When I was a newly married teaching assistant long ago at Southwest Missouri State (now Missouri State University), one of my fellow TA's, a good friend of my husband's, hung over and desperate to procure a copy of Walden from which to make illicit copies for his freshman composition class which was to begin in fifteen minutes, borrowed my well-thumbed little paperback edition and promptly lost it, although not before having successfully used it to prep materials for his class. I regretted its loss, although not so much, perhaps, as Mark regretted the borrowing of it in the long run, for his students gave him a very hard time about the effusive marginalia which which I'd worshipfully inscribed its pages. I badgered him so mercilessly about the book's return and was so heartbroken at his confession of its loss, that a year later he presented me with a hardback edition in a Victorian replica binding. On the title page, he'd written, "Walden deserves your love almost as much as a certain lanky redhead does--and like Scott, Walden is not something so much...to live with as to live for. & now you've an edition that will age no quicker than you will...Forgiven?"
Mark may have been a too often high, irresponsible if well-meaning sot who taught his lesson on Thoreau in a lime green jester suit he'd passed out in the night before, but here's the thing about Mark: he was brilliant, utterly and undeniably brilliant. And he was right. Scott, that lanky redhead whom I've now been living with and for during the last twenty-four years? He has some things in common with Thoreau, including something I've not often heard brought up in relation to dear old Henry David--the propensity to employ a fine, often irreverent bit of humor when making an earnest point.
One way Thoreau shows off his clever self is through word play. Writing about a piece of land, he says, "I think I shall not buy greedily, but go round and round it as long as I live and be buried in it first, that it may please me the more at last" (1998). The word play in this sentence hinges on the word buried, which can mean placed in a grave or to be immersed in some activity. I can't help but believe that Thoreau here means instead of buying the property, he intends to simply spend a great deal of time there, walking around it and enjoying it--burying himself in it, so to speak. Using the word immediately after the phrase "as long as I live," however, causes the reader to associate it with the end of life and the burial that occurs as a result.
Another humor tactic Thoreau uses is through juxtaposition of subject matter that is heady with that which is very down-to-earth, often introducing the latter unexpectedly: "One value even of the smallest well is, that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular. This is as important as that it keeps butter cool" (1999). The reader has to grin at herself by the end of that sentence, when she finds herself surprised to be staring not into the secrets of the earth, but at a tub of butter. Thoreau sets her up via her own expectations of some deep intellectual insight, and then delivers butter instead. To be sure, the insight is there, but so is the giggle at the end of it, instead of an opportunity to rub one's forehead, nod sagely and look knowing.
Thoreau isn't above using a bit of snark, either, sassy bits of commentary with a bit of an edge to them. Of Britain he writes, "The government of the world I live in was not framed, like that of Britain, in after-dinner conversations over the wine" (2033). Dinner parties also seem to draw his ire, for after reporting that his neighbors enjoy meeting famous people at such gatherings, he says, "The interest and the conversation are about costume and manners chiefly; but a goose is a goose, still, dress it as you will." (2031). Ouch.
Let's not forget exaggeration, either. One of my favorite lines is (again!) in reference to dinner time, when evidently one was expected to dine in company. Thoreau's advice for surviving its horrors is nothing short of comic genius: "Let us not be upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner... Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill" (2005). (I need to remember that in order to survive the next multi-generational family holiday get-together at which my presence is required.) Thoreau was not above using absurdity (exaggeration's close cousin), either. A passage that made me laugh aloud was one addressing the need to strive to fulfill one's potential, regardless of whatever limit that potential might have. "Shall a man go and hang himself because he belongs to the race of pygmies," asks Thoreau, "and not be the biggest pygmy that he can?" (2029). Today, I'm sure this qualifies as politically incorrect. Nevertheless, it is funny simply for the extreme absurdity of the image. Here we are, tootling along in conversation with one of America's best respected Transcendentalist writers, and he throws pygmies (not a common nineteenth century American subject of conversation for most of his readers, I would assume) into the mix.
He uses humor for a purpose, of course, does Thoreau. He knows that most people can only sustain serious mind-bending thought for so long, that we need concrete images to connect to abstract thought in order to process them and remember them best. And of course, his own Transcendental belief in the need to put foundations beneath our castles in the clouds, to ground our philosophies in earthy reality, taught him to do just that in his writing as well. The result is that he is not only a more enjoyable read than Emerson, but a more easily understood (and appreciated) writer, as well...at least in my book.
As for that lanky red-head, he's still making me laugh, too, and he does it with all Thoreau's techniques, from the absurdity of pouring salt on my arm during a romantic dinner date ("Well, at least now we know you're not a slug.") to puns and definite snark, he keeps life interesting and lightens the load that responsibility and deep thought too often press upon us. I'm keeping them both--Great Scott and Thoreau; they give me hope.
Note: I love Thoreau. I really do. That fact does not mean, however, that he is above having a bit of fun poked in his general direction.
Thoreau, Henry David.
"Walden". The
Heath Anthology of American Literature. 7th ed. Ed. Paul Lauter. Vol. B. Boston: Wadsworth,
2014. 1996-2034. Print.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Job Shadowing Incident
Friday Great Scott (The Husband) took The Younger Daughter to school with him for her job shadowing assignment. When his first class walked in and inquired about the new kid, he told them, "She's the new student from Juvenile Hall. She has to sit next to me because she has a history of stabbing people with scissors."
The believed him completely. The Younger Daughter was thrilled.
The believed him completely. The Younger Daughter was thrilled.
Friday, May 28, 2010
What I Deserve
Conversation:
Setting: Home after a very rough day, hugging The Daughters gratefully.
Me: You are the best daughters in the whole world! I have done nothing in my life to deserve such great girls!
The Older Daughter: We know. That's why God made you a teacher.
Setting: Home after a very rough day, hugging The Daughters gratefully.
Me: You are the best daughters in the whole world! I have done nothing in my life to deserve such great girls!
The Older Daughter: We know. That's why God made you a teacher.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Stasis
Most of my blog readers will already know this, but I'll post here anyway: my grandmother died this weekend. Tonight was visitation; tomorrow is the funeral.
I feel very much as though time is suspended right now. As a family, we're talking and catching up, trading stories, taking care of details, and doing the things that need doing, but it feels as though we're in a strange sort of time between times...as, I suppose, we very much are.
I feel very much as though time is suspended right now. As a family, we're talking and catching up, trading stories, taking care of details, and doing the things that need doing, but it feels as though we're in a strange sort of time between times...as, I suppose, we very much are.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
House
No, not the television show.
Last week as I sat in my schoolroom trying to force myself to use my summer wisely by writing the curriculum that the state is going to review next fall, a tapping came at my window. Fairly sure that the tapper was most likely to be a family member or a student, I sent The Younger Daughter to go check the outside doors and let the tapper in, should my assumptions be correct. They were. It was my father. He had come to share with me the news that a house with some acreage had come up for sale near town, and he thought I might like to take a look at it.
We'd not been looking for a house, really. Oh, we knew that we really ought to before long, but we were thinking more in the time frame of 1-2 years, not 5 days.
"What?!" you ask, as well you may. Yes. Five days. It was going up for auction in five days.
The short version of this story is that Great Scott, The Daughters and I attended the first auction I'd been to since I was very small. My father did the bidding for us since we felt too inexperienced to do this well ourselves, and shortly after noon last Saturday, we had a house with a field and woods. We are still reeling in shock, even as we finalize preparations to (hopefully) close on the place next week.
I said in my last post that I needed to get Mrs. Lawson out of my system. Well, this should do it, although how in the world I'm going to find time to write curriculum now, while moving twelve years worth of stuff, I've no idea. It's funny, really, funny in the way that inspires one to run around in circles in the front lawn waving one's hands above one's head and screaming, "Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!" before falling flat on one's back and twitching slightly while watching the sky spin above one's head.
Seriously. It's all good. It will be fun.
Have I mentioned the barn? Yes. A barn. With a hayloft for The Younger Daughter to fall out of! Whee!
(Disclaimer: Please do not misread the tone of the above. I am very pleased with the place, and while moving will require a great deal of work, there couldn't be a better time to do it than right now, before school starts up again.)
Last week as I sat in my schoolroom trying to force myself to use my summer wisely by writing the curriculum that the state is going to review next fall, a tapping came at my window. Fairly sure that the tapper was most likely to be a family member or a student, I sent The Younger Daughter to go check the outside doors and let the tapper in, should my assumptions be correct. They were. It was my father. He had come to share with me the news that a house with some acreage had come up for sale near town, and he thought I might like to take a look at it.
We'd not been looking for a house, really. Oh, we knew that we really ought to before long, but we were thinking more in the time frame of 1-2 years, not 5 days.
"What?!" you ask, as well you may. Yes. Five days. It was going up for auction in five days.
The short version of this story is that Great Scott, The Daughters and I attended the first auction I'd been to since I was very small. My father did the bidding for us since we felt too inexperienced to do this well ourselves, and shortly after noon last Saturday, we had a house with a field and woods. We are still reeling in shock, even as we finalize preparations to (hopefully) close on the place next week.
I said in my last post that I needed to get Mrs. Lawson out of my system. Well, this should do it, although how in the world I'm going to find time to write curriculum now, while moving twelve years worth of stuff, I've no idea. It's funny, really, funny in the way that inspires one to run around in circles in the front lawn waving one's hands above one's head and screaming, "Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!" before falling flat on one's back and twitching slightly while watching the sky spin above one's head.
Seriously. It's all good. It will be fun.
Have I mentioned the barn? Yes. A barn. With a hayloft for The Younger Daughter to fall out of! Whee!
(Disclaimer: Please do not misread the tone of the above. I am very pleased with the place, and while moving will require a great deal of work, there couldn't be a better time to do it than right now, before school starts up again.)
Sunday, February 15, 2009
On Green Beans and Household Appliances
When I was a child, all my toys and stuffed animals had names and distinct personalities. What's more, they were all creatures of real being to me; they each had feelings. I used to worry about hurting them if I treated them badly or even if I favored one over the others. My brother and sister tell me they had the same sort of perception and that, like me, they were slow to lose it. Even today we occasionally have to remind ourselves that the last head of lettuce left in the produce bin at the grocery store is only a head of lettuce, that is doesn't really feel abandoned or unwanted. Even so, it is sometimes difficult not to take it home out of pity.
We lay this bit of dysfunction at the feet of our mother, partly because as everyone knows, that's where one lays the credit for one's dysfunctions, and partly because she's the one who used to wheedle us to eat all our vegetables by moaning sadly, "Oh, look at the poor little green bean! All his friends are gone down in your tummy! He wants to be with his friends! Don't you feel sorry for him? He's wondering what's wrong with him that you won't eat him. Pooooor green bean!" Part of the time we thought she was a little loopy, but most of the time it worked. Well, it worked for awhile. Eventually my brother discovered that if he held out long enough, she'd offer him money to eat the poor little green bean. As for me, my initial eagerness to cooperate quickly turned into obstinate opposition when I figured out that there would always be another green bean, another bite of spinach, another bit of something to feel guilty over. My sister, eleven years younger than I, traversed the distance between sentimentallity and logic without my observance, and although she has obviously done so with success, I do not know by what path she traveled.
Last month our new washer and dryer were finally delivered. As I stood in the utility room looking at them, I realized they were looking back at me hopefully, eager to please, wanting to be liked. I patted the washer awkwardly on its top and ran my hand over the dryer's door gently. Nothing is quite so charming as an appliance that can't wait to be helpful. The Younger Daughter walked into the room and gave me a cheerful hug. "What are you going to name them, Mama?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied, somewhat surprised. I've tried not to play the Poor Green Bean card with my children, and the fact that they persist in naming inantimate objects and treating them like people casts serious doubts upon the theory that personification of the inantimate is entirely my mother's fault. "What would you name them?"
She thought about it a minute. "Claudio and Hero?" she offered doubtfully, her brow knitted in thought.
We discussed a few more options, and after a short synopsis of the tale of Odysseus, we settled on Syclla and Charybdis.
Scylla and Charybdis have been working for me in the back room for a month now, and I have to say that they seem to work better for having been named. Certainly I've heard no complaints, and when I answer the urgent beepings that signal the ends of their cycles, their red LCD screens beam proudly up at me. Maybe there is something to the theory that inantimate objects can have some form of sentience.
But I'm still not eating cooked spinach.
We lay this bit of dysfunction at the feet of our mother, partly because as everyone knows, that's where one lays the credit for one's dysfunctions, and partly because she's the one who used to wheedle us to eat all our vegetables by moaning sadly, "Oh, look at the poor little green bean! All his friends are gone down in your tummy! He wants to be with his friends! Don't you feel sorry for him? He's wondering what's wrong with him that you won't eat him. Pooooor green bean!" Part of the time we thought she was a little loopy, but most of the time it worked. Well, it worked for awhile. Eventually my brother discovered that if he held out long enough, she'd offer him money to eat the poor little green bean. As for me, my initial eagerness to cooperate quickly turned into obstinate opposition when I figured out that there would always be another green bean, another bite of spinach, another bit of something to feel guilty over. My sister, eleven years younger than I, traversed the distance between sentimentallity and logic without my observance, and although she has obviously done so with success, I do not know by what path she traveled.
Last month our new washer and dryer were finally delivered. As I stood in the utility room looking at them, I realized they were looking back at me hopefully, eager to please, wanting to be liked. I patted the washer awkwardly on its top and ran my hand over the dryer's door gently. Nothing is quite so charming as an appliance that can't wait to be helpful. The Younger Daughter walked into the room and gave me a cheerful hug. "What are you going to name them, Mama?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied, somewhat surprised. I've tried not to play the Poor Green Bean card with my children, and the fact that they persist in naming inantimate objects and treating them like people casts serious doubts upon the theory that personification of the inantimate is entirely my mother's fault. "What would you name them?"
She thought about it a minute. "Claudio and Hero?" she offered doubtfully, her brow knitted in thought.
We discussed a few more options, and after a short synopsis of the tale of Odysseus, we settled on Syclla and Charybdis.
Scylla and Charybdis have been working for me in the back room for a month now, and I have to say that they seem to work better for having been named. Certainly I've heard no complaints, and when I answer the urgent beepings that signal the ends of their cycles, their red LCD screens beam proudly up at me. Maybe there is something to the theory that inantimate objects can have some form of sentience.
But I'm still not eating cooked spinach.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Reconnecting
We're in a busy stage of life, Great Scott and myself. The girls are old enough to have begun after school and summer activities; Great Scott works long hours; I've begun subbing when school is in, and last month I began ABCTE's teacher certification program to obtain a certificate to teach English in Missouri secondary schools. While this route to certification is going to save us a lot of money and a lot of time, while it allows me to do work online and here at home (save for the tests and the student teaching experiences, which will come later), the work still needs to be done, and I'm doing it while keeping up with the girls' activities and my grandmother's medical appointments. Summer has given us a bit of a slow-down, yes, but Great Scott is still taking a graduate class four days a week in a city an hour away, working on two degree papers and finishing up the yearbook for the 2007-08 school year where he teaches. It's easy for each of us to forget what the other looks like.
This weekend my mother took the girls to Steal Yer Dollar City (a.k.a. Silver Dollar City) all day Saturday, leaving Great Scott with a sizable gift certificate for Borders bookstore. The temptation was too great. Off we went, tra-la-la, here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush.
It had been a long time since I've spent time alone with my husband being silly, and silly we were. We made smart remarks, played at being cynics, played at curmudgeonry, played at obliviousness and simpletonry, played at making the other laugh--lots of this. We browsed the bookstore, laughed in the parking lot, got frozen custard at a place we used to frequent when we were dating and first married, laughed on the way home, and we laughed after we got home. We picked on each other mercilessly the entire time, and we loved every minute of it.
Sometimes it's very difficult to remember a time when my mind and identity weren't entirely tied up with responsibilities, schedules, censored motherhood and things-to-remember-so-that-no-one-starves-and-the-electricity
-stays-on. This weekend I remembered.
Today we spent the day at Great Scott's father's farm, where we celebrated both their birthdays and a belated Father's Day. Sometime after lunch I slipped outside to look at the lilies and hollyhocks in the yard and joined The Younger Daughter in the hammock. After a bit The Younger Daughter went off to learn to shoot a gun--she turned out to be amazingly good at it--and I was left alone under the light-dappled leaves, a cool breeze stirring the hem of my gypsy skirt about my ankles as I lay back and closed my eyes. I drifted off amid the wind and whispering grasses, and no one came to call me back. It was utterly restful (rest full).
This next week will be a busy one again. The "Little House" play practices are upping the times from one practice a week to two, both five hours long; my grandmother has a doctor's appointment, we're taking the girls to see Cats! one night, and I have another section of my English/Language Arts course to complete. I've tucked away this weekend, though; I'm keeping it deep within, ready to bring out and enjoy in stolen moments. It was very, very good.
This weekend my mother took the girls to Steal Yer Dollar City (a.k.a. Silver Dollar City) all day Saturday, leaving Great Scott with a sizable gift certificate for Borders bookstore. The temptation was too great. Off we went, tra-la-la, here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush.
It had been a long time since I've spent time alone with my husband being silly, and silly we were. We made smart remarks, played at being cynics, played at curmudgeonry, played at obliviousness and simpletonry, played at making the other laugh--lots of this. We browsed the bookstore, laughed in the parking lot, got frozen custard at a place we used to frequent when we were dating and first married, laughed on the way home, and we laughed after we got home. We picked on each other mercilessly the entire time, and we loved every minute of it.
Sometimes it's very difficult to remember a time when my mind and identity weren't entirely tied up with responsibilities, schedules, censored motherhood and things-to-remember-so-that-no-one-starves-and-the-electricity
-stays-on. This weekend I remembered.
Today we spent the day at Great Scott's father's farm, where we celebrated both their birthdays and a belated Father's Day. Sometime after lunch I slipped outside to look at the lilies and hollyhocks in the yard and joined The Younger Daughter in the hammock. After a bit The Younger Daughter went off to learn to shoot a gun--she turned out to be amazingly good at it--and I was left alone under the light-dappled leaves, a cool breeze stirring the hem of my gypsy skirt about my ankles as I lay back and closed my eyes. I drifted off amid the wind and whispering grasses, and no one came to call me back. It was utterly restful (rest full).
This next week will be a busy one again. The "Little House" play practices are upping the times from one practice a week to two, both five hours long; my grandmother has a doctor's appointment, we're taking the girls to see Cats! one night, and I have another section of my English/Language Arts course to complete. I've tucked away this weekend, though; I'm keeping it deep within, ready to bring out and enjoy in stolen moments. It was very, very good.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Carcass Chronicles: Part One--On 'Possums and Lawn Mowers
The low for the night is 72 degrees F, which means the daytime temps here are considerably higher, higher and humid, to boot. Somewhere in the yard something is dead. It could be something small (or part of something small) that the cats have killed and so very thoughtfully left under the window for us, or it could be something big that is in the field. Either way, leaving the windows open on the west side of the house is a mixed sort of blessing. The breeze is nice. The smell is not.
When I was a girl, we used to have a dog that was covered in curly, white, fluffy hair, poodle hair. Happy was an exclusively outdoor dog, but even if he hadn't have been all year, he would have been in the summer. There was very little he loved more than to find dead carcasses and roll in them. He'd go out in the woods or the field and come back with dark greenish brown patches in his fur, smelling like he'd been picking up vultures in bars. Poor thing! He never understood why my brother and I refused to pet him or play with him when he'd obviously gone to all the trouble to make himself more enjoyable for all concerned, from a doggy point of view. Sometimes Happy would even bring home a nice ripe one, so we could have it for our very own.
My sister wasn't any more appreciative of Happy's offerings than were my brother and I, but she was more creative than we'd been when it came to dealing with them. Evidently one of Happy's 'possums (his favorite flavor) hit optimum ripeness the same day my father decided it was time my sister learned to mow the yard. "It was big and round and ripe," she later told me, "and I looked at it and thought, 'I wonder what would happen if I ...'"
Yes. She did.
This is why everyone in my family can authoritatively testify to the fact that dead 'possums and lawn mowers don't mix. Just a bit of wisdom to share with the rest of you.
When I was a girl, we used to have a dog that was covered in curly, white, fluffy hair, poodle hair. Happy was an exclusively outdoor dog, but even if he hadn't have been all year, he would have been in the summer. There was very little he loved more than to find dead carcasses and roll in them. He'd go out in the woods or the field and come back with dark greenish brown patches in his fur, smelling like he'd been picking up vultures in bars. Poor thing! He never understood why my brother and I refused to pet him or play with him when he'd obviously gone to all the trouble to make himself more enjoyable for all concerned, from a doggy point of view. Sometimes Happy would even bring home a nice ripe one, so we could have it for our very own.
My sister wasn't any more appreciative of Happy's offerings than were my brother and I, but she was more creative than we'd been when it came to dealing with them. Evidently one of Happy's 'possums (his favorite flavor) hit optimum ripeness the same day my father decided it was time my sister learned to mow the yard. "It was big and round and ripe," she later told me, "and I looked at it and thought, 'I wonder what would happen if I ...'"
Yes. She did.
This is why everyone in my family can authoritatively testify to the fact that dead 'possums and lawn mowers don't mix. Just a bit of wisdom to share with the rest of you.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
On Mother's Day...and Easter
Someone I'd consider a cyberfriend of sorts asked what I was given for Mother's Day this year. That would be these teacups. I've got a thing for hot tea, and Great Scott is kind enough to indulge me. 
For Easter, he gave me the coolest apron ever.
For Easter, he gave me the coolest apron ever.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Forty
In my blog wanderings and perusals over the past three years, I've seen many lists of "Forty Things to do Before I Turn Forty." By the time I thought of composing my own, my time was seriously running out, and I was faced with either making a list of "Forty Things to Accomplish in the Next Nine Minutes" or of finding a creative alternative. (Allow me to offer a small bit of advice: given a choice between Lots of Potentially Emotionally Unhinging Work or a Creative Alternative, go for the latter.)
My alternative to the "Forty Things to do Before I Turn Forty" list? It needed to be something positive, something affirming, something that would help me appreciate the life I've had already and the one I have now rather than laying on the pressure to do more, accomplish more, be more. I needed not a list of things to do, but a list of wonderful things I have done in my first forty years, a list of appreciation and celebration. Therefore...
Forty Things I've Done Before Turning Forty
1. Learned to see God as a very real and compassionate Person rather than a Lurker with a Big Board.
2. Convinced my brother to willingly eat mud.
3. Slept in trees.
4. Jumped out of a barn loft.
5. Earned a writing degree, had success with creative pieces, publication, readings, two Pushcart nominations and served a week long term as Poet in Residence at Bryan College.
6. Been proposed to or seriously co-considered marriage five times.
7. Had a sixth man fall to his knees dramatically before me in a public place, spread his arms wide and sing loudly, "Besa me! Besa me mucho!"
8. Promptly married him.
9. Stayed married 17 years to the above to date.
10. Gave birth to two children with a midwife presiding and no meds.
11. Learned to enjoy poetry. Learned to detest poetry. Learned I can't live without poetry.
12. Enjoyed mathematical theory.
13. Pieced and hand-quilted a quilt from dress scraps.
14. Found out what happens when one puts one end of an electrical cord in one's mouth while the other end is still in the outlet.
15. Learned to cook, yea, even unto a complete Thanksgiving meal for company.
16. Played the piano and the oboe.
17. Walked barefoot through snow.
18. Danced.
19. Put my brother in a tractor tire, rolled him down a hill and survived my mother's wrath afterward.
20. Attended wonderful Renaissance festivals.
21. Played the lead onstage in "Once Upon a Mattress."
22. Sang a solo in Handel's Messiah.
23. Learned to live without medication for an affective disorder--something a diagnosing doctor said I would never do.
24. Lived amid a passion for learning.
25. Discovered a passion for teaching.
26. Learned to live in the midst of prayer.
27. Made peace with an ongoing and difficult relationship from my past.
28. Learned where I fit in my family.
29. Read thousands of astounding, wonderful books.
30. Tutored and taught writing to amazing people.
31. Moderated for the beautiful ladies of LHM's Lighthouse and Covenant Women for several years.
32. Given up an addictive and self-destructive way of "coping."
33. Found the courage to keep/enforce my own boundaries while remaining unruffled.
34. Learned jewelry making.
35. Mentored some incredible young women.
36. Learned to recognize and name flowers, trees and other native plants.
37. Taken up yoga.
38. Kindled a love of books in two children.
39. Laughed nearly every day.
40. Been a student of grace.
My alternative to the "Forty Things to do Before I Turn Forty" list? It needed to be something positive, something affirming, something that would help me appreciate the life I've had already and the one I have now rather than laying on the pressure to do more, accomplish more, be more. I needed not a list of things to do, but a list of wonderful things I have done in my first forty years, a list of appreciation and celebration. Therefore...
Forty Things I've Done Before Turning Forty
1. Learned to see God as a very real and compassionate Person rather than a Lurker with a Big Board.
2. Convinced my brother to willingly eat mud.
3. Slept in trees.
4. Jumped out of a barn loft.
5. Earned a writing degree, had success with creative pieces, publication, readings, two Pushcart nominations and served a week long term as Poet in Residence at Bryan College.
6. Been proposed to or seriously co-considered marriage five times.
7. Had a sixth man fall to his knees dramatically before me in a public place, spread his arms wide and sing loudly, "Besa me! Besa me mucho!"
8. Promptly married him.
9. Stayed married 17 years to the above to date.
10. Gave birth to two children with a midwife presiding and no meds.
11. Learned to enjoy poetry. Learned to detest poetry. Learned I can't live without poetry.
12. Enjoyed mathematical theory.
13. Pieced and hand-quilted a quilt from dress scraps.
14. Found out what happens when one puts one end of an electrical cord in one's mouth while the other end is still in the outlet.
15. Learned to cook, yea, even unto a complete Thanksgiving meal for company.
16. Played the piano and the oboe.
17. Walked barefoot through snow.
18. Danced.
19. Put my brother in a tractor tire, rolled him down a hill and survived my mother's wrath afterward.
20. Attended wonderful Renaissance festivals.
21. Played the lead onstage in "Once Upon a Mattress."
22. Sang a solo in Handel's Messiah.
23. Learned to live without medication for an affective disorder--something a diagnosing doctor said I would never do.
24. Lived amid a passion for learning.
25. Discovered a passion for teaching.
26. Learned to live in the midst of prayer.
27. Made peace with an ongoing and difficult relationship from my past.
28. Learned where I fit in my family.
29. Read thousands of astounding, wonderful books.
30. Tutored and taught writing to amazing people.
31. Moderated for the beautiful ladies of LHM's Lighthouse and Covenant Women for several years.
32. Given up an addictive and self-destructive way of "coping."
33. Found the courage to keep/enforce my own boundaries while remaining unruffled.
34. Learned jewelry making.
35. Mentored some incredible young women.
36. Learned to recognize and name flowers, trees and other native plants.
37. Taken up yoga.
38. Kindled a love of books in two children.
39. Laughed nearly every day.
40. Been a student of grace.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Someday You'll Have Children Just Like You...
The Younger Daughter is the liviliest of our bunch. Great Scott and I are, as The Older Daughter likes to remind us, aged and slow, and her sister, as Great Scott and I like to remind her, is energy conservative (save her father prefers the briefer, 4 letter word in all its simplicity). This means that The Younger Daughter often finds herself wandering about the house forlornly looking for something interesting to do while the other three members of the family are preoccupied. Christmas break has evidently been especially hard on her, but ever the innovative child, she managed to entertain herself with pen and pencil. The results are telling.
Once upon a time there was a little dragon. Now she was a good little dragon. Her family hoarded not gems but books. The little dragon got on nerves a lot. Though she tried her best she always got on other dragons' nerves.
One day she was bored, and she'd read all her Humanology books. So she went to her sister who was reading.
"Leave me alone. I don't have any ideas. Now go away!" her sister snapped. Then she burned the little dragon's backside very fiercely, and the little dragon left her sister to the book.
So the little dragon went to her mother who was also reading.
"I'm bored. Do you have any ideas of what to do?"
Her mom was not in a good mood. "Youngling, you are taking your life into your claws. The only things that stands between you and my snapping sanity is this book!" her mother answered and gave her a good whack with it.
Sadly the little dragon left to find her father. Suddenly her father flew in the lair and removed the umbrella from over the book he brought.
"Daddy..." the little dragon began.
"I'm reading. Leave me alone, Child!" and he lashed her with his tail.
By now the little dragon's backside was hurting miserably, so she made an ice pack and lay down. Then she drew. She drew dragons killing with flame, diamond spear and tail. The her parents came in with her sister and saw the painting and realized the suffering they had caused her and asked for forgiveness, and the little dragon gave them just that, and her family learned to think before they acted.
Once upon a time there was a little dragon. Now she was a good little dragon. Her family hoarded not gems but books. The little dragon got on nerves a lot. Though she tried her best she always got on other dragons' nerves.
One day she was bored, and she'd read all her Humanology books. So she went to her sister who was reading.
"Leave me alone. I don't have any ideas. Now go away!" her sister snapped. Then she burned the little dragon's backside very fiercely, and the little dragon left her sister to the book.
So the little dragon went to her mother who was also reading.
"I'm bored. Do you have any ideas of what to do?"
Her mom was not in a good mood. "Youngling, you are taking your life into your claws. The only things that stands between you and my snapping sanity is this book!" her mother answered and gave her a good whack with it.
Sadly the little dragon left to find her father. Suddenly her father flew in the lair and removed the umbrella from over the book he brought.
"Daddy..." the little dragon began.
"I'm reading. Leave me alone, Child!" and he lashed her with his tail.
By now the little dragon's backside was hurting miserably, so she made an ice pack and lay down. Then she drew. She drew dragons killing with flame, diamond spear and tail. The her parents came in with her sister and saw the painting and realized the suffering they had caused her and asked for forgiveness, and the little dragon gave them just that, and her family learned to think before they acted.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Friday Quote: On Coffee and Women
"I like my women like I like my coffee: scalding, dark and bitter."
--Great Scott
(whose Christmas gifts are under reconsideration)
--Great Scott
(whose Christmas gifts are under reconsideration)
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
So Far This Week...
I replaced the modem.
The Older Daughter threw up twice at school and came home early.
The Older Daughter ate tortellini two hours after arriving home, and two and a half hours after that competed in an Academic Team competition (her team won both their games).
My grandmother had her 91st birthday (Yay, Grandma!).
I was approved for substitute teaching in our school district.
The Older Daughter won not just the local but the district Patriot's Pen essay contest for her age division.
And...my dryer broke (I am awaiting the repairman now).
Oh, yes! And Dad put an extra hard drive into my computer.
With a coathanger.
Which is still in the computer.
And it's still only Wednesday!
The Older Daughter threw up twice at school and came home early.
The Older Daughter ate tortellini two hours after arriving home, and two and a half hours after that competed in an Academic Team competition (her team won both their games).
My grandmother had her 91st birthday (Yay, Grandma!).
I was approved for substitute teaching in our school district.
The Older Daughter won not just the local but the district Patriot's Pen essay contest for her age division.
And...my dryer broke (I am awaiting the repairman now).
Oh, yes! And Dad put an extra hard drive into my computer.
With a coathanger.
Which is still in the computer.
And it's still only Wednesday!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Overheard
It must be hard to be the child of two writing oriented parents. One day last weekend The Younger Daughter's evening prayer went in part like this:
"Dear God...please forgive us for our sins and our improper English."
"Dear God...please forgive us for our sins and our improper English."
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Thanksgiving Eve--Surprise Me List
Infamous for his War on Whining gratitude posts, Randy of Everyday Thoughts Collected asks for Thanksgiving lists of those things for which we are grateful but which are a little unusual. Skewed, in fact. So here it is, dear twin, the Quotidian Light list of Thanksgiving peculiarities.
1. Dirt. (For repotting the orchids.)
2. Socks with individual toes.
3. Benadryl for when the children are too crazy.
4. Alcohol for when the husband is too crazy.
5. Morrowind, for when one simply MUST live life as a lizard in a dress robe.
6. Children who want cooking utensils and badgers for Christmas.
7. Wormer.
8. Small dead animal carcasses on the front porch. (As opposed to in the house.)
9. The word "no." As in, "No, we're not going anywhere for Thanksgiving."
10. Individual cups in bras. (Great Scott seconds this one enthusiastically.)
1. Dirt. (For repotting the orchids.)
2. Socks with individual toes.
3. Benadryl for when the children are too crazy.
4. Alcohol for when the husband is too crazy.
5. Morrowind, for when one simply MUST live life as a lizard in a dress robe.
6. Children who want cooking utensils and badgers for Christmas.
7. Wormer.
8. Small dead animal carcasses on the front porch. (As opposed to in the house.)
9. The word "no." As in, "No, we're not going anywhere for Thanksgiving."
10. Individual cups in bras. (Great Scott seconds this one enthusiastically.)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Observations on Motherhood: Those Kinds of Days
Some days I feel much better prepared for what motherhood requires than other days.
Some days it all comes together quite well, and the bills are paid, and all the batteries work, and the children play happily together and have shining teeth. Other days nothing gets done, and it rains in the windows, and the cat leaves tongue prints in the grease in the unwashed pan on the stove, and the children look like prime candidates for the cast of “Oliver!”
Then, of course, there are all the days in between, which probably look from the outside more like the first kind of day but which feel from the inside far more like the second. The trick is to navigate these with all the aplomb that comes naturally when one is having the first kind of day and knows it. It helps to remember that many famous and successful people have had parents who probably had days of the second kind, too.
1. Albert Einstein’s mother didn’t always get his hair combed before he got out the door.
2. Emily Dickinson’s mother couldn’t get her to come out of her room and play with visitors’ children every time they had company.
3. Jonathan Edwards’ mother couldn’t have counted the number of times she demanded, “Will you just get on with it and kill that spider?!”
4. Thomas Edison’s mother was sure he would ruin his eyes reading in the dark.
5. Henry Ford’s mother told him to go play in the street at least once.
6. C.S. Lewis’s father despaired that his son might live in a fantasy land forever.
7. Benjamin Franklin’s mother worried that he didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.
8. Louis Pasteur’s mother once despaired of ever getting him to wash his hands.
9. George Washington’s mother warned him time and time again to brush his teeth.
10. Mark Twain’s mother....Oh, Lord, that poor woman!
11. Edgar Allan Poe’s mother got sick of cleaning up after all those birds.
12. I can just hear Christopher Columbus’s mother saying, “It’ll be a whole new world when I let you do that!”
13. Leif Erikson’s mother threatened to ship him off so often he took her seriously and did it himself.
Some days it all comes together quite well, and the bills are paid, and all the batteries work, and the children play happily together and have shining teeth. Other days nothing gets done, and it rains in the windows, and the cat leaves tongue prints in the grease in the unwashed pan on the stove, and the children look like prime candidates for the cast of “Oliver!”
Then, of course, there are all the days in between, which probably look from the outside more like the first kind of day but which feel from the inside far more like the second. The trick is to navigate these with all the aplomb that comes naturally when one is having the first kind of day and knows it. It helps to remember that many famous and successful people have had parents who probably had days of the second kind, too.
1. Albert Einstein’s mother didn’t always get his hair combed before he got out the door.
2. Emily Dickinson’s mother couldn’t get her to come out of her room and play with visitors’ children every time they had company.
3. Jonathan Edwards’ mother couldn’t have counted the number of times she demanded, “Will you just get on with it and kill that spider?!”
4. Thomas Edison’s mother was sure he would ruin his eyes reading in the dark.
5. Henry Ford’s mother told him to go play in the street at least once.
6. C.S. Lewis’s father despaired that his son might live in a fantasy land forever.
7. Benjamin Franklin’s mother worried that he didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.
8. Louis Pasteur’s mother once despaired of ever getting him to wash his hands.
9. George Washington’s mother warned him time and time again to brush his teeth.
10. Mark Twain’s mother....Oh, Lord, that poor woman!
11. Edgar Allan Poe’s mother got sick of cleaning up after all those birds.
12. I can just hear Christopher Columbus’s mother saying, “It’ll be a whole new world when I let you do that!”
13. Leif Erikson’s mother threatened to ship him off so often he took her seriously and did it himself.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Tooth Saga
Monday evening: The Younger Daughter pulls a tooth. She's been going through a stage of shedding teeth like a little shark this year, so all seems fairly routine. The Tooth Fairy confiscates it, leaving much coveted cold, hard cash in return and then gives me the tooth, as she almost always does, to hold until she's got enough to build her castle with.
Tuesday evening: I notice The Younger Daughter's gum above the now-missing tooth seems a bit red. I attribute it to the fact that she's just pulled the tooth, and make a mental note to watch it, just in case it might be true inflammation.
Wednesday evening: The gum still looks a little bright to me, although not badly so, and it isn't sore at all--a good sign. Nevertheless, I get out a flashlight and look at the empty socket, and... EGAD! There is a dark red fleshy thing protruding slightly from the socket! Either The Younger Daughter has just been infested with some tiny, exotic gum leach, or that is the pulp/nerve of her missing tooth! Is this normal? Is it supposed to be there? Is there an infection?! Has she pulled it prematurely?!
DID SHE PULL A PERMANENT TOOTH FOR MONEY?!?!?!?
I can't call the dentist at 9:30 at night. It doesn't hurt her at all, not even when she rubs a finger over it. I shudder and tell her to rinse and go to the living room for stories and prayers. I try to not worry about it. I will call in the morning. I will not worry. I put my head down on my desk and say a short prayer. I will not worry. Feeling faintly nauseated from anxiety, I walk into the bedroom to fold some laundry. I will not worry. Finally I call my sister. We have one of those conferences that only sisters can have. I feel a bit better. We will wait and see. Great Scott doesn't get home until 11:00 p.m. from the night class he's teaching. I will tell him in the morning.
Thursday (this) morning: "Oh," he says nonchalantly as he gets a shirt out of the closet and pulls it on. "Yeah, those are always there when you pull a tooth. It must've just detached lower down than most, that's all." He buttons up the shirt and meanders out of the room to go find his good friend, Coffee.
The Younger Daughter swears she hasn't pulled a permanent tooth, that this one was still a baby tooth. She may just be afraid The Tooth Fairy will want her money back, but I'm going to believe her. She is confidently, blissfully carefree. I want to grow up to be just like her.
Tuesday evening: I notice The Younger Daughter's gum above the now-missing tooth seems a bit red. I attribute it to the fact that she's just pulled the tooth, and make a mental note to watch it, just in case it might be true inflammation.
Wednesday evening: The gum still looks a little bright to me, although not badly so, and it isn't sore at all--a good sign. Nevertheless, I get out a flashlight and look at the empty socket, and... EGAD! There is a dark red fleshy thing protruding slightly from the socket! Either The Younger Daughter has just been infested with some tiny, exotic gum leach, or that is the pulp/nerve of her missing tooth! Is this normal? Is it supposed to be there? Is there an infection?! Has she pulled it prematurely?!
DID SHE PULL A PERMANENT TOOTH FOR MONEY?!?!?!?
I can't call the dentist at 9:30 at night. It doesn't hurt her at all, not even when she rubs a finger over it. I shudder and tell her to rinse and go to the living room for stories and prayers. I try to not worry about it. I will call in the morning. I will not worry. I put my head down on my desk and say a short prayer. I will not worry. Feeling faintly nauseated from anxiety, I walk into the bedroom to fold some laundry. I will not worry. Finally I call my sister. We have one of those conferences that only sisters can have. I feel a bit better. We will wait and see. Great Scott doesn't get home until 11:00 p.m. from the night class he's teaching. I will tell him in the morning.
Thursday (this) morning: "Oh," he says nonchalantly as he gets a shirt out of the closet and pulls it on. "Yeah, those are always there when you pull a tooth. It must've just detached lower down than most, that's all." He buttons up the shirt and meanders out of the room to go find his good friend, Coffee.
The Younger Daughter swears she hasn't pulled a permanent tooth, that this one was still a baby tooth. She may just be afraid The Tooth Fairy will want her money back, but I'm going to believe her. She is confidently, blissfully carefree. I want to grow up to be just like her.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Anniversary 2007
We exchanged cards in the morning and spent the day in different towns. We met at the Jr. High for The Older Daughter's registration/open house in the evening, then went home in separate cars. It sounds terribly unromantic, but the truth is Great Scott gave me possibly the best card ever (he wrote personal stuff in it--my favorite kind); we had Rosewood Farms' chocolates to celebrate after dinner, and we'd purchased a mutual gift--a DVD: "The Merchant of Venice" with Al Pacino and Jeremy Irons--which hopefully we will find time to put to use this weekend.
I was given some excellent celebration suggestions from both my Blogger and my Facebook readers, and will probably put them to use the very next weekend that The Girls to to their grandmother's. Steak it is, and a quiet night together, and candles. Right. Thank you all for your input.
I was given some excellent celebration suggestions from both my Blogger and my Facebook readers, and will probably put them to use the very next weekend that The Girls to to their grandmother's. Steak it is, and a quiet night together, and candles. Right. Thank you all for your input.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Journal Excerpt: May 1, 2007: On Choices and Ambivalence
11:57 p.m.
All day I have been forgetting that this is the first of May. All day time has meant nothing to me save that it touches upon the necessity of picking up the girls after school and eventually feeding them.
I have been playing with fountain pens and inks tonight, foolish ink-stained wretch that I have become. I form letters, loops and backloops, humps and dots and swirls, as if they matter, as if they have meaning there upon the page. "Noodler's Burgundy," I write, and, "Diamine Royal Blue," "Private Reserve Purple Haze" and "Unknown Black." I write them over and over, some with fine nibs, some with medium. Some I write with flex nibs, adding unnecessary flourishes and scrolls until, impatient, I begin to write too quickly, and the flowing lines turn into scrawls and worse-than-scrawls. Afterward there are pages and pages that mean nothing, that say nothing save that I was restless. Nowhere on the pages do the words "conflicted" or "dissatisfied" appear. "Unhappy" is not among the eloquence of looping lines, nor "discouraged" nor "slipping," "dark," "falter" or "lost." Only the objective and the cheerful names of inks: "Apache Sunset," "Purple Martin," "Sapphire Blue,""Claret."
A power line was down across the road in town this morning. I had to back up and turn into a parking lot, then turn around, go back the way I'd come and try a different route to my destination. What if the destination is unknown? What if one finds oneself in a parking lot three times a day? Four? Five? Six? Turning and heading back up the path already traveled? Without direction, without a goal, one loses the way. There is no coming or going save only to keep moving, long for rest as one may well do.
The rain is falling outside, pattering on the walk. It, at least, knows its own direction, single-minded, enviable phenomenon of nature.
"...when we choose
the way by which our only life
is lived, we choose and do not know
what we have chosen, for this
is the heart's choice, not the mind's;
to be true to the heart's one choice
is the long labor of the mind.
He chose, imperfectly, as we must,
the rule of love, and learned
through years of light what darkly
he had chosen: his life, his place,
our place, our lives..."
(For whole poem, click quote and scroll down to Thursday, Aug. 26, 2004.)
Wendell Berry's words strike home both as a sharp blade and as a life preserver that having been thrown, hits the person in need of it and gets his attention. I think of choices I have made, choices I repeat weekly, sometimes daily. I think of how, unknowing, I first chose, how knowingly I continue choosing, a life in which I am so restless, how still that life is full of love and how choosing against it would betray myself far more deeply than I have yet to do, even traitor that I am. "We live the given life and not the planned," writes Berry in another poem, and I believe these words, too, believe that they are not in opposition to the others, believe our hearts in making their own choices, result in given lives, lives far different than anything our minds would have ever planned.
Perhaps it is an exercise in humility and discipline at last, to subjugate the lofty mind to the inexplicable and single-eyed determination of the simple heart. At least there is in it for me this consolation of choice: "...his life, his place,/our place, our lives." It lightens the weight of doubt to consider that my own choice of the rule of love is a choice that has resulted and continues to result in the places and lives of our two daughters and perhaps to some lesser degree, Great Scott's, too. I do not choose perfectly, but I choose. I choose.
All day I have been forgetting that this is the first of May. All day time has meant nothing to me save that it touches upon the necessity of picking up the girls after school and eventually feeding them.
I have been playing with fountain pens and inks tonight, foolish ink-stained wretch that I have become. I form letters, loops and backloops, humps and dots and swirls, as if they matter, as if they have meaning there upon the page. "Noodler's Burgundy," I write, and, "Diamine Royal Blue," "Private Reserve Purple Haze" and "Unknown Black." I write them over and over, some with fine nibs, some with medium. Some I write with flex nibs, adding unnecessary flourishes and scrolls until, impatient, I begin to write too quickly, and the flowing lines turn into scrawls and worse-than-scrawls. Afterward there are pages and pages that mean nothing, that say nothing save that I was restless. Nowhere on the pages do the words "conflicted" or "dissatisfied" appear. "Unhappy" is not among the eloquence of looping lines, nor "discouraged" nor "slipping," "dark," "falter" or "lost." Only the objective and the cheerful names of inks: "Apache Sunset," "Purple Martin," "Sapphire Blue,""Claret."
A power line was down across the road in town this morning. I had to back up and turn into a parking lot, then turn around, go back the way I'd come and try a different route to my destination. What if the destination is unknown? What if one finds oneself in a parking lot three times a day? Four? Five? Six? Turning and heading back up the path already traveled? Without direction, without a goal, one loses the way. There is no coming or going save only to keep moving, long for rest as one may well do.
The rain is falling outside, pattering on the walk. It, at least, knows its own direction, single-minded, enviable phenomenon of nature.
"...when we choose
the way by which our only life
is lived, we choose and do not know
what we have chosen, for this
is the heart's choice, not the mind's;
to be true to the heart's one choice
is the long labor of the mind.
He chose, imperfectly, as we must,
the rule of love, and learned
through years of light what darkly
he had chosen: his life, his place,
our place, our lives..."
(For whole poem, click quote and scroll down to Thursday, Aug. 26, 2004.)
Wendell Berry's words strike home both as a sharp blade and as a life preserver that having been thrown, hits the person in need of it and gets his attention. I think of choices I have made, choices I repeat weekly, sometimes daily. I think of how, unknowing, I first chose, how knowingly I continue choosing, a life in which I am so restless, how still that life is full of love and how choosing against it would betray myself far more deeply than I have yet to do, even traitor that I am. "We live the given life and not the planned," writes Berry in another poem, and I believe these words, too, believe that they are not in opposition to the others, believe our hearts in making their own choices, result in given lives, lives far different than anything our minds would have ever planned.
Perhaps it is an exercise in humility and discipline at last, to subjugate the lofty mind to the inexplicable and single-eyed determination of the simple heart. At least there is in it for me this consolation of choice: "...his life, his place,/our place, our lives." It lightens the weight of doubt to consider that my own choice of the rule of love is a choice that has resulted and continues to result in the places and lives of our two daughters and perhaps to some lesser degree, Great Scott's, too. I do not choose perfectly, but I choose. I choose.
What's in YOUR Refrigerator?
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