My least favorite teacher always gets some thought in December

I was really lucky to have some extraordinary teachers through my education.  But there are exceptions.

When I was in high school, we had an elective called "Economics."  As I recall it was less about economic theory (probably a good thing, at that age) and more about the economy.

Anyway, the teacher who offered the class was extremely popular.   He favored athletes, boys, and the kids who were popular.  This made him unlike a lot of the other faculty, who tended to like students like me who were bright, grade-grubbing, eager to please, and hopelessly nerdy.  Even as I recognized I wasn't his kind of student, I clamored for his attention.  It was pathetic.  I am not even go into how hard I tried to win his approval.  It is both comic and tragic.

It wasn't until I got to college that I looked back on his classes (I took more than one with him, of course) and realized how biased he was, how much of his charm was less about good teaching and more about tapping into things we 16-year-old hormonal brats thought was cool.  I resent him a little, but mostly I'm disgusted with myself for how blind I was and how pitiful my ongoing attempts to impress him truly were.

I occasionally think of him this time of year, thanks to the news.   In his class, he assigned a "term paper" on whatever economic-related topic we chose. I elected "The Economic Impact of Christmas."  He thought it was a lame topic, however, and discouraged me from pursuing it.  He didn't think a bunch of people shopping made for much of an impact.  Nothing worth writing about.  For some stubborn reason I did it anyway.  It was challenging to find articles and data on the topic (this was before the internet age and online magazines and google searches), but the stuff I found was interesting, about shopping and charitable giving and other monetary aspects of the holiday.  Which are, I assure you, substantial.

Nowadays I regularly see loads of data about the economic impact of Christmas, particularly in the news.  NPR was just discussing what the blizzard means for the European economy, given that it hit during typically busy pre-christmas shopping weeks.  The local media has been interviewing stores that do the majority of their yearly business in December.  That kind of thing--lots of it.  I've been seeing it for years.  And every year, I think, You don't know everything, Mr. M.  And I am sorry I wasted any emotional energy on trying to get your attention.  And I am so freaking glad I ran across so few teachers like you in my life.

And to think I've boasted about my flexibility when traveling.

Sunday I was supposed to fly home from CA on a plane departing at 6:45 am.   Alas, the plane had mechanical problems.  That's such a drag, but I give Delta credit for not holding us hostage on the tarmac while we waited to see what could be done.  Some people deplaned, some stayed on.  I hung out on the jetway with a group of passenger and we watched the mechanics come and go.  We talked about the Metrodome roof and other things.  It was not bad.  With such an early start, I figured I'd still be able to make my way home before bedtime.  Several hours later they decided it was a no-go.  Which meant a plane full of people needed rebooking.

That wouldn't have been so bad on a normal day, but apparently Delta was already dealing with a bunch of passengers from Saturday in the midwest who had to be rerouted thanks to lousy weather.  No one could get through to Delta's 800 number, Sacramento was understaffed for such a problem, blah blah.

When I finally got rebooked it was.....for a 10:55 flight to Atlanta.  That's pm.  16 hours after I planned to depart.  UUUUUUUUGH.

So that sucked.  And thanks to a late arrival in Detroit, I'd have to burn part of a vacation day to boot.  While this trip was for work, I'd stayed the weekend for my own purposes.  I was on my own time now. And if travel made me late, that's time I have to count off.

I did not sleep terribly well on the flight, and recall I'd been up at 4:50 am to catch the flight I was meant to be on earlier.  So when I landed in Detroit (2nd plane flight) I was a bit strung out.  So it was quite a blow when I went to pay for parking and learned that, thanks to lousy signage and congenital idiocy on my part, I had parked in the $20 per day structure.

I was stunned.  With Mark in school, our budget doesn't exactly have a lot of wiggle room these days, and the thought that $50 was going to get yanked out of the holiday present fund to go to parking?  Unbearable.  When the kindly gentleman in the ticket booth beheld my trembling lip (and greasy hair and bloodshot, glassy eyes), he suggested I speak to the management office.  To get there,  I had to back out of the pay lane.

At which point I backed into a pole and dented the %$&*out of my car.  I went from worrying about $50 to worrying about hundreds.  Whatever my deductible is, plus whatever it would probably jack up my insurance.  Because surely there is a surcharge for being too stupid to drive out of a parking lot without hitting non-moving cement structural supports.

This was too much for what was left of my composure.  I made a weepy call to my sainted husband.  A humiliating snuffling visit to the parking office to beg for a price break.  Holy cats, it was awful.

BUT--they are refunding half my parking.  My husband said it didn't matter.  I went home and went to bed and took the whole day off and life is better today.

Anniversary

Well, today marks my 13th anniversary.  Made it through Unlucky 13!

And in many ways it HAS been a tough year, with Mark's job change and finances tighter as a result.  it has been stressful and frustrating at times.  And yet, I am still happy to be married to him.  You say "better or worse, richer or poorer" and you mean it, but of course you're hoping that you'll stay on the positive side of the column.  It's nice to know that you can work, as a couple, even when times aren't so great.

Thank you Mark, for putting up with me.  For making me laugh every single day.   For taking out the trash every week, for rubbing my feet even though it skeeves you out,  for being such a generous father.

Tonight we will celebrate by going out to dinner (using a coupon, of course!) and we will continue our recent tradition of taking the kid with us.  He's one of the most wonderful things to come out of our marriage, so it feels right to include him.

Nope, he's too young!

The Universe is apparently throwing signs my way that my offpsring, my wee boy, is not such a baby anymore.

Example:  On Friday my son danced his first SLOW DANCE.  Some 7th grade girl asked him to dance*, and he acquiesced.  It's a good thing that the girls dance with their hands on the boys' shoulders, otherwise I imagine her hands would have met around his tiny waist.  Anyway, I still can't believe my boy, who honestly seemed like he was in diapers just months ago, could be dancing with a girl.

Example:  Several parents last night were speculating about whether this year would be "the last" for trick or treating.  No.  No no no.  PLENTY of years left!  How else will I get my supply of candy, if I can't send a willing kid out into the streets with an empty bag?

It's such a tired cliche to say they grow up so fast.  I sure don't want to be one of those creepy mothers that can't let go of their children as they grow up.  But honestly I feel like I can hear the clock ticking!  There may come a time when he doesn't want to snuggle on the couch when we watch TV together.  There may come a time when he will pretend not to know me when I have to come into his school.  There may come a time when hugs are grudgingly given and accepted.  I can't help but hope that's far off in the future, but middle school casts its doubts upon my timeline.

I love how independent he is becoming; it makes life a lot easier when he can do more for himself.  But he's still a kid!  And I'd be quite happy to have that last a while longer.

*For reasons unknown they call this "Snowballing."  The last time I heard the term "snowballing" vis-a-vis male female relations, it was NOTHING I want middle schoolers to be involved with.  But apparently, at his school, it just meant the girls are asking the boys to dance.

Books I'd Write If I Had Any Talent

And also, if I weren't so lazy.

This is a running list to be added to as time passes.

(1)  A book capturing everything my Dad knows about artists and explorers who painted/sketched/etc in Nebraska before the western migration.  My dad's knowledge in this area is extraordinary and I'm not sure anyone else knows what he does.  Or why it's important.

(2)  A passionate defense of distinct missions among higher ed institutions--the importance of institutional diversity (liberal arts vs. universities, single-sex, tribal college, you name it.)

(3)  A torrid romance that would use ridiculous euphemisms for sex and its associated anatomy.  My girlfriends and I used to howl over these in college.

(4) A children's mystery involving an art museum.  This one has been bouncing around in my head for some years.  No, that doesn't mean I'll ever write the thing.

(5) A coming-of-age novel featuring a midwestern girl who is a fish out of water at an east coast school.  Write what you know, they say

(6) A book about a heretofore-lazy academic who decides, rather late in her career, to become a scholar of Willa Cather's work.  My alter ego.

Coming up for air without an excuse for the gasping

I have been largely absent--not only have I not been posting, but I haven't been reading other blogs.  The latter is the bigger shame.

Life has been kicking my butt lately.  The reason:  Two boys in school.

The little boy is in middle school now, which has meant more homework and more responsibility.  And soccer.  And drumming.  I think we've adjusted to "it's not summer anymore" but we're still adapting to evenings that are either homework, or nagging about homework.  I miss our epic games of Dominion.  I miss setting his dinner aside because I didn't want to interrupt his outside games with neighborhood friends.

The big boy is also in school.  He's only taking two classes, but they are graduate level and are eager to suck up as much of his life as he is willing to surrender.  And since he's very interested in the topics, that's a big amount.  He is taking one course in digital fabrication, and another related one in Advanced Computational Geometry. If those terms don't mean anything to you, join the club.   They've been like a full-time job.  What he marvels at are his classmates, most of whom have a full course load and are at that stage of their architecture degrees where they have no time for sleeping or eating.   When he was in school, he tells me, he LIVED at the studio.  (I wasn't around at the time--I was off being an undergrad).  Anyway, it feels like we never see him.  This too may ease as he adjusts to it.  Or, perhaps it won't ease, but will end when the term does in December.  Just have to hang on.

Me?   I am NOT in school so I have no excuse, really.  No excuse for not blogging.  No excuse for the state of my kitchen--not to mention the rest of my house.  But it's all kind of taxing, I find, watching the people you love be really busy.  Being the one best able to stay on top of the need to buy toilet paper and cat food, and the deadline for lunch order forms, and where is the soccer uniform and blah blah blah.

Still here, still kicking.  Just not a lot of time to write.

The Road Trip

Ever since I went off to college, "going home" meant getting on a plane.  There was one exception--my husband and I drove to Nebraska once, before our son was born.  So that was a dozen years ago.

This year, we had the time to do it, and not so much money for plane tickets, so we made the trek via car.

I was a little nervous about it; we're not roadtrippers, and I was unsure if we could keep ourselves from going stir crazy in the car.  But it went swimmingly!

Here was our itinerary:
June 30:  Drive to Racine, WI
July 1:  Tour Wingspread, then drive to Dubuque, IA across southern Wisconsin.  Visit the MS River Aquarium.  Drive to Cedar Rapids, IA, to visit the art museum there.  Then to Des Moines, IA
July 2:  Go to the UP Railroad Museum in Council Bluffs, IA, then home to Kearney
July 3:  Family reunion at Dad's.  About 40 people for food, swimming, fireworks, and my Dad's traditional toast to the descendents of Julius Wlaschin.
July 4:  Kicking around Kearney, hanging out with Dad
July 5:  Drive to Ash Hollow, Chimney Rock, and Agate Fossil Beds in NW Nebraska with my sister's family.  Make it to Hot Springs, SD and swim at Evan's Plunge.
July 6:  Drive through Custer State Park, take Needles Highway.  Visit Crazy Horse.  Stay in Deadwood, SD
July 7:  Drive to Devil's Tower in Wyoming.  Hike in Spearfish Canyon.  Stay in Deadwood a second night.
July 8th:  Tour Mt Moriah Cemetery, drive to Mt Rushmore, do the Tram/slide in Keystone.  Drive to Rapid City.
July 9th:  Minuteman Missile site, Badlands, then home to NE
July 10:  Hang at Dad's, dinner at Karen's (Dad's marvelous girlfriend), Drive to Omaha.
July 11:  Drive to Chicago
July 12:  Museum of Science & Industry, & Tour of the Robie House.  Then home to Ann Arbor.
July 13:  Vacation is over?!  Really?

Genealogy ahoy!

This post should really be about our vacation, but I am at Dad's so I don't have photos ready yet.  I'd really like to add a snapshot or two from the trip when I blather about that.

Instead, I'll post a photo of people I do not know.

One of the nice things about being home is having the opportunity to pick my Dad's brain (and go through his impressive genealogy files).   There's an entire clan of people who are my relatives, but they do not feel like my relatives.  I don't have memories of going to their houses, or seeing them at reunion picnics, or hearing my aunts and uncles tell stories about them.  They are a side of the family that was estranged from the my Dad's mom, for reasons that are all too stupid today but probably felt compelling at the time (issues of class and religion and the like).

I am learning more about them, through Dad, who has spent the last decade finding out about and reconnecting with them.  But they don't feel like my relatives.  Not yet, anyway.  With enough stories I hope that might change.

I am not even sure how many steps removed these folks are--or who their modern-day descendants are.  They're not even in my tree yet.  But here they are, awaiting my Dad's return from Falls City so he can tell me who they are.

Sunday morning at the produce farm

I grew up in a highly agricultural state.  However, mostly I was surrounded by crops destined to become grain or seed or cow feed or other things--designed to be harvested by big machines, nothing that you'd put on your table directly.  Sorghum, alfalfa, corn... Yes, I realize that latter thing can be picked and eaten; you don't have to remind a girl from Nebraska.  But there weren't a lot of U-pick places for corn.  And nowhere near me did anyone grow fruit.

Moving to Michigan I was just amazed by this concept of U-pick farms, that you could go to some farm and pick your own cherries, raspberries, strawberries...  wow.  You'd think I grew up in a concrete-covered metropolis. 

Since my son was small, raspberry picking has been an annual outing.  This year, we finally hit the nearby strawberry farm.   We headed out this morning while my husband was still sleeping, and in short order picked a ton.

We had so much fun.  Now, to find some recipes.  I gave all my canning equipment away after my friend Ruth left town--she was the one who would come over and help me wreck my kitchen while we made pickles and jam.  Without her, I just couldn't get motivated, so I craigslisted the stuff and bid it farewell.

I could probably use some jelly jars about now....

The best conversations I have all day

I try to be a compassionate person.  This is called into play frequently on the streets of Ann Arbor, where we have an active panhandling population.  I am aware of the complicated issues of homelessness and mental illness and the other factors which often correlate with asking for money off passersby.  I don't like being asked for money, and I don't usually give it.  But I have, in the past, handed over food, engaged in conversation, even gotten to know a few of the regulars by name.  It's generally my policy to respond politely, even when I'm not handing over anything, and to look them in the eye when I do so and address them like the humans they are.

But still, working downtown like I do, I get tired of it.

One day, espying a homeless fellow up the block, I impulsively whipped out my cell phone as if it had just rung, and immediately was engrossed in an intense--and entirely faked--conversation with the nobody on the other line.  And this, of course, gave me an immediate "out" when passing by him.  I found I felt less guilty about the subterfuge than the guilt I sometimes feel about not giving them spare change.

Because I'm not entirely crazy, as soon as I was past him I put my phone away.  

I have repeated this strategy several times since.  Put the phone to the ear, look focused and intent, and speak in a way that discourages outside interference from a needy bystander.

Except now--here is my confession, people--I sometimes don't "hang up" when the ruse is no longer needed.  I just keep talking. 

These are some great conversations I'm having!   I enjoy long (if one-sided) conversations about all kinds of topics on which I pretend to be intensely interested and well-informed.  For example:

• Our imaginary contractor's imaginary bid for our imaginary renovation work.
• Our travel plans to increasingly exotic locales.
• My sage advice about how to get the fictional house bill out of committee and put to a vote, including knowing asides about my intimate knowledge of a certain pretend representative's personal biases on the invented issue at hand.
• Why I think the other side might be bluffing in their push for a trial in the imaginary legal entanglement that is currently before the make-believe law firm in which I practice.
• The latest article I am reviewing for the non-existent academic journal of which I serve as associate editor.

So satisfying.  The life I lead via phone is fascinating!  And I always have the last word.

I should probably be a little worried, but I'm not going to consider psychiatric intervention until I find myself pulling out the phone for fake conversations when there are no panhandlers around.

This too shall pass

I would like to be writing more, but it has been a hard spring.  Just hard in a lot of ways, a lot of things to worry about.  I have been letting such strange things fall through the cracks--emails unanswered, chores undone, all of that.  Writing in the blog goes on that list.

New rats ahoy!

There's always something weird in my life, and for the past few years one of the top contenders has been my status as a foster home for a rat rescue.

Yes, rats.  Yes, they get rescued.  Yes, they need foster homes.

Name a pet, you can probably find someone who runs an organization dedicated to saving them when their owners can't or won't keep them any longer.  Rattus Norvegicus is no exception.  In the case of many animals, a foster home is just a nicer alternative to a shelter.  But in rat rescue, foster homes are a necessity.  That's because rats--especially those coming into rescue--tend to carry upper respiratory infections that are very contagious to other rats, and are a real pain in the butt to treat.  Bring one sick rat into your house, and you could end up having to treat every single rat you own.  Therefore, all rats who come into a rat rescue really must be quarantined, preferably in a home with no other rats, until it's determined that they have no contagious illnesses--or have been successfully treated for them.

That's where I come in.  Our abode is a stopping place, a temporary home while rats go through quarantine.

I've always liked animals, and when I was a kid our house was home to a cat, three dogs, and a rotating menagerie of things like chameleons, gerbils, fish, mud puppies, and a rat.  For awhile, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian, and my job through high school was working in the kennels of our family vet.   I changed my mind, and I have no interest in having a mini-zoo as an adult, but I did welcome the opportunity to temporarily house needy animals.  So, boom, I'm a rat rescue foster home.

Right now, our local rat rescue has a group of rats who have just come up from Dayton, OH.  Their next stop is our house, and they're coming tonight.  I will have them for about three weeks, trying to socialize them and treating whatever illnesses they are harboring, and naturally reforming them from any Buckeye fan leanings they may have.  I get the privilege of naming them, too, something I always enjoy. 

Well it's Monday all right

Today my son had a doctor's appointment.  It was a follow-up appointment from an earlier one this year, but I could not remember if it was the follow-up to the visit whose theme was "Maybe it's time we stopped being so reactive about his mild, intermittent asthma and get a treatment plan" versus the follow-up to "Let's make sure he's just a normal twitchy kid and not neurologically problematic."  I really don't take him to the doctor much, but this year was unique in that we've addressed a couple of meta-health things, and for the life of me I wasn't sure what this appointment was for.  FAIL at motherhood. 

Then, on our way to school, I see a squirrel darting out into the street, well ahead of us.  He pauses in the middle of the road, and I groan inwardly.  Is he going to stay there?  Dash back and possibly be squished by the oncoming car?  Dash onward and possibly be squished by me?  I slow a little, but wouldn't you know it, that furry little moron zigged right under my wheels.  I didn't feel a thud or thump but I knew.  I just knew.

I wish the squirrel were the only moron in this scenario, but sadly there was another one:  Me.   I looked in my rear-view mirror and cried out in dismay when I saw his flattened body.  I don't think the kid would have noticed if it weren't for my self-castigation.  Worse yet, I narrated thoughts like "Oh my god is his tail twitching?  That's not the wind, I think his tail is still twitching.  It's bad enough I hit him, but if I didn't kill him and he's suffering that's AWFUL...."  Mind you, I am saying this OUT LOUD.  Then I look back at my poor tender-hearted son and he is curling up around the seatbelt and starting to cry.  He cried all the way to school.  FAIL AGAIN.

I'm one of those people who LIKES squirrels.  I felt bad all morning.  And what a start to my son's day.

For the record, on my way to the office I drove by the scene of the vehicular rodentslaughter and the squirrel was clearly (and thoroughly) dead.  Either by me or a car which followed in my wake.  So if he suffered, it doesn't look like it could have been for long.  Sigh.

Ginger Cakes! Or Cookies! Or Balls!

This year, one of my son's many school projects was related to the Civil War unit he had for social studies.  He chose to do a recipe book.  That meant he (we) needed to make five or more recipes from that era.   We made Johnny cakes and cornbread and Mary Todd Lincoln's white almond cake and some orange cake favored by a General Oglethorpe.

Most of the recipes had already been adapted to fit today's ingredient availability and modern cookware.  Still, it was fun and I think we learned some interesting things about the food of the period.

It also got us back into the kitchen together.  I have always been big on baking together, but we go through periods where schedules and competing interests conspire against mother-son kitchen time. 

The most successful recipe we tackled were "ginger cakes."  We learned that ginger was a popular flavor in that era, and that women baked all kinds of cakes and breads and cookies flavored with ginger.  The "ginger cakes" we made were pretty much a traditional molasses cookie.  They were profoundly delicious.  And, according to my son, also a hit with his classmates.

We've since made that cookie several times; it's our new favorite, and really pretty easy.  I like to tell myself they are a "healthy" cookie due to the molasses.  Ha.

I made them again today, made up the dough at least.  I just attempted to bake up a dozen and they ended up round little balls of dough.  I don't know why they didn't spread.  I'm worried I made a mistake when I doubled the recipe in my head.  The other suspected culprit is the fact that I didn't have enough shortening and used some of the coconut oil I had on hand, from when we were doing more dairy-free baking.  I have to figure out how to fix these puppies.  My fallback, as ever, would be smashing them with the bottom of a glass before sliding them into the oven.  But I'd miss the pretty "crackle" finish.

Digging through musty old records

This weekend I attended a memorial service in St Louis, which is about 9 hours of driving each way.  I thought about taking the train, setting myself up for 18+ blissful hours of napping, reading, and watching movies on a DVD player.  But driving had a particular appeal:  it would take me through Indiana, where I have been meaning to do some genealogy research.

Dad got into genealogy about 10 years ago.  While I thought it was neat to find out that my great-great whatever was born in East Pudonk, Bohemia, I could not understand how anyone could make a hobby out of genealogy.  Who truly cares to know the exact date that some long-dead relative kicked off? People spend hours doing this?  Normal people?

Well, things change. My son had a family history project last year, and when you assign a nine-year-old boy a family history project it's a guarantee that his mom is going to have to tackle a lot of it.  I managed to work legos in somehow, but beyond that he wasn't engaged with it.  Certainly not regarding any of the relatives he didn't know personally.  To my surprise, I got hooked.  I finally got it, why people do this; why it's been so satisfying for my dad.  If you've been watching that series "Who Do You Think You Are," you have either gotten a glimpse of why people do this, or you're utterly perplexed.  I can't tell how that series would come off to someone who's not already obsessed.

Anyway, it turns out that my husband's family's Chicago roots also extend to Indiana.  I've been meaning to get to a little town named La Porte, IN to visit a cemetery and the local library, and finally was able to do that on Friday.

One of the things I found was the church record of the marriage of Peter Meier (my husband's great-grandfather) to Mathilda Miller (my husband's great-grandmother).  Most of what was written there was not news to me; it mostly confirmed what I knew.  But since it was tiny handwriting, written in fountain pen, using the handwriting style of the 1890s, and in German to boot, I decided I should take a photograph of the entry.  That way I wouldn't have to trust my own transcription.

This morning I looked at the photograph, trying to discern Peter Meier's mother's name, something I really don't know.  The minister's handwriting wasn't helping.  For the first time my eyes wandered to the entry above.  And realized that just a few weeks prior, the minister had married Louise Miller.  Parents were Ernst Miller & Dorothea Radtke, same as Mathilda.  Mathilda's sister!  I knew she had siblings but didn't know their first names (just their married names).  And I wasn't aware that any of her sisters had married a groom with the name I saw listed.  When their parents died 20 years later, that son-in-law was not named.  Probably a remarriage occurred, likely after Louise was widowed.  But when?  How?

So one mystery was solved, but another was created, and it all felt like serendipity.  I had such tunnel vision that I never looked at any other entries on that page.  And I would have missed it entirely had I not taken the photo.

Genealogy research is filled with things like that, where you run across something unexpected, and it turns out to be the missing piece of the puzzle you need.

My terrific, sane, capable sibling

Growing up, my image of myself in relation to my sister was that I was the tough one.  She always kept her feelings close to the surface.  She was quicker to cry, more open to expressing herself.  More concerned about pleasing my parents.  I was a lot more closed off.  My mom used to say that when Janet was a toddler, she could ask her not to touch something and Janny would see Mom's disapproving look and burst into tears.  When I came along, Mom could tell me not to touch something and I'd look right in her eyes as I defiantly touched it again.

As we grew up, she was the one who was reluctant to leave home.  She went to college in our hometown, and only lived in the dorm because my parents insisted.  Me?  Two days before my 18th birthday I boarded a plane for a college located 1300 miles away.   Now, she still lives in our hometown, about 10 minutes from my Dad.  I'm 14 hours away.

I have translated these kinds of stories into a myth that I was the stronger of the two of us.

I have spent most of my adult life realizing this is not the case.  My sister is tough and strong and practical and positive and so capable.  And I am, as my blogging moniker states, clinging by my fingernails most days.

While I don't enjoy the way life regularly reminds me that I don't have my act together, I do appreciate the admiration I feel for my sister.  Realigning my understanding of her and of myself, of how and who we are as people, has been kind of an emotional journey.  A really rewarding one.

Did My Chakra Just Bite Your Aura?

Tonight we attended a friend's birthday party, an event for which she hired a clairvoyant.

She apparently called several (who knew there was such a supply of local psychics?) and liked this one the best.  I would have loved to probe her more on that whole process (how do you interview a psychic?  "What number am I thinking of?" "If you're so psychic why are you hiring out for parties instead of living off your lottery & racehorse winnings?"), but I digress.

My husband rolled his eyes when he heard this.  His question would be, who is the bigger crackpot, the person giving the readings, or the person who would pay good money for it.  However, I thought it would be hoot.  And hey, it was free to us.   So, bless his heart, he gamely went along, and we let her have her way with us for 15 minutes.  She first asked if we wanted our relationship read, which we balked at, so she just spooled off some stuff about each of us as individuals.  After that, she asked again about us as a couple and we consented to hearing what she had to say about that.  We really didn't say anything, she did most of the talking.

Folks, it was interesting.  Even Mark agrees.

You could take her comments, repeat them to 100 random couples, and 95 of them would say it applied to them and was insightful.  It was, on most levels, sufficiently vague and general to apply broadly. She included stuff that wasn't exactly advice, but more along the lines of encouragement, and that too was both general and, I think, the kind of thing anyone would be wise to listen to.  Despite the language that clairvoyants use about "reading" a client, I'm sure it's not that different from authoring a self-help book.  There's an endless list of stuff you can write without knowing anything about your audience--because it applies to nearly everyone.  I think successful "psychics" may also have a legitimate talent for picking up on subtle clues and interpreting body language.

That said, I think it's fair to say that both of us were a little ....disarmed is too strong a word, but I can't drum up a better one, so....disarmed by some of what she said.  Our family faced a big change recently, (nothing we told her about though), and she said some things that really fit.  Now, maybe she's a psychic genius who deserves her own TV show and she truly read our auras.  Or, maybe she just was throwing out more general stuff to see what stuck.  It hardly matters. What's kind of neat is that it made both of us think about the situation a little differently, with more an eye for what the other person was going through.

So at the risk of sounding gullible, I have to say I felt better for having had this "reading" done.  I mean, I honestly got something out of it.  Maybe not more than I'd have gotten out of watching an Oprah episode, but still.  Go figure.

Unfortunately, I forgot to ask her if I'm going to get my butt kicked in my office's March Madness contest.

Gardening reality

In theory, I am a gardener.

This is what I like about gardening:

The smell of dirt.  Finding worms in my flowerbeds.  Looking for plants at garden centers.  Buying annuals and perennials without regard for what my beds have room for.  Shaking seed packets.  Drooling over gardening catalogs.   Planning what should go into containers.  Seeing tulips pushing up from the ground, and thinking about my Dutch grandmother.  Picking big fat zinnias.  Admiring old-fashioned Irises.  Loving Daylillies even if they're ditch flowers.

This is what I don't like about gardening:

Seeds that never sprout.  Feeling so attached to plants that I can't thin them.   The never-ending battle with thistles.  The way my containers look when I've not watered them enough.  How unrewarding it is to deal with the ugly parts of the season, when things are withered and need dead-heading and nothing is blooming.  Leaky garden hoses.  And honestly?  THE WORK.  I hate the work.  At the heart of things I'd rather be reading a book than hoisting a hoe.

For years I'd start out with good intentions and then peter out as the summer marched on.  By the end of July the garden looks dreadful, my plants suffer, it feels like a moral failure.   The last few years, I finally got honest with myself and owned up to my lack of follow-through.  Despite the spring urges, I spent a lot less money, made fewer plans, left the garden alone.

As March 2010 rolls to a close, however, I am feeling a kernel of something different:   Hope?  Ambition?  Reform?  Or possibly delusion?  I can't tell yet.  But I dunno; this could the year when I do the garden right.

When a cliche is more than a cliche

When I worked in admissions, I read a lot of application essays. Students grope for topics that they think will stand out, that have gravitas. A popular theme was "how the untimely death of my classmate/cousin/best friend changed my perspective on life." Sadly, you read enough of those and you start to get a little cynical about it. Enough to wonder if there were any teenagers left in the world--the ubiquitousness of the topic made it sound like they were dropping like flies.

But I also had to put that cynicism aside sometimes and recognize that their topic represents more than just a bid for sympathy or an appearance of profundity . The truth is, it can jar the hell out of you when someone you know dies. No matter what your age.

It's happened to me, too--I've found myself trying to find meaning after a friend died after a seizure; an acquaintance had a fatal aneurism; a friend of my parents committed suicide; my housemate's sister was killed by a drunk driver. It makes you think. What are we here for? What would happen if I went like that? What is my legacy? What should it be?

After our friend Stu killed himself, my mom took a hard look at things and decided to retire early. She realized she didn't like her job enough to stick with it, and though it made things a bit less comfortable for her and Dad, it was the right decision. She stuck it out just long enough to get me through college (for which I am profoundly grateful), and then she quit and was a much happier person.

In November, I heard the horrible news that a former professor of mine--a mentor, a friend, dissertation committee member, the man I credit with keeping me sane (well, marginally sane; it's all relative) as I wrapped up the PhD--had died suddenly. Eric was only a few years older than me.

He was gone much too soon, and I think everyone who knew him was convinced the world has been cheated because of what he had left to accomplish. However, in his short life he'd already made quite a mark. His research was important and influential, but to me, it was his teaching and mentoring that really is remarkable. His former students are all over the country, making contributions big and small in our field and in the lives their students. That's one important way Eric will live on.

Sadly, I'd have to put myself in the "small contributions" category. Even before this tragedy I'm been feeling around the edges of this, a little sheepish about the tiny role I play in the larger academic community. My projects are very centered on the question of the moment. I think I could do more. I think I should do more. If I were better following Eric's example, I would be doing more. I've known this for some time but I've not done anything about it.

Those thoughts came to the fore after he died. As I bawled over the news, I thought perhaps this would be the catalyst. Time to think bigger, to invest more of my own time into taking projects to the next level, to do more work with colleagues outside of my office, to re-engage with the scholarly community of IR and Higher Ed. It's worth doing simply because it would help me better realize my professional potential--but it would also better honor Eric's legacy. I feel like I could gain a tiny sliver of sense out of his death if I made it a figurative kick in my pants.

It's been over four months. And while I have THOUGHT a lot about this, I've really not done much. One of the reasons I wanted to put this into an entry is that I don't want these thoughts to go nowhere. So I'm writing this to say that I have not done much - YET. The yet is important.

We'll see how this goes

I forgot I'd set this thing up, except I occasionally go to comment on someone else's blog and Voila! An identity appears for me, reminding me that at some point I actually had some intention of writing here.

And if I weren't running late I'd do something about it right now.