I really must accept the fact that I love all things domesticated. Well, maybe not all. I'm not a scrapbooker and I don't sew well, but wow, I love fancy food and housewares.
I just went to Wegman's grocery store for the first time, and I had way too much fun. I was having more fun than anyone else there. It's a regular grocery store, with actually pretty good prices, but they also have a natural/organic section the size of Earth Fare, a fantastically tempting bakery, a huge hot and cold bar and wonderfully looking meats. Even their dry goods aisles had interesting items. A grocery store trip should not make my day, but it did. That was far more fun than clubbing or going drinking. A visit to Ikea or even Pottery Barn and Pier I will do the same thing.
I fight the stereotype of the stay-home mom, but I guess I shouldn't. I love to decorate. I love to bake. I love to try new recipes. I love to blog in the middle of the day. And there's nothing wrong with that.
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
The first day of first
Abigail headed back to school today after an extended summer vacation thanks to the move. It was a wonderful three months for her, full of visits from family and constant play with new friends. It never even got oppressively hot here. Truly an idyllic summer.And now she is in first grade. I'm anxious to hear how the day went since we received no information on day-to-day routines at the open house. It'll be a long day for her, with just one recess of 15 minutes. 15 minutes! For 6- and 7-year-olds! But the school has an excellent reputation, so surely the teachers understand the limits of the young attention span.
Abigail was generally excited about the first day, with just some slight apprehension about the unknown. She went to bed happily and relatively quickly given the momentous nature of the upcoming day.I couldn't help but compare her ease to my night-before-school anxieties. Every year until 11th grade, I woke up nauseous in the middle of the night. My mom would perch on the side of the tub and hold my hair as I stared into the abyss of the toilet. I rarely threw up, but I couldn't shake my desire to retch for a long time. I had such fears of rejection by my classmates and teacher, visions of being an outcast. Which is strange, because I always had plenty of friends. I wasn't the most popular or fashionable or coordinated kid, but I wasn't a loner. Maybe I'm naturally insecure, maybe moving all those times shook my confidence and sense of self. Who knows?
I do know I'm anxious for my own child. I hope she finds acceptance among her classmates. I have no reason to think she won't other than memories of my own self-doubt. Odds are she'll come bouncing off the bus this afternoon full of stores about new friends and things she loves about first grade.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Lovely Loudoun
A few weeks ago now, I discovered that, really, this is the prettiest place I've ever lived. Not that there weren't lovely aspects to other places, and not that Ashburn itself is attractive at all, but Loudoun County, VA, is incredibly picturesque.
I went for a drive one Saturday, just wandering along various by-ways without any destination in mind, and after I got out of Leesburg, turn after turn was just beautiful. I wasn't in the best mood when I started out, but after I headed up U.S. 15, the rolling countryside started to soften my mind. And then I came upon the Point of Rocks Bridge. (photos not mine)
While the reflection off the Potomac is beautiful, this picture doesn't even begin to capture what it's like to drive across this bridge. The blue metal framework creates an open tunnel, with the sensation of a vanishing point pulling you forward while a brilliant blue sky flashes between the baby blue struts. At the end of the tunnel, deep green foothills. To the right or left, sparkling water. I could have driven back and forth over this bride dozens of times.
But I did turn off to see what else was around. As I drove through Lovettsville and Lucketts, I passed farms that were the epitome of bucolic. Little valleys surrounded by vibrantly colored hills, 150-plus-year-old farmhouses everywhere. As I curved along the winding, scenic highways, I pulled up behind a coiled bale of hay, the top of the tractor hauling it just barely visible. I had no where to go, no timeline, and momentarily though of just puttering along behind it, but my modern mind couldn't quite slow down enough.
Further along, I came to the German Reformed Cemetery in Lovettsville. Rows upon rows of granite headstones lined the yard, many of the inscriptions completely worn away by the elements to nothing more than a rough surface colored by lichen. A crumbling silo loomed in a field just beyond the stone fence. Butterflies danced over the puddles in the gravel drive, fluttering in orange, yellow and white over the gray.
My drive also included a quick glimpse of Hillsboro, a beautiful little town studded with stone houses going back a couple hundred years. (The town is also surrounded by wineries and theoretically tourists, but there are surprisingly no good overall photos online.) At some point I missed my turn and wound up in West Virginia, which only added to my good mood. Three states in less than three hours.
A couple weeks later, the whole family spontaneously headed out to Sky Meadows State Park, technically just west in Fauquier County. We had no idea what to expect other than a no-doubt pretty view of the Shenandoah region and some Colonial reenactors. The drive out along U.S. 50 was absolutely delightful. Once we came through Middleburg, I think we were all smiling. That town is ridiculously quaint, with countless antique shops, boutiques, restaurants, taverns and early 19th century buildings. I have to take my mother back. (Again, why are there no satisfying photos?) We had unknowingly entered Virginia Hunt Country. The road from there on out was lined by neat fences, many of them stone, encircling acres upon acres of horse pastures. Signs invited you to Saturday polo matches. A neat little sign proclaiming the name of its farm was stationed at the end of each drive. The fields were as green as the gobs of money that no doubt supported them. Upperville was also lovely, but the lack of commerce of any kind definitely let us know we were out of our league. Here's the wee library.
Sky Meadows was surprisingly a lot of fun. Totally laid back, not what we expected, but fun. We spent an hour with the reenactors, who adored Abigail and let her eat their stew and biscuits, play their games, take home their corn and learn all about their sewing. They wouldn't let us leave. And then we spent another hour just wandering around the historic house's grounds and sitting on the porch. We never even hiked, though I'm sure we'll go back this fall. It was so relaxing.
And we haven't even touched Shenandoah National Park. I can't wait to see more of this area.
I went for a drive one Saturday, just wandering along various by-ways without any destination in mind, and after I got out of Leesburg, turn after turn was just beautiful. I wasn't in the best mood when I started out, but after I headed up U.S. 15, the rolling countryside started to soften my mind. And then I came upon the Point of Rocks Bridge. (photos not mine)
While the reflection off the Potomac is beautiful, this picture doesn't even begin to capture what it's like to drive across this bridge. The blue metal framework creates an open tunnel, with the sensation of a vanishing point pulling you forward while a brilliant blue sky flashes between the baby blue struts. At the end of the tunnel, deep green foothills. To the right or left, sparkling water. I could have driven back and forth over this bride dozens of times.
But I did turn off to see what else was around. As I drove through Lovettsville and Lucketts, I passed farms that were the epitome of bucolic. Little valleys surrounded by vibrantly colored hills, 150-plus-year-old farmhouses everywhere. As I curved along the winding, scenic highways, I pulled up behind a coiled bale of hay, the top of the tractor hauling it just barely visible. I had no where to go, no timeline, and momentarily though of just puttering along behind it, but my modern mind couldn't quite slow down enough.
Further along, I came to the German Reformed Cemetery in Lovettsville. Rows upon rows of granite headstones lined the yard, many of the inscriptions completely worn away by the elements to nothing more than a rough surface colored by lichen. A crumbling silo loomed in a field just beyond the stone fence. Butterflies danced over the puddles in the gravel drive, fluttering in orange, yellow and white over the gray.
My drive also included a quick glimpse of Hillsboro, a beautiful little town studded with stone houses going back a couple hundred years. (The town is also surrounded by wineries and theoretically tourists, but there are surprisingly no good overall photos online.) At some point I missed my turn and wound up in West Virginia, which only added to my good mood. Three states in less than three hours.
A couple weeks later, the whole family spontaneously headed out to Sky Meadows State Park, technically just west in Fauquier County. We had no idea what to expect other than a no-doubt pretty view of the Shenandoah region and some Colonial reenactors. The drive out along U.S. 50 was absolutely delightful. Once we came through Middleburg, I think we were all smiling. That town is ridiculously quaint, with countless antique shops, boutiques, restaurants, taverns and early 19th century buildings. I have to take my mother back. (Again, why are there no satisfying photos?) We had unknowingly entered Virginia Hunt Country. The road from there on out was lined by neat fences, many of them stone, encircling acres upon acres of horse pastures. Signs invited you to Saturday polo matches. A neat little sign proclaiming the name of its farm was stationed at the end of each drive. The fields were as green as the gobs of money that no doubt supported them. Upperville was also lovely, but the lack of commerce of any kind definitely let us know we were out of our league. Here's the wee library.
Sky Meadows was surprisingly a lot of fun. Totally laid back, not what we expected, but fun. We spent an hour with the reenactors, who adored Abigail and let her eat their stew and biscuits, play their games, take home their corn and learn all about their sewing. They wouldn't let us leave. And then we spent another hour just wandering around the historic house's grounds and sitting on the porch. We never even hiked, though I'm sure we'll go back this fall. It was so relaxing.
And we haven't even touched Shenandoah National Park. I can't wait to see more of this area.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Greetings from the Old Dominion
Moving and summer vacation do not equal increased computer time for me, so I apologize for the long lapse in posting. I've been wanting to, have several posts in mind, but I seldom have a good hour to sit and really process things. Tonight, I finally do.
We've incredibly been in Virginia for more than a month now. Moving as an adult with a child has been a totally different experience. When I was a kid, I was dragged along and didn't have to do any of the planning. I could complain and feel sad and revel in my misery until I finally made friends a few months in. When I was a young(er) adult, moving consisted of finding the cheapest rent possible, throwing some boxes in a U-haul, and taking off without much thought about the details of where I'd be living. Even when Abigail was a baby, we knew the moves were temporary and were generally familiar enough with all parts of Charlotte for the moves to be fairly uneventful.
But this time I was moving with a school-aged child and my personal baggage of moving as a school-aged child. We had to find a good neighborhood, a good school, a good commute, and a good way to assuage my guilt.
Surprisingly, having to focus on all of that made the change relatively unemotional. I left behind one or two decent friends, but most of my those I'd met had already moved on. I cried more at the thought of making Abigail leave her friends (particularly when Maddox hugged her and said "I'm really going to miss you.").
On my last morning in Rock Hill, after I dropped Abigail off for her last day of school, I went to the local bagel shop to sit with some coffee and my thoughts. As I sat, I realized that the very first day I was ever in Rock Hill, I ate lunch at that very same bagel shop, albeit in its old location. Nearly nine years in between, and what was I left with? What would stay with me from Rock Hill?
What I will likely miss most is the sense of community. The city was growing but not too far removed from it's small-town roots, so it definitely had its own identity. And I had found a place in that identity. I ran into people I knew almost everywhere I went. I was an active presence at my church, even beyond being the mom of the kid who knew all the children's sermon answers. People often asked about my magazine and were sorry it wouldn't return. I enjoyed being more than a face in the crowd. I grew up with that same sense of place in Naperville, sorely missed it in Pittsburgh, and was really enjoying it again. Especially with a child and all the festivals and parks the town offered.
Since it was a former textile town, Rock Hill didn't seem as pretentious as other places I'd lived. There were plenty of well-heeled commuters and old money, but there were even more working people who perhaps simply couldn't be as materialistic. In north Charlotte, everyone seemed so driven by labels and status. In Rock Hill, you could take advantage of the "big city amenities" without getting wrapped up in the big city egotism.
I will miss feeling like I belong in a place so many people are from, but would Rock Hill ever truly be home? Not likely. I may never have fully fit in as an educated person in a more blue-collar, conservative town. Given my transient history, I may never have a "home."
I doubt Ashburn will attain that status, though the move has been incredibly good for us so far. Ashburn has zero sense of place, zero history, but our neighborhood is amazing for this point in our lives. On our street, there are about 15 kids around Abigail's age. All those kids play with each other daily, outside and in each other's houses. All those kids parents keep an eye on all those kids, chatting with each other, swapping short-term babysitting for errands. Brad has already been golfing with one neighbor, and Abigail found several great friends before she even had a chance to be lonely. The school has a highly respected reputation, and I've even heard rave reviews of the bus driver. People are constantly walking around the many lakes in the neighborhood, waving genially to the ever-present fishermen testing their luck. On one walk this week, I passed a father fishing with his two sons, mothers walking babies, and teens and parents running as the sun set in spectacular oranges above me and children's laughter echoed from two different directions. 21st century Normal Rockwell.
We really can't believe our luck. Or rather how we've been blessed. We were out of work from October through May, managed to live off savings and paltry unemployment without taking a loan, and moved at exactly the right moment financially and personally. Even my car avoided needing major repairs until just this week. We went through an incredibly trying time while living a fairly normal life and have now landed on our feet in an even better position. There's no way you can look at that and still say life is accidental.
We've incredibly been in Virginia for more than a month now. Moving as an adult with a child has been a totally different experience. When I was a kid, I was dragged along and didn't have to do any of the planning. I could complain and feel sad and revel in my misery until I finally made friends a few months in. When I was a young(er) adult, moving consisted of finding the cheapest rent possible, throwing some boxes in a U-haul, and taking off without much thought about the details of where I'd be living. Even when Abigail was a baby, we knew the moves were temporary and were generally familiar enough with all parts of Charlotte for the moves to be fairly uneventful.
But this time I was moving with a school-aged child and my personal baggage of moving as a school-aged child. We had to find a good neighborhood, a good school, a good commute, and a good way to assuage my guilt.
Surprisingly, having to focus on all of that made the change relatively unemotional. I left behind one or two decent friends, but most of my those I'd met had already moved on. I cried more at the thought of making Abigail leave her friends (particularly when Maddox hugged her and said "I'm really going to miss you.").
On my last morning in Rock Hill, after I dropped Abigail off for her last day of school, I went to the local bagel shop to sit with some coffee and my thoughts. As I sat, I realized that the very first day I was ever in Rock Hill, I ate lunch at that very same bagel shop, albeit in its old location. Nearly nine years in between, and what was I left with? What would stay with me from Rock Hill?
What I will likely miss most is the sense of community. The city was growing but not too far removed from it's small-town roots, so it definitely had its own identity. And I had found a place in that identity. I ran into people I knew almost everywhere I went. I was an active presence at my church, even beyond being the mom of the kid who knew all the children's sermon answers. People often asked about my magazine and were sorry it wouldn't return. I enjoyed being more than a face in the crowd. I grew up with that same sense of place in Naperville, sorely missed it in Pittsburgh, and was really enjoying it again. Especially with a child and all the festivals and parks the town offered.
Since it was a former textile town, Rock Hill didn't seem as pretentious as other places I'd lived. There were plenty of well-heeled commuters and old money, but there were even more working people who perhaps simply couldn't be as materialistic. In north Charlotte, everyone seemed so driven by labels and status. In Rock Hill, you could take advantage of the "big city amenities" without getting wrapped up in the big city egotism.
I will miss feeling like I belong in a place so many people are from, but would Rock Hill ever truly be home? Not likely. I may never have fully fit in as an educated person in a more blue-collar, conservative town. Given my transient history, I may never have a "home."
I doubt Ashburn will attain that status, though the move has been incredibly good for us so far. Ashburn has zero sense of place, zero history, but our neighborhood is amazing for this point in our lives. On our street, there are about 15 kids around Abigail's age. All those kids play with each other daily, outside and in each other's houses. All those kids parents keep an eye on all those kids, chatting with each other, swapping short-term babysitting for errands. Brad has already been golfing with one neighbor, and Abigail found several great friends before she even had a chance to be lonely. The school has a highly respected reputation, and I've even heard rave reviews of the bus driver. People are constantly walking around the many lakes in the neighborhood, waving genially to the ever-present fishermen testing their luck. On one walk this week, I passed a father fishing with his two sons, mothers walking babies, and teens and parents running as the sun set in spectacular oranges above me and children's laughter echoed from two different directions. 21st century Normal Rockwell.
We really can't believe our luck. Or rather how we've been blessed. We were out of work from October through May, managed to live off savings and paltry unemployment without taking a loan, and moved at exactly the right moment financially and personally. Even my car avoided needing major repairs until just this week. We went through an incredibly trying time while living a fairly normal life and have now landed on our feet in an even better position. There's no way you can look at that and still say life is accidental.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Under the floating dogwood tree
One thing I love about living in the South is dogwood trees. I think they've replaced daffodils as the plant that fills my heart with joy. Daffodils bloom too early here, while there's still a high probability of winter. But dogwoods are a sign of April and spring and warmth.
Dogwoods are magical. The flowers seem to float in mid air, especially the white ones. No other blooming tree comes close to this effect. It's just gorgeous driving past woods with white ghosts of petals hovering in the shadows. Whenever the flowers are more densely packed, the effect is still ethereal, as if a graceful hand were reaching up and offering them to the sky.
Spring isn't my favorite season, but it is the most amazing to think about. They interdependence of plants and animals is mind boggling, but what's more it's beautiful. I know flowers bloom in certain ways to attract certain bugs, but why are they also appealing to us? If creation is so random, why is it also so beautiful and so perfectly harmonious, so balanced? Spring convinces me that creation wasn't an accident.
Dogwoods are magical. The flowers seem to float in mid air, especially the white ones. No other blooming tree comes close to this effect. It's just gorgeous driving past woods with white ghosts of petals hovering in the shadows. Whenever the flowers are more densely packed, the effect is still ethereal, as if a graceful hand were reaching up and offering them to the sky.
Spring isn't my favorite season, but it is the most amazing to think about. They interdependence of plants and animals is mind boggling, but what's more it's beautiful. I know flowers bloom in certain ways to attract certain bugs, but why are they also appealing to us? If creation is so random, why is it also so beautiful and so perfectly harmonious, so balanced? Spring convinces me that creation wasn't an accident.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Dreary Friday night
Before I begin, Mom, I am okay. I'm feeling a little down tonight, that's all.
But I said I wanted to get back to depth, and I think exploring emotions fits the bill. Since I've given up sweets for Lent, my normal recourse of buying chocolate or pastries is out, so I need to instead confront what I'm feeling. Healthier on many counts, I'm sure.
Nothing in particular has happened to put me in a funk this week. It was a good week. I was busy with freelance stuff, Abigail has been very well behaved and sweet, Brad has even been a bit less pessimistic. But something hit me in the gut as I drove to the main shopping district tonight. Abigail is at her grandparents', Brad had an idea to explore and a book to read, and I felt restless, so I went out. I thought I'd look for some capris, get Abigail's Easter present, enjoy being out, etc. As I pulled within sight of Target on this very gloomy, drizzly night, I had a flashback to the very low place I was in life about six years ago where my only social outlet, and all I could afford to do, was drive to Target and walk around and not buy anything. Six years later, and I have not progressed. Yes, I have friends, but I couldn't afford to go out with them even if they weren't home with kids of their own. No, I am not anywhere near as depressed and numb as I was six years ago, but I am definitely having a down night. And of course I couldn't find any capris.
It's just so disheartening feeling stuck. We are where we are financially for several reasons, but the primary one -- the overall economy -- is not within my control. I don't blame myself, I don't blame Brad, and it's fruitless to blame a faceless non-entity like the economy. There's no anger, just a dullness. A dull hollowness inside that at 31, my industry has imploded, I haven't gotten a single response to any resumes I've sent out, and I can't provide for my daughter. Our families are absolutely wonderful, but it makes me sick that I have to wait for my mom or mother-in-law to provide my child clothes from Target. I can't even do THAT by myself.
It's such a strange place to be. We can't get out of the morass we're in, but we're not in any imminent danger. We have ways to cover our needs. Our pride may suffer, but we'll physically be fine. Emotionally is different. It's draining just watching money go away, not knowing how to define yourself anymore, knowing your husband feels the same way. The solution may come with Brad's phone interview Monday, or it may be another five months away. I'm back in limbo -- for the third time in my short adult life. I was never very good at limbo.
Writing feels a little better, but it doesn't actually help anything. I know I'll be fine when I wake up tomorrow, but geez, I really want chocolate. Maybe I'll go find something to laugh at on Failblog.
But I said I wanted to get back to depth, and I think exploring emotions fits the bill. Since I've given up sweets for Lent, my normal recourse of buying chocolate or pastries is out, so I need to instead confront what I'm feeling. Healthier on many counts, I'm sure.
Nothing in particular has happened to put me in a funk this week. It was a good week. I was busy with freelance stuff, Abigail has been very well behaved and sweet, Brad has even been a bit less pessimistic. But something hit me in the gut as I drove to the main shopping district tonight. Abigail is at her grandparents', Brad had an idea to explore and a book to read, and I felt restless, so I went out. I thought I'd look for some capris, get Abigail's Easter present, enjoy being out, etc. As I pulled within sight of Target on this very gloomy, drizzly night, I had a flashback to the very low place I was in life about six years ago where my only social outlet, and all I could afford to do, was drive to Target and walk around and not buy anything. Six years later, and I have not progressed. Yes, I have friends, but I couldn't afford to go out with them even if they weren't home with kids of their own. No, I am not anywhere near as depressed and numb as I was six years ago, but I am definitely having a down night. And of course I couldn't find any capris.
It's just so disheartening feeling stuck. We are where we are financially for several reasons, but the primary one -- the overall economy -- is not within my control. I don't blame myself, I don't blame Brad, and it's fruitless to blame a faceless non-entity like the economy. There's no anger, just a dullness. A dull hollowness inside that at 31, my industry has imploded, I haven't gotten a single response to any resumes I've sent out, and I can't provide for my daughter. Our families are absolutely wonderful, but it makes me sick that I have to wait for my mom or mother-in-law to provide my child clothes from Target. I can't even do THAT by myself.
It's such a strange place to be. We can't get out of the morass we're in, but we're not in any imminent danger. We have ways to cover our needs. Our pride may suffer, but we'll physically be fine. Emotionally is different. It's draining just watching money go away, not knowing how to define yourself anymore, knowing your husband feels the same way. The solution may come with Brad's phone interview Monday, or it may be another five months away. I'm back in limbo -- for the third time in my short adult life. I was never very good at limbo.
Writing feels a little better, but it doesn't actually help anything. I know I'll be fine when I wake up tomorrow, but geez, I really want chocolate. Maybe I'll go find something to laugh at on Failblog.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
To cope with the news
I lead a Sunday school class (I know, I still can't believe it!), and the chapter we were supposed to read just didn't speak to me this week. So I went trolling online for passages about dealing with financial anxiety -- I know that's what my mind was occupied with most of this past week! I came upon this lovely prayer that the Church of England put on its Web site:
Lord God, we live in disturbing days,
across the world,
prices rise,
debts increase,
banks collapse,
jobs are taken away,
and fragile security is under threat.
Loving God, meet us in our fear and hear our prayer:
be a tower of strength amidst the shifting sands,
and a light in the darkness;
help us receive your gift of peace,
and fix our hearts where true joys are to be found,
in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Thank you, Rowan Williams (though I question some of your comma usage).
Lord God, we live in disturbing days,
across the world,
prices rise,
debts increase,
banks collapse,
jobs are taken away,
and fragile security is under threat.
Loving God, meet us in our fear and hear our prayer:
be a tower of strength amidst the shifting sands,
and a light in the darkness;
help us receive your gift of peace,
and fix our hearts where true joys are to be found,
in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Thank you, Rowan Williams (though I question some of your comma usage).
Monday, December 03, 2007
I "heart" blogs
The Internet is a helpful place. There's lots of information, it keeps me from having to make some business phone calls, which I'm not a fan of, and it keeps me up-to-date on the small happenings in my friends' lives.
The Internet is also a horrible place. E-mail has reduced our ability to write lengthy correspondence. Blogs have reduced communication to keeping tabs, checking in once a week to fulfill your duty as a friend. I know the minutiae of my friends' lives, but not the reality. I learn of their pain far too late.
My dear friends, if I have not written, called or e-mailed you at length in at least a month, I am so sorry. I love you very, very much, and you are always on my mind. I am a terrible friend, and I cannot stop weeping at how I have let some of you down. Please forgive me.
The Internet is also a horrible place. E-mail has reduced our ability to write lengthy correspondence. Blogs have reduced communication to keeping tabs, checking in once a week to fulfill your duty as a friend. I know the minutiae of my friends' lives, but not the reality. I learn of their pain far too late.
My dear friends, if I have not written, called or e-mailed you at length in at least a month, I am so sorry. I love you very, very much, and you are always on my mind. I am a terrible friend, and I cannot stop weeping at how I have let some of you down. Please forgive me.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
We gather together
I must soon be off to buy cider for the big kindergarten feast, but all this talk of Thanksgiving has me a bit nostalgic and sad. Thanksgiving was a huge event in the Buxton family. The many, many cousins and second cousins and who-knows-how-they're-related cousins gathered at the family homestead, where enormous folding tables stretched the length of my grandparents' basement, leaving the littlest kids (me and my three male cousins for a while) to make do with an old sofa and a coffee table. There was of course tons of food, including at least four or five varieties of pie with lots of Cool Whip.
But what I really miss was the long afternoon after lunch. The adults would play endless games of pinochle, leaving us kids to devise our own fun way out in the Missouri boonies. If the weather was warm, that meant a wagon ride from Grandpa out into the woods and down to the creek, past "Daniel Boone's" bed springs. If it had snowed, there were cardboard boxes to sled in down the steep front yard. And there were always the games in the garage, one of the few ways the older cousins mixed with us young ones, deigning to allow us to join the Blind Man's Bluff and Red Light, Green Light. We played our own card games, too, usually 21 or Gin. Ahh, fond memories of teaching little Trae 52-Card Pickup, which he adored and wanted to play again. My memories of my grandparents' house really have little to do with them, much more about the cousins.
This year, I won't even see my mom. We'll do a couple of gatherings with Brad's family, but they're always a bit strained. There won't even be pumpkin pie (though I'm making a fabulous pumpkin cake). And mom is going to London for Christmas. It's going to be a very strange holiday season lacking any connection to my family. I adore traditions, am really a very conservative person when it comes to institutions and history, and losing all of mine this year makes me sad.
I don't even have a Black Friday shopping buddy.
But we'll start new traditions. One I'm stealing from an acquaintance, Abigail and I are going to go through her toys Friday and pick out a few to give away -- both to make room for Santa's goodies and to give a Christmas to poor children. Then we'll take our choices over to Goodwill, our final acts of thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving.
But what I really miss was the long afternoon after lunch. The adults would play endless games of pinochle, leaving us kids to devise our own fun way out in the Missouri boonies. If the weather was warm, that meant a wagon ride from Grandpa out into the woods and down to the creek, past "Daniel Boone's" bed springs. If it had snowed, there were cardboard boxes to sled in down the steep front yard. And there were always the games in the garage, one of the few ways the older cousins mixed with us young ones, deigning to allow us to join the Blind Man's Bluff and Red Light, Green Light. We played our own card games, too, usually 21 or Gin. Ahh, fond memories of teaching little Trae 52-Card Pickup, which he adored and wanted to play again. My memories of my grandparents' house really have little to do with them, much more about the cousins.
This year, I won't even see my mom. We'll do a couple of gatherings with Brad's family, but they're always a bit strained. There won't even be pumpkin pie (though I'm making a fabulous pumpkin cake). And mom is going to London for Christmas. It's going to be a very strange holiday season lacking any connection to my family. I adore traditions, am really a very conservative person when it comes to institutions and history, and losing all of mine this year makes me sad.
I don't even have a Black Friday shopping buddy.
But we'll start new traditions. One I'm stealing from an acquaintance, Abigail and I are going to go through her toys Friday and pick out a few to give away -- both to make room for Santa's goodies and to give a Christmas to poor children. Then we'll take our choices over to Goodwill, our final acts of thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Thoughts from last night
I couldn't get to the computer last night, so I "blogged" old-school in a notebook. Le voila:
I just finished watching "Elizabethtown," which was a really good movie. Not great because it dragged a bit, but really good. In watching it, three things occurred to me:
1.) In 2000, I had scheduled an interview with the paper in Elizabethtown, which I cancelled after I took the job here. Who on earth would I have become if I'd wound up in Kentucky?
2.) I have always wanted to be a marvellously quirky girl like the character Claire. I wanted to wear odd vintage clothing and hats, know all kinds of indie music, and say incredible things to men at the drop of a hat. Yet I'm me.
3.) I really, really have to take a cross-country road trip. Maybe it stems from growing up near Route 66, but I have always wanted to have that quintessentially American experience. I want to see the bizarre roadside attractions out west, get stuck at stoplights in small towns, eat at diners, and lose myself in the loneliness of the plains. I'm just not sure when I'll do it or with whom.
I just finished watching "Elizabethtown," which was a really good movie. Not great because it dragged a bit, but really good. In watching it, three things occurred to me:
1.) In 2000, I had scheduled an interview with the paper in Elizabethtown, which I cancelled after I took the job here. Who on earth would I have become if I'd wound up in Kentucky?
2.) I have always wanted to be a marvellously quirky girl like the character Claire. I wanted to wear odd vintage clothing and hats, know all kinds of indie music, and say incredible things to men at the drop of a hat. Yet I'm me.
3.) I really, really have to take a cross-country road trip. Maybe it stems from growing up near Route 66, but I have always wanted to have that quintessentially American experience. I want to see the bizarre roadside attractions out west, get stuck at stoplights in small towns, eat at diners, and lose myself in the loneliness of the plains. I'm just not sure when I'll do it or with whom.
Friday, December 29, 2006
My secret identity
Was a great show. I though Jerry O'Connell was hot.
Anyway. For the past month or so, I've been writing another blog. Nothing major, just a once-a-week deal for Charlotte Parent magazine. Naturally, I don't get paid, though it was hinted that maybe, possibly, someday this could happen -- when the pigs are all done flying. But it's got me writing more, which is a good thing, and it lets me air out my mommy thoughts without burdening the non-parents I know. Sadly, it's not in real blog format, which is why I was so hesitant to share and may not be able to use it professionally later, but for now, it's interesting.
Anyway. For the past month or so, I've been writing another blog. Nothing major, just a once-a-week deal for Charlotte Parent magazine. Naturally, I don't get paid, though it was hinted that maybe, possibly, someday this could happen -- when the pigs are all done flying. But it's got me writing more, which is a good thing, and it lets me air out my mommy thoughts without burdening the non-parents I know. Sadly, it's not in real blog format, which is why I was so hesitant to share and may not be able to use it professionally later, but for now, it's interesting.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Naperthrill
A bit of my last post reminded me of a small rant I've been wanting to do.
Would people please stop offering up my old hometown as the epitome of the materialistic bourgois class? Yes, a lot of people in Naperville were wealthy. Yes, it was an excellent school district because of all those property taxes. Yes, it was predominantly WASPy -- or at least the white part, probably a whole lot more Polish Catholics than Protestants, but WPC isn't as handy an acronym. But please, Oprah, show the rest of the town besides the south side and it's monstrous homes! And there are other wealthy burbs in Chicagoland you could focus on! Geez, just go to Winnetka.
We lived in the older part of Naperville. I went to one of the oldest elementary schools and the original junior high, my sister went to the original high school. Most of my friends lived in modest split-levels. I rode my bike to the old downtown, went to an independant music store, bookstore, ice cream shop, clothes store, etc. Where we lived had a remarkable sense of being a town, not just a burb. Granted, we were on the very edge of that part, but my life centered on old Naperville and district 203, not the sprawl of 204. (Not that that means anything to anyone other than my sister and Angela)
Sadly, I probably wouldn't even recognize downtown anymore. I hear there's a GAP, a Starbucks, etc. So maybe the town I knew is gone. And I'm sure Amanda has a different take since she was there as a teenager more than I was. But still, back off, Oprah!
Would people please stop offering up my old hometown as the epitome of the materialistic bourgois class? Yes, a lot of people in Naperville were wealthy. Yes, it was an excellent school district because of all those property taxes. Yes, it was predominantly WASPy -- or at least the white part, probably a whole lot more Polish Catholics than Protestants, but WPC isn't as handy an acronym. But please, Oprah, show the rest of the town besides the south side and it's monstrous homes! And there are other wealthy burbs in Chicagoland you could focus on! Geez, just go to Winnetka.
We lived in the older part of Naperville. I went to one of the oldest elementary schools and the original junior high, my sister went to the original high school. Most of my friends lived in modest split-levels. I rode my bike to the old downtown, went to an independant music store, bookstore, ice cream shop, clothes store, etc. Where we lived had a remarkable sense of being a town, not just a burb. Granted, we were on the very edge of that part, but my life centered on old Naperville and district 203, not the sprawl of 204. (Not that that means anything to anyone other than my sister and Angela)
Sadly, I probably wouldn't even recognize downtown anymore. I hear there's a GAP, a Starbucks, etc. So maybe the town I knew is gone. And I'm sure Amanda has a different take since she was there as a teenager more than I was. But still, back off, Oprah!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
McNausea
I just watched Super Size Me, and I don't feel very well. The film is disturbing, of course, and a bit far-fetched in that the man ate all his meals at McDonald's for a month and super sized when asked. He had to eat everything on the menu once, but of course he didn't have to eat the Bic Mac and friends all the time, could have mainly eaten their salads -- even if they are nasty iceberg lettuce monstrosities. But still, ick. The worsening of his health was incredibly fast. And the sizing comparisons were unreal. The original size drink is now the kid's size -- and the largest offered in Europe. Anyone remember the paper bag of fries, not the paperboard sleeve? I'm just so thankful that I almost never eat fast food, and if I do it's Chick-fil-A or Wendy's, where you can be a bit more sane. And while Abigail love's those Chick-fil-A nuggets and waffle fries, she's also perfectly happy just to get a few fries and chow down on her fruit cup. But after this, I'm even going to rethink how many fries I let her have -- and make myself not finish them off.
They intereviewed people at Madison Junior High, which was in my old town of Naperville and was built right as I went to high school. What the kids bought from the line was of course attrocious, and I know a lot of schools are finally changing, but kids are kids. I remember in high school in Naperville, I would eat my lunch from home, then go buy a soft pretzel with cheese, a Twix and a fruit punch. No wonder I had weight issues! There was this little cubicle set up in the cafeteria that sold nothing but candy and chips and the like. Crazy. Thank God my Pittsburgh school didn't have quiet the options -- though I did love those gingerbread men they sold after school.
I slogged through gym every day in Illinois, then just two or three times a week in the 'Burgh. Now, thanks to good ol' No Child Left Behind, our local school district only does gym once a week for 20 minutes in elementary school. Now, I always hated gym, but that's insane! (Besides, where will these children learn to square dance?) I have heard countless teachers say No Child Left Behind is destroying American education, but that's a whole different topic ...
Later addendum: Oops, Madison was a preexisting junior high, I was thinking of Kennedy. But it's all moot since I went to Washington. Go Warriors! Or rather, Wildcats since our really rather racist caricature of an Indian was finally deemed offensive. Oh well. My sister's high school was the Redskins. Guess who's now the Redhawks?
They intereviewed people at Madison Junior High, which was in my old town of Naperville and was built right as I went to high school. What the kids bought from the line was of course attrocious, and I know a lot of schools are finally changing, but kids are kids. I remember in high school in Naperville, I would eat my lunch from home, then go buy a soft pretzel with cheese, a Twix and a fruit punch. No wonder I had weight issues! There was this little cubicle set up in the cafeteria that sold nothing but candy and chips and the like. Crazy. Thank God my Pittsburgh school didn't have quiet the options -- though I did love those gingerbread men they sold after school.
I slogged through gym every day in Illinois, then just two or three times a week in the 'Burgh. Now, thanks to good ol' No Child Left Behind, our local school district only does gym once a week for 20 minutes in elementary school. Now, I always hated gym, but that's insane! (Besides, where will these children learn to square dance?) I have heard countless teachers say No Child Left Behind is destroying American education, but that's a whole different topic ...
Later addendum: Oops, Madison was a preexisting junior high, I was thinking of Kennedy. But it's all moot since I went to Washington. Go Warriors! Or rather, Wildcats since our really rather racist caricature of an Indian was finally deemed offensive. Oh well. My sister's high school was the Redskins. Guess who's now the Redhawks?
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where I was
A newspaper friend of mine was asked to talk about her Sept. 11 memories for her official blog. Many of her memories echoed mine, and I naturally started replaying that day in my head.
After working second shift the night before, I was sleeping in to my normal 10 or so when I heard my phone ring. I ignored it, then it rang again. I finally got up and checked the message. It was another newspaper friend, Meg, saying very shakily, "Turn on the TV. Something terrible has happened." I switched it on, and there was smoke billowing over New York, both towers collapsed. I called Meg and we talked/sat in stunned silence for an hour or so. I remember thinking, "Oh God, how many people could have been in there?"
Around noon I pulled myself together for a shower and went ahead to a dentist appointment. I wasn't needed at work yet and frankly was too stunned to know what else to do. The radio in the waiting room was tuned to news, which was even eerier without pictures. Then I was called back and greeted by a cheerful hygienist who chirped, "How are you today?" Uh, a bit disturbed, actually. "Why? Oh, yeah, isn't it awful?" That's putting it mildly. After my cleaning, I went to my church to pray for a while before reporting to the newsroom. I don't even know if I prayed consciously or if I just repeated "Help us" over and over.
I got to the newsroom early, and it was sheer chaos. They were just finishing up the special edition, and I was immediately put to work reading wire stories and going through pictures. And it seems that's what I did for the next eight days straight. Everyone was bombarded with images and stories in those days, but you have no idea how many more there were. We had to filter through them all, decide which were the most powerful, which were the most compelling, which were too gruesome to print. Thousands of pictures. News alerts every two minutes as the information trickled in. You couldn't actually lay out a page until nearly deadline because the stories kept changing. We never stopped; the adrenaline dripped from the walls. And when I went home, all I did was switch on the TV and watch more. I couldn't stop the horror. (Newseum.org has a gallery of front pages from that day.)
I remember calling my sister in London, probably the next day. I tried to get a free circuit for more than two hours. We were both so relieved to hear from each other, even though neither of us were directly affected. Amanda had been in New York not a week before, had even stopped in the Krispy Kreme in the World Trade Center on something like the 9th. We talked for at least an hour even though I didn't have an international plan. You just had to reach out to your family.
I don't think anyone in the newsroom was able to actually process what was happening for days. We were constant motion. You couldn't let emotion take over or you wouldn't be able to function. I remember all the copy editors gathering in the graphic artists' room one evening a few days into it, theoretically to get on the same page about who was working what overtime (I normally had Wednesdays and Thursdays off -- that didn't happen), but what we did was finally talk about how all of this information overload was affecting us. What images were haunting us. How we weren't separating from it at home. We were four women, all under 30, watching history in a tailspin.
It all finally became too much for me that Saturday -- I know because I remember the t-shirt I was wearing. The Associated Press had just that evening started to release the pictures of people jumping from the top of the towers, the fuzzy closeups of people stripped to their underwear because of the unbearable heat. The pictures of faces peering out over the smoke, judging what was the worse way to die. And I saw the picture of a man and woman holding hands as they jumped. I still cry when I think of that picture, my whole body is tingling even now. I had to run away from that, had to leave work for a while. Brad walked me out to my car, and I just broke down and sobbed on him for several minutes. I think we made a pact not to turn on the TV that night.
What's strange is that before that day, had you asked me to describe the World Trade Center, I don't think I could have. I don't think I even knew what that phrase meant. I remember seeing the towers from an airplane while making a connection in Newark, remember the little thrill of thinking, "That's New York!," but the fact they were the World Trade Center may have been acknowledged by the pilot, not me. Amazing how something I didn't really know existed is now such a touchstone in my life.
So that's where I was; where were you?
After working second shift the night before, I was sleeping in to my normal 10 or so when I heard my phone ring. I ignored it, then it rang again. I finally got up and checked the message. It was another newspaper friend, Meg, saying very shakily, "Turn on the TV. Something terrible has happened." I switched it on, and there was smoke billowing over New York, both towers collapsed. I called Meg and we talked/sat in stunned silence for an hour or so. I remember thinking, "Oh God, how many people could have been in there?"
Around noon I pulled myself together for a shower and went ahead to a dentist appointment. I wasn't needed at work yet and frankly was too stunned to know what else to do. The radio in the waiting room was tuned to news, which was even eerier without pictures. Then I was called back and greeted by a cheerful hygienist who chirped, "How are you today?" Uh, a bit disturbed, actually. "Why? Oh, yeah, isn't it awful?" That's putting it mildly. After my cleaning, I went to my church to pray for a while before reporting to the newsroom. I don't even know if I prayed consciously or if I just repeated "Help us" over and over.
I got to the newsroom early, and it was sheer chaos. They were just finishing up the special edition, and I was immediately put to work reading wire stories and going through pictures. And it seems that's what I did for the next eight days straight. Everyone was bombarded with images and stories in those days, but you have no idea how many more there were. We had to filter through them all, decide which were the most powerful, which were the most compelling, which were too gruesome to print. Thousands of pictures. News alerts every two minutes as the information trickled in. You couldn't actually lay out a page until nearly deadline because the stories kept changing. We never stopped; the adrenaline dripped from the walls. And when I went home, all I did was switch on the TV and watch more. I couldn't stop the horror. (Newseum.org has a gallery of front pages from that day.)
I remember calling my sister in London, probably the next day. I tried to get a free circuit for more than two hours. We were both so relieved to hear from each other, even though neither of us were directly affected. Amanda had been in New York not a week before, had even stopped in the Krispy Kreme in the World Trade Center on something like the 9th. We talked for at least an hour even though I didn't have an international plan. You just had to reach out to your family.
I don't think anyone in the newsroom was able to actually process what was happening for days. We were constant motion. You couldn't let emotion take over or you wouldn't be able to function. I remember all the copy editors gathering in the graphic artists' room one evening a few days into it, theoretically to get on the same page about who was working what overtime (I normally had Wednesdays and Thursdays off -- that didn't happen), but what we did was finally talk about how all of this information overload was affecting us. What images were haunting us. How we weren't separating from it at home. We were four women, all under 30, watching history in a tailspin.
It all finally became too much for me that Saturday -- I know because I remember the t-shirt I was wearing. The Associated Press had just that evening started to release the pictures of people jumping from the top of the towers, the fuzzy closeups of people stripped to their underwear because of the unbearable heat. The pictures of faces peering out over the smoke, judging what was the worse way to die. And I saw the picture of a man and woman holding hands as they jumped. I still cry when I think of that picture, my whole body is tingling even now. I had to run away from that, had to leave work for a while. Brad walked me out to my car, and I just broke down and sobbed on him for several minutes. I think we made a pact not to turn on the TV that night.
What's strange is that before that day, had you asked me to describe the World Trade Center, I don't think I could have. I don't think I even knew what that phrase meant. I remember seeing the towers from an airplane while making a connection in Newark, remember the little thrill of thinking, "That's New York!," but the fact they were the World Trade Center may have been acknowledged by the pilot, not me. Amazing how something I didn't really know existed is now such a touchstone in my life.
So that's where I was; where were you?
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Can you hear me now?
Okay, I'm supposed to be cleaning a bathroom and buying a new car battery, but I want to get this down before I forget because it was such an interesting moment to observe.
I was walking to my Spanish class yesterday, crossing the commuter parking lot, when I heard a girl across the aisle from me talking on her cell phone. She told the listener where she was, and then started to offer advice on how to lessen the severity of a cold. I wasn't really listening, it was just a plug for Zicam. Actually, I was lusting after her sweater. Ah, it was fabulous. Dark charcoal torso and turtleneck, with dusty pink arms down to just below the elbow, where there were multicolored stripes the rest of the way. I need that sweater. Even more than I need the Twister purse some girl carries that has a class near mine. But I digress. Anyway, just as I rounded a car a few steps behind her, I saw her chatting away and midsentence flip the phone closed, look at the girl on the sidewalk, who simulaneously flipped her phone closed, and continue her conversation without missing a beat. It was amazing choreography. Of course, why they needed a 1 minute conversation on a cell phone rather than just meeting up is a bit of a mystery, but it was amazing to witness.
It was also a bit sad, though. When I walk around campus, all the kiddies are on their cell phone or have iPods in their ears. I can't help but think of the Seashells in Farenheit 451. Very, very few people are talking to each other. I'm surprised the girls I saw didn't keep talking on their phones as they walked together. Back in the dark ages of my undergrad experience, we actually talked to our friends or just THOUGHT as we walked. And all the interesting overheard conversations these people are missing out on. I remember walking in front of Cooper Library one day with one of you lovely readers, though I don't remember who, and we were behind two frat boys who aparently learned their rhetorical skills from the Smurfs. "Man, that f*er has the best f*ing s*it I've f*ing seen. F*. It's f*ing great. I'm not f*ing kidding. F*itty f*itty f* f* ..." And more to that effect. I think these two fine scholars then turned into the library, at which time my friend and I burst into hysterics. And today's college kids are missing such comedy.
I was walking to my Spanish class yesterday, crossing the commuter parking lot, when I heard a girl across the aisle from me talking on her cell phone. She told the listener where she was, and then started to offer advice on how to lessen the severity of a cold. I wasn't really listening, it was just a plug for Zicam. Actually, I was lusting after her sweater. Ah, it was fabulous. Dark charcoal torso and turtleneck, with dusty pink arms down to just below the elbow, where there were multicolored stripes the rest of the way. I need that sweater. Even more than I need the Twister purse some girl carries that has a class near mine. But I digress. Anyway, just as I rounded a car a few steps behind her, I saw her chatting away and midsentence flip the phone closed, look at the girl on the sidewalk, who simulaneously flipped her phone closed, and continue her conversation without missing a beat. It was amazing choreography. Of course, why they needed a 1 minute conversation on a cell phone rather than just meeting up is a bit of a mystery, but it was amazing to witness.
It was also a bit sad, though. When I walk around campus, all the kiddies are on their cell phone or have iPods in their ears. I can't help but think of the Seashells in Farenheit 451. Very, very few people are talking to each other. I'm surprised the girls I saw didn't keep talking on their phones as they walked together. Back in the dark ages of my undergrad experience, we actually talked to our friends or just THOUGHT as we walked. And all the interesting overheard conversations these people are missing out on. I remember walking in front of Cooper Library one day with one of you lovely readers, though I don't remember who, and we were behind two frat boys who aparently learned their rhetorical skills from the Smurfs. "Man, that f*er has the best f*ing s*it I've f*ing seen. F*. It's f*ing great. I'm not f*ing kidding. F*itty f*itty f* f* ..." And more to that effect. I think these two fine scholars then turned into the library, at which time my friend and I burst into hysterics. And today's college kids are missing such comedy.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Deja vu
Well, I think I just resigned again. If you can call what I did in October resigning. Funny, though, since I did it on the phone from home and may not see either my direct boss or managing editor again, it doesn't feel like resigning, just stopping. Odd.
I have been working Saturday and Sunday nights for the past two months-ish, and I thought the understanding was that I wouldn't work Saturdays after the new year. Understandably, they want a fourth copy editor on Saturdays, and my offer to work two a month didn't fly. I knew it was a long shot, but I'm just not willing to give up any semblance of a family life. With Brad working a "normal human schedule", i.e. 8 to 5, Monday through Friday, that meant we didn't have a day in the week where we could do something as a family. That just wasn't going to fly. And as I've said before, I wanted to stop copy editing (second-read, layout) and working second shift anyway. I liked ciy editing (first-read, working with reporters), but it was also a path to night work for several years.
So I've quit. I think I've done it on good terms, and I'm fairly certain they still think highly of me and understand my motives. My M.E. said they'd be open to talking about freelance writing opportunities after they fill my copy desk position, and I know they use freelancers for this family life weekly insert they've started doing. Hopefully I can sell them some Hispanic stories as well.
I knew things were very sketchy and unofficial back in October, and I was afraid we were all thinking different things for my future, but ultimately this is for the best. At most I was going to stick with part-time for a few months, just to get the full experience with city editing. But freelance will probably lead me more in the direction I want to go ultimately, and I'm happy to be staying home with Abigail, being able to do more mom things that I've wanted to do. I never planned to work full time until she was in kindergarten anyway. But it still feels weird to quit. But at least we're finally to where that's an option.
I have been working Saturday and Sunday nights for the past two months-ish, and I thought the understanding was that I wouldn't work Saturdays after the new year. Understandably, they want a fourth copy editor on Saturdays, and my offer to work two a month didn't fly. I knew it was a long shot, but I'm just not willing to give up any semblance of a family life. With Brad working a "normal human schedule", i.e. 8 to 5, Monday through Friday, that meant we didn't have a day in the week where we could do something as a family. That just wasn't going to fly. And as I've said before, I wanted to stop copy editing (second-read, layout) and working second shift anyway. I liked ciy editing (first-read, working with reporters), but it was also a path to night work for several years.
So I've quit. I think I've done it on good terms, and I'm fairly certain they still think highly of me and understand my motives. My M.E. said they'd be open to talking about freelance writing opportunities after they fill my copy desk position, and I know they use freelancers for this family life weekly insert they've started doing. Hopefully I can sell them some Hispanic stories as well.
I knew things were very sketchy and unofficial back in October, and I was afraid we were all thinking different things for my future, but ultimately this is for the best. At most I was going to stick with part-time for a few months, just to get the full experience with city editing. But freelance will probably lead me more in the direction I want to go ultimately, and I'm happy to be staying home with Abigail, being able to do more mom things that I've wanted to do. I never planned to work full time until she was in kindergarten anyway. But it still feels weird to quit. But at least we're finally to where that's an option.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
La France en flamme
I am simply astounded by what is happening in France right now. I simply cannot reconcile this violence with that country. Granted, I was never in the ZUPs (zone urbane publique or something like that -- the projects), though when I did pass them on the train they were depressing as heck, but still. This is France.
When I was there in 1999, not long after Columbine, my students were dumbfounded by the violence in America. You could write that off as the naievete of small-town kids, but the riots have reached Lens, not 15 minutes by train from my town, Bethune. And that's just according to a map of the 20 or so most serious riots -- there were riots in 300 towns yesterday. And while Bethune wasn't a hotbed of immigrant unrest -- or of many immigrants period -- it was certainly an economically depressed area in its own right. I tend to think of that region as the West Virginia of France, lots of closed coal mines. There certainly could have been small skirmishes there. Hooded thugs and fires in the Grand'Place -- I can't even picture it.
Of course, I had heard of the racism in France. I only had one first-generation French student, but I had known a man of Algerian descent in 1997 (Dex may remember him, the guy that was dating that rather ditsy girl Jenny in Lyon), and he had talked about the difficulties he faced. And I had met a fellow teaching assistant who had been placed in the Lille suburb of Roubaix. That place was known to be dangerous, you just didn't voluntarily go to Roubaix. Students regularly threatened that teacher, and he'd even had chairs thrown at him. I think he was teaching middle school -- and we were just the conversational English teachers, with no real grading power.
(Time for a sidenote with a completely different tone: In Bethune, the Grand'Place is dominated by a medieval bell tower, Le Beffroi. It was one of the few things to survive a 1918 bombardment [the rest of the square was rebuilt]. And apparently, it just became a UNESCO world history site! Go little Bethune!)
When I was there in 1999, not long after Columbine, my students were dumbfounded by the violence in America. You could write that off as the naievete of small-town kids, but the riots have reached Lens, not 15 minutes by train from my town, Bethune. And that's just according to a map of the 20 or so most serious riots -- there were riots in 300 towns yesterday. And while Bethune wasn't a hotbed of immigrant unrest -- or of many immigrants period -- it was certainly an economically depressed area in its own right. I tend to think of that region as the West Virginia of France, lots of closed coal mines. There certainly could have been small skirmishes there. Hooded thugs and fires in the Grand'Place -- I can't even picture it.
Of course, I had heard of the racism in France. I only had one first-generation French student, but I had known a man of Algerian descent in 1997 (Dex may remember him, the guy that was dating that rather ditsy girl Jenny in Lyon), and he had talked about the difficulties he faced. And I had met a fellow teaching assistant who had been placed in the Lille suburb of Roubaix. That place was known to be dangerous, you just didn't voluntarily go to Roubaix. Students regularly threatened that teacher, and he'd even had chairs thrown at him. I think he was teaching middle school -- and we were just the conversational English teachers, with no real grading power.
(Time for a sidenote with a completely different tone: In Bethune, the Grand'Place is dominated by a medieval bell tower, Le Beffroi. It was one of the few things to survive a 1918 bombardment [the rest of the square was rebuilt]. And apparently, it just became a UNESCO world history site! Go little Bethune!)
Monday, October 24, 2005
the times, they are a-changin'
Life in the Williams household is an interesting thing. I get a promotion. We say, okay, we'll stay here and Brad will freelance for a few months. Brad starts to get freelance work. Then out of the blue he gets a job offer from a local engineering firm. The offer doubles our income and gives him much-needed direct experience. And I quit my job.
Craziness.
Well, I didn't really. I refuse to put Abigail in day care, so I am going part time. At least through the end of the year, I'll work the weekends and the occasional day during the week when people are on vacation. Then after the holidays, I think the plan is to keep me as city editor on Sundays (the promotion) and allow me to work on building a Hispanic beat from home, maybe writing a couple articles per month. It's very unexpected, but at least all I lose is design shifts, which I didn't want to keep anyway. I wanted to transition off the copy desk by the time Abigail hit kindergarten and try reporting, so it's an early reprieve from second shift.
And hooray, we'll have some spending money! We can buy our own clothes! We can visit my sister in London! I don't have to get an ulcer at the middle of each month, holding my breath until the next paycheck! We're even saying crazy things like a house!
And to the Elm Street family, this means we'll actually be able to attend gatherings!
Will wonders never cease?
Craziness.
Well, I didn't really. I refuse to put Abigail in day care, so I am going part time. At least through the end of the year, I'll work the weekends and the occasional day during the week when people are on vacation. Then after the holidays, I think the plan is to keep me as city editor on Sundays (the promotion) and allow me to work on building a Hispanic beat from home, maybe writing a couple articles per month. It's very unexpected, but at least all I lose is design shifts, which I didn't want to keep anyway. I wanted to transition off the copy desk by the time Abigail hit kindergarten and try reporting, so it's an early reprieve from second shift.
And hooray, we'll have some spending money! We can buy our own clothes! We can visit my sister in London! I don't have to get an ulcer at the middle of each month, holding my breath until the next paycheck! We're even saying crazy things like a house!
And to the Elm Street family, this means we'll actually be able to attend gatherings!
Will wonders never cease?
Friday, October 14, 2005
Watchtowers and waterfalls
There's just something about the sight of hazy blue peaks rolling into the distance that lifts my soul and carries it off to the horizon, where my cares fade into the mist.
The other half and I just returned from two days in southwestern North Carolina among foliage and old friends. I have only been to the mountains once since having Abigail and haven't been hiking since I was pregnant. I'm sure it sounds melodramatic, but I have felt empty without seeing the mountains. Some fundamental part of me responds to the mountains unlike anything else in nature, and I become giddy at the first glimpse. I feel God there more than anywhere else. Yesterday I gazed up at the yellow poplars reaching up to the sky, and it seemed their branches were raised in praise, thanking God for the incredible beauty scattered all around them.
Beaches are nice, beaches are relaxing, but beaches are boring after about three hours. In the mountains, I am constantly finding something new to marvel at, a new trail I want to follow. I saw a bright pink mushroom along one trail, and canary-hued maple leave resting on a wet, black log on another. Walking along one river, the rhododendron leaves and roots were so thick on the path that they swam in front of my eyes, a dancing collage of brown and orange and yellow. I feel inspired and cleansed and new.
I also feel reconnected to "family". We live such an isolated life, spending most of our time in our little nuclear family of three. Since I work second shift and weekends, we have very little oportunity to tap into other peoples' ideas and thoughts and laughter. And the past two days, I got to fully be myself with decade-old friends. Yes, we talked about college, but we also talked about our blood families, our Elm Street family, our individual concerns and hopes and opinions about the world. We drank fancy beer and ate falling apart pork roast and inhaled the quintessential October flavors of pumpkin spice coffee (well, Brad and I did). Perhaps most rewarding, I got to see that my friends are actually friends with my husband.
And I get to do it again next week with my mother. It's a good fall.
The other half and I just returned from two days in southwestern North Carolina among foliage and old friends. I have only been to the mountains once since having Abigail and haven't been hiking since I was pregnant. I'm sure it sounds melodramatic, but I have felt empty without seeing the mountains. Some fundamental part of me responds to the mountains unlike anything else in nature, and I become giddy at the first glimpse. I feel God there more than anywhere else. Yesterday I gazed up at the yellow poplars reaching up to the sky, and it seemed their branches were raised in praise, thanking God for the incredible beauty scattered all around them.
Beaches are nice, beaches are relaxing, but beaches are boring after about three hours. In the mountains, I am constantly finding something new to marvel at, a new trail I want to follow. I saw a bright pink mushroom along one trail, and canary-hued maple leave resting on a wet, black log on another. Walking along one river, the rhododendron leaves and roots were so thick on the path that they swam in front of my eyes, a dancing collage of brown and orange and yellow. I feel inspired and cleansed and new.
I also feel reconnected to "family". We live such an isolated life, spending most of our time in our little nuclear family of three. Since I work second shift and weekends, we have very little oportunity to tap into other peoples' ideas and thoughts and laughter. And the past two days, I got to fully be myself with decade-old friends. Yes, we talked about college, but we also talked about our blood families, our Elm Street family, our individual concerns and hopes and opinions about the world. We drank fancy beer and ate falling apart pork roast and inhaled the quintessential October flavors of pumpkin spice coffee (well, Brad and I did). Perhaps most rewarding, I got to see that my friends are actually friends with my husband.
And I get to do it again next week with my mother. It's a good fall.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Careful, you'll get whiplash
Yesterday, I had quite the rant about my disappointing Spanish class. I've always been one that hates to inconvenience others and will just suck up negative events, but not this time. I wrote an e-mail, and well, most definitely got a response ...
(sent at 4:36 p.m.)
Heather,
Thank you very much for writing and sharing your concerns about the 201 class. I discussed the problem with the instructor, and she has decided not to teach for us. Incidently all of our part-time faculty members have to meet specific criteria because of our accreditation with the Southern Association. And, of course, Dr. xxx was qualified due to her educational and professional experiences.
You will be happy to learn that the instructor for the 5:00 class has been changed to Dr. xxx xxx, Associate Professor of Spanish. Dr. xxx is a full-time professor in the department.
If you have any additional concerns, please do not hesitate to share them with me or with the Dean, Dr. xxx xxx.
Again, thank you for contacting me.
xxx xxx
-----Original Message-----
Sent: Wednesday, August 24, 2005 11:26 AM
Dr. xxx,
I am writing to express my outrage at the incredibly poor teaching quality I saw in my Spanish 201 class with xxx xxx. I am a graduate of Clemson University, class of 1999 valedictorian with a degree in English and French, and now a professional non-degree seeking student who hoped to later go on for a master's in Spanish. I was stunned by what I saw in this class, including improper conjugation of "llamar" and incorrect instructions on article agreement in superlatives. Several students in the class, all of whom, including myself, have only Spanish 102 knowledge, were correcting her. Her pedagogy was attrocious: She read exercises to us to write down, had us repeat them so she could write them on the board without the answers, then rewrote the complete sentences again with the answers. It was painfully slow, and frankly, I could teach myself from the book just as easily and more quickly. Students were practically laughing at her in disbelief.
I have spent a great deal of time arranging my work schedule and tuition reimbursement with my employer, The Herald, and was excited about taking this course and future studies at Winthrop. In my frustration, I have since dropped the class, the only section I could take. I heard several other students saying they planned to do the same. I would gladly add the course back if a different, qualified instructor were found by next week. At the moment I can only pity the undergraduates who need this course for credt -- which they will get while learning very little, possibly incorrect Spanish.
Sincerely,
Heather xxx
(sent at 4:36 p.m.)
Heather,
Thank you very much for writing and sharing your concerns about the 201 class. I discussed the problem with the instructor, and she has decided not to teach for us. Incidently all of our part-time faculty members have to meet specific criteria because of our accreditation with the Southern Association. And, of course, Dr. xxx was qualified due to her educational and professional experiences.
You will be happy to learn that the instructor for the 5:00 class has been changed to Dr. xxx xxx, Associate Professor of Spanish. Dr. xxx is a full-time professor in the department.
If you have any additional concerns, please do not hesitate to share them with me or with the Dean, Dr. xxx xxx.
Again, thank you for contacting me.
xxx xxx
-----Original Message-----
Sent: Wednesday, August 24, 2005 11:26 AM
Dr. xxx,
I am writing to express my outrage at the incredibly poor teaching quality I saw in my Spanish 201 class with xxx xxx. I am a graduate of Clemson University, class of 1999 valedictorian with a degree in English and French, and now a professional non-degree seeking student who hoped to later go on for a master's in Spanish. I was stunned by what I saw in this class, including improper conjugation of "llamar" and incorrect instructions on article agreement in superlatives. Several students in the class, all of whom, including myself, have only Spanish 102 knowledge, were correcting her. Her pedagogy was attrocious: She read exercises to us to write down, had us repeat them so she could write them on the board without the answers, then rewrote the complete sentences again with the answers. It was painfully slow, and frankly, I could teach myself from the book just as easily and more quickly. Students were practically laughing at her in disbelief.
I have spent a great deal of time arranging my work schedule and tuition reimbursement with my employer, The Herald, and was excited about taking this course and future studies at Winthrop. In my frustration, I have since dropped the class, the only section I could take. I heard several other students saying they planned to do the same. I would gladly add the course back if a different, qualified instructor were found by next week. At the moment I can only pity the undergraduates who need this course for credt -- which they will get while learning very little, possibly incorrect Spanish.
Sincerely,
Heather xxx
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Welcome to my odditorium, a collection of curiosities made up of snippets about my life and occasional machinations on deeper subjects.
