Works in Progress

Happy Birthday, Epiphanie!

2010-09-21T07:46:00.003-05:00

Check out Epiphanie Bags--it's their birthday, and they're giving away a Canon 5D! Yay!

2009-02-20T11:02:00.001-06:00

Q: What one person, thing, moment, or place do you wish you had a photo of?

A: I’m fortunate to have some old family photos, photos from my childhood, and plenty of more recent family photos. But the one thing I’m missing and wish I had is a photo of my first home.

When my twin brother and I (aka Antithesis and Thesis, respectively) were born, my parents had bought their first home, in Carteret, New Jersey, but we only lived there until we were about 4 years old. I remember it, but mostly my memories are pretty vague. I remember that there was no cellar, but there was a half-finished attic and it must have had stairs because I remember being up there with my mom and my brother occasionally. I remember there were three bedrooms, and a back yard. It seems that it was huge, but then, I was very little, so who knows?

But what I remember most, oddly enough, are my brother’s and my little nighttime antics when we were still in cribs. Apparently, my brother figured out at an early age how to climb out of his crib at night, which he did. This drove my mother nuts with worry, and finally she talked to our doctor about it. He said all she could do was pile blankets under Antithesis’s crib so he wouldn’t hurt himself if he fell. Guess that was all she could do, since he kept climbing. Every night. Once he’d escaped his crib, he would just go and sleep in the hallway. Why? Who knows—he’s always been a bit of a free spirit—I don’t call him Antithesis for nothing! Eventually, I followed his lead and starting doing my own nocturnal escape acts. But the hallway wasn’t my destination.

We had a guest bedroom, which my mom called the “spare room,” and which I now realize was meant to be a bedroom for my brother or me when we got older—we shared one room from infanthood until we moved. But I remember the spare room most because after climbing out of my crib I would go in there to sleep on the freshly folded towels that my mother invariably left in there, since, as she once told me, the house had no linen closet. I guess she must have left them on the bed, which must have been low enough for me to climb onto (what little monkeys Antithesis and I must have been!) I don’t really remember those details very clearly. I mainly remember that I liked the texture of the terrycloth towels against my skin, and that’s why I liked sleeping there. (Wouldn’t you think my mom would’ve figured this out and just tried putting a towel in my crib?)

I remember a few other things from that first home: playing with my brother in the living room, in the yard, in the attic. Our miniature dinette set that looked for all the world like my mom and dad’s big dinette, with the same wrought iron frames and upholstered vinyl seats. My dad coming home from his navy deployments; sitting on his lap while he tried to teach me to spell my name. But I mostly remember the feel of that soft terrycloth against my face as I drifted off to sleep in that big spare bed.

Yes, I sure do wish I had a photo or two of that place.

Shared photo book from Judy:

2009-01-24T07:11:00.001-06:00

View Project at Shutterfly

Red Sky

2009-01-07T06:55:00.003-06:00

Photos from Escambia Bay, Florida, Summer 2008. The focal photo was a summer sky, early morning, the clouds reflecting the light from the rising sun. It reminded me of that old rhyme about the weather: "Red sky in the morning."

Digital scrapping materials from jessicasprague.com and Digital Scrapbook Place

Bookmaking

2008-11-19T20:25:00.015-06:00

Well, it's time I gave some much-needed attention to my little blog. Let’s talk about bookmaking.
No, not "Making Book," as in taking bets on the races.
But making books, as in creating covers and pages and binding them together. THAT kind of bookmaking.

I took up bookmaking this past summer, and I found it interesting and rewarding. I love digital photo editing and digital scrapbooking, but what I had been missing in those activities was the tactile dimension—the touchy-feely nature of the actual page, as opposed to the virtual page, which is essentially made up of tricks of electrons and light—the smoke and mirrors of the early 21st century. So I took up once again the art of the actual page, this time as part of actual books, which I would build and bind myself. If this intrigues you, I highly recommend a very handy little book by Esther K. Smith: How to Make Books: Fold, Cut & Stitch Your Way to a One-of-a-Kind Book. I also took a couple of online classes at Big Picture Scrapbooking--extremely nurturing instruction!

So, I learned how to make covers, how to make neat, crisp folds and corners, how to create several different bindings, how to stitch bindings, and how to embellish my pages. What I liked most was, I think, the stitching. I think I could spend a good deal of time sewing book bindings and remain very happy. I found something immensely satisfying in my first stitched binding, a pamphlet stitch. Just three holes and, basically, three stitches, et voila, it’s a book binding! I embellished my first pamphlet-stitch binding with a monogram medallion—just seemed like it could use that to finish it off.

The Japanese stab-stitch binding I like for its artistry—the way the stitches become part of the visual appeal of the cover. My first attempt was just a tiny book made of business-size envelopes cut in half, with cardstock covers, but I like it quite a lot.

In contrast, the post binding does not impress me much. It just seems heavyhanded, especially after the delicate, dancelike sewing of the stitched bindings. On the other hand, I’m very content with the post-bound book I made, especially because it’s Cocoa’s book. The window in the cover allows the bookmaker to highlight a favorite photo, and it was fun making pages out of unexpected materials, like torn corrugated cardboard and a panel from a dog biscuit box, plus throwing in some fibers and tags. Coke thinks it came out great.

A couple of bindings that I hadn’t expected to like turned out to be very adaptable in interesting ways. The fan-fold binding I used to save photos and cards from the Chief’s 60th birthday. I also included some experiments in photo transfer and printing on transparencies. (Photos of this book later, I promise!)

But by far my best effort involved the accordion binding technique, which I never thought I’d like much. I used it to make a book in honor of my relationship with my twin brother, and I called it Dialectic. As any student of rhetoric can tell you, dialectic is a form of argument in which the proposition of a THESIS leads to its opposite, the ANTITHESIS, and the dialogue leads eventually to a third proposition that compounds the two: SYNTHESIS. The dialectic of the Hale twins frames the sister, elder child by “four precious minutes,” as Thesis; the brother, and younger child, as Antithesis; and their relationship itself as elegant Synthesis. Like Eliza and Wilbur, the twins in Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Slapstick, we are like two imperfect halves of one perfect person, and are never so good individually as we are together: “Thus did we give birth to a single genius, which died as quickly as we parted, which was reborn the moment we got together again.” In critical readings of the novel, Eliza and Wilbur represent right brain and left brain. But in my reading, they are simply a brother and sister who cannot live well without each other near, and who are their best selves when they are united: Thesis, Antithesis, Synthesis.

So, to you, dear brother, the other half of my best self, I offer this little book:

Solo Ride with Mom

2007-05-24T17:37:00.000-05:00

Beginning mileage: 15,015

This Sunday was the date my mom passed away in 1998, so she’s been gone for nine years. I marked the day in a way that I think Mom would have approved: my first long solo ride on my motorcycle.

Like many women, I had a difficult relationship with my mother. I don’t know that she ever understood me, and it sure took me a long time to understand her. And by the time I thought I did, and was able to have the important heart-to-heart talks with her that I would’ve liked to have, she was in the clutches of Alzheimer’s disease and was struggling just to remember what day it was, never mind her innermost thoughts and feelings about her quirky daughter. In the end, all I could do was try to make her know how much I loved her. I hope that was enough.

This is one of those things that makes me wish I believed in the survival of the soul, life after death, and love everlasting. I don’t, but I can still memorialize people I love who have passed, like Mom.

I memorialized Mom today by taking my first long solo ride. Man, she would’ve loved riding a motorcycle. She had such a wild streak. By the time I came to know her, it had been somewhat tamed, I don’t know whether it was by domesticity or by cultural imperatives or just by her own reticence. But tamed though it was, it was still there, a restless undercurrent in her life, emerging occasionally when she’d had enough of what she clearly felt was a too-mundane life.

I’ve been accustomed to thinking of Mom in connection with convertible cars and long days at the beach—she loved both of those things. I don’t know that riding a motorcycle was ever anything that even approached her radar (though she did ride a nephew’s mini-bike once). But if it had, and if she ever had, she would absolutely have loved it: the speed, the wind, the curves, the on-the-road wildness. She loved being on the road, and this would have been just another dimension of it to love.

So today, I rode alone, but with Mom--hence the title of this post. Follow along on this Gmaps route: Blackwater Ride

I put down the passenger pegs on my bike, and Mom was my invisible passenger as I motored through the live-oak-canopied streets of historic Bagdad (that’s Bagdad, a tiny and very old town in northwest Florida, as distinguished from Baghdad, a large and ancient city in Iraq). From there, I wiggled through the narrow streets of Milton, a somewhat-less-tiny though just as old town, to get to Munson Highway. Finally out in the county, I poured on a little more throttle, zooming past Bob’s Canoes and that cool, deep, sandy-bottomed arm of the Blackwater River. I turned off at Indian Ford Road—what a romantic, evocative name, calling up visions of Native American bands and their traditional river crossings, marked perhaps with trees trained into bent shapes, bound with vines as saplings, so the adult trees would point the way to the place where the water was shallowest, the crossing shortest and easiest.

Snapping back to the early 21^st century, I turned my attention to the road itself. This road is short but twisty, with some near-90-degree turns and some fun rollers, swooping down onto narrow, rustic bridges over shady creek bottoms and back up into the leaf-dappled sunlight. There was almost no traffic, which I found odd for a Sunday, but maybe, since it’s a road well used by folks hauling boats to the river, most of the traffic occurred earlier in the day. For whatever reason, the road was only lightly traveled, and I enjoyed the solitude. Mom and I, that is.

At the intersection of Indian Ford and Deaton Bridge Road, I turned right, heading for that pretty little section of Blackwater River State Park. Here, the woods close in, surrounding the road for several miles—nothing but cool, cool green. Then, where the road crosses the Blackwater River, the woods recede briefly to allow vistas of the winding river, with its clear water and white sandbars: the "beaches" of north Santa Rosa County.

Plenty of canoers, kayakers, tubers, and swimmers on this hot, sunny day in May in the Florida panhandle, taking advantage of those river beaches and that cold river water. A very inviting scene, and Coyote, my bike, suggested diving into the river to cool off--
but alas, as the sign warns, "NO JUMPING FROM BRIDGE."

I followed Deaton Bridge Road south, past the little outlying Navy airfield where the helicopter pilots practice—not much going on there today. Pretty soon, Deaton Bridge dumped me out onto Highway 90 at the Harold Store. Harold, Florida is a tiny, tiny town (some would say barely a town at all, but just the proverbial “wide spot in the road”), marked most conspicuously by the Harold Store. On its face, it’s only a convenience store, but it’s also a meeting spot of sorts—for patrons of all sorts. The cycling club that I ride with on Saturday mornings occasionally rides to this store as a halfway point. We get snacks and drinks, hang out at the handy, shaded picnic tables while we fuel up for the 21-mile return ride. That’s one genre of patrons. The other genre was there today: teenagers with beat-up cars and trucks, having slipped the bonds of church and Sunday school, and now apparently looking for other teenagers with cars and trucks, and all of them looking for something to do. I got lots of surreptitious looks and a few bold stares as I got off my bike and grabbed a cold drink. And I think all of them were watching as I motored back out onto the highway. My first thought was “Good grief, get a life!” But as I reflected on myself as a bored teenager, with few resources for combating the boredom but more than these kids probably had, I relented. What the heck—they were just being kids together.

Now, on this ride, after you hit Highway 90, you’re pretty much on your way home. But it’s still a pleasant ride, back over the Blackwater River as it skirts the little town of Milton, through tree-lined Bagdad streets, down Bagdad peninsula, to our little home on the Bay. I could just hear Mom ooh-ing and ahh-ing, laughing and carrying on. Jeez, Mom, I know we didn’t get along a lot of the time, but I wish you could’ve gotten in on this part of my life. You would’ve loved it!

Ending mileage: 15,102

Thunder Beach! Days 2 & 3

2007-05-18T08:10:00.000-05:00

Saturday was bright, clear, and hot—a beautiful day for riding but with the promise of more heat to come. I decided to stow my jacket in a saddlebag instead of wearing it. This surprised even me, because I’m usually such an ATGATT girl. But I did wear a long-sleeved shirt—nice light wicking-fabric shirt with a zip neck. People kept asking me wasn’t I hot, but I really felt pretty comfortable—probably something to do with the wicking fabric and the fact that the long sleeves kept the sun from beating directly down on my arms—and shoulders, and belly, and all the other various body parts that were widely on display among the sea of riders.

Seal Guy arrived and we saddled up, having planned to do the Saturday Poker Run, sponsored by ABATE of Florida, White Sands Chapter. I was excited to be doing my first ever poker run, and I knew I’d have fun, regardless of whether I won anything! We started at Edgewater, where we met Blonde Guy. Everyone signed up for the run and drew their first cards. The Chief and I shared a hand, and we started out with a Three of Hearts. Low card, but the Heart made it seem promising.

Next venue was Hammerhead Fred’s, beach bar and grill (t-shirts say “I got hammered at Hammerhead Fred’s”—Blonde Guy couldn’t resist buying one). First thing, we drew our next card, which was a Six of Clubs. OK, that’s a possible straight in the making. Hammerhead Fred’s was a fun sort of place—across the road from the beach, friendly, comfortable, a little crowded but not too, too—so we had lunch there. Excellent crab claws and lots of other good stuff!

After Hammerhead Fred’s, next stop was the Treasure Ship, which is a building that actually looks like an old, sea-worn wooden ship, right on the water. The Chief and I drew a Seven of Diamonds—our straight was still taking shape! Woo-hoo! We had cold drinks, to celebrate and to stave off dehydration, while enjoying the cool breeze off the Gulf of Mexico (see photo, above) and talking to some other riders.

The fourth stop on our route was Dusty’s—and it WAS dusty. Dusty, small, and incredibly crowded, so we just drew our card then headed out: a Five of Clubs! Our little straight was so close I could taste it. I couldn’t wait to get to the next stop to draw what I was sure would be a Four of Something.

Which, of course, it was not. *sniff* At the last venue, the Sandpiper Beacon Beach Resort Tiki Bar (what a mouthful!), I drew *drum roll, please* a……nother…..Five. Rats Rats Rats! So we ended up with a pair of Fives. Oh well, it WAS for ABATE, which is a good cause. And we did end up at another cool, friendly beach bar-and-grill, where there was a band and dancing and lots of friendly bikers to get to know. Also a crowd, some heat, and some wildness among the dancing group—but that goes with the territory. LOL Here are the guys at the Tiki Bar. That good-looking silver fox in the middle is the Chief--hubba hubba!

BTW, Seal Guy and Mrs. Seal run Leatherwood Cottages, a mountain resort of vacation cottages in beautiful Maggie Valley, North Carolina, "in the Heart of the Great Smoky Mountains." It's a great, friendly place to stay if you're ever passing through that area.

After the fun wore off a little, I wasn’t too surprised to find that I was pretty hot, but what did surprise me was how tired I felt. So I headed back to the condo, leaving the guys to just be guys together for a while. I got a chance to relax in the ac and regroup. I love the crowds and hot, noisy fun for a while, but I also need my downtime.

After everyone straggled back to the condo and got cleaned up and rested up, we went to a little local Italian place for dinner. Seal Guy’s headlight was dimming, so he and the Chief rode off to find an auto parts store before dark, which left Blonde Guy and me to deal with the wine and hors d’oeuvres we’d ordered—hey, someone had to do it. The Chief and Seal Guy returned with both headlights blazing not too much later.

We had our dinner outside on the little porch, watching and hearing the constant stream of biker traffic up and down Beach Road. Several other biker groups stopped where we were for dinner, and we had a good time chatting with them about the day’s events. One woman was riding a gorgeous V-Star, and I practically salivated over the thing when she let me sit on it. Very nice! Might be my next bike.

We lingered pretty long over dinner, what with the headlight incident, then the entrees, then dessert, then swapping stories with other bikers. Finally, to my surprise, everyone was ready to call it a day. I’d expected those guys to motor off toward the action further to the east, but instead we all dragged our tired selves “home” for the night. Well, except for Seal Guy, who decided to go all the way home that night instead of waiting until next morning. We tried to dissuade him, but it was not to be done. We saw him off with many exhortations to take care and to call us when he arrived.

* * *

Sunday, the remaining three of us said good-bye to Panama City Beach, Sunnyside, and Thunder Beach. The weather cooperated all the way home—a little overcast, but mostly dry and warm, just like Saturday. This weather was a minor miracle because storms had been forecast for the entire weekend, but we never saw one of them. A few clouds appeared from time to time, but no rain and certainly no storms. PC Beach—and most of the northern Gulf beaches—can be like that though—it can be rainy and yucky in town, but out at the beach, it’s a lovely day. Not two hours after we returned home, the skies opened up—which made us glad we’d gotten an early start.

Afterthoughts:

While doing all that stop-and-go riding on Friday, I had mentally sworn off bike rallies, if this was what they were going to be like. I hated the traffic and the heat. But as so often happens, when the events were recollected in tranquility, I reconsidered. Sure it was a little hot, sure there was lots of traffic—but that’s pretty much what it’s all about. After all, it’s only a bike RALLY if there are lots of bikers, right? OK, though I still don’t see myself doing Bike Week in Daytona Beach, I MAY return to Thunder Beach in the fall. Hope it’s a little cooler then.

Also regarding all that stop-and-go riding, I surprised myself with my skill at it. Not that I don’t still have a lot to learn, but I did just fine with all the clutching, braking, and shifting, while maintaining a reasonably tight formation with the others. And I did well on the other unfamiliar roads as well. All things considered, I was pretty satisfied with my riding during the weekend. Yay!!!

So there it is: a novice looks at Thunder Beach. It was fun, hot, crowded, interesting, educational (yes, educational!), hot, and fun. Can’t wait for the one in October!

Ending mileage: 14,935

Thunder Beach! Day 1

2007-05-16T12:08:00.000-05:00

4-6 May, we rode over to Panama City for the Thunder Beach Rally—my first motorcycle rally EVER!

Quick impressions:
Thousands of bikes
LOTS of women riding their own
Lots of unhelmeted heads, both male and female—a little surprised about the females
More stop-and-go riding along Front Beach Road than I could’ve wished for
Hot
I CAN ride in that kind of traffic and crowds, though I don’t much enjoy it
Though it was hot, a lightweight long-sleeve shirt was better, I think, than a short-sleeve or sleeveless, at least with my fair skin
Needed a visor for off-bike time in the sun
Would’ve been much more fun with more couples in our group
Love the Yamaha V-Star
Nice condo our friends let us use—gotta remember to send a thank-you note
First day, after all that stop-and-go, thought I’d never want to go back. But once I settled in and got into the spirit of it, I think I could enjoy that kind of thing a couple/three times a year.
The Poker Run was fun, even though we didn't win.
The stunt riders were young and fearless. Not much sense of self-preservation, but fearless. Great showmen.
Hotter
Next time, make time for the beach.

Ending mileage: 14,935

Friday morning we were packed and out of the chocks before 9:00, leaving Cocoa in the care of SIL and the neighbors. We took I-10 east to the next exit, then Rte. 87 down to

Navarre

. We stopped in Destin for breakfast at Another Broken Egg, one of our absolute, all-time fave breakfast spots. There’s always a wait for their perfectly cooked eggs and their delicious traditional home fries, and it’s always worth it!

After breakfast, it was a pleasant run on into Panama City Beach. Some traffic through Destin, but it thinned out after we got through the most developed section.

The borrowed condo we were staying at was in the Sunnyside area, on Rte. 30-A, just across the road from the beach (which, btw, we never went to, though it was nice riding alongside it for some of the time). Two bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, comfortably furnished and appointed. A bit far from the “action”—event venues, that is—but also a nice refuge from all that craziness when we’d had enough fun for the day.

After freshening up, the Chief made a few calls. We had this nice, big condo to use for free and thought it was a shame it was just us, since the six friends we’d invited had all wimped out. So the Chief invited a couple of friends. Friend #1, Seal Guy, has a wife who doesn’t ride, and Friend 2’s (Blonde Guy) wife does ride, but was out of town for the weekend. I was a little disappointed that it sounded like this was turning into a guys’ weekend, but both these friends are OK, so I figured I’d have fun anyway, and if I got tired of the rally scene early, the Chief would have someone to continue “rallying” with. Both friends said they’d be there on Saturday morning.

Finally, we headed out to find the party. We went first to the Shoppes at Edgewater, basically an outdoor mall anchored by a bowling alley, and with a huge parking lot, now full of bikes. There was also a sound stage with a live band, lots of vendors, a custom bike show, and plenty of food and drink. We spent a lot of time ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the gorge-o-licious custom bikes, some made for actual riding as well as many that I think of as “fantasy bikes,” bikes that seem made more for being seen than for being on the road. Wild paint jobs, low low low frames as well as the hundreds of beautiful bikes parked in the parking lot. Had something to drink and listened to the band. I found a clip bag I liked, but thought I’d look around some more to see if I could get a better deal—always looking for a bargain! Before we left Edgewater, I saw a lovely HD Dyna Low Rider, in that great maroon color Harley does. The rider turned up while I was standing there drooling, so I got to talk to her about it. She LOVES it—has been riding it for three years now. Someday maybe…..

Next stop was the Boardwalk Resort—more bikes, more vendors, more to eat and drink. I found a nice jewelry booth and chose a pair of onyx earrings. I also talked to the guys at the Soft Bottom Butt Savers booth about a seat pad for my bike--gotta LOVE that name. They had this setup with a stool with one of their seat pads on top. First you sit on it and just feel the love—EXTREMELY comfy. And when you get up, they pick up the cushion and show you what you were sitting on: a bit old honkin’ padlock—I mean huge—but of course you never felt it because of their seat pad. Well, I guess that means I’m not a princess. LOL I didn’t end up buying a Soft Bottom Butt Saver then and there, but I may get one eventually. While wandering around the Boardwalk Resort, we also saw this cute, fluffy little white guy in a Harley cap, and he struck a nice pose for the camera.

After a cold drink, we hit the road again. Beach Road was choked with riders, so it was all stop-and-go driving—not that much fun. We got a little relief from the congestion when we headed away from the beach to another venue, Frank Brown Park, where there was a stunt riding show. The stunt riders were pretty young—someone said the youngest was 17, but some of them looked younger than that. These guys revved their motors, flew up a ramp, then into the air, and seemed to hang in the air for a while before dropping down the ramp on the other side. After a few straight jumps, they started doing acrobatics at the apex of each jump: feet out to the side, whole body off the saddle and twisted to one side, hands on the saddle and feet in the air—holy mackerel! One of them was a young woman--here she is doing her stuff.

I couldn’t do most of that stuff standing still, never mind in midair at the top of a jump! Maybe when you’re a teenager and you heal quickly, you’re more fearless. Or not as concerned with self-preservation, or both.

Before leaving the park, we got some homemade ice cream—yum city!—and the Chief looked at some Victory bikes. Very cool and apparently well made, but that’s not what he really wants. THIS is what he really wants. I also found another clip bag, same as the first one, but for four dollars more! I told the guy they were selling them cheaper at Edgewater, but he wouldn’t come off the price. Oh well, no sweat, we’d be back at Edgewater tomorrow, and the park guy lost a sale. Too bad.

After as much rally fun as we could stand, we lollygagged on back to our home-away-from-home to clean up and get ready for dinner. By the time we went out to find a restaurant, jeez louise, every place along Beach Road was choked with bikes and riders. That would be fun for later, but not for dinner, so we headed away from the beach and found a nice little steak house. By the time we finished dinner, we were both beat, so dragged our sleepy selves back to the condo to rest up for Saturday’s festivities.

Voices in my Head and the Spontaneous Grin: A Motorcyling Phenomenon

2007-03-19T08:24:00.000-05:00

Friday, 16 March 2007 marked the Chief’s 59^th birthday—59, count ‘em! And he wanted to celebrate it by riding his motorcycle, along with some biker buddies and … me! A year ago I wouldn’t have been included because I didn’t ride my own and neither the Chief nor I want me riding pillion on his bike. But this year, I was ready, so this weekend, in celebration of the Chief’s 59^th, I joined him and the guys for my first two group rides.

I observed and learned many things during this weekend’s rides: how hand signals are used to communicate with the group as well as with other motorists, how turns are negotiated in a group, how car drivers respond to a group of bikers differently from the way they respond to a single biker, how the group takes care of its own, and I’m sure there are a few other things I’m leaving out. But what I remember most of all from this weekend’s mini-adventures are the number of times my face broke into a spontaneous grin for no good reason other than that I was having a spectacular time!

Now I’m a pretty happy person in general. (See the post on Joy! from 27 April 2006.) That doesn’t mean I’m always happy, just that the general tenor of my life is joyful. **it still happens—I just respond to it from a different place than unhappy people do. Anyway, since I’m this happy fool most of the time, I’m very big on smiling. But like everyone else, when I’m focusing on a task, the smiles can be few and far between. I feel that this happens the first few miles of every motorcycle ride—I’m rehearsing in my head the exhortations of my coaches from the MSF class: Head and eyes up! Slow-look-press-roll! Don’t brake in the curve! Turn yer head! This is a good thing—it reminds me to keep my wits about me and not to sink into bad habits. And until now, though I’ve taken a longish afternoon ride or two, those voices in my head were most often the defining quality of the ride.

But this weekend! The voices weren’t exactly gone, but they seem to have translated themselves into actions, into good riding habits and appropriate responses to situations. It seemed that I not only knew what to do cognitively, but also, and more importantly, my body did it, as if spontaneously (though really through repetition and practice). Out on the open road, or in downtown traffic, or spring-break-beach-road traffic, or humming into a parking lot—I consistently did OK. (I won’t go so far as to say “great”—not yet anyway.) At some points, I even surprised myself by doing the right thing before I consciously thought about it! Now that’s motor memory at work. And having felt and noticed that, I was able to relax into the ride. Not to get complacent, but to really ENJOY the riding itself. Wow, what a feeling!

And that’s when I noticed something else spontaneous: the spontaneous grin. Here’s the thing: I’d be tooling along with the group, four or five of us, leaning into a curve, or zooming over a bridge, or moving into the left lane, or checking for the others in my rear-view mirror, or kicking it into fifth gear, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt a grin appearing on my face. Sometimes it was accompanied by the thought “I love this!” but more often it was just the wordless spontaneous joy of loving the ride. Loving not any particular thing about, but everything about it, the whole collective experience of it.

And what a revelation! I can remember thinking during MSF class that I could probably master all these actions in the class, but on the road, I’d never be able to remember it all—the shifting, the braking or not-braking, the looking and leaning—it just seemed like too much. And in my first few rides on the road, that assessment of my abilities seemed to be confirmed by shaky starts, slow starts, stalls, too-wide curves, wobbly stops, and all manner of boneheaded moves. Jeez, I thought, I’ll never get this. So to suddenly understand that, against all odds and my own self-deprecation, indeed I HAVE gotten it—well, that was grounds for another grin. I just can’t help myself!

I set out to try a new thing, to challenge myself at the age of 54, and to occasionally join the Chief in an activity that he loves, and what I found was a newfound source of freedom, fun, and joy joy joy joy. Will wonders never cease!

My FIRST Group Ride

2007-03-17T20:41:00.002-05:00

The Chief and I just got home from his birthday celebration and my FIRST group motorcycle ride, complete with downtown traffic, gravel parking lots, 20mph winds, knuckleheaded pedestrians, and more. And I did it! And not only did I survive, but I had one rockin' great time.

OK, now the truth--the "group" was just four of us. Today was the Chief’s 59^th—count ‘em, 59—birthday, and he wanted to celebrate with a little riding. A couple of his buddies rode down from Dothan, Alabama. He met them in Destin (about an hour to our east), then they rode back by our house and I joined them. Together, we all rode over to the Florida/Alabama state line on Perdido Key to visit a little place called the Flora-Bama. Maybe you’ve heard of it?

The Flora-Bama started out as not much more than a little hole-in-the-wall lounge and package store on the beach near the state line, and grew to a much larger hole- in-the-wall with decks and bars on two stories, live music, the famous annual interstate mullet toss contest, and frequent parties. Over the years, high-rise beach condo buildings have hemmed it in, and hurricanes large and small have threatened it. The most recent was Hurricane Ivan in September 2004, which destroyed much of the original package storefront. But in spite of all that, the “Bama” lives on, remaining a beacon to thirsty and lonely travelers of all kinds.

So my first group ride turned out to be a little 50-mile jaunt across Escambia Bay, through Pensacola, and out to Perdido Key and the Bama. The winds were brisk—20 mph plus for most of the day—but the sun was shining by the time we headed out.

Highlights of the ride:

Crossing the I-10 bridge over Escambia Bay in such wind!

The I-10 off-ramp at Scenic Highway—seemed scarier than it actually was. I just watched my speed, kept my head and eyes up and focused on where I wanted to go, and I did fine.

All the traffic and traffic lights, with attendant stops and starts, in Pensacola—also seemed scarier than it was, though it did demand keeping my wits about me.

Crossing the bridge over Bayou Chico—kind of fun!

Crossing the bridge over the Gulf Intracoastal Waterway to Perdido Key—more fun!

Perdido Key Drive—I had been a little concerned there might be sand on the road. After all, it’s a beach road, surrounded by sand. But my fears were unconfirmed—happily.

Flora-Bama parking lot. I hadn’t been to the Bama in a while, but I remembered the parking lot as an oyster-shell-and-gravel affair—scary on a bike. But the Chief said to just pull straight in and follow him to a safe parking space. As it turns out, they have bike parking right out front and the surface, though not exactly paved, is nicely stabilized and was no problem at all.

Dodge-bird. While we were crossing Gulf Beach Highway on the way home, a mourning dove landed in the road just in front of the Chief, then flew up, startled, when it noticed him. He had to duck his head so the startled bird would miss him as it flew up and out of the way. Whew--shades of Wild Hogs and the crow in Woody’s face!

Coming home in the dark. I had never ridden in the dark, and my real concern was not me riding in the dark, but car drivers (guess I have to get used to calling them “cagers”) seeing my little headlight and recognizing it as an actual vehicle with a live human at the helm.

We got most of the way home just as the sun was setting. We stopped at the Oval Office, local bar-and-grill, for a supper of their delicious burgers and fries, which we don’t treat ourselves to very often.

Things fell apart in a minor way as we were leaving the Oval Office. Earl’s bike wouldn’t start, but a friend at the bar gave him a jump start. While that was going on, I was backing out and lost my footing in the gravel of the parking lot and dropped my bike. Doh! No injuries other than the one to my pride, but I learned a deeper respect for sloping, gravelly parking lots!

Finally we got underway, and it was full dark as we made the 3-mile trip home. Note to myself: remember to take your clear glasses with you on rides, so you don’t have to ride home in the dark wearing your sunglasses, you loon!

Overall, what a fun, fun day, riding and partying with my sweetheart, riding my own bike.

My Motorcycle

2007-03-09T17:36:00.000-06:00

In late November 2006, I bought my first motorcycle. A 1994 Suzuki 800 Intruder with only 13,000 miles on her. Here we are together for the first time.

Move or Die: The Digital Body

2007-03-09T17:29:00.000-06:00

After reading Younger Next Year, especially all its information on the blossoming science of aging and the body’s responses not only to what we eat but also to whatever else we do, or maybe even more important, what we don’t do, it seemed to me that the body is, very much more than any of us (well at least anybody I know of) has previously understood or even guessed, a kind of digital machine.

Think about the basis of the digital device: the binary system, sets of 1’s and 0’s, creating a system of virtual switches—either on or off. The computer only works because of these switches—many many many of them, I admit, but many many many instances of the same simple operation: one or zero, on or off, there or not there.

Likewise, the body. Here are the relevant passages from Younger Next Year for Women: “In the absence of signals to grow, the body and brain decay and we ‘age’” (36). That is, grow or decay, move or die, one or zero, on or…off”; “You have to talk to your body in code and follow certain immutable rules…. Nature’s rules, and you can’t get around them” (34-35).

So, once again, grow or decay, move or die, on or off.

Certainly the conscious life is one of great complexity. We know there’s more to life than just thinking and moving. There are also feelings—desire, aversion, sorrow, and joy, just to define with very broad brush strokes the spectrum of human sensation. And many of us believe (though many of us do not) in a soul or spirit or some kind of essence that exists within and yet independent of the body. Even those who do not believe in a human essence often think of the mind as independent of the body in some ways.

But if the essence or mind is independent, so is the body independent of essence. The body has, so to speak, a mind of its own, or at least, an agenda of its own, its own agency. This should come as no surprise, but the strength of the body’s agency is news to many. The body has certain demands, and we ignore them at our peril. And the science of aging is finding that the body’s most pressing demand is this requirement to move, to do. Because the body is singleminded in this demand (funny how hard it is to describe the body’s agency without using mental metaphors): it wants to do something. And if we do not satisfy it with movement, then it turns its singlemindedness 180 degrees around and sets about decaying. Can’t you just imagine the body curling its fists, stamping its foot, and gritting its teeth: “All right, if we won’t move, then we’ll just damn well die!” Petulant, this body.

Petulant, or singleminded, or machine-like in its will to move: we may not much care for this view of the body. But there it is, and we can’t change it. We can give in to the petulant demands and feed the machine with movement or turn it off—quite literally.

Learning to Ride

2006-11-29T09:13:00.000-06:00

This Veterans’ Day Weekend, 10-12 November 2006, during the run-up to my 54th birthday, I signed up for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation’s Rider Course. Woo-hoo! They say that as you age, you have to keep shaking things up—keeps your brain and body engaged and slows the aging process. Well this is one heckuva shake-up.

I was nervous going into the class. For one thing, it’s been a long time since I was the student and not the teacher, and I hoped I would remember how to be a good student. For another thing, I haven’t ridden on two motorized wheels since the 80s, when I had a scooter while I was in college in South Carolina, and I occasionally rode on the back of Earl’s motorcycle. But since then, it’s been only cars and bicycles. I was hoping that some of my bicycle experience would help, but not sure.

As it turned out, I did fine, but not without some challenges. How nice to find that 7 of the 9 students were women and one of the two instructors was a woman! That helped to ease my tension somewhat. And the “ground school” portion of the class, which was all of Friday evening, was a snap. But on Saturday, when the helmets went onto our heads and our butts went onto the bikes (Buell 500s), I was a nervous Nelly all over again. I had a little trouble with getting the bike into neutral—kept going past it into second gear—but I finally got the hang of it, and did great with the “power-walk” across the course (riding the bike slowly in first gear, with feet walking along on the ground), then feet-up and riding. I had to shrug off the tiniest feeling of superiority when some of my classmates struggled with this first, most elementary of exercises. Then, when we got off the bikes to talk about the next exercise, I didn’t put the kickstand down properly and my bike fell over on me! No injury, but that little experience DID restore some of my flagging humility.

The remainder of Saturday’s exercises involved learning to turn and to weave around a series of cones (this was one of the most fun parts of the course), getting up into second gear, proper braking technique, and tighter weaving. Whew! We did that from 7 a.m. until about 4 p.m., with an hour for lunch. I was worn out when it was over, as I think most of my classmates were.

We resumed the exercises on Sunday morning, warming up with some weaving, then progressing to figure-8s in a tiny, tiny box (VERY hard!), quick stops, swerving to avoid an obstacle, jumping a small obstacle (1x6 board), lane changes, and tight curves. Finally, we were ready for the TEST. Yikes! Why did they have to say the T-word? I was reminded of that butterfly-infused feeling with which many of my students are so familiar. It’s a good thing, though, this test, because if you pass it, you don’t have to take the state’s motorcycle test to get the motorcycle-rider endorsement on your driver’s license (at least this is true in Florida—I don’t know about other states).

I struggled with the figure 8s in the tiny, tiny box, got my speed up a little too fast for the quick-stop, took a slightly-too-wide line through one of the curves, and generally felt nervous the whole time. But my classmates had their difficulties too. Only one of us did the figure 8s really well, and some of us had to repeat some of the exercises. In fact, three of the students never even made it to the test. One couldn't come on Sunday because she was sick, and two women never could get themselves to go past first gear. This was quite sad, as they'd been so excited about the Harley Davidson motorcycles they planned to buy after they passed the course. We said good-bye to them after about an hour on the course on Sunday morning. I hope they come back to finish another time, because they really were excited about it. One of them even hoped to get a Harley Sportster for Christmas. :(

But I passed, and I only lost 5 points for my lousy figure 8s! Woo-hoo!!! The following Monday, I got my motorcycle endorsement on my license, and now I'm ready...

Let the motorcycle shopping begin!

Little Red Melon Head

2006-10-26T08:19:00.000-05:00

Just a pic of the Coke-meister. We'd just come back from a walk along the bay, and he was being dried off with his red towel--really, it's HIS towel--nice super-absorbent micro-fiber for drying off super-wet dogs. Anyway, I thought he looked like Little Red Riding Hood, and went to get the camera. But the Chief dubbed it Little Red Melon Head, since Melon Head is one of Coke's 1001 nicknames. So, herewith......Little Red Melon Head, just in time for Halloween.

Directing, Teaching, and Cycling--Whew!

2006-09-24T10:15:00.000-05:00

Holy mackerel, is it almost October already? And the last time I posted anything on this blog was in early August???!!!
Bad blogger, bad blogger, bad blogger!

OK, now that I've got that out of my system...

The fall semester is in full swing at Panhandle U. I foolishly let myself be talked into taking on not one but two directorships this semester: Women's Studies and the Composition program. Yikes! WS doesn't heat up much until the spring, when we hold our annual Women's Studies Conference, but with Composition, it's always something. If it's not reassuring nervous first-time teachers, it's committee meetings, or reviewing syllabi, or answering advising questions, or . . . well, you get the idea. And I just found out we have to start working on spring scheduling already. Double yikes! Fortunately, I'm pretty good at delegating authority whenever possible, but it's not always possible.

But, on to more exciting things: I got a new bicycle!!! Well, a new-to-me bicycle. A 2005 Bianchi Veloce--steel frame, Campagnolo components, Ergopower shifters, and that gorgeous trademark Bianchi celeste color--lovely blue-green. I've always wanted a Bianchi, and actually had one for a while, that I got in a trade, but it was really too big for me and I never could get comfortable on it. And it didn't have the celeste paint job. Everything on this Veloce is made for a small female rider--the handlebar (Deda 4 Girls), the shifters (sized for small hands), and the short, sloping top tube (reduces standover height and reach to bars). Still needs a little tweaking to make my 53-year-old back happier, and I intend to try clipless pedals (which my neighbor calls "stapling your feet to the pedals LOL) in a month or so. She's such a sweet ride.

Her name? Just yesterday, on our first near-20-mile ride, she whispered it to me: "Professor Celestina Sprout"--a conflation of the color and homage to Professor Sprout from the Harry Potter books. From Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets:
"Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails would have made Aunt Petunia faint."
Now Prof. Sprout resides in our storage room, under the house, waiting to whisk me to fantastic places. Here she is.

Just now we're training to ride a metric century in October--that's 62.5 miles. I've done 40 pretty recently, but I want to get a little more Time In The Saddle (T. I. T. S.) before the big day.

Anyway, Dear Readers, sorry I've been so silent lately. I'm working hard, riding my bike when I can, and I'll try to find more time for you in the future.

Me--Waiting for the ferry to Oxford, MD

2006-08-09T13:33:00.000-05:00

The "What Kind of Coffee Are You?" Quiz

2006-06-27T08:06:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I didn't study very hard for this quiz. I do not ever drink coffee--can't stand the taste of it, though I enjoy the smell of it (weird, eh?) However, and this is a pretty big "however," I am completely addicted to Diet Pepsi. I've cut back my daily consumption recently, on the advice of some research I've read and my doc's suggestion, but I still can't start my day without it. So, while there might be some tiny bit of truth in this quiz's assessment of me, the caffeine addiction level: totally false. So with these caveats in mind...read on, dear reader, read on:

You Are an Irish Coffee

At your best, you are: wild, spontaneous, and outgoing

At your worst, you are: too extreme and reckless

You drink coffee when: you want to keep drinking booze

Your caffeine addiction level: low

What Kind of Coffee Are You?

Words, Words, and More Words

2006-06-23T20:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been asked to comment further on the nature of portmanteau words and to give an example. Thanks for the prompt, Compooper Teacher!

First, a portmanteau word isn’t the same as a synonym, homonym, or contranym. I hope all my readers know what a synonym is, and if you don’t know (warning: here comes the teacher in me), look it up.
Homonyms are words that sound the same, may or may not be spelled differently, and have different meanings, such as wight and white, or the two meanings of bear (the animal, and to carry). Finally, as Compooper Teacher points out, a contranym is a word that carries within itself at least two meanings that can be opposites of one another, for example, (and I quote) “left (remaining) and left (having gone).”

But a portmanteau word isn’t exactly any of those three, though it may make use of those similarities (in the case of synonym and homonym) or differences (in the case of contranym). A portmanteau word is
* generally one word—though it may function as part of a phrase or clause
* a word that is composed of several other words, of any language,
* put together in such a way as to be at least marginally intelligible, though it may take some work, possibly even some research, and as in my case, even the help of others, to understand it,
* and once deciphered, it yields a richer meaning in more economical form than would have resulted if the writer simply used the original, individual words.
This is why critics often speak of “Joycean economy”—he says a great deal in very few words, though those words may be mightily challenging to read.

So, examples. Here are two from Joyce's novel Finnegans Wake:
* "Echoland": This is one of the words Joyce uses when writing about England, and this one word conflates the sense of an echo with the actual name of the nation. In this way, he expresses his condemnation of England as a colonizer of Ireland, a colonizer trying to remake Ireland in its own image, and yet, not a true copy, just as an echo is not a true copy, but a weaker, quieter one. So now instead of reading simply “England, the country that colonized Ireland,” we get a sense also of Joyce’s attitude toward that colonization.
* “The fall of a once wallstrait oldparr"--this phrase from the first page of the novel includes at least four references:
1. At the surface of the action, the fall of a bricklayer, the Finnegan of the title of the novel Finnegans Wake (and the Irish folk song of the same title), who was once alive ("wallstrait") but has fallen off his ladder and died (no fear—Finnegan will be revived at his wake when a mourner spills a little beer on him—“Lots of fun at Finnegans wake!” as the song says);
2. The fall of Adam, because “oldparr” suggests “old father” or father of us all;
3. The Wall Street ("wallstrait") crash of 1929;
4. The declining cultural knowledge of Irish legends, since “parr” is another word for salmon, which was a magical fish, the fish of the wisdom of gods and heroes, in Irish mythology.
So this one seven-word phrase includes two portmanteau words and alludes to four foundational texts: the story of the bricklayer, the fall, the crash, and Irish legend. So we know right away, if we've read the whole page anyway, that we're reading a story of beginnings (and ends that will engender other beginnings), beliefs, and cultural backgrounds.

But portmanteau words aren’t all this dense and difficult—many are fun and enlightening. If you read the Lewis Carroll poem "Jabberwocky," you can find a number of funny and relatively obvious (once you know what you're looking for ;) ) examples of English portmanteau words there:
"chortle," combining the concepts of a chuckle and a snort, hence a whole different sound from either of the originals;
"whiffling," which means something between a sniffle and a whistle;
"slithy," meaning both slimy and writhing;
and "galumphing," a triumphant gallop.
There are others, but these are probably the clearest. Check it out:
"Jabberwocky"

So, sorry to have put on my teacher face for so long, but hey, maybe you learned something, and once again, you asked for it! :D

10 Things

2006-06-23T10:59:00.000-05:00

Things I've done since my last decade birthday and things I want to do by my next decade birthday. For the sake of reference, I'm now 53-1/2 years old, completed a successful 20-year career as a Navy parachute rigger/line officer in 1994, and now I'm a lecturer in English at a small state university in Florida. That may not sound too exciting, but it's been a pretty wild ride at times.

Anyway, here, listed in no particular order, are the things I've done since turning 50, and the things I intend to do before turning ... 60 ... yikes!

To do between now and 60:
1. Finish PhD dissertation on James Joyce and Irish folklore
2. Finish reading Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. This is not as easy as it sounds—in this, his last novel, Joyce virtually created his own language made up of words from many languages and often put together into what are called “portmanteau words.” A portmanteau word is one which is a conflation of two or more words—of any languages—that increases the meaning of the resulting word, often exponentially; thus, the word is packed with meanings and hence the name “portmanteau word”—a word like a packed suitcase. In any sentence of Finnegans Wake, the reader might find any number of portmanteau words, along with a rich texture of symbolism and allusion involving a vast range of topics: history, geography, politics, folklore, natural science, and others. In addition, the action is circular, such that the first line begins in mid-sentence and the last line of the book ends in mid-sentence and the two—beginning line and ending line—make up a complete sentence together. Whew! Don’t worry—I’m reading it with a reading group. This is one of those books that should be labeled: “Warning. Don’t try to read this book alone!” So MAYBE I’ll be done by the time I’m 60.
3. Pay for two nieces’ and one nephew’s first years of college
4. Do cycling tours in western Ireland and Alaska, along with some additional travel
5. Organize my office!
6. Continue to update and improve the courses I teach
7. Learn to read Japanese, so I can read the book in which my Japanese colleague in Joyce studies, Masaya Shimokusu, cited my work on James Joyce and Irish folklore
8. Become a better digital photographer and scrapper
9. Bike a section of the Underground Railroad Bike Route (now in development by Adventure Cycling Association: http://www.adventurecycling.org/routes/undergroundrailroad.cfm
10. Get the Chief to go on a bike tour with me—this will probably be the toughest and will almost certainly require that he have knee surgery first, but hey, no one said all our goals should be easy.

Wow--got a lot to do--I'd better get started.

Done since I turned 50 (a mere three-and-a-half years ago—seems like it was yesterday):
1. Paid for two eldest nephews’ first years of college
2. Wrote three articles to become chapters in dissertation
3. Publications: one online travel review; three articles (on James Joyce: who else?) in print journals; a short article in a book: “Keep Paddling.” The Strong Women's Journal. Ed. Miriam Nelson. New York: Perigee, 2003. 33. (Look it up next time you’re at the library or bookstore!)
4. Presented a paper at James Joyce International Symposium for the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday, Dublin, Ireland
5. Presented papers at seven other academic conferences
6. Became Director of Women’s Studies at my university
7. Learned digital scrapping and became a better editor of my digital photos and journaler of my experiences and family stories
8. Survived the trauma of Hurricanes Ivan, Dennis, and to a lesser extent, Katrina
9. Caregiver to my dad in early to middle stages of Alzheimer’s disease
10. Completed a 4-day bike tour in Maryland, averaging 40 miles/day in dry weather with gale-force winds—no kidding—there were small craft warnings posted for boaters.

Jeez louise, just reading that makes me tired! I feel like I'm due for a break--good thing it's summer!

What If You’d Never Left Your House Today?

2006-06-19T10:03:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m not sure about the rest of the world, but I at least would have been much better off if I’d never left my house today.

It started off like a reasonably good day. I'd planned to take Cocoa for a walk and a short bike ride around the neighborhood (I ride, Cocoa trots and sniffs things), then go to the campus to work out at the gym, then to my office to take care of a few administrative tasks. Then home to do some reading and studying before going to dinner with colleagues/friends.

STRIKE ONE
But as the walk with Cocoa began, things started to go wrong right away. We have to walk through my next-door neighbor’s yard to get to the sandy bayshore point where we take our morning walks. And this morning, just as we were traversing Ms. Next-Door’s yard, her sprinklers came on. Strike One.

STRIKE TWO
Then, as we finished our walk and started our bike ride, the guy who delivers our newspaper—running a couple of hours LATE—came down the road in his truck. Now Cocoa has not the slightest interest in cars (unless he sees someone he knows inside them), but pickup trucks for some reason touch a nerve. He and Mocha, a neighbor dog who often joins us on our walks, started barking and giving chase as soon as the truck turned onto our road. The driver wisely slowed to a stop, I corralled and collared the two dogs, and NewsMan went on his way. While I was waiting for him to finish his deliveries on our dead-end road, turn around, and leave the neighborhood, the trick of trying to keep two excited dogs in check while straddling my bike eventually overwhelmed me. The bike tipped to one side, gave me a good smart smack on the back of my right hand, and then—“Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war”—Coke and Moke were off to stop that sneaky NewsMan from throwing things into our driveways. I rubbed my hand briefly, then pedaled wildly to catch the dogs and avoid any further unpleasantness. NewsMan was incredibly understanding, and was able to exit the area unmolested and leaving both dogs unscathed. But my hand hurt mightily, and my reasonably good morning was quickly going, quite literally, to the dogs. Strike Two.

(And before anyone has the urge to say, “Serves you right for walking your dogs without a leash,” or words to that effect, let me assure you that I live far off the beaten track, where all the neighbors as well as those who frequent the area not only approve of but virtually expect leashless dogs. So there.)

STRIKE THREE
OK, so the chaotic bike ride over, I prepared to head for the campus, thinking that I’d feel better after a workout. But before I left the house, of course I found some ridiculous reason to snap at the Chief, who never knew what hit him (relax—I've already phoned him to apologize). Then, arriving at the university gym, or more accurately, the “Health and Leisure Services Fitness Center,” a name that irritates me all the time but naturally galled me most especially today, I suffered a further injustice. The gym is new this year, so we’re all still getting used to its new policies, though I thought I had it all figured out. But today, when I tried to enter, my faculty ID card was denied—the electronic turnstile failed to open and an obnoxious beep sounded. The TA at the desk told me that if I’m not teaching summer classes, I have to PAY to use the campus gym now, though this was never required for the old gym.

Now, I am a full-time faculty member—instructor of English, director of the Women’s Studies Program, advisor to Women’s Studies minors, and possibly about to become director of another program—all of which is not to blow my own horn but to indicate that I work my patootie off for this university, summer-fall-winter-spring. And now to be told that IF I want to use the gym for the three months of summer term, I have to pay the equivalent of half the annual membership fee charged to emeritus faculty and faculty dependents—well, it’s more than reason can bear. More than my already-bruised sense of justice can bear, anyway, at least today. Strike Three.

So, I’ve already fired off a nasty-gram to the person in charge of the Fitness Center. Well, not too nasty—I want to end up with this person on my side, after all. But I did express my strong disagreement with the policy, and I worked hard to appeal to Ms. Fitness Center’s sense of justice. She may not be able to do anything about the matter, but at least it’s a start. More to come.

AND SHE’S OUT
Other than the email to Ms. Fitness Center, I’ve decided to let my administrative work ferment for another day. I’m going out for a bike ride to clear my head, calm my nerves, and generally re-center myself.

Anyway, what would be the impact on the world if I’d never left my house today? Probably negligible. But the impact on me would’ve been substantial—except that I’d have never known it. Hmmm, I may have more to say on that topic later—right now, the bike trail is calling me.

On Wonder: It Is What It Is

2006-06-17T18:49:00.000-05:00

A couple of mornings ago, walking with Cocoa on the point, I witnessed a miniature drama at the edge of the bay. It was a brief but wonderful moment—"wonderful" in the original sense of the word—it filled me with wonder. Which then got me thinking about the concept of wonder itself, particularly in connection with nature.

A tiny hermit crab, maybe the size of a large pea, seemed to be trying to hitch a ride on a much larger hermit crab, about as large as a golf ball. But the Big Guy wasn’t having any of it. Little One climbed laboriously up onto Big Guy’s shell then just hung on, breathing heavily, I imagined, with the effort. Then Big Guy took a few steps, noticed something wasn’t right, and reached out a claw and knocked Little One off his back. Little One tucked and rolled, shook himself off, and renewed his assault, climbing once more to that precarious perch on Big Guy’s shell. A few steps, then the avenging claw reached out and shoved him unceremoniously to the sand again. And again—lather, rinse, repeat. On one try, Little One never even made it to the top, but when he was about halfway up, Big Guy simply rolled over, depositing him back on the sand.

Eventually, Little One decided to cut his losses and wandered off in search of another ride, or maybe breakfast. And Big Guy was free to go on his merry way, unaccompanied, a confirmed loner.

Thinking about this little drama reminded me of a Robert Frost poem:

Design

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

Frost is thinking about the question of whether there’s design in nature and, if there is, what its source and purpose are: is there some “design of darkness” meant to “appall”; or are there simply coincidences, and no design at work at all? A third possibility is not explicitly articulated by the poem’s speaker, but implied by the three white “players”: the spider, the moth, and the white flower (heal-all flowers, by the way, are usually blue, and only rarely white). White creatures in nature would be drawn to a white flower for the defense of camouflage, and in this sense, there is some kind of design at work, though it’s not a design of darkness to appall, but the innate will of all creatures to live and protect themselves from harm. That this defense here doesn’t quite work out for the moth, but does for the spider, while the flower behaves as part innocent bystander and part unknowing accomplice, is simply the way things sometimes happen, just as heal-all flowers are sometimes white rather than the customary blue. So the poem suggests that some kind of design does govern in things so small (and therefore in all things), but it's rather inherent design than design imposed from without, from beyond the natural creatures themselves. The spider, moth, and flower live according to their inborn tendencies and their will to thrive and flourish. No other design is necessary.

To put it another way, I offer a poem by Wallace Stevens, “The Snow Man”:

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

To “behold/Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is”—this is often difficult for the close observer of nature, especially if she has strong religious training or poetic tendencies. And of course there’s nothing wrong with observing a spider holding a dead moth, or two hermit crabs on a beach, or a stand of ice-laden trees and making the leap from that observation to philosophical, even mystical, thoughts. But we ought to always remember the primacy of the initial event, that it is what it is—the spider about to consume the moth, the hermit crabs agreeing to disagree, the icy tree waiting for spring—and has its own import to itself and its surroundings, regardless of whatever significance we wish to assign it.

And that brings me back to the idea of wonder in nature. We often find wonder in nature only by finding some extended meaning in it, some proof of our own greatness (or smallness), some evidence of the truth of our cosmologies. But we need to occasionally stop and notice that there is much wonder in the world as it is, without our having to interpret it always as some reflection of ourselves.

Scrapbooks

2006-06-13T08:11:00.002-05:00

I love keeping scrapbooks, but now I’ve been asked how I got started with it. Hmmm……

My first thought was of my best friend, Ginny, who became a Creative Memories consultant in 1994 and got me started paper-scrapping then. But really it started long before that. I remember that one of my favorite activities when I was a child was to “make books,” as I called it (and no, I don’t mean “making book”—that is, taking bets on horse races, ball games, etc. LOL). I remember a few of the books I made: an album of leaves, including real leaves that I pasted in then wrote about the trees they came from, and I actually appended a Foreword—I’d seen sections in real books called the Foreword and I thought my book on leaves ought to have one, too. What a quirky kid I was! I also made a book about sea creatures in which I sketched (very badly) pictures of the creatures and then identified how they defended or protected themselves. Not sure what got me started on that, but I vividly remember making its pages. I also still have a little photo album I made when I was a Brownie, with my black and white photos from my Kodak Brownie camera—Brownies from a Brownie. LOL It’s just those black-and-whites pasted on black paper pages with my childish handwriting in white pencil. But I’m so glad to still have it.

As I grew up, I continued to scrapbook provisionally. When the Chief and I were in the Navy, I kept every document, every photo, every certificate and citation we got, though many of them are still in folders and only a few have made into actual albums. I have done a nice career/retirement album for each of us, though.

Fast-forward again to 1994, when I retired from the Navy. My CM friend was waiting, with something to do with the time I suddenly had on my hands (though not for long, because I went back to school AND started teaching part-time a few months later). I became a scrapbooking machine, doing maybe a dozen albums in the next several months, but then I became too busy with finishing my MA degree to do much of anything else. My scrapbooks-in-progress languished, and I just did a page here and there or a few when I found time to go to a crop.

Fast-forward again to 2004. I was looking for a way to get my scrapping chops recharged, since I had lots of photos from a trip to Ireland. I picked up a scrapbooking magazine, which had a section on digital, gave some URLs for digi-scrapping sites, and some spectacular examples of digitally scrapped pages, and I felt my motivation rising! I found DSP, located the “free” software that had come with my computer (MS Digital Image Pro—but now I use PSE), signed up for a class, and the rest, as they say, is history.

With digital scrapping, either I’ve come full-circle or maybe I haven’t really moved at all—I’m still “making books”!

Tour de Chesapeake

2006-06-03T10:37:00.000-05:00

Woo-hoo! I’ve survived my four-day bike tour-the Womantours "Terry Tour of Maryland"! And I survived it in grand style—that is, I loved every minute of it and can’t wait to do it again.

Day 1: Arrival, Warmup, Introductions
I arrived at our inn, the Glasgow Inn (built around 1760, and now on the historical register), Cambridge, MD, on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay, around 1:00 and got checked in; that is, the owner/manager, Martha, showed me my room and the attached, shared bathroom. Not exactly palatial, but quite a large room that seemed like it would be comfy enough for two women to share. And I was there first, so I claimed the larger bed.

After most of the group had arrived, around 3:30, we had an informal info session, got our cue sheets, and took off on our first ride, a 20-mile warmup, get-acquainted, out-and-back past an old windmill south of Cambridge. The headwind was a killer, and it must have been mainly a crosswind because it didn’t seem to get much better on the way back, until we got back into town and had some buildings to stave it off. I got into a groove with a couple of other women, L. and A., as we took off. We inadvertently dropped A. after maybe 5 or 6 miles, but stayed together other than that. Upon returning, we learned that A.’s water bottle had “exploded” on her, so she’d turned around and taken her dripping self home to dry off. (Fear not, dear reader, after this inauspicious beginning, A. had a lovely time of it.)

The ice cream store that was our turnaround point was closed upon our arrival, but it was cloudy, cool, and windy, so neither of us was really in the mood for ice cream anyway. We took a brief break to look in the windows and double-check our cue sheets, then headed back to the inn.

After showers, we met on the front lawn for a little al fresco happy hour and more extensive informational meeting. The guides, Laurie and Kimberly, handed out our info packets (containing the cue sheets and maps for the tour, brochures about the area, more info and some discounts for Womantours), tour t-shirts, and tour water bottles. (Now I know the price of the tour covers all these little perks, but let me have my little fantasy that we were a bunch of girlfriends bike-touring together and they were just giving us all this stuff.)

We all introduced ourselves, and I learned that many of the riders were from points north—Connecticut mainly, but also New York—with one from Virginia and one from Washington state, plus, of course, the lone Floridian, myself. There were several nurses, one doc, a retired Coast Guard officer, a retired public school teacher, one police officer, one woman self-employed in housing and construction, and a few folks of indeterminate corporate professions. Altogether a happy, friendly group, if not the most homogenous.

After the meeting, we rode the van to dinner at the Suicide Bridge Restaurant. I guess if you’re going someplace like that on a bike tour, it needs to be the first night, to keep people from drowning their sore behinds on the spot and helping the place live up to its name. LOL! Excellent food and service, and Georgena Terry joined us for dinner.

For those not in the know, Georgena Terry is the originator and still owner of Terry Precision Cycling, a bicycle company in upstate NY which builds bicycles exclusively for women. Georgena, trained as an engineer, started building bikes out of her house in the 80s, and now has this huge company that sells not only bikes but also a full range of cycling parts, accessories, and apparel, including the famous Terry saddle, one of the first to offer a strategically placed cutout to keep the—ahem—“privates” comfy while cycling long distances. Georgena walks with crutches, but let her get on a bike and she turns into the Energizer Bunny—she just keeps going and going and going and going and ... well, you get the idea. And with all that, she’s very cool and friendly. Just makes you think, “Well what’s MY problem—whining about my little sore this and my achy that!” Very inspiring!

Day 2: Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge and Old Salty’s Restaurant
Longer ride today—choice of three routes, anywhere from 30 to about 75 miles. My pace group did 41 miles, to Old Salty’s Restaurant for lunch, then rode the sag van back to the inn. I honestly think I’d have done at least 50 miles today, but for that unrelenting, gale-force wind—seriously—there were Small Craft Warnings posted.

We rode first through part of the Blackwater NWR, a large bird sanctuary. At the refuge Visitors’ Center, I got to see a baby osprey in the nest, courtesy of the Osprey Cam whose images were displayed on a monitor at the center. Cute, grey, fluffy little guy, but only visible for a minute or two before Mom (or Dad) got him back under cover. Georgena (who’s on sort of a crusade for the refuge) joined us at the Visitors’ Center and told us that this refuge is threatened by saltwater incursion from one side and human development on the other. We must all write to the U.S. Department of the Interior to urge them to stop the proposed development (already wrote mine!)

Setting off from the Visitors’ Center, we rode with Georgena for quite a while. She pointed out a bald eagles’ nest in the distance, plus we saw plenty of blue herons, egrets, some hawks, red-winged blackbirds, ospreys, and turtles.

The only hill in sight was a bridge at about the 35-mile point, and all of us starving for lunch. After a well-earned lunch at Old Salty’s, my group—four of us by now—boarded the van for the ride back. My ego only hurt for about a nano-second, until I recalled that I’d just cycled 41 miles through what felt like hurricane-force winds.

Dinner was at a local place called Snapper’s—referring to the turtle, not the fish. A little disappointing compared to last night’s dinner. Only one waitress for all 18 of us, some orders incorrect, whipped cream on top of N.'s margarita, and uninspired vegetable dishes. But a nice location, overlooking a little inlet and marina. All looking forward to tomorrow’s ride.

Day 3: St. Michael’s
More choices today: take the van over the bridge (scary fast traffic and not much of a bike lane) or ride it. And more mileage choices. My group rode the van over the bridge, then set off for the little town of St. Michael’s. See photo of an interesting angular cupola in St. Michael's. ->
Some miles of rolling country roads, then a long gentle descent on a road that was heavily-trafficked but with a nice, wide, clean bike lane. In St. Michael’s, we had a picnic lunch in a little park by the water (what ISN'T by the water around here?), then time for some shopping! I scored a needlepointed pillow displaying two dog profiles with the legend “SIT,” a dog picture frame, and, at an antique/junk dealer’s shop outside of town, an antique silver candelabra (been wanting one for a while). All happily carried along in the van so I didn’t have to schlep them on my bike.

Next we rode to the Bellevue Ferry, and rode the ferry across a short stretch of water—a finger of the Chesapeake—to the little town of Oxford. Then, there being not many miles remaining before reaching the dreaded scary bridge again, many of us chose to sag from the ferry terminus. (Sag=ride the van, also known in cycling lingo as a sag-wagon.)

Highlights of the day’s ride:
•The towns are very like those of New England in appearance, but the folks are more outgoing and friendly—after all, this IS part of the South. And of course it’s much flatter than New England-nice bonus.
•Saw a couple of neat public sculptures of birds: one eagle landing on a nest and one pelican with a fish in its beak. No photo opp, but they were both very cool to see.
•N. found the hitching post she’d been looking for for her garden! Almost missed it, except that D. spotted it as we were riding by the antique shop. Serendipity! (That was also where I got my candelabra—cheap!)
•Nicest part of the ride, hands-down, was the stretch from St. Michael’s to the ferry. Much less windy than it had been all week, nice, quiet, tree-lined country roads, little traffic, gently descending. Wish that part had lasted longer.

Later, a delicious and well-served dinner—best crab cakes yet, and I had them everywhere we ate. Afterwards, my roommate, G., observed that no one talked much about spouses or kids, though they might’ve been briefly mentioned the first evening. It’s like we all REALLY got away for the week. Interesting!

Day 4: Kayaking and Farewells
Kayaking in the Blackwater NWR today. Some high clouds and that wind again, but a nice dry day, partly sunny.

As a group, we saw three eagles. R. spotted an immature one on a tree on the island, and kindly let me use her binoculars to see his ungainly self—still has to grow into those huge yellow feet. C. saw two mature eagles together—one flying and the other in a tree, not far from the nest. And what a nest! Enormous—it really IS as big as a VW Beetle, just as the outfitter had suggested. There were some new kayakers in the group, and it was great to see them loving the sport so much their first time out.

Back at the inn, we got Womantours jerseys, and some of us bought soap from Kimberly (one of the guides, who makes soap-by-the-slice when she’s not guiding bike tours--I highly recommend you check out these cool, creative, and delicious-smelling handcrafted soaps). Then we had another nice picnic lunch on the front lawn of the inn before doing hugs, good-byes, and going our separate ways. In the afternoon, I went back out to the refuge on my own for a quick 20 miles before heading south. What a great experience!

Lessons learned while on tour:
•I need my handlebars a bit closer to me, and I could use a better saddle.
•My shoulders hurt a lot after about 20 miles—changing the bar, its position, or more time in the saddle may help.
•The Cho-Pat brace rocked! I was able to ride every day without much knee discomfort at all.
•I need to minimize what I carry on the bike. Only need tools, spare tube, tire boot, frame pump, water, snack, sometimes a camera. Still not sure I’ll remove my rear rack though—I like knowing it’s there in case I need it.
•The Eastern Shore of Maryland is lovely. A little economically depressed in spots, but generally not much further developed from how I remember it in my childhood, when we cruised down the DelMarVa peninsula toward summer vacation spots in Virginia Beach.
•I ate mass quantities this week to fuel the engine (me), but it was all pretty good food, and I did not gain an ounce. I also didn’t lose any, but hey, that wasn’t one of my goals here.
•Wanna try clipless pedals…again.
•Wanna go on another Womantours tour! ASAP!

The Singing Niece

2006-05-30T12:04:00.000-05:00

Here's a photo of the Alaska Youth Choir touring group--the group going to Italy in July--with our little songbird, Mary, my youngest niece, front and center. Here are the words of her proud daddy (my twin brother), desribing our darling practicing her craft.

"Two weeks ago, as the season for the main choir ended, Missouri, the choir director, had individual sessions with each of the choristers. Jeannie and I sat in the back of the chapel watching Mary have her individual lesson. The chapel was dark, except for the lights at the altar where Missouri sat at the piano and light streaming in through the stained glass behind the altar where Mary stood singing. She was singing a song in German by Bach, and she has such a beautiful voice, and the whole scene was simply overwhelming--such a beautiful moment that as she sang I couldn't hold back the tears."

And of course, I too got all weepy-eyed just reading this. Thanks for indulging me in this moment of filial pride and joy.

Mother's Day Thoughts

2006-05-15T08:03:00.000-05:00

This Mother’s Day, and Mother’s Days for some years now, I neither am a mother nor have a mother. If I were a certain kind of person, I’d let that anger me or make me bitter. And while it does make me a little sad, remembering Mom, I’m so surrounded with reminders of the people who love me and think of me on Mother’s Day that I can’t be sad for long.

On Mother’s Day, I’ve heard from most of my nieces and nephews, the “real” ones—my brother’s kids, who are related to me by blood—as well as my best friend’s girls, who have always called me “Aunt Judyy.” In fact, I often visit my friend and her family for Mother’s Day and get the whole treatment—breakfast in bed, cards and flowers, and so much sweetness from three girls who aren’t my own but who love me like family. It’s especially nice because my brother’s family is just too far away for more than annual visits. But these three nieces of my heart make it a wonderful holiday.

And if mothering is nurturing, I can’t forget all the students who have variously suffered and blossomed (most of them, a little of both) under my instruction. I’m not one of those teachers who thinks of herself as functioning in loco parentis; that is, a teacher, at least at the university level, isn’t a surrogate parent, at least in my view. While I care deeply about all my students, it’s a different sort of thing from what their parents feel for them. For one thing, I have no urge to spoil them or coddle them or accept less than their best efforts. Not that every parent does those things, but I think the impulse to do them is stronger in the parent. What’s most important to me is that students succeed in my class and learn what they need to learn from me so they’ll be prepared for the next step. And yes, parents do that too, but for me, it’s THE goal.

But that’s all just details. Bottom line: I love teaching, I love my students, and I really do feel that to teach is to parent the world.

You Asked for It: My Favorite Joke

2006-05-07T07:12:00.000-05:00

My favorite joke is really a comic--a visual pun, actually--so since I can't draw to save my life, you'll just have to visualize with me:

A hot dog is standing at his mail box, reading his mail (yes, this is an anthropomorphic hot dog--with a face, arms, legs--all the things humans have, but he's a hot dog). He has a perplexed look on his face. We zoom in to see what's written on the card:
"You may already be a wiener!"

Cracks me up every time.

Big Training Day

2006-05-06T11:57:00.000-05:00

Big training day today on the bike. I rode 20 miles. Not that that’s so long, for a touring cyclist, or even that I’ve never done it before—I have; but it’s been a couple of years or so. Between back and knee injuries, taking care of Dad, and of course, working, all I’ve done since about late 2003 was a half-hour or so ride here and there, though for most of last year I was doing 20-30-minute stationary bike workouts, a couple/three times a week. So I guess that helped.

Still, this is the longest I’ve been in the saddle for ages. And with a new seatpost and saddle to make it even more interesting. I won’t say it was painless—there’s a certain amount of adjustment going on—to the new saddle, the new leg position, and most importantly, the new upper body position. Since I jammed the saddle toward the back to make my knees more comfortable, I now have a somewhat longer reach to the bars. I’ve compensated somewhat by raising the bars as far as the stem would allow, but it’s still not the same as it was before I moved the saddle. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely requiring an adjustment period. I’d like to find a handlebar stem with a shorter extension, which would bring the bars even closer, and that might be possible eventually. But my tour starts in two weeks, and I don’t it happening before then—not even sure I could find the right stem before then, never mind get it installed and get accustomed to it. You try out new gear BEFORE a tour, not ON the tour. But it may be that I’ll simply adjust to the bars where they are. It’s not a huge difference from the previous position—just noticeable.

And the new saddle. Well. It’s not awful either, but it’s not my old saddle for sure. That one practically disappeared—I was generally not even aware of it. This new one, by contrast, starting announcing its presence at about mile 16. Again, not awful, but it required some moving around and scooting forward and back before I felt comfy, and it still wasn’t as great at the old saddle. But the old one is too short for the knee comfort that I need. Arrrrgggghhhh!

So, why do I love this sport so freakin’ much? Because despite the need for apparently constant tweaking, the minor pains and stiffness, on the bike is where my body wants to be.

Where I Want to Go

2006-05-04T06:45:00.000-05:00

Where my heart wants to go: Juneau, Alaska, where my twin brother lives, with his kids—my two nieces and three nephews (though the two eldest are in college in Portland just now). Sometimes I miss them so much it’s like a physical pain. I dream about them all the time. I adore the Chief, but my brother is the only human being who understands me entirely.

Where my sense of adventure wants to go: on a cycling tour of the west of Ireland or the south of France. Either one would do. But since I can’t afford that just now, a cycling tour on the eastern shore of Chesapeake Bay will have to do—think I can live with that—about two weeks from now!

Could'a, Would'a, SHOULD'A

2006-05-02T12:40:00.000-05:00

What should I be doing now instead of writing this blog post at my computer, or checking out the scrapbook galleries on my computer, or reviewing my workout track record at my computer, or dreaming about my upcoming bike tour by looking at the website about it…on my computer?

Grading. That’s ALL I should be doing. It’s the hectic and challenging end of the semester here at UWF, and I’ve got stacks of final papers and bibliographies to grade. Actually, though I still have a whole class of upper division critical essays to grade, I’m almost done with the freshman work; but I’ve been relocating to the bottom of the stack those papers that I know are going to be terrible and hard to read and grade, so what’s left are the worst and most difficult ones. I know, I know, I should'a done those first and gotten them out of the way, and in some semesters, I actually would'a done that, and that way, I could'a probably been done with at least this stack by now. But this semester, I’m just not that virtuous.

Instead, I’m . . . dreamy. Daydreaming about riding my bike, about paddling my kayak, about hanging out with the Chief and Cocoa on our big summer road trip up the East Coast. But since I can’t actually DO any of those things now, am I DOING the things I should be doing so I can get out and play sooner? *John Belushi, Saturday Night Live voice here* Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! I’m net-surfing for sites where I can read about the objects of my desire—bikes, kayaks, and road trips (oh my!) So at least for the nonce, "wanna" trumps "should'a," "would'a," and "could'a."

New Beginning #2: Younger Next Year?

2006-04-30T11:07:00.000-05:00

Here’s what I’ve been reading lately: Younger Next Year for Women, by Chris Crowley and Henry S. Lodge.

And boy do I ever highly recommend it! It’s mainly geared toward people 50 and above, but I wish someone had told me this stuff in my 30s, so don’t let the hype that names the target audience fool you. (There's also a version for men.)

So what’s the deal? Can you really be younger next year? As one reviewer says, “Well, maybe.” But the “maybe” isn’t based on sketchy science, less-than-reliable studies, or even unclear advice; the “maybe” is based on the reader’s willingness to follow the authors' very clear and well-supported advice, which is based on new and exciting discoveries in the science of aging bodies.

The advice? 7 basic and fairly straightforward rules, beginning with exercise (6 days a week for the rest of your life) and ending with finding something to be committed to and excited about (for the rest of your life), with some talk about "not eating crap" and a few other recommendations in between. Simple to understand, but not so simple to do, maybe most especially that thing about working out 6 days a week, every week, until they carry you out. That’s a tough pill to swallow for many of us, but the authors make a clear and convincing case that it can be a magic pill, a pill that can promote wellness and firmness into our 80s and beyond, and help most of us replace what might have been a frail and desperate old age with a vigorous, joyful “next third” of our lives.

And what a great job they do of making that case, not only in the sense of presenting a clear and persuasive argument, but also in presenting it in a witty, entertaining, but also very direct style. The authors are one doctor and one of his patients, and they alternate chapters, in sort of a team-teaching style, where Harry, the doc, gives you the science, and Chris, the regular guy, talks about how the science plays out in your life, and has in his. Interestingly enough, while Harry is the scientist, he has a pleasant, almost gentle bedside—or, in this case, bookside—manner, and Chris is the one who’s inclined to be a little severe, though in an encouraging, coach-like way. So while Chris admits he wanted Rule #1 to be something like “Exercise 7 days a week,” he tells us that Harry persuaded him to let us off with 6 days a week. On the other hand, Chris scolds us severely when we ask, as he imagines us doing, “How about 5 days, or even one day? Isn’t that better than nothing?” No! Chris insists (you can almost see him stamping his foot), it’s NOT better than nothing. But then he patiently explains his point, and leads us carefully through the reasons why one day, or even three, four, or five days, are not better than nothing. (In a former life, Chris was an attorney, and you can hear the litigator’s flawless logic and attention to detailed argument in the way he builds his case for exercise. It’s really quite wonderful!)

But Chris is no monster (OK, run the tape of old lawyer jokes in your head and get it out of your system). Chris is the coach, browbeating when he has to, variously demanding compliance or cajoling when it makes sense, telling a joke now and then, and through it all, leading you along the path to success. He has lots of little tips and tricks to offer about all the rules. And he’s a bit of wit at it, too. I’ve read lots of books on the subject of getting in shape, and none of them has made me smile, even chuckle, as this one does. As I was finishing the last chapter or so, I found that I was unhappy that it was all about to end, the way you’re sorry that you’ve reached the end of a good novel or a wonderful movie. Fortunately, the authors have developed a very supportive website where you can ask questions, join a forum, get in on a chat now and then, and get more detailed advice about exercise and nutrition: Younger Next Year

To learn more, you’ll have to read the book. You owe it yourself to read Younger Next Year or Younger Next Year for Women. But don’t delay—the clock is ticking.

More Beginnings

2006-04-29T17:34:00.000-05:00

Two new beginnings this week, both, of course, to do with cycling.

New Beginning #1: new seatpost and saddle on my bike. My left knee has been whining an awful, well, OK, it's been screaming, despite the healthy doses of Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation, and anti-inflammatory drugs I've been providing for the persnickety little joint. So I decided to check my bike position to see if I could tweak that a little and shut my knee up that way. Though my bike frame is custom-made, I've moved things around a good bit since I've had it, so there was a possibility that things had gotten out of whack. And guess what? They had. And even worse than that, I found a crack in the seatpost. So time for a new one, this time with an offset, so I can jam the saddle back a bit, since the measurements I took suggested that my knees are too far forward over the pedal axles.

But with bikes, you move one thing, and a new problem is likely to rear its ugly head. This time, it was the place where the rider meets the saddle. The new position caused some ouchiness in my own "saddle." So I ordered a new Terry Butterfly saddle to top off my new carbon fiber seatpost--very snappy. And I took them both for a spin today. Here's what I found out: the carbon fiber seatpost rocks--it even seems to smooth out the ride a little. The new saddle, however, is going to take some breaking in. My girly parts were nicely pampered by the slot in the middle of the saddle, but further back--still some ouchiness. But I know from experience that the best cure for that is . . . more miles in the saddle. Yep, I can do that.

New Beginning #2: Younger Next Year--to be continued.

Joy!

2006-04-27T16:27:00.000-05:00

Joyful. That’s the defining quality of my life, and I like it just fine.

I once heard a woman discussing how her religious belief had brought JOY to her life. Did this mean that she was always happy? Not by a long shot—that wasn’t what she meant and it wasn’t even what she expected. She said that this joy was a kind of foundation, and on top of that, she could be laughing her head off or she could be crying her eyes out, or doing anything between those two extremes, but her underlying feeling was still one of profound joy in life.

And that’s just what I mean when I describe my life as joyful. Now I am not a religious woman—in fact, I’m a skeptic on that score—my spiritual jury is still out (though I still believe in the golden rule and feel that it could be the basis of peace on earth). So I guess my joy comes from somewhere else—from myself, I suppose, but also from my great fortune in being surrounded with people I love and having a job I love and so many other reasons to be thrilled to get up every morning.

OK, so my life is far, far from perfect—I’ve got the same irritants in my life as everyone else has: appliances break down, the aches and pains of being in my 50s appear and disappear, the Chief sometimes disagrees with me, and Cocoa isn’t always a model of good dog behavior. Plus, there are my two parents with Alzheimer’s disease, my home in what is apparently Hurricane Central, my dear brother living thousands of miles away, and of course, taxes. But again, there’s that substrate of joy joy joy joy (hmmm, think that comes from a song I learned in Sunday school, ironically enough).

And oddly enough, this joy—or at least its outward manifestation in my behavior—irritates some people. I know a woman—I used to call her my friend, but she wanted too much for me to be unhappy, as she is, so now we’re only acquaintances. I guess misery loves company. But joy loves company too, and I could wish for everyone to have the same underlying joy in life as I have. Think what a world it would be then!

Success!

2006-04-26T17:05:00.000-05:00

Well, the UWF 5th Annual Women’s Studies Conference has concluded. Whew! My first time organizing an academic conference—with the help of one graduate assistant and some advice from the previous Women’s Studies Director. We had about 50 people attending throughout the day, including faculty, students, and a couple of administrative folks (though not as many administrators as SHOULD have been there). So attendance was high, the papers were excellent, and there was plenty of delicious food supplied by the caterer. We ended up giving out three cash awards for the best three papers—one professor kicked in an extra $50 of his own money to allow for three awards instead of the planned two—what a guy! Things didn’t go off without a hitch, but it all went a lot smoother than I’d anticipated, and now I won’t be so frantic next year. Oh yeah, next year.

So, here are my lessons learned from this little experience. I post them here in case you, dear reader, ever find yourself in this exciting yet nerve-wracking position.

* It wasn’t all that bad. Some irritating things happened, and I might have over-reacted to some of them, but no harm done and I learned to deal more effectively, less explosively next year. So people don’t always call back, students don’t always show up, moderators can’t always keep their commitments—there’s always an alternative. Things will go wrong, but barring complete annihilation, there’s always some way around the problem.

* Folks are willing to help if you just give them a chance. Certainly some are less willing than others, and some SAY they want to help but don’t really mean it (if you’re reading this, you know who you are). But in general, they really do want to help out. You just have to give them plenty of notice and tell them exactly what you want them to do. Develop a list of possible helpers early in the fall semester and start “grooming” them early.

* Stick to the advertised schedule, even if it looks like things are rolling along more quickly than you expected.

* Even if some of the food is donated (so you don’t have to pay the caterer’s exorbitant prices for everything), you still need the caterer to set up utensils and possibly condiments and beverages.

* It’s true, what your mother said: you catch more flies with honey....

* You’ll forget some things. Don’t let on and most people won’t even notice.

Speaking of most people, they want the conference to go well and want you to be a strong and capable leader. And in most cases, they’re willing to do whatever you, the strong and capable leader, ask of them to make things run smoothly. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes, but also don’t be afraid of taking charge. Be BOTH in command AND in control. But again, don’t hesitate to ask for help and advice.

Yeah, I sound pretty sanguine now, but I sure am glad it’s over and everything worked out OK, for now....

Feed Me!

2006-04-17T19:05:00.000-05:00

Pitcher Plants are in bloom! The original Audreys. If you’ve ever seen the campy film The Little Shop of Horrors, you know just what I mean. The strange plant in the movie didn’t want anything the florist gave it, except human blood:
“I’ve given you sunshine,
I’ve given you rain.
Still you’re not happy,
‘Til I open a vein.”
The pitchers, along with a few other plants, are the real-life prototype of Audrey—the carnivorous plant. Fortunately, however, the pitchers consume insects rather than human flesh and blood. White-topped pitchers are native to northwest Florida and the showiest of the pitchers, with their white, pink-veined tubes and ruffly edges.

I did a 16-mile training ride on the Blackwater Trail this morning, before heading for campus. The weather was cloudier and muggier than it’s been, but still not too, too hot. At least we’d had a little rain late last week, so things were greener. I’d been especially worried about the pitcher plants that live along the trail. Last week I hardly saw any pitchers there, and what few I did see were all grey and shriveled—very sad.

But today! They were all over the place. They’d taken advantage of the brief precipitation last week to blossom into their gorgeous white and pink-veined selves, ascending from their sturdy green stalks. Pitchers are wild, but choosy. They like their feet damp, but not continuously wet; they favor wetlands, but have particular nitrogen preferences as far as soil content goes. They seem very happy along the Blackwater Heritage trail, our local paved, rails-to-trails recreational greenway. I guess they were just waiting for a little rain. Just as well, I suppose. The much-drier-than-usual-spring has also resulted in a less-hearty-than-usual crop of early spring insects, which are the food on which the pitchers thrive.

Those lovely, delicate-looking, lacily-veined cups are slippery inside and lined with downward-pointing hairs. The unsuspecting insect, lured by the plant’s color and scent and its promise of nectar, slips into the cup, can’t climb out because of the hairs, and eventually slides into the liquid at the bottom of the cup (which actually narrows to a tube), where the liquid digests it to make it usable food for the plant. Mmmmm…..

I thought it looked as if these two pitchers were having a little dialog.
“Mmm, you shoulda seen that fly I had for breakfast. I can still taste it. Urrpppp!”
“Well, excuse you! I had a couple of nice delicate midges.”
“Hey, look, a fat ol’ bee!”
“Come ‘ere, honey—nice yummy nectar, right here….”
“Hey, I saw it first. Here, buzzy boy!”
You get the idea.

In addition to the pitchers, I also saw a wild bunny, vacationing, no doubt, after her long arduous weekend of delivering Easter baskets, a small black snake (whom I called Snaky-Poo for no apparent reason) wiggling across the trail, and good old Ms. Go-Slow, eyeing me suspiciously. Did you know you shouldn’t turn a turtle 360 degrees because it might cause twisting of its intestines? Remember that the next time you’re struck with the urge to turn a turtle.

Anyway, it was a long, lovely ride, but about a mile from the end, I noticed that I sure was hungry. Just like Audrey: “Feed me!”

Signs of Spring

2006-04-15T12:49:00.000-05:00

Ah, Spring--and once again, I'm seeing the world from the cockpit of my kayak. It's not that we're not able to paddle in winter at all--after all, this IS Florida, the land of perpetually liquid water, in contrast to the hard water (read "ice") that plagues northern paddlers in winter. But liquid though it is, the water does get colder in winter, and the bay is less, well, friendly. Certainly I'm not completely averse to pulling out the boat and bundling up warmly for a little paddle on a bright, sunny January day, but all conditions have to be absolutely perfect for that to happen--no clouds in sight, low water at the put-in so I can avoid getting wet feet, all the stars aligned just right, etc. etc. etc.

But in spring, I barely need a breath of warm weather and a hint of sun to reach for my paddle. And this morning, the whole fan-damily got out on the bay--the Chief (also known as Mr. Y), Cocoa, and me. The wind had started coming up early, so we had some little swells, but nothing too rough. The thing we had to avoid most were some mulletheads (fishermen throwing nets for mullet)--Cocoa loves fish, so we have to keep him from harrassing the fishermen and begging them for handouts. There were two groups of mulletheads this morning, but we successfully avoided both--Coke was pretty busy just keeping up with us, though sometimes he took the lead to try to get a jump on some gulls.

We didn't paddle for long--weekend chores beckoned, unfortunately. But it was a great morning, and when we got home, the water was really getting rough--not my favorite kind of stuff to paddle in. In fact, I had to beach my boat in front of the neighbor's house because it was too rough to put in at our seawall. Yikes!

While I was rinsing off the boats and paddles, Coke apparently thought, "Now wouldn't it be lovely to go and rest my incredibly wet self under that tree, in that nice, fresh pile of dirt?" What a clever boy....
Oh well, he could use a bath anyway. :D

On the Train

2006-04-09T13:58:00.000-05:00

So I’ve started training in earnest for my Herculean four-day bike tour coming up in late May. After a few experimental short rides to make sure everything was working right in both bike and body, I’ve added some longer rides this past week. On Wednesday, I did 10 miles, and today, I rode for an hour—slightly over 12 miles. And here’s what I have to report: so far, so good.

I almost derailed myself last night. While doing a little core workout, I slipped and fell off my exercise ball—what a klutz! I fell onto my right hand and shoulder, and was initially worried that both would be injured enough to interfere with my training schedule. But I iced them up pretty well and hit the naproxen sodium again. I was almost afraid to go to sleep, knowing how motionlessness seems to allow injuries to get a firmer grip. On the other hand, “sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care” (Macbeth) also knits up the injured parts. And this morning, I felt, well, not perfect, but not too bad either, considering that a large part of my larger-than-it-should-be body came down relatively hard on my poor right side.

So, after walking the dog and downing a little caffeine, I hit the road, or more specifically, the bike trail. We have a lovely rail trail about 10 miles from my home, and it’s perfect for training because you don’t have to deal with traffic or traffic lights. It’s also reasonably flat and surrounded with lovely scenery. In previous years, I’d worked up to riding from my home TO the trail, then riding the 9-mile length of the trail, up and back, then riding home FROM the trail. Whew! Even then, I filled up my jeans more than I could’ve wished to, but I felt healthy and strong. Love to get back to that kind of shape. I don’t think it’ll happen in the next six weeks, but it CAN happen.

Anyway, today. Cool morning for early April in the Florida panhandle—somewhere in the mid-50s when I got to the trail. Stiff little headwind—about 9-10 mph. But there was that blue, blue sky and the surrounding greenery, and again, I felt like a kid on my bike. I even had the chance to help out another woman cyclist—new at this, she said—who was trying to top off her tire pressure but didn’t quite understand the intricacies of her Presta valves or the pump she’d borrowed from her boyfriend. The teacher in me loves little chance opportunities like that to instruct and encourage someone.

At the turnaround point, the nagging headwind turned into a friendly invisible hand pushing me along, and somewhere about halfway back, I hit 20.2 mph! Woo-hoo! No surprise that I came back a lot faster than I went out, so I had to add a little coda of a few more miles at the end to make it a true one-hour ride. But what a coda! I didn’t see the peacock today, but there were goats and a pair of friendly boxers (dogs, not underwear LOL) and one blue, blue, bluebird standing guard on top of his house.

So the training, so far, is going well. I don’t want to increase my mileage too fast—that can lead to injuries. But I do want to try and be up to two one-hour rides on consecutive days by next weekend. Stay tuned to see how I do. And keep those cards and letters coming (also known as comments :D )!

Digital Scrapping--Why Do I Do It?

2006-04-07T09:49:00.000-05:00

Why do I scrap?

This is maybe even a more interesting question for the childless person than for the parent. And I’ve actually heard someone say that she didn’t have any use for scrapbooking because she didn’t have kids. EXCUSE ME? So according to that logic, if you have no children, you have no life, or at least no life worth recording. Give me a break! Actually, once I got over my irritation at that remark, it made me feel a little sorry for that woman; clearly she feels that her life isn’t going to have been worth remembering after she’s gone—that seems unspeakably sad.

Because you see, I don’t feel that way at all. I don’t feel that a person has to have children to have goals, a purpose in life, fun, memorable experiences, and most of all, joy. I DO feel that you have to have important other people in your life, because what IS life without others to share it with? And I do have that—my husband (aka “the Chief” or “Mr. Y”); my chocolate lab, Cocoa (see below: “Chocolate Shadow”); my twin brother, with whom even now I share a secret language; a pack of nieces and nephews who are the beneficiaries of my goal of being the Aunt of Their Dreams; my best friend and her family (her children call us Aunt and Uncle, too); and so many friends I can’t count them all. It’s a full and rewarding and uproarious and joyous life. How could I not want to record that?

I suppose I most especially do it for my nieces and nephews, who live far away from me. We stay in pretty close contact through phone calls and email and occasional visits, but I want them to know the day-to-day stuff of my life, too. They’re all pretty special to me.

But there’s a selfish motive in my scrapping as well. Quite plainly, I just enjoy the work of putting together pictures and papers and little bits of other things—I love the work of collage, whether it’s actual or virtual, paper or digital.

And I really love it when I produce a nice combination of writing and images. My head is always full of language, language that’s aware of itself and usually in search of an outlet, and journaling is the answer. Journaling here in my blog, privately for my own files, or as part of a digital layout with photos and digital papers and clips and beads and tags and word art and . . . whatever else seems cool at the moment. I simply LOVE this work. And if what comes out of it seems worth sharing, so much the better, but if not, I think I’d do it just the same.

On the Road Again

2006-04-05T12:57:00.000-05:00

Wish me luck! I'm training for a four-day bicycle tour in Maryland.

I've been bicycling for decades, and my "holy grail" of cycling is the multi-day bike tour. Mr. Y and I took one together in Vermont in the early 1990s, and I loved it. Not sure he loved it as much as I did, but he loves ME, and we had ourselves a nice little vacation together, along with our bikes. It's true what they say--"Vermont ain't flat." But it's also true that what goes up a long, murderous hill with what you'd swear is an 80% grade must come down the other side, crunched into a racer's crouch and flying at an unbelievable screaming pace. I swear I heard the music from the witch's ride through the tornado in The Wizard of Oz playing in my head as I flew down the steepest hills, grinning like a fool--savoring my reward for having scaled that mountain at my back.

That tour featured lodgings at a charming New England B&B (the setting, in fact, for the Newhart show). This being Mr. Y's first experience with a B&B, he was surprised to find our room had no television, no telephone, no mini-bar, and, in the cool New England mountain summer, no air conditioning. (Guess I could've warned him, but what fun would that have been?) His initial dismay vanished, however, after our first day in the saddle. As he told our fellow riders over ice-cold beers at the end of the day's ride, "No TV, no phone, and no air conditioning, but boy was I glad to see this place after a 40-mile day on my bike!" Roger that.

Fast forward to 2002. We hadn't been on a bike tour since that first one. I'd done a few metric century rides (100k or 65 miles in a day) for charities, but no multi-day tours. It was the year of my 50th birthday, and I wanted to mark it somehow--somehow other than the big birthday party that Mr. Y and friends made for me. So I signed up with Womantours, a company that runs bike tours exclusively for women, for a week-long tour on the Katy Trail--a Rails-to-Trails bike trail of 200+ miles in Missouri. I was enormously excited, and kept to a strict training schedule so I'd be able to enjoy the tour to the fullest extent possible. Rail trails are relatively flat--generally no steeper grade than about 5%--but I WAS almost 50, and I figured the easier the riding, the more fun it would be.

But again, that was the summer of 2002. Remember what happened in September 2001? In many ways, the pall of 9/11 still hung over our nation 6 months later and travel was at an alarming low. People just weren't signing up for bike tours very much that summer, so my tour had to be cancelled for lack of participation.

I was crushed.
I was heartbroken.
I was 50 without a bike tour.
I settled for a metric century in September, and figured I'd go for it again the following year--surely people would have begun traveling more by then.

Between health issues and family responsibilities, almost 4 years have passed since then. But this--this is my year. The tour I'm taking is only 4 days--not quite the week I'd originally hoped for--but this is what I can fit in, and I'm not going to miss it again just for the sake of 3 days. Also, with the back problems I've dealt with in the last couple of years, 4 days is probably more appropriate (read "do-able" LOL). Still, I have to keep myself on a solid training schedule. On the tour, mileages for most days are flexible, but our shortest day is 21 miles, while the other days offer mileages from 25 all the way up to 73 miles. Not sure whether I'll want to do the 73, but certainly I'd like to do 30 or 50. And I only have 6 weeks left to train.

The weather has just turned glorious here in the Florida panhandle, so my training period has begun. I've been doing "experimental" rides of 5-6 miles for a week, just getting my back and legs loosened up and checking for unusual aches and pains, gently reintroducing my muscles and joints to this particular activity. And today I did my first 10-mile ride in months. I averaged about 12 mph, which is pretty dismal by racing standards, but not too bad after a winter of almost no riding but what I did on the stationary bike at the gym. My back feels OK, my knees aren't screaming, and though I've availed myself of modern pharmacology in the form of a little Naproxen Sodium tablet, still I don't feel overstressed.

I saw a flock of guinea hens, several pitcher plants (carnivorous plants native to northwest Florida), and a peacock sitting on top of a fence, its long blue-and-green tail cascading down over the bike trail! It was a glorious warm, dry, sunny day with a sky so blue it could break your heart. And I felt like I was 18 again. That's where my body wants to be--on my little bike, flying down a trail.

Anyway, wish me luck in my training efforts and on my tour. Stay tuned for more developments of this particular Work-in-Progress!

Double-Tagged!!!

2006-02-11T04:49:00.000-06:00

This time by the fabulous Mommy Meg digital scrapper extraordinaire, photographer, and of course, Mommy; and the wildly talented Samara aka Luv2Crop , digital scrapper and designer, my Digital Elite Teammate, teacher, mommy, lover of old Ford Mustangs, and who knows what else?

What scrapbooking lines/products/etc do you dislike?
I’m a big fan of the grungy look—the grungier, the better. So anything very formal or very fussy generally doesn’t appeal to me. However, lacy, girly elements can sometimes be layered to create a nice, chaotic effect—you never know until you give it a try. On the other hand, sometimes I want to do a nice, clean layout, and just use the grunge to give some interest to the edges.

What is the hardest thing you've ever had to scrap?
My dad, now in middle stages of Alzheimer’s Disease.

What technique do you use more than any other?

Grungy edges. I’ve done many layouts that I don’t feel are complete without some kind of inked or chalked look to the edges. There’s a nice freebie at digitalscrapbookplace.com for this.

Ever been published?
Yes, but not in a scrapbooking publication. I’ve published a couple of articles of literary criticism, a book review, a kayaking trip review, and one or two other assorted short pieces. Though the trip review included some photos, it’s mostly writing.
Like the dear, sweet, lovely MommyMeg who tagged me (thanks, dear), I want to see my name in print as much as possible!

What's the smallest scrap of paper you save?
Paper? The only paper I deal with now is printer paper, and I do save that so I can use the unprinted side: for printing drafts, scrap paper, etc. I think it’s important for all of us to save trees.

Ever have any scrapbooking-related injuries?

Yeah, like MommyMeg (have I thanked you yet for double-tagging me, Meg? What a pal! LOL), I get that mouse hand thing every so often. I did once get a paper cut when I was paper scrapping, but now I’m avoiding that highly hazardous sport by doing it digitally.

Finish the sentence "If I wasn't a scrapbooker, I would spend my money on
Essentials of life, like more chocolate!

Give us your best storage or organizational idea.
I totally stole this from BentRdr at DSP, but it’s a wonderful idea: when you download a digital kit, save a copy of the sample and/or contact sheet in an index folder—makes it easier to see what’s in your kits at a glance.

You just won a week-long scrapbooking cruise for 5. Who would you take?
My best friend, Ginny, who introduced me to paper scrapping about 12 years ago, and three colleagues and friends whom I’ve been wanting to introduce to digital scrapping. And the fifth, I guess, would be me. And I’d hope the cruise was sponsored by DSP so I could meet all my digital pals!

After you've answered the questions, tag 5 of your scrapbook buddies!
Hmmmm....have to get back to you on that.

2006-01-29T11:39:00.000-06:00

Yikes, I've been tagged by Scrapgeek!
Here’s my “penalty” for being tagged. LOL

Four jobs you’ve had in your life:
Dog Walker
Navy parachute rigger
Technical writer
Teacher

Four movies you would watch over and over:
Well movies I HAVE watched over and over are:
The Birds
Casablanca
Smoke (indy film with a great cast: William Hurt, Harvey Keitel, Forest Whitaker, Stockard Channing, Ashley Judd)
The Tingler (kitschy 1950s Vincent Price horror flick)

Four places you have lived:
Guam
Southern California
South Carolina
Florida

Four TV shows you love to watch:
Commander in Chief
Boston Legal
Family Guy
The Sopranos

Four places you have been on vacation:
Ireland
Alaska
Nova Scotia
Rosarita Beach, Mexico

Four websites you visit daily:
www.digitalscrapbookplace.com
www.uwf.edu
http://aldaily.com/
(Arts & Letters Daily—highly recommended)
http://www.weather.com

Four of your favorite foods:
Shrimp
A good outdoor-grilled hamburger
Shrimp
Mexican food
Did I mention shrimp?

Four places you would rather be right now:
A tropical beach drinking a glass of cold white wine
In Juneau, AK with my brother and his family
Kayaking on a broad, slow river
At the movies

Four bloggers you are tagging:
Hmm - do I know 4 bloggers to tag?
Samara

MommyMeg

(Hope you guys don't mind.:))
OK, so that's only two. Deal with it.

Chocolate Shadow

2006-01-28T09:22:00.000-06:00

Cocoa is currently our only son. And I use the term "our" loosely, since he's mainly my dog. In the spring of 2000, we went to a friend's house for a Memorial Day party, and found a young chocolate lab tied to a tree in the front yard when we arrived. Mr.Y and I both love dogs, so of course we went over to meet this young lad immediately. He was fairly calm for a young male dog, and extremely friendly. Eventually Mr. Friend came out and told us his sad story: two young women had been taking the dog to the animal shelter because they had unwisely taken him into their home when they already had two adult rottweilers, who mercilessly beat up this poor chocolate guy pretty much every day--ahh, so that was the source of the spots on his head and neck where the hair was missing! Anyway, when our friend heard this tale, and recognized a good dog when he saw one, he said "I'll take him!" Unfortunately, when he got home, Mrs. Friend said, "No, you won't!" Did I mention that this is a couple who lives half the year in Florida and the other half the year in North Carolina, where they run a little lodge with rental cabins for tourists? Not the ideal kind of life to share with a big dog.

So of course when Mr. Friend had the law laid down for him, he thought of his buddies, good ol' Mr. and Mrs. Y, who just love dogs. I left the decision up to Mr.Y, because we already had one dog, who was mainly my responsibility and I didn't think I wanted to have to walk two dogs, bathe two dogs, take two dogs for vet visits, referee between two dogs (I was sure Solita, our chow/lab mix, wouldn't be crazy about Mr. ChocolateLab, and I was right). Not to bore you with the details of the day, Mr. Y finally decided, and we took Cocoa--don't blame ME for the inane name--home with us that very night.

Long story short: I did indeed end up walking two dogs, bathing two dogs, etc. etc. etc. And Solita did indeed hate his guts, and it was only through the most diligent supervision that I taught her to get along with him at all. To her dying day (we lost her in 2002, but she had a good, full, long life), she had little use for Cocoa and always made it her business to get between him and me when she could.

But, Solita notwithstanding, Cocoa has been my loyal companion since the evening we brought him home. The original intent was that he would be more Mr.Y's dog than mine, but it was not to be. He barely makes a move without me, and only recently, since Mr.Y retired and is at home more of the time, has Coke consented to take occasional walks with him.

When I was a child, my version of the imaginary friend was a large, white dog whom I called White Shadow. (If you're old enough to remember the old "Mickey Mouse Club" on TV, you might remember the original White Shadow, a white German Shepherd who belonged to one of the girls on the show.) Cocoa became almost instantly my real and grownup version of that long-ago imaginary dog. White Shadow was the loyal friend of my childhood, and his presence nursed me through many a childhood drama. But now, in middle age, I have his spirit right here with me in the shape of Cocoa. No one could ask for a sweeter, more accommodating, more protective, more humorous, and just plain cuddly chocolate shadow.

Advice to Writing Students

2006-01-20T11:49:00.000-06:00

Many English teachers are familiar with Jamaica Kincaid’s very short story “Girl” and its enactment of a primarily one-sided discussion, with the empowered party handing down non-negotiable imperatives of many kinds to the powerless.
Here’s a link to the story:
http://www.turksheadreview.com/library/kincaid-girl.html

My version of the story, presented with great reverence for Kincaid’s original, arose from my recognition of myself as someone behaving much like the main speaker in “Girl,” posing—in every sense of the word—as the empowered repository of all writing knowledge to be dispensed, with the good intent of a parent yet with the iron hand of a tyrant, to the powerless and unenfranchised composition student.

Composition Student
(with apologies to Jamaica Kincaid)

Turn journals in on Tuesdays and make sure they are in pocket folders. Go to the Writing Lab by Thursday because Fridays it’s always crowded. Don’t use sources without documenting them. When choosing Internet sources make sure they are not from commercial sites because in that case they are only trying to sell you something. Is it true that you buy papers off the Internet? Always write in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach. Come up with your own ideas and arguments, like a scholar, not like the plagiarist I know you are so bent on becoming. This is how you read a sentence. This is how you read a paragraph. This is how you read a whole article. This is how you write a summary for the article you have just read. This is how you write an essay analyzing the article you have just read. This is how you add a Works Cited page to prevent you from looking like the plagiarist you are so bent on becoming. Don’t buy papers off the Internet. But I don’t buy papers off the Internet; I never buy papers at all. This is how to avoid comma splices. This is how to avoid dangling modifiers. This is how you write a book title so it doesn’t look like an article title. Don’t underline your own title. Never use anyone else’s work without documenting it. This is how you write a narrative. This is how you write a definition. This is how you write an argument. This is how you go to the library to do research. This is how to document your research to avoid behaving like the plagiarist I know you are so bent on becoming. This is how you behave in the library. This is how you behave in class. This is how you behave when class is over. This is when to come to my office. This is how to avoid coming to my office. This is how you write for your friends. This is how you write for yourself. This is how you write for your other professors so they won’t recognize immediately the plagiarist I have warned you against becoming. Be sure to write every day, even if it is just to email your classmates. Don’t use contractions—you’re not a middle school student. This is how you criticize your classmates’ writing. This is how your classmates criticize your writing. This is how to get good grades on your essays. This is how to drop the course before mid-semester so you can avoid getting an F. This is how to take the course again next semester. This is how to make sure you keep up with the reading assignments. Get reserved reading materials from the reserve desk at the library. Always evaluate your sources carefully and ask the librarian for help if you need it. But what if the librarian won’t help me? Do you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind of student whom the librarian won’t let near the books?

Resolutions

2006-01-16T21:52:00.000-06:00

New Year's Resolutions. As if.

When I was a kid, we used to say to each other, "Rules are made to be broken." OK, technically they're made to be followed, but it's just the kind of thing kids say when they're daring each other to misbehave: think staying out after dark, soaping and egging windows on Mischief Night, trying your first cigarette. A few years older and the saying became "Laws are made to be broken": illegal parking, ditching school, trying marijuana for the first time.

So here's one for the older, wiser me: Resolutions are made to be broken. Again, technically they're made to be kept, but you get the idea. It's like when the guy in John Steinbeck's The Pearl finds a huge pearl in an oyster. He calls it the Pearl of the World and immediately begins making plans for the future--he and his wife, dirt-poor now, would get a house and their son would go to school. But, the narrator wisely warns us, when you make a plan, you're just asking for trouble. Robert Frost wrote "Something there is that doesn't love a wall," but Steinbeck opined that there's also something in the world that doesn't love a plan, and as soon as you make one, that thing sets to work to try to thwart and spoil your measly, wimpy, little plan.

So, having diligently read my Steinbeck and my Frost, here's my take on the New Year's Resolution: don't bother, because "Something there is that doesn't love a [plan]."

Spurning the Sock

2006-01-14T08:06:00.000-06:00

Just a little something I've been thinking about.

To explain the sense of the title of this post, I want to begin with a quotation from Rose Macaulay, a British author who wrote, among many other things, war poetry. If you’ve studied war poetry at all, chances are it was men’s war poetry--Wilfrid Owen, Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon. In my Norton Anthology from my first undergrad poetry class, there isn’t a single woman listed in the section on “Poetry of World War I.” It’s only in the last couple of decades or so that women’s war poetry has been seriously studied, but that’s a whole other post, isn’t it?

For now, let’s look at a few lines from Rose Macaulay’s poem, “Many Sisters to Many Brothers”:

Oh, it’s you that have the luck, out there in the mud and muck
. . .
In a trench you are sitting, while I am knitting
A hopeless sock that never gets done.
(Scars Upon My Heart, xxv)

Now, there’s quite a bit going on in these few lines: it’s a miniature dramatization of the differences between male and female roles, especially in wartime, including a valorization of war in general and the male role in war in particular, and an acknowledgement of the irony in that valorization. I’m not going to try to explicate this passage entirely, but I want to focus on the “hopeless sock” in the last line.

The narrator is speaking to an imagined male listener, presumably a soldier embroiled in the fighting in the trenches, one of the defining features of World War I. And what she is saying, on the surface of it at least, is that she’d rather be where he is--in the mucky, ugly, dangerous, but presumably more exciting, more important, and even more hopeful trenches--than where she is--at home, safe, warm, dry, but confined to the dull and ultimately useless and ineffectual, even dare we say impotent, work of knitting a stocking. Yes, it’s safe work, and she can do it from the comfort of her home (although with the bombing of London, even the home isn't particularly safe); but it’s work that goes nowhere, does little, and denies her the satisfying feeling of a job that can actually at some point be completed. Her job, in fact, is unending, and not only unending, but insignificant. And this is why I’ve used it in my title.

The history of the military is the history of war, and the history of war, until quite recently, has been the history of men, and the other side of the history of men at war is women left at home, presumably left safe at home, expected to “keep the home fires burning” and reminded of how important that job is and how the men are out there fighting to keep them safe, while back at home they are often not really safe and the only action available to them is to doggedly attempt to maintain the status quo--which is really impossible during wartime, no matter where you are. They are, in effect, left to do an impossible job, even, Macaulay’s narrator suggests, a hopeless one, because even when the war ends, as all wars do, and the men come home, the woman’s work, as the old saying tells us, is never done. Furthermore, as noted critic Jane Marcus tells us, “all wars destroy women’s culture, returning women to the restricted roles of childbearing and nursing and only the work that helps the war effort. The struggle for women’s own political equality becomes almost treasonous in wartime” (129).

The 100th Beauty Theory

2005-11-20T08:34:00.000-06:00

Dear Reader-
Remember that tired old saying, "Pretty is as pretty does"? If you grew up in the age of Forrest Gump, you probably know it as "Stupid is as stupid does," but just now, it's the older form I'm talking about. So, "Pretty is as pretty does." (Please put aside for the moment the sometimes-tiresome issue of beauty being in the eye of the beholder--that's a topic for another post.)

So "Pretty is as pretty does." When did this actually become true? That is, when did beautiful people start being friendly people? When I was growing up, through high school, and into my first couple of confused, disjointed college years, the best-looking people were generally also the most arrogant and least friendly, at least in my limited experience. They seemed to believe that with their good looks came a special permission to treat as lesser humans anyone not as good-looking as they. Therefore they had no reason to care about anyone else's day-to-day or greater difficulties. They could snicker at your intractable hair, smile at each other behind your back (or not!) when your attempts to be stylish fell short of the inscrutable mark, express bottomless disdain for your high grades. Often they didn't even seem to feel any need to greet you, even if you were the only two people in sight. (Do you detect an ever-so-slight bitterness?)

It wasn't exactly coolness, but it was closely related. Though being cool was all-important in my, as in, I'm fairly certain, most American public schools, you could sometimes be cool without being beautiful. But not often. Don't we all know that being cool is partially a matter of having a certain look? What that look is changes, in fact can change overnight, it seems. And it need not necessarily have any connection with classic notions of beauty. But in my schools, in the 60s and early 70s, though the era of the flower child had arrived and denim was becoming more acceptable to be worn outside the factory, farm, and ranch, the cool look still partook heavily of classical ideas of what constitutes human beauty. So the only difference between the prom queen and the hot female singer in the local hippie garage band was hair style and clothes. The faces, even much of the makeup, were largely interchangeable (though neither one of them would have admitted this). And though the singer publicly espoused a philosophy of love and peace with regard to the larger world, it was also true that in person, face-to-face, she could be as snobbish and condescending as the prom queen toward Mr. or Ms. Lesser Human.

There was even a song titled "Pretty Is as Pretty Does"--I remember Annette Funicello and company singing it on The Mickey Mouse Club. And I have to ask, why would there even be such a song--and such a saying--if there weren't people who, as I'm suggesting, were being pretty but not "doing" pretty?

Fast forward to the 21st Century. Fortunately, though still a student of sorts, I'm no longer in high school, so I don't know whether what I'm observing pertains in the high schools of today. but it certainly seems to be true in my little corner of the world. Here it is:

Good-looking people have become friendly, even toward the ordinary-looking among us!

I'm virtually surrounded by bright, beautiful women: several at work, a few in my neighborhood, and assorted others. I'm talking about the kind of women who turn heads. All the time. And they're not only beautiful, but they are also, almost to a fault, kind, generous, appreciative, gracious, and just plain fun to be around. It took me a while to notice that this was happening all around me, but there it is.

So, I ask you, Dear Reader, when did this happen? Was I just the unfortunate ordinary-looking kid who happened to grow up in the land of the pretty-but-nasty, and everywhere else in the known universe was different? Or is it just that I'm lucky enough not to be in high school anymore?

Certainly some of this is due to maturity. I've lived long enough to feel better about myself and less awed by others. But I think there's more to it than that.

So I have a theory, at least regarding women. I think that at some point, pretty women noticed that not-AS-pretty women had problems with them. In general, that is. I'm not imagining the second part of this premise--I've been hearing it all my life--let's call it Beauty-Bashing. And it has its own litany of warnings:
Pretty Women will always be after your boyfriend (husband, partner, etc.)
Pretty Women are nasty (hmm, where have I heard that one lately?)
Pretty Women wouldn't give you the time of day if your life depended on it.
Pretty Women think they're better than everyone else.
I'm not suggesting anyone ever actually said these things; they're the distilled wisdom from my observations of how different people respond to human beauty.

Anyway, my theory is that at some point, the smarter pretty women figured out that they had to be extra-friendly just to be considered as normally friendly as everyone else.

Now to understand the next part of the theory, you need to know something about the 100th Monkey Theory. It's pretty loopy--the stuff of pseudoscience, really. But here's the idea: if certain individuals in a population of monkeys learn something (say, washing potatoes in a stream to remove the dirt), when enough of them have learned it, say 100 monkeys, this number represents a kind of critical knowledge mass, such that at that point, somehow, magically or otherwise, every monkey will be found to know the skill, even in other populations than the original group. (Yeah, I told you it was pretty loopy, didn't I?)

So maybe this is what's happened with beautiful women. Enough of them learned the above-mentioned behavior, with respect to being kind and friendly to others, that the skill has now magically migrated to others, even in unconnected populations, such that all beautiful people I know, at least the women, are now behaving like ordinary friendly human beings. Call it the 100th Beauty Theory.

Or what's more likely, this all represents my imagination working overtime, and no group of people has now or has ever had a corner on the market of nasty behavior, and I'm just raving. Yes, that's more likely, Dear Reader.

2005-10-02T21:12:00.000-05:00

JHY with a few Irish friends

Drowning in Paper

2005-10-02T20:56:00.000-05:00

So here we are about halfway into the fall semester, and naturally I'm drowning in paper.
I've got about 100 students this semester (as in most semesters)--about 50 freshmen in two sections of English Composition II and about 50 English majors in two sections of Advanced Critical Writing. I LOVE teaching these classes. The freshmen are so cheerful and in many cases eager, and I learn a lot from them about what "the kids" are doing and saying these days. The upper division students are dedicated--in most cases--to their work and generally have even given the reading some thought before coming to class.
But man, does the grading ever keep me busy! Writing classes are so work-intensive--people can't learn to write without doing lots of writing, and I have to evaluate everything my students write, so figure it out.
But one reason it's a little more stressful this semester is that I've decided I won't grade a paper with more than 3 grammar errors. When I hit error number 4, I get out the highlighter, highlight all the grammar errors, and then the student gets the paper back to correct the grammar before I'll go on and grade it. This results in a lot of loose ends, which I generally can't stand. But it's making them pay more attention to their grammar. Thank goodness for that, because I don't intend to teach it.
So, though it's making me crazy trying to keep up with who still owes me what, and then checking the corrections after they're done, it seems like this new procedure is worth the trouble.
But I still hate grading, and I'm still drowning in paper.

A Little Bit about Me

2005-07-28T11:21:00.000-05:00

OK, so having said what I'm in this for, next up I suppose is a little bit about me.

I'm in my--ahem--early 50s, married, no children, one dog. Spent 20 years of my adult life in the U. S. Navy, about half of the time as an enlisted parachute rigger and the other half as an officer. In between, your tax dollars and mine (if you're American) sent me back to college to complete my bachelor's degree in English, after which I was commissioned. In 1994, I retired from the navy at the ripe age of 41, and embarked on a second career of sorts. I went back to school and got an MA in English, and I'm now working on finishing a PhD in English while I teach at a small state university in what is turning out to be the hurricane capital of the known universe (that is, Florida) (more on that in another post).

I've changed from military administrative maven to critical scholar of 20th century literature, mostly English and Irish, gothic lit, and the rhetoric of environmentalism and critical thinking. My PhD diss involves James Joyce's fiction and focuses on how he used folklore to craft his unique response to English imperialism in Ireland and to Irish nationalism. That may sound like a mouthful, but it's not too mysterious really. The simple version is that Joyce uses bits and pieces of traditional Irish folklore to make statements about how the English colonization of Ireland was basically not a good thing for the Irish and also that the Irish efforts to whip up some patriotic fervor among the populace wasn't always such a good thing either. OK, so it maybe it sounds bor-ing, but it's pretty interesting stuff really, when you realize that I get to read a lot about elves and fairies and magic and charms. There is a certain amount of boring political stuff, but also lots of fairy tales--not in the "once upon a time" sense, but more in the Lord of the Rings sense.

But enough about details. Here's the important thing: I love my job. It's essentially reading stories, writing about them, and teaching my students about reading and writing. What's not to like? Actually, the only thing I don't like is the grading, but that, too, is fodder for another post.

Well, time to get to the reading part.
Till we meet again....

Dissin' Myself

2005-07-27T14:00:00.000-05:00

This summer I'm renewing efforts to complete my doctoral dissertation and subsequently turn myself into a doctor of philosophy, PhD that is. First thing I have to do is take my qualifying exams (also called comprehensive exams at some schools) before I can even begin submitting diss chapters, though I have three articles already that I think I can turn into chapters.

My overriding perception is this: this is hard work, so hard in fact that I've had to come to my office on campus several days a week just to do the reading and writing required to prepare for my exams. At home, it's just too easy to avoid it, there are so many other things that seem to call out for my attention: my husband, who is newly retired; my dog, who thinks I live for no other reason but to entertain him; my bike, who is just dying to be ridden (remember the episode of Friends where Ross tells Phoebe that her bike will die if she doesn't learn to ride it?); and of course there's that crud that lives in the little crevice between the edge of the counter and the cooktop--if that doesn't require my attention, I don't know what does. Also, there's my relatively new hobby of digital scrapbooking, which my brother calls a dissertation-avoidance ritual. But again, there are all those photos crying out to be scrapbooked, or at least named and organized. And of course they're very handy, residing on the same computer where I go to check email, type my reading notes--so close, I can feel their pull even now.

So what the heck am I doing starting this new thing called a blog? What do I think: that I need yet another drain on my time and energy?

Hardly. But I do think this will be useful way for me to
1. Ventilate about the joys and sorrows of the exam/diss process;
2. Record the stumbling blocks and hopefully be able to see some progress as recorded here;
3. Share my photos;
4. Do another thing I love doing: voicing my opinion.
And, oh yes, since I'm also a teacher, I'll also occasionally be sharing the joy (and frustration) of that activity.

So, welcome aboard, and stand by!