One ... two ... three four five

It's often a wonderful asset having a sister in England. It makes travel (theoretically) very affordable and stress-free and generally means we get cool presents. Especially Abigail, who has a plethora of lovely English books and an alphabet board with an English accent. Most recently, Abbey has been able to cash in on the British adoration of Bob the Builder.

Now, I'm quite proud that my daughter's not too girly and loves a show about a construction worker (though her favorite game by far is pretending to be a ballerina) and she looks incredibly cute in her recently acquired hard hat and tool belt. But as a parent, you know that at some point, your child will receive a gift that might just be intended to drive you crazy more than entertain her. My lovely sister just sent us Bob the Builder The Album. A CD full of remakes of British pop tunes, complete with lyrics all about construction and cameo appearances by the various characters. Now, I listened to the first few songs with Abbey before I put her down for her nap, and by far the most hilarious was "Mambo No. 5." That song stalked me everywhere I went during my year abroad, and I found it incredibly entertaining to hear it turned on its head. The line "a little bit of you makes me your man" became "a little bit of Bob the Builder-man." Abbey was very concerned by my guffaws of laughter.

But now, hours and hours later, I have that (*&(#^(*%@$#%^ song stuck in my head!! And I know that my relationship with that CD has only just begun ... and I haven't even heard tracks 4 through 12 yet!

Gettin' jiggy wid it

One of the local stations has been playing an all-'90s weekend, which I was at first unabashedly delighted about since they dug out many songs I enjoyed in high school and college.

Than I realized that many of these same songs were at least 10 years old -- ACK!!!

But it was still quite enjoyable strolling down my musical memory lane. My reactions covered a range of memories and times in my life.

"Losing My Religion" instantly transports me back to freshman year of high school, when I would walk to school from the apartment we lived in before moving to Pittsburgh. I'm walking along a little connector road in my stylin' orange and blue, nylon band jacket, thinking I'm so much better than my contemporaries because I listened to R.E.M. before they became huge -- thanks, big sister. "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" was also played, which zoomed me up to the night after my high school graduation, when Marie and I went to a very muddy R.E.M. concert and spent something like four hours on the highway trying to get home, which was normally an hour away. Never did find out what was up with that traffic, though it was entertaining playing cards in my car with the drunk guy who just sort of invited himself in on our game. And what's better than singing "Meet James Ensor" and dancing around your car at 1 a.m.? He's Belgium's famous painter, you know ...

A few other songs were more of the college era -- which started 10 years ago this August, I can't believe it! "You Outta Know" reminded me of the other I-hate-men female singers of the time, like Fiona Apple, which was always a good CD to play in the dark when ticked off. Side note, Alanis was inducted into the Canadian walk of fame today -- didn't know such a thing existed, much less that the stars were flanked by royal mounties when the got their stars! I hadn't heard "Sex and Candy" in years, always cranked the radio up on that one. And then, as I headed home for dinner, Will Smith came on in all his glory "Gettin' Jiggy With It." Now, never liked that song, hated it in fact, but the image of a certain 6 foot, 2 inch friend of mine dancing to that song in his dorm room almost had me in tears of laughter! This same friend was later my swing dance partner, and though we had a blast when I wasn't taking out his bum knee, I'm sure we weren't exactly the most graceful pair!

Ah, the ability of the senses to revive vivid memories -- almost Proustian, though I don't plan to lock myself in my bedroom for years.

Now if that station would just stop playing Jesus Jones' "Right Here, Right Now" on a regular basis, I'd be happy. Come on people, the song is all about how great 1990 is going to be -- move on!

All I want for Christmas

I am normally quite good at Trivial Pursuit and enjoy flaunting that fact almost as much as my prowess at Scattergories, and so I find myself ridiculously excited about Trivial Pursuit for Book Lovers! For a hysterical review -- or at least an understanding of what English geeks find funny -- go here.

Of no particular importance or relation to the above, please remember that both my anniversary and birthday are next month ...

The Throat unmasked

One of the country's most fascinating mysteries has been solved: we know who Deep Throat was. As a journalist, you'd think I'd be incredibly excited by this revelation, when actually I'm more annoyed I hadn't yet gotten around to reading "All the President's Men." Now I won't be able to enjoy all the speculation! Of course, that won't keep me from reading every different angle on the story tonight and probably starting the book soon, despite the behemoth my Bible study/book club friends have foisted on me for next week ...

Another book

A friend recently wrote something very powerful about faith. I encourage everyone to read it, though most people that would read my blog probably already agree. But what he wrote got me thinking about another book I'd like to read: "God's Politics: Why the Right Gets it Wrong and the Left Doesn't Get It," by Jim Wallis. I'm very socially progressive in my faith, though I seldom act on it other than donations. Maybe this book would help give me the kick I need to find a cause to devote myself to and really make a difference. A lot to ask of a book, but then I at least need to be asking more of myself.

What a friend we have in Jesus

Toddlers are highly amusing creatures, espeically the ones like mine that have vivid imaginations. Lately, Abbey has been turning anything and everything into an imaginary friend. She occasionally talks to Sarah, who thankfully exists as an actual little girl at her preschool, and frequently her hands, which can lead to hysterical conversations: "Time for bed, mommy hand. Good night, mommy hand. Say good night, Abbey hand. Sleep well." And she then proceeds to shove both her hands into my sandals, which are now cribs and heck if I'm allowed to wear them for at least an hour. The mommy-Abbey phenomenon also happens with cookies, sandwiches, sticks ... anything that can have different sizes. Daddy, nana, pops and grandma version of things also have frequent roles.

But by far the strangest imaginary friend would have to be our Lord and Savior. She's been playing with Jesus a lot lately. I'd heard her chatting in general a couple of weeks ago, but then last week they were having quite the game of one-on-one basketball, though aparently Jesus cheats. I guess He made up for it the next day, though, when He helped her scrub the tub while I cleaned the rest of the bathroom. Funny, my house doesn't look like there's been divine intervention ... Now, how do you correct theology like that? I can't tell her to stop talking to Jesus because, who knows, maybe she's having actual visions? Maybe He's had pity on an only child and given her a playmate. And I've always argued that you can't tell exactly when faith starts, maybe this is the beginnings of a 2-year-old's understanding of the God she's been shown at preschool and in songs, where Jesus is your friend and he loves you and is always there. Not a bad beginning. Plus I'm not sure she'd grasp the whole "God doesn't cheat, sweetie." Heck, it's hard to understand that as an adult sometimes!

But at least she's got a good chance at a college scholarship, with a coach like that ...

Out of the mouths of screaming politicians

Lately, there has been precious little said in the political world about religion that I can back wholeheartedly, and vice versa. But a political junkie I know found some wonderfully sane words on faith from Howard Dean. All I can say is amen, Brother Dean.

Stuff I wish I could get

The downside of being a journalist with an academic husband is that, while the conversations are stimulating, there's not much money left over for non-essentials -- which has somehow come to include books, music and good food, something I swore I'd never let happen. But someday, surely, the purse strings will slacken and I can begin to whittle away at my wish-lists. This will no doubt grow and fluctuate, and suggestions are always appreciated!

Books: (Yes, I know I can get some of these from the library)
"A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," Dave Eggers
"The History of Love," Nicole Krauss
something by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
a first-edition "Anne of Green Gables," Lucy Maude Montgomery -- or at least a really old one

Music:
"Mignonette," The Avett Brothers, plus their live CDs
"Break syndical," Les Cowboys Fringants
"Notre epoque," Tarmac
"La Vallee des reputations," Jean LeLoup (not sure about this one)
probably more by Louise Attaque
the past two Coldplay albums
Anna Nalick sounds intriguing

Travel:
mountains in general
Arcadia National Park
D.C. for the Newseum and Holocaust Museum
California wine country
Grand Canyon
Prince Edward Island
British Columbia
Copenhagen
Bretagne
Provence
Tuscany
Andalusia
Barcelona
Ireland

Other:
warm pain au chocolat from the boulangerie in Lillers
Italian cappucino
a ride on the Underground or Paris Metro
Magnum Double
Kinder Bueno

On my own happy little cloud

I have always been a very good girl. I have never used any substances stronger than caffeine and alcohol (unless you count the Percodan from my c-section), and I never particularly want to. But this morning, while scanning PBS for something to half-watch while exercising, I stumbled upon Bob Ross and realized that if I'd ever smoked pot, I would have watched The Joy of Painting while doing it.

The instant that afro-bedecked face hits the screen, something in my mind shuts down. I become slightly numb, lulled by his gentle, almost whispering voice into a mesmerized state. I watch slack-jawed as he dabs the titanium white mixed with yellow ochre and sap green to the shapeless shadows on his canvass, magically creating either "happy little" or "big old" trees out of thin air. It's amazing, the flick of the wrist that creates relections, the slash of the knife that creates purple mountains. And the magic roll of paint on the edge of the knife that can "bounce along" and create rocks where before there was just an amorphous blob of brown.

So what if all his paintings are of the same mountains and lakes and glens and would seem generically impressionist even at a Motel 6? I'd forgive Bob anything for that happy, fuzzy feeling in my brain for that half an hour.

"We don't make mistakes here, we just have happy accidents. We want happy, happy paintings. If you want sad things, watch the news. Everything is possible here. This is your little universe." -- Bob Ross

Reconnecting with nature

I got outside this weekend! It wasn't so much as a hike as a nature walk (can't do much more strenuous with a 2-and-a-half-year-old in tow), but it was so lovely to get out with a bunch of trees and the sound of water.

I headed over to Landsford Canal State Park for the morning with my mother and daughter, partly in hopes of seeing the Rocky Shoals Spider Lily. The flowers were just coming out of the water, not yet blooming, but it was still a very nice park. There's not an overwhelming amount of historical or botanical explanation, but who really needs more than a few paragraphs when you can walk along next to the Catawba River, far from any evidence of humanity other than the worn path?

The Catawba is a very shallow, rocky river, which actually makes it all the more picturesque. Loads of rapids and little waterfalls ripple the current, and dozens and dozens of turtles had climbed aboard the rocks and fallen trees in the river to sun themselves — I've never seen that many in one place. It was a cool day with a steady breeze, and the fresh spring green blanketing the forest floor added to the refreshing feeling of renewal. One of the more surprising natural discoveries were these gorgeous trumpet flowers that grew in vines high up in the tree canopy. The flowers were burgundy outside and an orangey-saffron yellow inside. I took a sniff when Abbey proffered her little treasure, expecting to get a whiff of a normal light perfume, and was stunned when it actually DID smell like saffron. Very spicy, pungent. Not unpleasant, just striking and not at all what I anticipated. I walked along smelling a blossom for several minutes.

Of course, the greatest joy of the day was watching Abigail discover the woods for the first time. We've been to lots of city parks, but this was her first forest, and she was fascinated. She wanted to throw sticks in the Catawba, touch the water, smell flowers, "rake" leaves with a stick, kill "dragons" also known as fallen trees, toss prickly gum balls, find waterfalls, climb on the old masonry walls of the locks ... It's so eye-opening to see the world again for the first time through a child. Pure joy in nature. Though of course it was a bit nerve-wracking keeping her from the edge of the banks and from wandering into untold clusters of poison ivy ...

A trip into Euro-analysis

The following stems from an e-mail sent by a friend:

"I ran across this on the Rick Steves sight. I'm not sure I buy into everything the author had to say, though he made very valid points. If some of you's folks have a smidgen of free time, it's an interesting topic."

Good-ness, where to begin?

Well, for one, I think this essay has to be read keeping in mind that Rick Steves makes his livelihood convincing people Europe is a wonderful place to visit, especially when accompanied by one of his guidebooks. He's also from Oregon and works for Public Broadcasting -- not exactly a card-carrying Republican, I'd guess.

But that said, he makes several valid points. Now, I'm a francophile and lean left-of-center, but I think there are things that are genuinely better in Europe, most importantly the concept of quality of life. The overt materialism of the United States often disgusts me. The obsession with bigger-better-newer can be nauseating (sorry, Ty). I get agitated when I see someone idling in their Expedition in a Target parking lot on a gorgeous spring day, windows rolled up and a/c on. A car that already only gets, what, 10 miles to the gallon, and they're idling. And I bet they complain about the cost of gas. Yes, gas is expensive in Europe. But they all drive tiny cars -- and after you've been there for about a month, they seem perfectly normal and adequate. Houses are smaller, closer together. They're also built out of quality materials, according to regional guidelines that instill a sense of place, not just vinyl siding. And Europeans simply own less stuff. They wear their clothes more often and everything is interchangeable (what doesn't go with black?). What they spend their money on is time. As Brad loves to say, you can have either time or money, not both. So Europeans eat leisurely dinners. They walk around pedestrian shopping streets -- even just to walk, not necessarily shop. They sip wine and tiny cups of espresso, just enjoying their evenings. And most people go home for lunch with their families during the week. What better quality time with your kids? The importance of family in Europe is incredible -- true "family values" extending beyond the nuclear, taking care of the elderly.

And the wonders of mass transit!!! Subways, busses, commuter trains! You don't HAVE to have a car! Don't get me started on my nostalgia for SNCF (French rail system) bells and announcements!

Now, for where Steves was painting a rosy picture. Europeans still love their celebrities. Often American celebrities. Maybe it's not quite as rampant as Brad Pitt-Angelina Jolie-Paris Hilton-Jessica Simpson crap, but it's definitely there. And American brands are everywhere. Even team logos. I remember a kid wearing a Georgetown hat. I asked him if he knew of the school and he just looked at me. They may not understand the symbolism, but they love the symbols.

And socialist doctrines aren't always a success. Steves waxed poetic about the French 35 hour work week, but that just got killed because it was costing the economy too much and the government wants to try the other way around to see if that sparks more development. Not that the French are all about efficiency now. The buses in my region were on strike for three weeks and I had no way to get to one of my schools. And my school said, That's okay, we'll see you when the strike is over!

But God-love the European concept of paid family time! Three months maternity leave! (In Ukraine, I think it's a year) And they keep you in the hospital for a week so you actually have time to rest and recover before you have to start the sleep deprivation, not just a baby mill that cranks you out a day after you deliver! And vacations ... I'm a bit bitter about that as I face two weeks a year for the next five years, all while working weekends, but then that's partly my fault for choosing journalism. My sister gets obscene amounts of vacation, and it's just the standard five weeks. She's always talking about having to take vacation days at the end of the year to use them up, trotting off to interesting corners of England every few weeks.

All in all, an interesting essay. Not all Europeans are gung-ho about the EU (hence the rise of jerks like Le Pen), racism is growing. And I've seen the ugly side of government subsidies after working in vo-tech high schools, like a student that actually told me that when he grew up, he just wanted to go on unemployment like his dad. So Europe isn't all a bed of roses. But I do think a lot of their priorities are in the right place.

Wistful thoughts

Sigh — ah, to be an undergraduate again. Perhaps these nostalgic vibes are washing over me because I happened to grab a Clemson t-shirt out of my closet this morning, but I am practically overwhelmed with longing to go back to the simpler times of classes, friends and a few drops of alcohol. I plan to attend Winthrop University this fall as a graduate non-degree-seeking student in Spanish, but I know it won't be the same. I will be rushing from campus back to work on my dinner breaks, balancing homework and play time with Abbey, attempting to banish thoughts of looming bills as I study flash cards. No more bouncing down the dorm hall hopped up on too much caffeine, pigtails bobbing from side to side (the sure sign of my hyperactivity and a looming test).

I think this was all driven home today on the way home from work for dinner. I drive through the heart of Winthrop's campus every day, watching the students talking, playing football, trying to beat the traffic lights. One girl in particular struck me today. She was wearing faded denim capri overalls, her hair twisted up in funky knots, chatting on a cell phone as she walked her dog. She seemed the epitome of carefree. You take so much for granted in college. We all had problems, and some truly do struggle personally and financially all the way through, but at least for me and my circle of friends, college was absolute fun. The opportunity to be whoever you wanted to be. And, with two people inextricably tied to my life, I will never be like that again. I love my family and would never wish it away, but I can't help but marvel at how profoundly having one shapes your every thought about the future. Everything I do impacts them, and vice versa. Which is wonderful, and yet a little bit sad. The passing of youth.

Seasonal musings

Every year about this time, or rather in March since I live in the South, I find myself quoting Wordsworth. I'm not a huge fan of the man, nor of Romantics in general (though I always thought I would be until I took an excruciatingly dull college class), but I do love just two lines from "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud:" "and then my heart with pleasure fills / and dances with the daffodils"

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Originally uploaded by HFBW.

Daffodils wear jackets of snow on the side of the road in Antrim County near Torch Lake, Mich., Saturday, April 23, 2005. (AP Photo/Traverse City Record-Eagle, Lara Neel)


Of course, I've been largely unaware of spring's arrival this year. The ever-present layer of pollen is unavoidable (very disturbing when your dust rag turns yellow), and we did have a few daffodils in our tiny garden, but when you live facing a seven-lane highway, you don't experience the aromas. I do get out about once a week to Cherry Park, which is a lovely wooded oasis, but other than some flowering trees and daffodils, not extremely full of blooms. Plus I spend most of the time in the playground with Abigail. The other day, as I drove Abbey to parents' morning out with the windows down through one of the nicer residential neighborhoods in town, I was caught off guard by the delicious blend of scents in the air: azaleas, cherry trees, wisteria. It was so refreshing -- and until then I hadn't realized I had missed it so far this year. The yards were layered in pink and white dogwoods and azaleas, and that bright, fresh green was in all the trees.

After I dropped Abbey off, I headed over to Winthrop Lake for a walk. Perhaps I'm just unused to being outside at 9 a.m., but I was amazed at the cacaphony of birds! They were absoluty rejoicing to be alive. On either side of the road, in every tree, birds were chirping and trilling their little hearts out. It raised my mood exponentially.

Toward the end of my walk, I passed a section of trees dripping with wisteria, and the perfume was heady. I immediately was taken back to my 2000 trip to Rome and the Forum, where the purple flowers dripped from a tree in front of Tito's Arch. A college friend of mine said she always associated wisteria with Faulkner, but I will always think of Italy. That scent as it drifted through the debris of ancient grandeur, over the heads of the throngs of tourists. That splash of color as is lazed down the side of a stuccoed home in Verona.

Kodak moments

Since I have very few close friends where I live to show off my daughter to, I figured I should put some pictures on here so you can all ooh and ahh.


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Originally uploaded by HFBW.

Abigail, Christmas 2004. I was worried about how to teach Abbey to use a sit n' spin, but the second she saw it under the tree, she plopped down on it and twirled away.

beach
Originally uploaded by HFBW.

Abigail and mom at Pensacola Beach, March 2005. Not exactly beach weather, but Abbey still loved the sand.

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Originally uploaded by HFBW.

Abigail loves to give "checkups," so she got a doctor kit for Easter.

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Originally uploaded by HFBW.

The fam, Easter 2005.

A fine 20th century education

I am currently witness to the nauseating roller coaster that is the modern job search. As I watch my husband struggle to find employment, I have realized that my circle of friends' costly college educations of the 1990s did not prepare us in the slightest for the economic world we entered upon graduation. I don't fault professors for this. We entered school in 1995 as 18-year-olds steeped in experiences of our parents and older siblings, examples of how to succeed in a world where you looked for jobs in the newspaper and could somewhat count on keeping as long as they were white collar. The Internet was barely more than a toy for computer geeks, and "outsourcing" had yet to be coined. When we graduated in 1999, we entered a world where job boards were posted on the Internet, where you had to be specialized within an inch of your life to get noticed, and where jobs that seem impossible to outsource, i.e. English editing, go to the lowest Asian bidder. Our professors couldn't have seen this coming a mile away -- we certainly didn't.

And so now my husband is being low-balled for freelance jobs by Indians and Malaysians. Not that I fault them, either, they likely speak better English than many Americans. But how on earth is anyone supposed to get noticed on a Web site that spans thousands of profiles and several continents? And how can graduates network when their professors are still stymied in academia and don't know people in the working world that understand the current dynamics? We're almost too educated for our own good in this country: Thousands of M.A.s and PhDs lost in a sea of freelancers or waiting tables. As a friend recently pointed out, the service and construction industries are the biggest growth sectors in the fabulous Bush recovery.

It almost makes you long for the days of growing up with no greater expectations than doing what your father did before you.

Almost.

As the miles tick by

Well, after my nostalgic overdose on memories of I-55, my trip through the Southeast on I-85 and I-65 was rather disappointing. I'm sure the hills and plentiful trees (and soon kudzu) hide many interesting roadside quirks, but I simply didn't see as much as in the Midwest. When we drive Southern backroads, it's a feast for the eyes, but the interstates are dull -- other than dodging speeding traffic around Atlanta.

There were a few images that captured my imagination, though.

One that I must return to is the Dwarf House in Newnan, Ga. It's a perfectly normal Chick-fil-A with a small tudor house stuck on the front. We didn't notice this anomaly until we'd already promise Abigail some time at the Burger King playground (yes, my sheltered child has now had french fries -- something like five times over the whole trip). But I became obsessed with the neighboring eatery. Was it a miniature house for children to play in? Was it simply a playground with a fancy facade? Were gnome statues involved? I now know where we'll be stopping the next time we head to Mom's. And it most definitely won't be the Burger King, where termites promptely swarmed the moment Abigail crawled into the playground.

Another perplexing sight came toward the end of our epic 10 hour journey (during which Abigail was supernaturally calm, playing quitely with toys in the back seat -- the entire time). In Dixonville, Fla., which doesn't even qualify as a hamlet or crossroads, there was a fire hydrant on the side of Fla. 89, surrounded by pine trees and nothing else for miles other than a small water tower. And this hydrant was gushing at full blast. There were no people in sight, no explanation for why this hydrant would have been uncapped. Not even signs of a car running off the road to hit it. How long did this hydrant keep spewing water? How many thousands of gallons were wasted? How many other people passed by and were as bemused as I was?

And somewhere in north Georgia, a beautifully brutal image: A huge hardwood tree uprooted in the middle of a rolling green field, clumps of bright orange clay clinging to its massive roots, below it a jagged hole. A bloody gash in the earth.

Taking off the blinders

I am about to escape the daily doldrums for a bit of spring weather and mothering in Florida. Probably the biggest thing I'm hoping for out of the experience is to relax and open my mind up to observations again. I have travel journals full of the things, but somehow I don't get much beyond the piles of waiting laundry and Abigail's cute antics to really look at the greater world around me. I haven't been hiking in years, and I feel a definite lack from just getting away from the rush of the world. So hopefully I'll find that soon, during the many hours on the interstate looking for landmarks and the shorter hour on back roads in Alabama. Brad and I will talk about them, I know, and hopefully I can get some time to put pen to paper as well (or cursor to screen).

I have always loved road trips. I still remember the homemade milestones as we drove down Interstate 55 between Chicago and St. Louis. There's something about driving for miles upon miles through flat cornfields that makes images almost iconic. There's the house on the left heading South with the swans in the small pond out front. Right up against the frontage road, not really even a farm. Just out there. There's the two-story brick farmhouse a bit further down on the right that never looked inhabited, like something out of a gothic novel -- or the house in "Santa Mouse." As a small child, one of my favorites was the hog farm with the cheery sunburst painted on the side of a shed, depicting free-range pigs and the slogan "Start Your Day With Pork!" After that came the tent company, with it's slogan spelled out word by word in tents "Tents -- Make -- Sense." Then the smokestacks signaling our approach to Springfield -- I always feel grimy, as if covered in a layer of soot, when I think of Springfield. And finally the flat flood plains of the Mississippi, veering away from the manmade canals, watching the Arch move along the horizon on the right, never really getting bigger, like an oasis shimmering in the Midwestern fields.

And the cornfields. Stretching along the shoulder of the road, alternating with soybeans. As a child, I didn't know of sinister subsidies or the insidious nature of corn syrup in the American diet. I just knew that when you let your eyes relax, the flashing lines of the furrows looked like running legs.

I haven't lived in the Midwest for almost 14 years, yet it tugs on my memory and my heart as home.

Les moments commencent

Okay, so I tried to start this how long ago? At least I've now figured out how to type in a box. ... I may work with computers, but heck if I understand the things.

I can't promise that this journal will contain anything earthshattering. I'll likely talk about my daughter, interesting things in the news, views on literature, asides on what I see as general stupidity as it surfaces throughout society. In theory I'm a well-educated college valedictorian, so we'll see if I can get the ol' gray matter churning again.

Stay tuned ...