean less time spent on styling it, but it actually requires more work. This is a lesson I have forgotten and  learned again and again.

The amount of time and effort I put into my appearance varies depending on my mood, where I’m going and whether I expect to meet someone I would like to impress. I get dressed up to go to lunch by myself, but not to go to the grocery store. I put more effort into my appearance before a softball game than I would if I was going to a movie. I’ll still be wearing yesterday’s makeup when I meet a friend for coffee and then die a little inside when we run into a friend of her husband.

In the prison, appearance was very important to the inmates. Most of them spent hours in the gym cultivating body-builder-type physiques. They saved their small salaries for months to purchase the newest and flashiest looking trainers (or tennis shoes). They put enough pressure on themselves and each other that it was fairly obvious that they ones who didn’t take care with their appearances were either bullied, mentally ill, or incapable of dealing with prison life. The habitual self-harmers, and the ones who didn’t wash or clean their cells were generally shunned by their peers because, frankly, they were awful to be around. For some, maintaining an aura of filth (ala Pigpen, but not cute) widened their circumference of personal space in an institution where privacy of any kind is nearly impossible.

It always seems to me that the importance one places on others’ appearances corresponds to the effort one puts into one’s own. My grandmother never steps foot outside her house without being fully dressed up. In fact, it wasn’t until a couple weeks ago, when I went to her house without calling first that I had ever seen her without makeup on (that includes the time she was in the hospital recovering from a hip replacement). She makes comments to me about what other people are wearing, and I know that being well-dressed is important to her – that she considers it a measure of success.

And of course, the reverse is also true. I had a college friend in England who saved money on food by dressing in her worst clothes and going to the farmer’s market at the end of the day. By giving the appearance of poverty and homelessness, she got free food from the stalls. Judging (and being judged) by appearances is part of life. You get better service if you look nice. People take you seriously. I both resent and appreciate this fact, depending on my mood. Sometimes I enjoy the boost in confidence I get when I know that I look good. Other times I resent the fact that I know I am more interesting than I appear, and that’s really hard to convey without being superficial.

Topic 170: On Living in the Present (Future)

Carol:

Traveling in the Now

Vacations are supposed to be opportunities to live in the present, especially if you have been planning that vacation for months and counting down the days until that future became The Now.
 

A year ago today my husband and I were debarking from a transcontinental flight with two lay-overs (cheaper than non-stop) and headed to a ubiquitous Travel Lodge somewhere in the center of historic Edinburgh, Scotland.  We were exhausted and couldn’t get into our rooms, so we sat in the lobby waiting for the arrival of daughter Megan, who had flown in from England with belongings from four years of living abroad. So ubiquitous are the Travel Lodge hotels in Edinburgh that Megan spent the afternoon of June 1 searching for us at the wrong hotels. When she arrived several hours later at the right Travel Lodge, she was cranky, really cranky. We were glad to see her anyway.   

The Scotland trip was meant to be a transition for her, a chance for one last vacation experience in another culture before returning to Arizona and the uncertainty of her future. For us, it was one last time to experience another culture in the capable hands of someone familiar with driving “on the wrong side,” round-abouts, lay-bys and quaint road impediments such as herds of sheep. A time also to make special memories with our daughter.
It was also a great time to practice being “in the moment” as we headed out each morning to explore the Scottish countryside and look for the perfect spot with a view to picnic or lunch at a tiny restaurant. Counting down the days until that future date when  the trip was over would have spoiled the experience although I’m sure Megan and Marc allowed their thoughts to stray into the future—work and looking for work—more than did mine. I have always been good at compartmentalizing.  

Ullapool, Scotland

So, now just about a year later Marc and I have returned from a shorter, closer jaunt to the Northwest where we spent four days with friends of 40 years in Seattle and four days with our son in Portland.  Familiar places and people, but we were able to fill each day with some little spontaneous adventure that kept us excited to be living in the moment. The bay view from The Oyster Bar on Chuckanut Drive south of Bellingham, Washington was spectacular as we ate fresh fish over a leisurely two-hour lunch that allowed us to reminisce about the view from another seaside restaurant in Ullapool, Scotland the year before. An hour spent with Marshall waiting for seats at the popular Toro Bravo restaurant in Portland provided a surprise opportunity to sit together and listen to Brazilian music played on mandolin and guitar.

Chuckanut Drive, Washington

As the days ticked by, it would have been easy to slip out of the pleasures of living in the present to fret about the future— court appearances, car maintenance, getting the deck re-stained, cleaning out the basement—and a return to routines such as cooking and cleaning and  the daily theme. I think I did a pretty good job of staying in the present, of allowing each day to create its own story.
 

But, vacations are retreats from, not abandonment of, routine. So, here I am back at my desk straining to come up with an ending for today’s theme, glad to be back home listening to the wrestling dogs and familiar cranky  voice: “Are you done with that essay yet? You said it would just be a few more minutes.”

Megan:

 On This Day

On this day last year, my Irish friend Sean gave me a ride to Stansted airport and I left my home in England for the last time. I only flew to Scotland where I met my parents and we traveled around for a couple of weeks, so on the 15th of this month you can probably expect “On this day last year, I moved back to the USA” or something similarly whiny and emotional.

It’s funny how little one can accomplish in a year. If I’d known that I’d still be unemployed and living with my parents a year later, I probably would have stayed in England. And in another month, I’d have been eligible for permanent residency. In my lower moments, that’s a regret I have. But I also would never have believed that I’d be happy here without a job or a place of my own.

Sometimes I miss living alone, but I spent all last week by myself and every night was an exercise in trying not to freak out at strange sounds, patrolling the house with a knife in one hand and my cell phone dialed to 911, my finger posed to hit the send button.  I thought about breaking a couple of glasses and leaving the shards in the entry ways, but then realized that no burglar’s gonna come into the house barefoot, so I’d probably just wind up hurting myself or one of the dogs. Bella exposed another chink in the armor when, annoyed at being separated from Milo, she jumped straight through an open (but screened) window to reunite with her one true love. The screen wasn’t damaged -- it just popped right out. All of the windows, which before seemed beneficial – letting so much light and air into the house –suddenly became additional weak points that must be defended.

It wasn’t all bad. The dogs and I had dance parties. Our previous dog Trixie, used to dance along at moments like those, or rather, she would get excited and hump a leg. Milo and Bella just sit and observe, tails wagging and no judgment on their faces. I got the impression that they would like to join in, but were shy because they didn’t know the moves. I turned up the stereo all the way  and danced and sang at the top of my lungs,  which is something I couldn’t do when I lived in an apartment, and also is not something I can do when my mother is home. It’s not fair to make her cry and wet her pants with laughter more than once a day. Too much laundry is bad for the environment.

I seem to have strayed off topic. I’ve written recently about my plans for the future. I head to New Orleans at the end of this month, the GRE is fast approaching and so are the application deadlines. I intended to spend time last week preparing for those upcoming events, but between the daily dance parties and the evening night terrors, I also babysat, hung out with my friends and spent one entire day cleaning the fridge. I’ll get everything done eventually, but there is enough to keep me occupied in the present, I'm not going to waste all my time worrying about the future.