February 17, 2012
I hope you smooched your sweetie earlier this week, made it through first round exams, and/or appreciated the almost record-setting amount of rain in February. Speaking for myself, I have done two of those three plus a little more.
One of the "more" I have done is that I have spent some time musing about psychic resources and vegetables. I have to say that I don't spend the bulk of my time sitting at my desk reading reports from behavioral economists. I'm also not sure that I agree completely with this piece that came across my news feed:
http://annualreport.wkkf.org/Whats-Inside/Articles/Stress-Impacts-Good-Parenting.aspx
The premise of this report is that good parenting requires a good store of psychic resources. It goes on to say that economically well-off parents probably have a bigger store of that than low-income parents. Here's a relevant quote for context:
Being a good parent, even when you know what to do, is hard. It requires constant attention, effort and stead-fastness. Children need to be motivated to do things they dislike (like homework or learning their tables); appointments have to be kept; activities chosen and planned; children ferried to classes and games. Teachers have to be met; their feedback incorporated; tutoring or extra help provided or procured. Children’s social lives and how they spend their spare time has to be kept track of.
Good parenting requires psychic resources. Complex decisions must be made. Sacrifices must be made in the moment. This is hard for anyone, whatever their income: we all have limited reserves of self-control, and attention and other psychic resources. In that moment, fretting about the deadline, your psychic resources were depleted. Facing pressure at work, you did not have the freedom of mind needed to exercise patience, prioritize and do what you knew to be right. To an outsider, in that moment, you would look like a bad parent.
Low-income parents, however, also face a tax on their psychic resources. Many things that are trifling and routine to the well-off give sleepless nights to those less fortunate. To take a simple example, everyone may face the same bank overdraft fees – but steering clear of them is pretty easy for the well-off, while for the poor it requires constant attention, steely reserve and enormous amounts of self-control. For the well-off, monthly bills are automatically deducted and there is still some slack left over. For those with less income, finding ways to ensure that rent, utilities and phone bills are paid for out of small, irregular paychecks is an act of complicated financial jugglery.
I will say that at least part of this analogy made sense to me, not necessarily the specifics about income, but more about finding yourself in situations with depleted psychic resources. Any cancer parent can tell you about that. Do not confuse what I mean here. I am not saying that having a child with cancer makes you a bad parent, or even tends you in that direction. I'm saying that any living, breathing, thinking person can actually feel their psychic resources drain lower in the tank when they are navigating the waters of treatment decisions and therapy demands. They/we might have to let other things slip.
I have also found that using depleted psychic resources holds explanatory power in other areas. Take something very routine: cooking supper. I'm a pretty good cook. I don't mind doing it. I can afford it. However. . . the more hectic the work week gets the more I shrink back to a narrow range of meal ideas--the same few vegetables, a couple of casseroles and some easy-to-grill items, carbs that I can store easily in the pantry. Even if I have time to nip by the grocery on the way home rather than rummaging through the cabinets and fridge when I get home, my psychic resources are too sparse to think of anything beyond the old standbys. Believe it or not, I don't browse the produce aisle at 5:30, imagining all the things I could do with bok choy or beets.
I promise I know how to cook more than spaghetti, meatloaf, and grilled chicken breast, with rice or bow-tie pasta and steamed broccoli or asparagus. But I just don't get it done when my psychic resources slump.
Recently, I joined a vegetable service Kelly's Greens where I receive a bag of organic vegetables on Saturdays. This small thing has worked wonders on balancing my psychic resource depletion. Instead of straining to think of what to to cook or what to buy, I have choices already at hand. It becomes easier to cook and to cook in a healthy way. Both of those things not only conserve psychic resources, but in many ways replenish them.
I think the analogy for cancer parents (and those who want to help them, but don't know how) is not to make them use one more ounce of energy or decision making effort to consider what might help them out. Try making it easy for them. Become that "bag of greens" that appears in my refrigerator on Saturdays. If you see someone stuck in the well-worn grooves of habit or someone barely keeping up with the demands their current life places on them, don't ask them what they need, throw them a life preserver or a metaphorical bag of greens.
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Friday, February 17, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Rain
February 4, 2012
Have you missed me? I have totally been lolly gagging around. You know--eating bon bons and drinking champagne, crafting astoundingly detailed replications of famous ancient structures (visualize a Mayan temple or the Hanging Garden of Babylon) out of Ivory soap, and in general, wasting more time than you can shake a stick at. My dereliction to posting is in no way caused by my schedule being filled with the richly rewarding paid work I do, expanding the minds and attitudes of young men and women or in any way by the unpaid work I do--household or community-wise.
I did spend a few extra minutes worrying about the dogs last night. Walter and I met some friends downtown for First Friday, never expecting that we would get four inches of rain before we got home. Willie and Teddy didn't get a drop wet, but I think they had very little appreciation for the light(ning) show or the bass-heavy sound effects (that my local weatherman when I was growing up always called "thunder boomers") that came with our rain. The two and a half more inches that we got as the night progressed plus the run off from the surrounding territory has brought the lake up enough that it is now, once again, recognizable as a lake, in that we could actually stand on the dock and throw a rock that could reach the water. We are still three or four feet low, but it no longer looks like we live on Newt Gingrich's moon base when we look out across our backyard lakebed.
Across town, my friend Michelle's backyard creek came up so fast that her pair of prized "Amish Furniture for Generations" chairs were swept away downstream (so much for the next generations who were expecting to enjoy them). They found one, but are still searching for its mate. If you see an escaped chair that looks like this, drop me a note.
Have you missed me? I have totally been lolly gagging around. You know--eating bon bons and drinking champagne, crafting astoundingly detailed replications of famous ancient structures (visualize a Mayan temple or the Hanging Garden of Babylon) out of Ivory soap, and in general, wasting more time than you can shake a stick at. My dereliction to posting is in no way caused by my schedule being filled with the richly rewarding paid work I do, expanding the minds and attitudes of young men and women or in any way by the unpaid work I do--household or community-wise.
I did spend a few extra minutes worrying about the dogs last night. Walter and I met some friends downtown for First Friday, never expecting that we would get four inches of rain before we got home. Willie and Teddy didn't get a drop wet, but I think they had very little appreciation for the light(ning) show or the bass-heavy sound effects (that my local weatherman when I was growing up always called "thunder boomers") that came with our rain. The two and a half more inches that we got as the night progressed plus the run off from the surrounding territory has brought the lake up enough that it is now, once again, recognizable as a lake, in that we could actually stand on the dock and throw a rock that could reach the water. We are still three or four feet low, but it no longer looks like we live on Newt Gingrich's moon base when we look out across our backyard lakebed.
Across town, my friend Michelle's backyard creek came up so fast that her pair of prized "Amish Furniture for Generations" chairs were swept away downstream (so much for the next generations who were expecting to enjoy them). They found one, but are still searching for its mate. If you see an escaped chair that looks like this, drop me a note.
It is hard to believe a chair this stout looking could just float away, but I have seen stranger things. Back in 1979, my hometown, Alvin, Texas, had the misfortune of being underneath a mile thick raincloud when it stalled. We got 43 inches of rain in 24 hours (From the National Climate Data Center: the Unites States 24-hour record rainfall occurred at Alvin, Texas with 43.00 inches recorded on July 25-26, 1979). We had friends whose house flooded, and their baby grand piano floated out of the living room, shattering the sliding glass door. They found it several miles away and in a state more similar to kindling than its previous state as a magnificent musical instrument.
Anyway, I'm happy for the rain and less happy about the destruction that some experienced.
P.S. Walter's birthday present did arrive--a nook tablet.
Anyway, I'm happy for the rain and less happy about the destruction that some experienced.
P.S. Walter's birthday present did arrive--a nook tablet.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Travel
January 23, 2012
Davis picked out a gift for his dad and chose express shipping. Thanks to the efficiencies of modern logistics management, his gift is seeing more of the country than many of my students have seen in their lives:
That's right:
West and South for 150 miles;
due East for 2250 miles;
mostly South and little West for 175 miles;
mostly West and a little South for 200 miles.
Total miles, so far: 2,784 (still 500 miles to go by the most direct route!).
Can you locate Bryan on the map? Draw a triangle between Houston, Dallas and San Antonio and look for a spot somewhere around the middle of the triangle. You might think it could get here eventually. BUT, considering that--with one exception-- it can't seem to get more than a couple of hours down the road on any particular day, you might think it could be another three days before it arrives. That is, unless you know, as most Texans do, that you really can't get from Texarkana to Bryan by any direct route.
View Larger Map
Davis picked out a gift for his dad and chose express shipping. Thanks to the efficiencies of modern logistics management, his gift is seeing more of the country than many of my students have seen in their lives:
| Memphis, TN, United States | 01/23/2012 | 5:07 A.M. | Departure Scan |
| Memphis, TN, United States | 01/20/2012 | 11:49 P.M. | Arrival Scan |
| Nashville, TN, United States | 01/20/2012 | 7:47 P.M. | Departure Scan |
| 01/20/2012 | 5:57 P.M. | Arrival Scan | |
| Louisville, KY, United States | 01/20/2012 | 4:04 P.M. | Departure Scan |
| 01/20/2012 | 1:24 P.M. | Arrival Scan | |
| Mather, CA, United States | 01/20/2012 | 6:37 A.M. | Departure Scan |
| 01/20/2012 | 2:00 A.M. | Arrival Scan | |
| Sparks, NV, United States | 01/19/2012 | 7:00 P.M. | Departure Scan |
| 01/19/2012 | 4:41 P.M. | Origin Scan |
That's right:
West and South for 150 miles;
due East for 2250 miles;
mostly South and little West for 175 miles;
mostly West and a little South for 200 miles.
Total miles, so far: 2,784 (still 500 miles to go by the most direct route!).
Can you locate Bryan on the map? Draw a triangle between Houston, Dallas and San Antonio and look for a spot somewhere around the middle of the triangle. You might think it could get here eventually. BUT, considering that--with one exception-- it can't seem to get more than a couple of hours down the road on any particular day, you might think it could be another three days before it arrives. That is, unless you know, as most Texans do, that you really can't get from Texarkana to Bryan by any direct route.
View Larger Map
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Love
January 19, 2012
Walter grew up think that his birthday was a holiday. Fort Stockton schools dismissed for Robert E. Lee's and Jefferson Davis's birthday, which happened to beWLB's birthday as well (Unfortunately, in 1973, the Texas legislature combine the previously official state holidays honoring those two specific men, who Walter didn't mind sharing a birthday with, into a single "Confederate Heroes Day." At that point he may have either started claiming birthdays with Edgar Allen Poe, or perhaps only mentioned it in the years when the 19th fell on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.).
For some reason, Walter doesn't end up in too many photos. I really like the one I opened with because Walter looks so relaxed, but also very wise. It also shows the rocker that has been in the family for generations.
Erin talked him into this birthday pic a few years ago. I think his birthday must have coincided with MLK Day that year, which would explain how Ayesha ended up visiting (probably a three day weekend!)
Walter grew up think that his birthday was a holiday. Fort Stockton schools dismissed for Robert E. Lee's and Jefferson Davis's birthday, which happened to beWLB's birthday as well (Unfortunately, in 1973, the Texas legislature combine the previously official state holidays honoring those two specific men, who Walter didn't mind sharing a birthday with, into a single "Confederate Heroes Day." At that point he may have either started claiming birthdays with Edgar Allen Poe, or perhaps only mentioned it in the years when the 19th fell on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.).
For some reason, Walter doesn't end up in too many photos. I really like the one I opened with because Walter looks so relaxed, but also very wise. It also shows the rocker that has been in the family for generations.
Erin talked him into this birthday pic a few years ago. I think his birthday must have coincided with MLK Day that year, which would explain how Ayesha ended up visiting (probably a three day weekend!)
 |
| From WELCOME TO ERIN'S HOME |
Tonight will definitely be quieter when Walter and I celebrate his birthday than it ever was when Erin was in charge of the party, but we will have a lovely and loving time nevertheless.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Steam and Bake
January 8, 2012
Classify this under first world problems.
Walter and I like cabbage, both as slaw and steamed. With the right kind of prep, we could probably eat a whole head of cabbage over a few meals if we made it into slaw. But. Those store-bought bags of shredded cabbage with both purple and green varieties and some bits of carrot added for color are a lot easier than starting from scratch with a head of cabbage.
So, usually when we have a head of cabbage we slice and steam it. Except.
There is no way we can eat a whole head of steamed cabbage. Even on our healthiest days. So, I usually take out my biggest chopper, slice it, steam half, and return the other half to the refrigerator to mildew until I can lug it out to the compost pile. Not that I intend this. It just happens every time. I'm usually not in the mood for steamed cabbage two nights in a row. Somehow, the half a head gets pushed to the side and forgotten. It wouldn't be that hard to cook it all at once, but I could never figure out a way to use leftover cabbage (and perhaps I am always a little too pleased with myself for cooking with cabbage in the first place, and as a side note, that part of the joy of cooking cabbage is that it allows me to call to mind the Cosby Show episode when Clair Huxtable was turning 46 and the kids put on a show that featured among other things the price of a head of cabbage at various points in her life). Thus I keep buying cabbage, and thus I keep throwing half of it away.
To crack this puzzle, I finally consulted the inestimable James Beard's American Cookery and found a very cool recipe that completely eliminates the problem of what to do if you can't eat a whole cabbage in one sitting. Ladies Cabbage.
"Ladies cabbage must have been a very fashionable dish, for it appears in recipes by everyone from Mrs. Harland to Mrs. Rorer. Strange how certain dishes have a vogue for years and years and suddenly disappear. No one hears of ladies cabbage nowadays."
Let's just suffice it to say that if you add enough butter, cream, and eggs to chopped up, leftover cabbage, you will never worry about buying more cabbage than you can eat. You might even decide two heads are better than one.
Classify this under first world problems.
Walter and I like cabbage, both as slaw and steamed. With the right kind of prep, we could probably eat a whole head of cabbage over a few meals if we made it into slaw. But. Those store-bought bags of shredded cabbage with both purple and green varieties and some bits of carrot added for color are a lot easier than starting from scratch with a head of cabbage.
So, usually when we have a head of cabbage we slice and steam it. Except.
There is no way we can eat a whole head of steamed cabbage. Even on our healthiest days. So, I usually take out my biggest chopper, slice it, steam half, and return the other half to the refrigerator to mildew until I can lug it out to the compost pile. Not that I intend this. It just happens every time. I'm usually not in the mood for steamed cabbage two nights in a row. Somehow, the half a head gets pushed to the side and forgotten. It wouldn't be that hard to cook it all at once, but I could never figure out a way to use leftover cabbage (and perhaps I am always a little too pleased with myself for cooking with cabbage in the first place, and as a side note, that part of the joy of cooking cabbage is that it allows me to call to mind the Cosby Show episode when Clair Huxtable was turning 46 and the kids put on a show that featured among other things the price of a head of cabbage at various points in her life). Thus I keep buying cabbage, and thus I keep throwing half of it away.
To crack this puzzle, I finally consulted the inestimable James Beard's American Cookery and found a very cool recipe that completely eliminates the problem of what to do if you can't eat a whole cabbage in one sitting. Ladies Cabbage.
"Ladies cabbage must have been a very fashionable dish, for it appears in recipes by everyone from Mrs. Harland to Mrs. Rorer. Strange how certain dishes have a vogue for years and years and suddenly disappear. No one hears of ladies cabbage nowadays."
Let's just suffice it to say that if you add enough butter, cream, and eggs to chopped up, leftover cabbage, you will never worry about buying more cabbage than you can eat. You might even decide two heads are better than one.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Confess
December 29, 2011
I had an appalling realization last week. Finding myself with a bit of extra time on my hands, I started some heavy-duty cleaning, including in one of my three attics (and don't you think owning three attics in the same house is a little outrageous? Perhaps even decadent?). Anyway, one of the things I found was a rather large basket of rags and leftover clothes and sheets meant to be made into rags at some point. That finding, in and of itself, is not worth confessing. That I have a similarly large stash of rags in each of the other attics AND in the shed and some closets led me to a realization:
I am unable to throw away clothes.
Think about this. I have bought or received clothes for a family of four for more than half my life. I do give away some items. I have donated wearable clothes to the Twin City Mission and to various garage sales for good causes. I have passed along some things as hand me downs. However, as I pondered it, I could not remember EVER throwing away clothes. Somehow, the idea that Someone Somewhere cut and sewed the item, as opposed to something mass produced and spit out by a machine, gives me pause. I can't seem to throw those things away, even when they are no longer fit for anyone to wear. I just put used clothes, sheets, towels, socks, even underwear, in a box or basket "to make rags out of them." I have now reached the point that I have so many rags I could clean up all the sites on the Superfund list and still not deplete my stock.
I think I need a chiffonier! Or in English, a rag picker.
Did you know that the average American throws away 67.9 pounds of clothing and rags each year? With some 20 million people in the state of Texas, that’s 1.4 billion pounds of clothing thrown away each year in Texas alone.
Surely, there must be a way to recycle and/or re-use the fabric, buttons, zippers. Locals, do you know anyplace that recycles clothes and other fabric items? I'm talking about items no longer wearable--stained, hopelessly out of fashion, torn, faded.
Barring that (and this is a serious request), would anyone be willing to teach me how to make rag rugs? And if I learn, are any of you willing to receive a rag rug gift from me?
An addendum to this confession:
The day I discovered my rag problem, I was confessing it to my friends, Jim and Margie. They have just bought a new place near Dripping Springs to replace their Bastrop home lost to the wildfires last fall. When I bemoaned my overabundant bounty of rags, Margie pulled the most wistful look, and said, "Jim and I were just shopping for rags to use to rub oil into our butcher block island in our new kitchen. They are really hard to find at the store, and of course, I don't have any now. I don't really even have spare clothes to make into rags."
I never imagined giving a bag of hole-y socks, ripped knit shirts, too-old-to-wear-for-yard-work pants, and a bottom sheet with bad elastic as a Christmas gift. And what's more, I never thought the receiver would be delighted.
I had an appalling realization last week. Finding myself with a bit of extra time on my hands, I started some heavy-duty cleaning, including in one of my three attics (and don't you think owning three attics in the same house is a little outrageous? Perhaps even decadent?). Anyway, one of the things I found was a rather large basket of rags and leftover clothes and sheets meant to be made into rags at some point. That finding, in and of itself, is not worth confessing. That I have a similarly large stash of rags in each of the other attics AND in the shed and some closets led me to a realization:
I am unable to throw away clothes.
Think about this. I have bought or received clothes for a family of four for more than half my life. I do give away some items. I have donated wearable clothes to the Twin City Mission and to various garage sales for good causes. I have passed along some things as hand me downs. However, as I pondered it, I could not remember EVER throwing away clothes. Somehow, the idea that Someone Somewhere cut and sewed the item, as opposed to something mass produced and spit out by a machine, gives me pause. I can't seem to throw those things away, even when they are no longer fit for anyone to wear. I just put used clothes, sheets, towels, socks, even underwear, in a box or basket "to make rags out of them." I have now reached the point that I have so many rags I could clean up all the sites on the Superfund list and still not deplete my stock.
I think I need a chiffonier! Or in English, a rag picker.
Did you know that the average American throws away 67.9 pounds of clothing and rags each year? With some 20 million people in the state of Texas, that’s 1.4 billion pounds of clothing thrown away each year in Texas alone.
Surely, there must be a way to recycle and/or re-use the fabric, buttons, zippers. Locals, do you know anyplace that recycles clothes and other fabric items? I'm talking about items no longer wearable--stained, hopelessly out of fashion, torn, faded.
Barring that (and this is a serious request), would anyone be willing to teach me how to make rag rugs? And if I learn, are any of you willing to receive a rag rug gift from me?
An addendum to this confession:
The day I discovered my rag problem, I was confessing it to my friends, Jim and Margie. They have just bought a new place near Dripping Springs to replace their Bastrop home lost to the wildfires last fall. When I bemoaned my overabundant bounty of rags, Margie pulled the most wistful look, and said, "Jim and I were just shopping for rags to use to rub oil into our butcher block island in our new kitchen. They are really hard to find at the store, and of course, I don't have any now. I don't really even have spare clothes to make into rags."
I never imagined giving a bag of hole-y socks, ripped knit shirts, too-old-to-wear-for-yard-work pants, and a bottom sheet with bad elastic as a Christmas gift. And what's more, I never thought the receiver would be delighted.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Open Letter to a Grieving Friend
December 24, 2011
I have a friend who has suffered some gut-wrenching losses. She's pretty far from friends and family and pulling the oars towards finishing her dissertation. There are so many people I know who can identify with her words to me: "so, this death thing seems to get worse, or at least it has for me. I guess it was the whole shock thing that has made this last longer? or does it just get harder the longer they are gone? I'm finding it absolutely ridiculous . . ." and so on.
"Dear Friend,
I'm pretty sure I'm not an expert here, but since you asked:
Vickie"
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| Erin's First Christmas Eve--14 Years Ago |
Many of you know these words and all the verses that follow after. Here's my current thinking on that topic and what I wrote her [with a couple of corrections and grammar fixes]:
"Dear Friend,
I'm pretty sure I'm not an expert here, but since you asked:
I think the whole living on after your Rock of Gibraltar dies is a pretty sketchy process, and I really think you need to find more ways to be gentle with yourself. Consider how tough what you are experiencing really is:
You have lost part of your self, all the shared memories and specialness. It is not particularly fulfilling to try to describe those things to others, because it makes what you are talking about feel so light weight and inconsequential. Then it makes you mad or sad that that person can't really know what you are talking about, describing, trying to express. They can't know the person. There aren't any mores, just what you have stored in your memory and relics.
It is okay to feel empty. It is okay to start crying at really weird and inconsequential (or heavy-weight) things. Give yourself a chance to talk about it and talk about your dad. If it helps, write me out long letters telling me about him. Take little steps. Nothing is the same as it was.
The main thing is that you don't have to decide how you are supposed to feel about it, how you explain it to yourself emotionally or intellectually, how you frame your life going forward, and especially you don't have to stick with one answer. My feelings, explanations, rationales, and so on about Erin change to match what I need. I don't have to put it all in a box that I can store forever.
I'm sorry you are lonely and suffering. Think of a small thing you can do to honor your feelings for your situations, and do it. It's even better if you can do it with others. Find a verb that works.
About the photo at the top: I think we bought this Santa suit for our oldest niece Lauren. I know her sister Shannon wore it, as well as Davis, and possibly Annabelle. I don't really know where it is now, but I think I need to look for it in the attic next time I clean up there. We still have the wagon (much worse for wear). We hauled Erin around the lake in it when she was little and later at various times when her adventurous spirit outstripped her ability to navigate where she wanted to go. The Elmo plane and train were just part of the always eclectic tastes Erin had in toys (and everything really). The smile? That's just the way she rolled.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Exercise
December 13, 2011
I'm a day ahead of my usual schedule. Ordinarily, I turn my grades in on the Wednesday of finals week and G.T.H.O.O.D (Get The Hell Out Of Dodge) so that I don't become a wheedle magnet for students looking for a mullet who might change their grade for no other reason than they have a sad story and a compelling look on their face. I turned all my grades in this morning and can now avoid my office for a few weeks, as if stopping by would unleash a plague of locust. Then I hit the gym.
I have a new incentive program to make me more faithful about working out. I love reading mysteries, but some authors like Laurie R. King I just gobble up. Here's my latest:
The key to this new approach to making sure I get to the gym is that I will only let myself read The God of the Hive if I am on an exercise bike at the Rec Center. I have other things I can read at home, even other mysteries, but to make progress in this one, I have to be exercising. I'm about 160 pages in now, and I can honestly say I'm studying my calendar and my to do list to see when the next time I can make it to work out. I'm glad I have my semester out of the way. . . now what to do about that pesky approaching holiday that requires cleaning and cooking and other activities that might stand as a barrier to finishing the book and solving the mystery?
I'm a day ahead of my usual schedule. Ordinarily, I turn my grades in on the Wednesday of finals week and G.T.H.O.O.D (Get The Hell Out Of Dodge) so that I don't become a wheedle magnet for students looking for a mullet who might change their grade for no other reason than they have a sad story and a compelling look on their face. I turned all my grades in this morning and can now avoid my office for a few weeks, as if stopping by would unleash a plague of locust. Then I hit the gym.
I have a new incentive program to make me more faithful about working out. I love reading mysteries, but some authors like Laurie R. King I just gobble up. Here's my latest:
The key to this new approach to making sure I get to the gym is that I will only let myself read The God of the Hive if I am on an exercise bike at the Rec Center. I have other things I can read at home, even other mysteries, but to make progress in this one, I have to be exercising. I'm about 160 pages in now, and I can honestly say I'm studying my calendar and my to do list to see when the next time I can make it to work out. I'm glad I have my semester out of the way. . . now what to do about that pesky approaching holiday that requires cleaning and cooking and other activities that might stand as a barrier to finishing the book and solving the mystery?
Monday, December 5, 2011
Narrate
December 5, 2011
Many weeks and months have passed since I gave a straight narrative of the Buenger activities (don't you feel boredom coming on, just anticipating a recital of "we went _______" then "we ate ______" and "saw ________"). Well, if your friends can't give you a little boredom and a chance to snooze at the screen this hectic, fast-paced, and stressful time of year, then what are friends for?
Do you believe in coincidences? Me neither. Except, here's what I read on my friend D'Anna's facebook page tonight:
Don't you just hate when you painstakingly prepare a beautiful quiche, put it in the oven, wait patiently for the timer to go off alerting you that your masterpiece is ready, and then discover that you forgot to turn the oven on? Yeah, me too.
The exact same thing happened to me last Tuesday. I decided that I would whip up a quiche and use up the extra pie crust I made for Thanksgiving (and I want you to notice that I was using healthy ingredients, like broccoli instead of Karo syrup and sugar or chocolate and heavy cream). I know I had the oven on at some point, because I baked the crust for about ten minuted before I filled it.
Anyway, I checked it at the minimum bake time and thought the egg part still looked runny. It also looked that way at the maximum bake time. At some point around then I noticed the oven was off, but I thought I might have turned it off the first time I checked it. I kept cooking it a little more and a little more. Eventually, I doubled down on the bake time and pulled a decent well-cooked quiche out of the oven to serve to The Very HungryCaterpillar Walter.
Given that very lame mistake, I was a bit leery when I was tapped as the voice of God for the liturgy on Sunday. However, when I thought about it, I figured acting as God, even for just a few minutes at the beginning of a church service might be pretty handy for someone like me. If I forgot to heat the quiche, I might just smite it down or materialize as a burning bush to finish it off. Did I mention I was the voice of the Old Testament Hebrew God?
The God-thing was fine for those few moments during the worship service, but no residual effect lingered that gave me the capacity to answer prayers or even comfort my people (which was the theme of the liturgy). I haven't even been able to channel my inner God to connect with Elaine and Mark and catch up with their doings down under. Every time I get on the computer, it seems like they have just moved on to something else. Plus, my trusty little MacBook is about to go to MacBook heaven. Even the Geek Squad only offered workarounds to make me more comfortable until the inevitable end comes. Can I enroll in Mac Hospice?
[Note Bene: if you come across a word or letter that doesn't belong in a sentence, it is NOT MY FAULT. Part of my Mac disease is cursor hopping. I'll be typing along at the speed of molasses--looking at the keyboard so I don't make mistakes, of course--and when I look up at the screen, my little blinky friend has decided to pay a visit to the previous line or take a Ground Hog's Day trip back several words, returning repeatedly like some perverse arsonist admiring the burning building. My touch pad is no better, picking up random parts of the screen and moving them by slight of hand. I won't even mention the spinning beach ball of death that haunts any effort that requires more than a minimum of active memory.]
Having discovered that I neither had God-like powers to resurrect my Macbook from death or even the ability to properly time the baking of dinner, Walter left this morning--choosing to entertain himself in the archives in Austin for the week. I think he also noticed the fit of organizing and furniture re-arranging that struck me when I finished class for the semester last Thursday. We now have a fresh look in the living room and all indications are that I plan to steamroll my way through the house, until everything is flattened or at least de-cluttered and put away.
I don't know why I'm such an invalid when it comes to keeping up with household chores and normal, routine activities during the semester. All I can say, that I don't have classes and my schedule still doesn't have much wiggle room. But at least by tomorrow the laundry, including all the towels and
sheets) will be washed and I will have a fresh haircut.
Wednesday, Erin's Dream Wands, which played a small role in the lighting of the Childhood Cancer Awareness Christmas Tree (Thanks to Ruth Hoffman and Amber Masso of the American Childhood Cancer Organization and the teens and teachers at Hammond-Oliver High School), will serve as the First Presbyterian Church, Bryan's Advent service project. We will be making wands for the Cure Me, I'm
Irish fund raising event in Boston in March, benefitting groundbreaking neuroblastoma research.
Then, the lanyards and other beaded delights are headed back to Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church for the Women's Dinner and gift market on Thursday night.
No doubt Presbyterians all around will be saying God is among us this week.
Many weeks and months have passed since I gave a straight narrative of the Buenger activities (don't you feel boredom coming on, just anticipating a recital of "we went _______" then "we ate ______" and "saw ________"). Well, if your friends can't give you a little boredom and a chance to snooze at the screen this hectic, fast-paced, and stressful time of year, then what are friends for?
Do you believe in coincidences? Me neither. Except, here's what I read on my friend D'Anna's facebook page tonight:
Don't you just hate when you painstakingly prepare a beautiful quiche, put it in the oven, wait patiently for the timer to go off alerting you that your masterpiece is ready, and then discover that you forgot to turn the oven on? Yeah, me too.
The exact same thing happened to me last Tuesday. I decided that I would whip up a quiche and use up the extra pie crust I made for Thanksgiving (and I want you to notice that I was using healthy ingredients, like broccoli instead of Karo syrup and sugar or chocolate and heavy cream). I know I had the oven on at some point, because I baked the crust for about ten minuted before I filled it.
Anyway, I checked it at the minimum bake time and thought the egg part still looked runny. It also looked that way at the maximum bake time. At some point around then I noticed the oven was off, but I thought I might have turned it off the first time I checked it. I kept cooking it a little more and a little more. Eventually, I doubled down on the bake time and pulled a decent well-cooked quiche out of the oven to serve to The Very Hungry
Given that very lame mistake, I was a bit leery when I was tapped as the voice of God for the liturgy on Sunday. However, when I thought about it, I figured acting as God, even for just a few minutes at the beginning of a church service might be pretty handy for someone like me. If I forgot to heat the quiche, I might just smite it down or materialize as a burning bush to finish it off. Did I mention I was the voice of the Old Testament Hebrew God?
The God-thing was fine for those few moments during the worship service, but no residual effect lingered that gave me the capacity to answer prayers or even comfort my people (which was the theme of the liturgy). I haven't even been able to channel my inner God to connect with Elaine and Mark and catch up with their doings down under. Every time I get on the computer, it seems like they have just moved on to something else. Plus, my trusty little MacBook is about to go to MacBook heaven. Even the Geek Squad only offered workarounds to make me more comfortable until the inevitable end comes. Can I enroll in Mac Hospice?
[Note Bene: if you come across a word or letter that doesn't belong in a sentence, it is NOT MY FAULT. Part of my Mac disease is cursor hopping. I'll be typing along at the speed of molasses--looking at the keyboard so I don't make mistakes, of course--and when I look up at the screen, my little blinky friend has decided to pay a visit to the previous line or take a Ground Hog's Day trip back several words, returning repeatedly like some perverse arsonist admiring the burning building. My touch pad is no better, picking up random parts of the screen and moving them by slight of hand. I won't even mention the spinning beach ball of death that haunts any effort that requires more than a minimum of active memory.]
Having discovered that I neither had God-like powers to resurrect my Macbook from death or even the ability to properly time the baking of dinner, Walter left this morning--choosing to entertain himself in the archives in Austin for the week. I think he also noticed the fit of organizing and furniture re-arranging that struck me when I finished class for the semester last Thursday. We now have a fresh look in the living room and all indications are that I plan to steamroll my way through the house, until everything is flattened or at least de-cluttered and put away.
I don't know why I'm such an invalid when it comes to keeping up with household chores and normal, routine activities during the semester. All I can say, that I don't have classes and my schedule still doesn't have much wiggle room. But at least by tomorrow the laundry, including all the towels and
sheets) will be washed and I will have a fresh haircut.
Wednesday, Erin's Dream Wands, which played a small role in the lighting of the Childhood Cancer Awareness Christmas Tree (Thanks to Ruth Hoffman and Amber Masso of the American Childhood Cancer Organization and the teens and teachers at Hammond-Oliver High School), will serve as the First Presbyterian Church, Bryan's Advent service project. We will be making wands for the Cure Me, I'm
Irish fund raising event in Boston in March, benefitting groundbreaking neuroblastoma research.
Then, the lanyards and other beaded delights are headed back to Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church for the Women's Dinner and gift market on Thursday night.
No doubt Presbyterians all around will be saying God is among us this week.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Thank
November 28, 2011
I know we have a boatload of things to be thankful for this year. We are a lot closer to the top of the 99% than the bottom of the 99%. We have had nothing but routine encounters with the American Healthcare System this year (although I did field a call late one evening from Davis asking how he might tell if his collarbone was broken. . . I described. . . he self-diagnosed that he was sore, but fine). We haveenough more than enough food, and three fine dogs.
The true moment of realization didn't come on Tuesday when my sister arrived to help with Thanksgiving Day preparation (appreciated!) or on Wednesday when I filled the house with the spicy smell of pies and cookies or on Thursday when Davis arrived safely and we shared our meal with about forty folks. Friday was good, too, but not the day that I realized how thankful I was.
Thanks settled in around us on Saturday morning, and we received the gifts and blessings we needed. First, we had a gentle, steady rain. You can't understand what that means unless you have ever been 20 inches behind for the year, staring at a lake in your backyard that looks like the surface of the moon. Then, each of had our own special thing. Katherine got to sleep in, without guilt or interruption. Walter got to putter around in his shed with no real deadline or urgent item in his inbox (he also got to make Davis's plane reservation for his trip home at Christmas!). My mom settled in with her new beads (donated crystals and lampwork beads from a new friend near Franklin) to do what she does best: create. Davis and I fitted ourselves on to the living room sofa in between the dogs, tuned in the Manchester United/Newcastle match, and worked a jigsaw puzzle.
There were no chores hanging over anyone's heads. No meetings, conference calls, or stacks of papers to grade. We had leftovers if anyone was hungry. We had each other. That did it for me. Complete. Total. Thankfulness. Enough for me.
I know we have a boatload of things to be thankful for this year. We are a lot closer to the top of the 99% than the bottom of the 99%. We have had nothing but routine encounters with the American Healthcare System this year (although I did field a call late one evening from Davis asking how he might tell if his collarbone was broken. . . I described. . . he self-diagnosed that he was sore, but fine). We have
The true moment of realization didn't come on Tuesday when my sister arrived to help with Thanksgiving Day preparation (appreciated!) or on Wednesday when I filled the house with the spicy smell of pies and cookies or on Thursday when Davis arrived safely and we shared our meal with about forty folks. Friday was good, too, but not the day that I realized how thankful I was.
Thanks settled in around us on Saturday morning, and we received the gifts and blessings we needed. First, we had a gentle, steady rain. You can't understand what that means unless you have ever been 20 inches behind for the year, staring at a lake in your backyard that looks like the surface of the moon. Then, each of had our own special thing. Katherine got to sleep in, without guilt or interruption. Walter got to putter around in his shed with no real deadline or urgent item in his inbox (he also got to make Davis's plane reservation for his trip home at Christmas!). My mom settled in with her new beads (donated crystals and lampwork beads from a new friend near Franklin) to do what she does best: create. Davis and I fitted ourselves on to the living room sofa in between the dogs, tuned in the Manchester United/Newcastle match, and worked a jigsaw puzzle.
There were no chores hanging over anyone's heads. No meetings, conference calls, or stacks of papers to grade. We had leftovers if anyone was hungry. We had each other. That did it for me. Complete. Total. Thankfulness. Enough for me.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Return (of the Prince)
November 21, 2011
I am posting this cartoon from PhD Comics last week in honor of the Young Prince who will return to the castle on Thursday for a brief sojourn:
Notice the subtle eyebrow action that reveals the true underlying energy and emotion in each one? I'm betting he is leaving at least one prof who looks like this behind in Columbus, when he boards the plane.
Walter and I have been galloping through the semester, with me trying to speed things up so that I can survive without drowning (kind of like those water striders that can somehow use microscopic hairs to
trap air and skate along the surface of ponds, even in stormy situations--did I just imply that I haven't shaved my legs in a very long time?) and Walter trying to slow each day down to prolong his faculty development leave and get more research and writing done before he returns to the classroom in January.
Since I last posted I have finished the big pre-finals grading push, spent some time in Galveston, and helped create some progress on Project Collaborate (though I prefer the much more descriptive and appropriate moniker, Project Coolaborate).
I have avoided decorating for yet another holiday, but I will bake, starting tonight (anything to avoid house cleaning, right?). We are ducking the big Thanksgiving hosting opportunity this year (always tough without Erin, but perhaps impossible without our beloved Tjoelkers. . . will you even celebrate Thanksgiving in Australia?). The church is trying a new T-day option for A&M/UT students and church family as a pre-game option, so we will still get the extravagant holiday option, just not at my house.
I wanted to let you all know that I managed to finish A Tale of Two Cities amid all my November madness, and I will have you know that I eventually remembered at least some of the plot. In fact on about page 364 (of 412 pages), I finally figured out what Sydney Carton was plotting (which made the last line of the book, which I memorized in 1976, make sense). Unfortunately, I had no recollection of the events of the next-to-last chapter, even while I was reading it.
We are now planning our next M-D (mother/daughter) Reading Club selection. I'm looking for something in non-Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez in Latin American literature. Any suggestions/ideas?
I am posting this cartoon from PhD Comics last week in honor of the Young Prince who will return to the castle on Thursday for a brief sojourn:
Walter and I have been galloping through the semester, with me trying to speed things up so that I can survive without drowning (kind of like those water striders that can somehow use microscopic hairs to
trap air and skate along the surface of ponds, even in stormy situations--did I just imply that I haven't shaved my legs in a very long time?) and Walter trying to slow each day down to prolong his faculty development leave and get more research and writing done before he returns to the classroom in January.
Since I last posted I have finished the big pre-finals grading push, spent some time in Galveston, and helped create some progress on Project Collaborate (though I prefer the much more descriptive and appropriate moniker, Project Coolaborate).
I have avoided decorating for yet another holiday, but I will bake, starting tonight (anything to avoid house cleaning, right?). We are ducking the big Thanksgiving hosting opportunity this year (always tough without Erin, but perhaps impossible without our beloved Tjoelkers. . . will you even celebrate Thanksgiving in Australia?). The church is trying a new T-day option for A&M/UT students and church family as a pre-game option, so we will still get the extravagant holiday option, just not at my house.
I wanted to let you all know that I managed to finish A Tale of Two Cities amid all my November madness, and I will have you know that I eventually remembered at least some of the plot. In fact on about page 364 (of 412 pages), I finally figured out what Sydney Carton was plotting (which made the last line of the book, which I memorized in 1976, make sense). Unfortunately, I had no recollection of the events of the next-to-last chapter, even while I was reading it.
We are now planning our next M-D (mother/daughter) Reading Club selection. I'm looking for something in non-Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez in Latin American literature. Any suggestions/ideas?
Thursday, November 10, 2011
(Can't) Wait
November 10, 2011
I have another70 40 15 (but who's counting?) minutes of office hours and two more classes before I rocket out of the microplex on the way to Galveston, Moody Gardens, and the annual meeting of the Texas Art Education Association.
I have another
You are right, I am neither an artist nor an art educator, but Erin's Dream Lanyards was chosen as the TAEA's Art and Soul philanthropic project this year, and I am going to show our wares! This is an enormous honor and adventure!
To demonstrate how nice it will be to stay at Moody Gardens (even if it means driving through Houston during rush hours, even if it means doing booth set up after the exhibitors' reception tonight, even if it means popping up to man the booth by 7:30 tomorrow morning), click here to see my calendar this week and next week. The blue shaded areas are only the times that I am actually scheduled and do not include task that must be done (such as meal preparation or grading) that I must fit in around the blocked out time. November is a cruel, cruel month for academics.
For all my lanyard makers: I know they will adore your creative efforts. Thank you for helping me make this endeavor work!
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Listen and Trade
November 3, 2011
My first audio book experience came in the early-to-mid 90s in the form of John Erickson's Hank the Cowdog series.
Davis was mad about Hank! We bought a bunch of books from Producers Co-op, but given Hank's jinky syntax and his insatiable need to conflate his intelligence by tossing around incredibly long, bastardized words, they were much beyond Davis's reading skills. Then we discovered the library had them on cassettes, voiced by John Erickson himself. Davis resurrected Rockin' Robot, his toddler toy:
And spent countless hours listening to, singing along with (notice the attached microphone which allowed him to belt out the songs Erickson composed and performed for the audio versions of his books), and laughing about Hank's adventures. He drove his cousins into submission by following them around when they visited, making them listen to one of the many stories he had collected, including MORE THAN ONCE the tale of the Incredible Priceless Corn Cob. In addition to the rich dialogue that occurred before, during, and after Hank traded his steak fat scraps for a corn cob to Pete the Barn Cat (including "ou unce! I an't alk. I ave a orn ob in y outh!" [translation: "You dunce! I have a corn cob in my mouth!"]) , Davis loved to croon "I'm Rich!" and "My Heart Goes Wild For You."
My first audio book experience came in the early-to-mid 90s in the form of John Erickson's Hank the Cowdog series.
Davis was mad about Hank! We bought a bunch of books from Producers Co-op, but given Hank's jinky syntax and his insatiable need to conflate his intelligence by tossing around incredibly long, bastardized words, they were much beyond Davis's reading skills. Then we discovered the library had them on cassettes, voiced by John Erickson himself. Davis resurrected Rockin' Robot, his toddler toy:
And spent countless hours listening to, singing along with (notice the attached microphone which allowed him to belt out the songs Erickson composed and performed for the audio versions of his books), and laughing about Hank's adventures. He drove his cousins into submission by following them around when they visited, making them listen to one of the many stories he had collected, including MORE THAN ONCE the tale of the Incredible Priceless Corn Cob. In addition to the rich dialogue that occurred before, during, and after Hank traded his steak fat scraps for a corn cob to Pete the Barn Cat (including "ou unce! I an't alk. I ave a orn ob in y outh!" [translation: "You dunce! I have a corn cob in my mouth!"]) , Davis loved to croon "I'm Rich!" and "My Heart Goes Wild For You."
After Hank, Davis moved into Star Wars (first on cassette, later on CD) and the fan fiction that took the adventures of Luke, Princess Leia, and Hans Solo forward. When he outgrew them, the Buengers shared a disinterest in audio books for a few years. Jim Dale brought us back to the fold and we spent about seven years listening and re-listening to Harry Potter, with a few side tours down other children's and youth authors and their books.
I never really considered listening to audio books on my own. I love to read, and I'm pretty good at it. But I also like to listen to a wide variety of music genres and to geeky, political news. I have satellite radio in my car, so I'm never really bereft of options.
When I received the latest Patricia Cornwall audio book for my birthday, I couldn't reasonably figure out when I would ever have time to listen to eleven CDs of unabridged mystery and pathology, as experienced through the life (actually just a day or two) of Kay Scarpetta.
Now I wonder why oil companies don't invest in or simply underwrite the entire audio book industry.
Ever since I slipped the first CD into my car player, I have looked for reasons to drive somewhere. Here comes a true confession: I had gotten to the start of the tenth CD (and a very pivotal and exciting point in the story) as I arrived for work on Tuesday. When I got a call during the day that something I had ordered was ready for pick up, I didn't pause a beat to consider that (1) the item was neither urgent or critical; (2) it was the end of the workday--5:15--and traffic would be heavy; or (3) the store was several miles in the exact opposite direction as my home. Instead, I thought, "Oh good, maybe I'll be in the car long enough to help Kay resolve her mystery!"
I only have a few tracks left on the last CD. I think I will finish on the drive home in a few minutes, especially if I go by the meat market on the way. At that point, it will be available for you to borrow! I'm not saying that Port Mortuary is the best, most compelling, tantalizing book I can name. I know it probably isn't, BUT having a book read out loud to you while you drive around doing the mundane things in life is a luxury and a delight. If you have discovered this for yourself, I'd love to trade books with you.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Flap
October 28, 2011
I actually don't know a huge amount about chaos theory, and I don't spend too much of my time thinking about dynamism, randomness, or the importance of initial conditions. If I did, I would drive myself crazy imagining what all that would mean for Erin and her cancer. Instead, I want to talk about green shorts and the butterfly effect (from chaos theory--the illustrative example of a hurricane's formation being contingent on whether or not a distant butterfly had flapped its wings several weeks before).
We lived in Nashville when Davis turned five. We had tried a few, but not many, activities for him before then. Gymboree was a failed experiment because he would lag behind his class as they moved from station to station, preferring to sort and organize the bean bags or balancing hoops and line up the other equipment, rather than moving on to the next activity. Kindermusick didn't work that well for any of us because, though we love to sing, we are all tone deaf. T-ball was a stretch that we weren't ready to try because of basic hand-to-eye coordination issues. Davis could run really fast and really far, but even his daughter-of-a-track-coach mother knew that five was too early to start track training.
Soccer seemed like an okay choice.
It fit his running and endurance skill set, didn't require much extra equipment or early hour practices (like pee wee hockey would have), and neither Walter nor I knew much about it (thus, eliminating, we thought, the idea that we would become overinvolved or overbearing sports parents). We signed Davis up, he played, and frankly none of us remember much at all about that first fall of soccer.
We moved back to Bryan (for the last time) over Christmas, and within a few weeks Davis brought home a flyer from school announcing Bryan Soccer Club sign up. We were fairly indifferent but thought it might be a good way to meet some new kids, so we found the checkbook (there's always a checkbook in youth sports) and a copy of his birth certificate and headed out to stand in various long lines at Sul Ross Elementary cafeteria.
We got to the last table, where you turn everything in, and the woman asked if we were requesting a particular coach and if not, we would be assigned to a team, mostly based on geography and where Davis attended school. I didn't have a coach in mind. In fact, I didn't have a clue about who was coaching and who it might be best to avoid or try to suck up to or anything that a "with it" parent would have figured out ahead of time. I was about to shrug and take pot luck when Davis piped up from behind me: "I want to play on the green team." His team in Nashville had green jerseys and gold shorts, which fit nicely with the rest of his wardrobe that prominently featured the color green. The woman wrote "green" across the top of his application just like I had observed her write the coach's name on other paperwork ahead of me ("Coach Green?" I thought fleetingly.).
It turned out there were no green jerseys that season in the Bryan Soccer Club. The compromise was to assign Davis to the blue team, because they had green shorts (a last minute addition to a popular coach's roster) . I don't remember much about that season or several of the seasons after that. Davis didn't explode onto the soccer scene. He didn't have a preternatural gift with the soccer ball. We didn't collectively fall in love with the "beautiful game." We occasionally wondered how we could have connected to a sport that required thin shorts and a t-shirt for games in January and February.
What we do remember is the coach, Steve Braden, a local physician and father of four, who never yelled at any of the players, even when they were particularly goofy and/or obnoxious, even when they scored on the other team's goal. . . on purpose, even when they ran their mouths instead of their legs and couldn't remember the simplest lesson from the previous practice.
How could we know that Coach Steve of the green shorts team would be Davis's coach year after year, through high school? That because Davis stuck with Coach Steve, he continued soccer long after he dropped other sports options. That he would embrace soccer as part of his personal identity? That, in turn, we would adopt his love of soccer and become coaches and players ourselves? That Erin's first and only sports longing would be to follow him onto the pitch? That I would continue to coach Erin's team long after there was no logical reason for me to continue?
The flap of that butterfly wing. . . "I want to play on a green team" led somehow to a twenty-three year old theoretical mathematics Ph.D. student who has played soccer in Hungary, vacationed at the World Cup, and is as excited calling me about his goals and assists as he is about chaos theory and other math concepts that he studies and adores as much or more. The flap of that wing has given Davis a way to stay fit, to compete, and to grow and improve into a much sought after teammate. And Walter, Erin, and I have followed in the wake of the disturbance primed by that wing, possibly making our own little flap for the people that we pass as we travel along.
I actually don't know a huge amount about chaos theory, and I don't spend too much of my time thinking about dynamism, randomness, or the importance of initial conditions. If I did, I would drive myself crazy imagining what all that would mean for Erin and her cancer. Instead, I want to talk about green shorts and the butterfly effect (from chaos theory--the illustrative example of a hurricane's formation being contingent on whether or not a distant butterfly had flapped its wings several weeks before).
We lived in Nashville when Davis turned five. We had tried a few, but not many, activities for him before then. Gymboree was a failed experiment because he would lag behind his class as they moved from station to station, preferring to sort and organize the bean bags or balancing hoops and line up the other equipment, rather than moving on to the next activity. Kindermusick didn't work that well for any of us because, though we love to sing, we are all tone deaf. T-ball was a stretch that we weren't ready to try because of basic hand-to-eye coordination issues. Davis could run really fast and really far, but even his daughter-of-a-track-coach mother knew that five was too early to start track training.
Soccer seemed like an okay choice.
It fit his running and endurance skill set, didn't require much extra equipment or early hour practices (like pee wee hockey would have), and neither Walter nor I knew much about it (thus, eliminating, we thought, the idea that we would become overinvolved or overbearing sports parents). We signed Davis up, he played, and frankly none of us remember much at all about that first fall of soccer.
We moved back to Bryan (for the last time) over Christmas, and within a few weeks Davis brought home a flyer from school announcing Bryan Soccer Club sign up. We were fairly indifferent but thought it might be a good way to meet some new kids, so we found the checkbook (there's always a checkbook in youth sports) and a copy of his birth certificate and headed out to stand in various long lines at Sul Ross Elementary cafeteria.
We got to the last table, where you turn everything in, and the woman asked if we were requesting a particular coach and if not, we would be assigned to a team, mostly based on geography and where Davis attended school. I didn't have a coach in mind. In fact, I didn't have a clue about who was coaching and who it might be best to avoid or try to suck up to or anything that a "with it" parent would have figured out ahead of time. I was about to shrug and take pot luck when Davis piped up from behind me: "I want to play on the green team." His team in Nashville had green jerseys and gold shorts, which fit nicely with the rest of his wardrobe that prominently featured the color green. The woman wrote "green" across the top of his application just like I had observed her write the coach's name on other paperwork ahead of me ("Coach Green?" I thought fleetingly.).
It turned out there were no green jerseys that season in the Bryan Soccer Club. The compromise was to assign Davis to the blue team, because they had green shorts (a last minute addition to a popular coach's roster) . I don't remember much about that season or several of the seasons after that. Davis didn't explode onto the soccer scene. He didn't have a preternatural gift with the soccer ball. We didn't collectively fall in love with the "beautiful game." We occasionally wondered how we could have connected to a sport that required thin shorts and a t-shirt for games in January and February.
What we do remember is the coach, Steve Braden, a local physician and father of four, who never yelled at any of the players, even when they were particularly goofy and/or obnoxious, even when they scored on the other team's goal. . . on purpose, even when they ran their mouths instead of their legs and couldn't remember the simplest lesson from the previous practice.
How could we know that Coach Steve of the green shorts team would be Davis's coach year after year, through high school? That because Davis stuck with Coach Steve, he continued soccer long after he dropped other sports options. That he would embrace soccer as part of his personal identity? That, in turn, we would adopt his love of soccer and become coaches and players ourselves? That Erin's first and only sports longing would be to follow him onto the pitch? That I would continue to coach Erin's team long after there was no logical reason for me to continue?
The flap of that butterfly wing. . . "I want to play on a green team" led somehow to a twenty-three year old theoretical mathematics Ph.D. student who has played soccer in Hungary, vacationed at the World Cup, and is as excited calling me about his goals and assists as he is about chaos theory and other math concepts that he studies and adores as much or more. The flap of that wing has given Davis a way to stay fit, to compete, and to grow and improve into a much sought after teammate. And Walter, Erin, and I have followed in the wake of the disturbance primed by that wing, possibly making our own little flap for the people that we pass as we travel along.
Friday, October 21, 2011
World Clock
October 21, 2011
If you look on the left column of the page, you will see I have put the Australian clock back in place.
I added the international clock to the blog the first time when Davis studied abroad in Budapest so I wouldn't accidentally call him in the middle of the night. When the Tjoelkers spent a half year in Canberra, I felt an even stronger need to have an easy way to figure out their time zone, since it also involved a day change as well.
The Tjoelkers are leaving again next Wednesday. As there is no planned return to US residency, I may have to make the Sydney clock a permanent blog feature.
How do I feel about my besties moving? I told them last night, when we celebrated Adam's birthday at Atami, I'm down-hearted, but I don't need an intervention.
Check on me again next week after they have left and see if I was wrong about the intervention.
If you look on the left column of the page, you will see I have put the Australian clock back in place.
I added the international clock to the blog the first time when Davis studied abroad in Budapest so I wouldn't accidentally call him in the middle of the night. When the Tjoelkers spent a half year in Canberra, I felt an even stronger need to have an easy way to figure out their time zone, since it also involved a day change as well.
The Tjoelkers are leaving again next Wednesday. As there is no planned return to US residency, I may have to make the Sydney clock a permanent blog feature.
How do I feel about my besties moving? I told them last night, when we celebrated Adam's birthday at Atami, I'm down-hearted, but I don't need an intervention.
Check on me again next week after they have left and see if I was wrong about the intervention.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Travel
October 18, 2011
Sometimes things just break your way. Last weekend was a case in point. A number of months ago, Bridget Maloney the Children's Minister at Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church in Plano contacted me and invited me to do a lanyard workshop at her church. How could I refuse when she told me she had read Erin's blog for years, and it would be just like having a rock star stop by the church (maybe I misheard and what she really said was that it would be just like a rotten stork stopping by the church)? Anyway, she gave me a couple of dates that would work for her, and one of them was on my sister's birthday weekend.
I chose that one, since I don't get to spend nearly enough time with my baby sister.
The highlight of my trip was not the journey there, that included an extremely slow motion tour of the central expressway. I thought we had left Bryan early enough to make it through the heart of Dallas before rush hour traffic morphed from vicious to unbearable, which it turns out we did. But, I didn't have the prescience of mind to realize that a fellow traveler was going to spontaneously combust on his way through town, close down two lanes, and back traffic up for miles.
Anyway, the weekend was great and Kat and Emma are really the hostesses with the mostesses! Even the lanyard workshop for 22 first through fifth graders was amazing. They listened and followed instructions so well. They encouraged each (and made sure that everyone followed the three rules!). This is my niece Emma showing off her progress:
Sunday was Children's Day at the church with Bridget giving the very moving sermon and the children (including Emma, who totally grooved the anthem) singing and filling other liturgical roles. I proudly displayed the work the children did in the atrium before and after church as a reminder to everyone that Children Can Make a Difference in the World and many people agreed (as demonstrated by their generosity).
This is the message I received from Bridget yesterday summing up the beauty of the experience:
Sometimes things just break your way. Last weekend was a case in point. A number of months ago, Bridget Maloney the Children's Minister at Canyon Creek Presbyterian Church in Plano contacted me and invited me to do a lanyard workshop at her church. How could I refuse when she told me she had read Erin's blog for years, and it would be just like having a rock star stop by the church (maybe I misheard and what she really said was that it would be just like a rotten stork stopping by the church)? Anyway, she gave me a couple of dates that would work for her, and one of them was on my sister's birthday weekend.
I chose that one, since I don't get to spend nearly enough time with my baby sister.
The highlight of my trip was not the journey there, that included an extremely slow motion tour of the central expressway. I thought we had left Bryan early enough to make it through the heart of Dallas before rush hour traffic morphed from vicious to unbearable, which it turns out we did. But, I didn't have the prescience of mind to realize that a fellow traveler was going to spontaneously combust on his way through town, close down two lanes, and back traffic up for miles.
Anyway, the weekend was great and Kat and Emma are really the hostesses with the mostesses! Even the lanyard workshop for 22 first through fifth graders was amazing. They listened and followed instructions so well. They encouraged each (and made sure that everyone followed the three rules!). This is my niece Emma showing off her progress:
Sunday was Children's Day at the church with Bridget giving the very moving sermon and the children (including Emma, who totally grooved the anthem) singing and filling other liturgical roles. I proudly displayed the work the children did in the atrium before and after church as a reminder to everyone that Children Can Make a Difference in the World and many people agreed (as demonstrated by their generosity).
This is the message I received from Bridget yesterday summing up the beauty of the experience:
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Think
October 11, 2011
The post title today is more of a request than an admonition. Have you ever thought about this?
Both Davis and Erin went through phases where I couldn't pry them from the bathtub. The water would lose its heat and eventually become downright chilly, but they would just slosh around and delay getting out (too many cool bath toys, I think). I always wondered why their hands and feet would look like this, but not the rest of their bodies. I understand that this only happens to humans and macaques.
I've read explanations of this shriveling: the keratin on our skin wears off of our hands and feet so they absorb more water; it's a sign of dehydration; water is a hypotonic solution and is trying to enter our skins to reach equilibrium.
Here is a more satisfying solution that fits the theory I had. Our wrinkled fingers and foot soles are creating treads to ensure greater traction in slippery situations, just like car tires.
Here's a second thing to consider:
Do you use yelp.com? I don't. But maybe I should. Most of you know that given the choice, I would pick a non-chain restaurant over a chain restaurant. As a business school professor, I also understand that chain restaurants often have a boatload of competitive advantages over non-chains in terms of long-term survival. Yelp.com can actually help level things out in some surprising ways. Not only do good reviews help independent restaurants (call me Captain Obvious), but the effect is much greater for individual non-chain restaurants than an individual outlet of chain establishments. In addition, the existence of yelp dilutes the market share of chain restaurants, because consumer reviews substitute for the reputation that chains.
Finally, I have something for you that is not science, or even scholarship. It's opinion. It's opinion, I want you to think about. I read this on a blog written by someone I don't know and have never met:
The post title today is more of a request than an admonition. Have you ever thought about this?
Both Davis and Erin went through phases where I couldn't pry them from the bathtub. The water would lose its heat and eventually become downright chilly, but they would just slosh around and delay getting out (too many cool bath toys, I think). I always wondered why their hands and feet would look like this, but not the rest of their bodies. I understand that this only happens to humans and macaques.
I've read explanations of this shriveling: the keratin on our skin wears off of our hands and feet so they absorb more water; it's a sign of dehydration; water is a hypotonic solution and is trying to enter our skins to reach equilibrium.
Here is a more satisfying solution that fits the theory I had. Our wrinkled fingers and foot soles are creating treads to ensure greater traction in slippery situations, just like car tires.
Here's a second thing to consider:
Do you use yelp.com? I don't. But maybe I should. Most of you know that given the choice, I would pick a non-chain restaurant over a chain restaurant. As a business school professor, I also understand that chain restaurants often have a boatload of competitive advantages over non-chains in terms of long-term survival. Yelp.com can actually help level things out in some surprising ways. Not only do good reviews help independent restaurants (call me Captain Obvious), but the effect is much greater for individual non-chain restaurants than an individual outlet of chain establishments. In addition, the existence of yelp dilutes the market share of chain restaurants, because consumer reviews substitute for the reputation that chains.
Finally, I have something for you that is not science, or even scholarship. It's opinion. It's opinion, I want you to think about. I read this on a blog written by someone I don't know and have never met:
"But the only thing that makes me more bearish is the way that America
denigrates intelligence and studying. It's taken for granted that in
America, there is mutual exclusion between being well-liked growing up
and having very academic hobbies. The captain of the chess team is
assumed to have trouble getting dates. If you are in high school and
win lots of math competitions, people assume you're below average in
admiration by peers.
In China, getting good grades makes you MORE popular. The valedictorian is usually very popular. And respected. It automatically gets you points. In America, it automatically drags you down in the eyes of your peers.
In China, getting good grades makes you MORE popular. The valedictorian is usually very popular. And respected. It automatically gets you points. In America, it automatically drags you down in the eyes of your peers.
I think this is the single biggest factor that could lead to America's
decline. Everyone wants to be loved and respected by their peers.
Making that at odds with pursuing intellectual activities is very
damaging to maintaining the status as the land of innovation."
These words made me pause and think. I'm not sure I agree. I didn't ever felt cast aside by my peers in school for taking academics seriously, and I'm pretty sure Erin and Davis didn't either.
BUT, I do have a growing sense that my particular skills set that mainly involves using my brain, is less valued and less appreciated today than over the course of my whole life and that my particular profession has less credibility than it has my whole career.
All I can say is: think for yourself.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Recall
October 4, 2011
Some things smack of unfairness and other things are just tough to explain. Here's something that is both:
I don't understand it, and for a girl with such a beautiful face, it's really unfair to be so wide in the back end. The before view here, shows that not much has changed since last Thanksgiving.
My mother and I are reading A Tale of Two Cities for the mother/daughter book club, which is to say that my mother finished it several weeks ago, and I have barely met Madame DeFarge. That is not what is unfair and inexplicable.
What I can't figure out and what pains my heart is that I actually read this book cover to cover (without resorting to Cliff's notes and without skipping over the hard bits) when I was in high school. It claimed the number two spot on my all-time favorite book list for decades. I can quote both the opening paragraph and the closing lines even to this day.
I.CAN'T.REMEMBER.ANY.OF.IT.NOW.!!!
I read along in it every evening, sure that something will ring a bell. I keep waiting. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.
How does this happen?
And this is not the only book that I can't recall. Walter and I teach adult Sunday school. We have read--and not only read, but studied and taught--books that made really big impressions on us when we studied them. I can remember their titles now, and usually their authors. BUT besides a vague and possibly inaccurate recollection of their main thesis, I couldn't tell you much about them.
If Cherokee People by Paul Revere and the Raiders, popular when I was a sixth grader in 1971, comes on the satellite radio, I sing along without stumbling over ANY of the lyrics EVEN IF I DON'T WANT TO SING ALONG AND EVEN IF I THOUGHT IT WAS A DUMB SONG AT THE TIME. This happens, and I can't even remember the characters in my second favorite book of all time?
Can you tell me that's fair?
Can you explain it?
Some things smack of unfairness and other things are just tough to explain. Here's something that is both:
Really, Uma has been on the green bean diet for TEN AND A HALF MONTHS! It started well over 300 cans ago. I don't know why she still looks like a dually (is that what non-Texans also call those heavy duty trucks with four-wheels in the back?).
I don't understand it, and for a girl with such a beautiful face, it's really unfair to be so wide in the back end. The before view here, shows that not much has changed since last Thanksgiving.
My mother and I are reading A Tale of Two Cities for the mother/daughter book club, which is to say that my mother finished it several weeks ago, and I have barely met Madame DeFarge. That is not what is unfair and inexplicable.
What I can't figure out and what pains my heart is that I actually read this book cover to cover (without resorting to Cliff's notes and without skipping over the hard bits) when I was in high school. It claimed the number two spot on my all-time favorite book list for decades. I can quote both the opening paragraph and the closing lines even to this day.
I.CAN'T.REMEMBER.ANY.OF.IT.NOW.!!!
I read along in it every evening, sure that something will ring a bell. I keep waiting. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.
How does this happen?
And this is not the only book that I can't recall. Walter and I teach adult Sunday school. We have read--and not only read, but studied and taught--books that made really big impressions on us when we studied them. I can remember their titles now, and usually their authors. BUT besides a vague and possibly inaccurate recollection of their main thesis, I couldn't tell you much about them.
If Cherokee People by Paul Revere and the Raiders, popular when I was a sixth grader in 1971, comes on the satellite radio, I sing along without stumbling over ANY of the lyrics EVEN IF I DON'T WANT TO SING ALONG AND EVEN IF I THOUGHT IT WAS A DUMB SONG AT THE TIME. This happens, and I can't even remember the characters in my second favorite book of all time?
Can you tell me that's fair?
Can you explain it?
Friday, September 23, 2011
Smorgasbord of Advocacy
September 23, 2011
Earlier this summer, I told Walter I wanted to go to Washington DC this week for a buffet of childhood cancer awareness activities and I wanted him to go, too. I can't say he jumped up and down with joy or rapture. When he priced our hotel and discovered that it would cost us PLENTY [I'm not even going to write the amount or the range of the amount because I would be embarrassed to the point of mortification to share it] he became even less enthusiastic. But I reminded him that it coincided with my birthday, so he made the reservations and booked our flight. He is amazing and the love of my life.
We have done so many things in the short time we've been here it makes my head spin. I walked up to Capital Hill as soon as we checked in to introduce myself to the new LA for health in Congressman McCaul's office. His name is Andy Taylor, and he is not the sheriff of Mayberry. Walter met me at the 46 Mommas Shave for the Brave at Union Station on Wednesday night, and met up with friends from all over the country.
Thursday, my day started around 7:30 a.m. and went on and on until late evening. The PAC2 workshop was well attended and generated several new project ideas.
That event swung right into the Congressional childhood cancer caucus reception where we mixed it up with Members, staffers, and advocates. This morning started with a press conference which led into the Caucus Summit, and ultimately to the introduction of the Creating Hope Act (with bipartisan support) on the floor of the House. I even went to my Congressman's office to invite him on the bill. I spent the afternoon working on a couple of initiatives for the local ACCO @ A&M group.
Given how little time we spent in our room at the Marriott Renaissance, it seemed such a shame to pay so much. That's why I was so surprised and happy when I returned to the room and learned that our bill worked out after all. We used Marriott points for two of the nights and somehow had a drastically reduced night for the third. We also have an upgrade to 1st class on the flight home tomorrow.
Sometimes better to be lucky than good!
Earlier this summer, I told Walter I wanted to go to Washington DC this week for a buffet of childhood cancer awareness activities and I wanted him to go, too. I can't say he jumped up and down with joy or rapture. When he priced our hotel and discovered that it would cost us PLENTY [I'm not even going to write the amount or the range of the amount because I would be embarrassed to the point of mortification to share it] he became even less enthusiastic. But I reminded him that it coincided with my birthday, so he made the reservations and booked our flight. He is amazing and the love of my life.
We have done so many things in the short time we've been here it makes my head spin. I walked up to Capital Hill as soon as we checked in to introduce myself to the new LA for health in Congressman McCaul's office. His name is Andy Taylor, and he is not the sheriff of Mayberry. Walter met me at the 46 Mommas Shave for the Brave at Union Station on Wednesday night, and met up with friends from all over the country.
Thursday, my day started around 7:30 a.m. and went on and on until late evening. The PAC2 workshop was well attended and generated several new project ideas.
That event swung right into the Congressional childhood cancer caucus reception where we mixed it up with Members, staffers, and advocates. This morning started with a press conference which led into the Caucus Summit, and ultimately to the introduction of the Creating Hope Act (with bipartisan support) on the floor of the House. I even went to my Congressman's office to invite him on the bill. I spent the afternoon working on a couple of initiatives for the local ACCO @ A&M group.
Given how little time we spent in our room at the Marriott Renaissance, it seemed such a shame to pay so much. That's why I was so surprised and happy when I returned to the room and learned that our bill worked out after all. We used Marriott points for two of the nights and somehow had a drastically reduced night for the third. We also have an upgrade to 1st class on the flight home tomorrow.
Sometimes better to be lucky than good!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Alfalfa
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