Bottle Tree

Once a common site in the Southern landscape, the bottle tree is now an increasing rarity as ancient folk beliefs and customs fall from common usage.

From the website http://www.steberphoto.com/gallery/bottle.htm

I made a bottle tree today. If you are unfamiliar with this, you can check the website listed above to learn about their history or click here to see color pictures of a modern reinterpretation. Most of the modern ones I see on the web have been made of rebar or a piece of 4X4X6 timber with dowels or PVC inserted into drilled holes.

I wanted something a little closer to the original concept. I took branches from some of the piles and piles of storm damage in the edges of the woods and lashed a couple together. I "planted" it in a defunct flower bed in my backyard and put the bottles on. It is a work in progress, but I like it.

I guess I became fascinated by them when I saw the one at the Mississippi Agriculture and Forestry Museum in Jackson. Maybe I'd seen them in old pictures before, but I'd never really paid much attention to them. I liked the fact that it was a way to reuse the glass, and I love the colors as sunlight filters through the bottles. It's like outside stained glass.

The fact that it's also talismanic adds another level of enjoyment for me. I have always been interested in good luck or protective symbols. I collect them when I travel. Since this is an element of Southern culture, albeit a fading one, I thought it was appropriate to have in my yard.

After making the tree (with considerable "help" from the dogs), I simply sat and watched the light shine through. It may fall apart tonight. I may have to rebuild the whole thing in two weeks. Today, though, it glowed blue, green, and brown in an abnormally-warm December day, and I felt strangely peaceful.

Rereading Narnia

A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading.
C. S. Lewis

I want to go see The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe over the holidays, so I sat down last night and reread the first of the Chronicles of Narnia. It was such a good book. It had been far too long since I took the pleasure of reading it.

I had forgotten so much of it. I had forgotten how quickly it moves along. I had forgotten the power of the words and the symbolism within. So much truth is wrapped inside a story that was written for a college professor's goddaughter.

Whether I am seeing it in a cartoon form or reading the book, I always cry over Aslan, and I can never stop the chills that run up my spine when the resolution of that crisis happens. As you may be able to tell, I'm trying not to "spoil" it.

All I can say is that you should read it if you haven't. It won't take long, and I don't think you'll ever be sorry that you did.

Christmas

God grant you the light in Christmas, which is faith; the warmth of Christmas, which is love; the radiance of Christmas, which is purity; the righteousness of Christmas, which is justice; the belief in Christmas, which is truth; the all of Christmas, which is Christ.
--Wilda English

Christmas for me this year was wonderful. I hope the same can be said for each of you who read this. It wasn't about what I got or gave. It was about finally having a family Christmas.

For several years now, my family has been scattered or unfocused. I don't know how to explain it. The holidays have been more or less just another day. There are many reasons for this, and all of them have been valid, but I can't say it wasn't a disappointment to me. Our last few Christmases have consisted of all of us sitting in front of the TV with very little being said.

I love the holidays. Actually, I love almost all holidays. I love the decorations, I love the special purpose behind the holidays, and I love the idea that there are some days in which we honor God, our families, love, being Irish, or whatever. I believe some days should be special to refocus us on the important things of life. Those special days, those holidays, help us carry on through the day-to-day grind.

It's almost like a booster shot to my spirit. I am the only teacher on my hall to hang little pumpkin lights at Halloween, twinkle lights and garland at Christmas, and shiny red and pink garland at Valentine's Day. I long for a set of plastic turkey lights.
I need those twinkle lights. I need those tiny illuminated pumpkins to inoculate myself from the bad things that seem to build up sometimes.

Coming back to Christmas, though, this year we all got together after church on Sunday morning, and I made brunch casserole. We ate and talked and never once was the TV turned on. It was a good family time. I hope it's the start of a new tradition for us.

After Mom and Dad went home, I turned on the Christmas music and just watched the lights on the tree for awhile. The weather outside was bad, so I eventually watched a movie. Just before I went to bed, I turned out all the lights except the one directly over my piano and the string of lights that illuminates my nativity scene collection. I sat down and played all my favorite Christmas hymns one last time for the year. "Silent Night," "O Holy Night," "We Three Kings," and "What Child Is This" are all favorites of mine. It was a very peaceful way to end a good day.

When I finally went to bed, I felt like the day had been a special one. It wasn't like the big family holidays we used to have when I was a child, but I hope that it is the start of a new and wonderful tradition for my adult life.

The Ruins of Shearwater

I went to the websites of the museum and family businesses of my favorite artists, the Andersons of Ocean Springs. There I found decimation and despair. Shearwater is gone.

For those of you who never had the privilege to drive down that twisting, shaded lane and catch glimpses of a life dedicated to art and family, this may not be comprehensible. However, anybody who ever really looked at any of the natural curves of the pottery at Shearwater or sorted through the stacks of prints at Realizations knows what has been lost. That wonderful gifted family had their past, their present, and their future pulled out from under them by a force of nature from which no one could protect themselves.

As I look at the damage, I just cry and cry. Why does this move me more than the other images I've seen? I don't know these people. My short sojurns to Ocean Springs are not enough to tie me to them in any real way. That being said, I feel this loss very personally. Looking at those photos of destruction and reading John Anderson's essay about what has been taken makes me feel as if I were looking at one of Walter Anderson's watercolors of a drowned seabird. The grace of that lifestyle has been shattered, and now lies waterlogged.

I believe that the coast can and will recover. I believe that Shearwater and the lifestyle it represents must recover. While I know that much has been lost, I pray that there will be enough help, enough support for all the Andersons to allow them to save Walter Anderson's works and begin to produce the works of their own talented hands once again. Even though it's just a tiny corner of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, if Shearwater is lost, some measure of light will be lost. If you love it like I love it, please go to the website above and find out what you might be able to do to help them recover.

Todd Agnew

"I need a little more patience in the middle of stress/ I need a little more beauty in the middle of this mess/ Need a little more substance in the middle of this emptiness...."
-- Todd Agnew "In the Middle of Me"

I have found another musician to add to my list of favorites, Todd Agnew. I suppose I am coming to him late, but I think the time he came out with his first album was about the time I was in Japan or in transition from Japan. Regardless of that, I'm glad I found him now.

You can go to this page and hear some of his stuff. I like the actual sound of the music a lot, prone as I am to all things bluesy, but to me, the best part of his music is the intense personal feeling I get from his lyrics. I can hear in them a man who has known darkness and can appreciate God's light.

There is nothing saccharine or trite about this album. Nowhere does it lapse into the expected or the cute. I appreciate that. It is rare to find something so genuine. For that alone, I would have bought it. Agnew's lyrics have the same quality I associate with really good poetry: the exposing of things not always comfortable for healing, for confession, and for letting others know that they are not alone.

Works like this always make me wish I could get to know the artist. There are a select few that I'd love to just sit down in the living room with and talk to. If the opportunity presented itself, I'd probably just turn shy and stupid, but to be able to share with somebody who can be that honest with himself would be a great privilege.

I strongly recommend you check out Todd Agnew's stuff. Maybe someday he'll come close enough to Podunk, my humble hometown, that I can go see him live. I bet it's a great show.

Pit Bull?!

If there was a manual describing ideal Pit Bull temperament, it would probably read something like this: "The Pit Bull is goofily friendly towards people--family, friends, and strangers alike. Known for its sound character, strong nerve, and great intelligence, the breed makes an ideal companion for households with children, while remaining strong and vigilant enough to protect its loved ones if need be."
From the website The Real Pit Bull

I took Britta to the vet this morning (with Dad's help), and it turns out that she's not boxer at all. She's a pure blooded pit bull. I have to admit that I was somewhat nervous about that. I asked the vet about a million questions. I told him that all I'd ever heard about pit bulls was that they snapped and attacked people. He said that it wasn't the dog that went crazy. It was the owner that made them go crazy. He told me that they actually make very good pets.

I felt better after that and resolved to come home and look up everything I could about pit bulls on the internet. I found a really good website and learned a lot. Some of the things concern me....her aggressive tendencies toward my other dog may not go away...but others were very settling. Basically, I should only have to worry about her being aggressive to other animals, not to people.

She was fairly good in the vet's office. She showed some aggression (mild) to other big dogs in the office, but I was able to hold her collar and tell her no. Now that I've read the website, I realize that I got off LUCKY there. She also seemed to react only to the other female dogs. The website said that pit bulls seem to react for strongly to their own gender. She pretty much ignored the two or three big male dogs that strolled through.

I'm going to have to do some obedience training with her. I've never done that before, so I'm a little worried about "getting it wrong", etc. I ordered a recommended book and will start over our Christmas break.

Health-wise, she's more or less okay. No mange, but she's got basic outdoor dog worms. The biggest concern is that she tested positive for heartworms. That tore me up, but the vet said as young as she is (about a year or year and a half), she should be able to take the full treatment and be cured.

It's all a little overwhelming, but I think it's going to work out okay. I'm going to make it work, anyway. As long as I can get her and Yelldo to at least tolerate one another, everything else will take care of itself. If push comes to shove (literally) there, I'll probably grant Yelldo his fondest wish and make him an "in-the-house" dog.

Oh well, if it weren't for the high maintenance animals in my life, what would I do with all my "free time?"

The Christmas Shoes

Most drama in our lives is really rather squalid.
Tom Baker

I realize that I am probably going to hell for this, but I HATE the song "The Christmas Shoes." Every time I hear those first few piano cords, I change the channel on the radio. Sometimes I come in on those last few saccharine little kid words, and I shudder uncontrollably. I almost wrecked this morning trying to get to the channel selection buttons when they snuck it in on my while I was half asleep.

It's hard to put my finger on why a song most people regard as a staple of the Christmas holidays, a deeply moving and semi-religious experience, makes my teeth ache. Maybe it's the same thing I hate about really sad country songs. It's not that I doubt the original sentiment of the song. It's that I think it's crass to take that emotion and try to make a buck off it.

Yes, it's sad. It's impossibly sad. It disturbs me, though, that this type of thing always becomes so terribly popular. Are we all so hungry for a publicly-sanctioned form of catharsis that we have to take it in huge, artificially sweetened, heavy air-play rotation doses? To me, it cheapens the original sentiment that inspired the song. Seeing every woman in an entire beauty shop tearing up while turning the volume on the shop radio to maximum so it can be heard over the dryers is just somehow repulsive to me.

I know this isn't a world-shattering issue. Most people probably either disagree or don't care. I just hope that I can get through the rest of the holiday season without having to hear that melodramatic song again.

New Dog

Friday afternoon, just after dark, a large Ford vehicle pulled up near my mailbox. It was odd because they just kept sitting there. I got up and walked toward the door, and I suppose they saw my silhouette through the window because they pulled away. About ten minutes later, chaos erupted on my back porch.

I looked out to find a beautiful, honey-colored, mostly boxer dog. She was so hungry you could see her ribs, and she was looking through the glass door with the most adorable wrinkled brow. I think it was the wrinkled brow that caught me.

I opened the door carefully (strays are always an unknown entity, especially big ones), and poured a scoop full of food into Yelldo's dog dish. She ate it as though she hadn't seen food for a long time and might not ever see it again. She ate so fast she almost choked herself, and I felt an overwhelming sense of hate for anybody who would let an animal be that hungry.

Deciding to take a chance, I stuck a finger through the door. She sniffed and licked very politely. Feeling a little more confident, I put out my whole hand. When I raised it, she flinched and cowered. Again, I felt that anger. Not only had whomever had gutlessly thrown her out starved her, they'd hit her enough to make her shy away from a casual pat.

Four days later, she's got a collar and a name (Britta because she was pitched out on the Waters), she's stopped eating every morsel in the bowl, and she is a wonderful frisky critter with a huge bark and really, really big puppy energy. I still have to take her to the vet, but she's mine, regardless.

I can't believe the callous crappiness of people. Even if someone is having a problem dealing with an animal for some reason, what kind of person takes a defenseless animal and just throws it away? It may not be a kind thought, but I firmly believe there's a special section of Hell for people who abuse animals.

Britta has a home now, and I'll do the best I can by her. My other dog, Yelldo, is in shock. Britta is about three times as large as he is, and the poor baby is more than a little overwhelmed. I'm hoping we all normalize soon. Until then, I will continue to enjoy looking out whatever door I happen to be at and seeing her cute, curious expression peering back at me.

COLD!!

The heat in my house has been off for about a week. Right before Thanksgiving, some valve-thingy died and now I am very, very cold. Thank goodness I have gas space heaters on the walls. Unfortunately, you have to be very close to them to be warm.

Right now, I'm wearing three layers of clothes and have blue nails. My cats are sprawled on the floor in front of the space heater. They love it. They also love the extra blankets on the bed. We will all be glad when the heat comes back.

I hung Christmas lights Sunday. I also set up my Santa collection and my Nativity collection. Every year, it's like discovering every piece again. This year, I got to put my Waterford nativity out for the first time. I can't get over how it catches the light. I can sit here in my chair wrapped in a blanket or five and watch the light play on it. :)

In addition to heater problems, I also had to have the windshield in my car replaced. About two months ago, a rock from one of those enormous highway mowers dinged me, and one day when the weather got cold, the ding became a run. Yesterday, in the time it took me to drive from home to work, it grew by two inches. This morning, I was grateful I'd called Novus to get it replaced, because I actually SAW the run get longer. I almost drove into a ditch trying to get the defroster off.

Well, there's no organization to this. Maybe thought will return when Christmas break comes. Maybe not.... I'm off to shiver on the couch.

Sappy Movies, etc.

I don't take the movies seriously, and anyone who does is in for a headache.
-- Bette Davis

I am about to watch You've Got Mail...again. I have probably seen this movie about 15 times thanks to its heavy rotation on TBS. I don't know why this particular bit of fluff always catches my attention.

It's not the type of movie I'd chose for myself. Generally, I like old movies. In fact, glancing over my video collection, the vast majority of movies I've liked enough to purchase are either black and white or foreign. I love the glamour of those classic movie stars. I want to be Bette, Ingrid, or Katherine when I "grow up." I want to be confident and polished, full of intelligent banter and fire, the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove.

One attraction for this film might be the vague connections to Pride and Prejudice. I can see how the plot was more or less ripped off from Jane. As we all know, I am a sucker for anything Darcy-ish. (I am, however, highly skeptical about the new P&P film...more on that later, post viewing.)

Every once in a while, maybe everybody just needs a sappy movie. There's lot to be said for a world where true love reigns, where friends are loyal and true, where the happy ending comes despite all obstacles, even if it's a world that only exists within the confines of a Hollywood soundstage. Does life ever work out like the movies?

Sometimes I feel like my life is a low-budget indie film, or God forbid, an episode of a reality-TV show. The Truman Show appealed to me for that reason. Quite often, I feel like everybody else knows the script except for me.

Well, I suppose that's enough of that. I am going to retire to my lovely new couch and drink a glass of sweet tea while soaking up the sappy unreality of this movie.

Changes

No quote.

I have been making big progress on my house. Today, two new couches arrived, and I just can't get over how... adult...my livingroom looks. It all matches! None of it is broken or tatty. Pearl, one of my two cats, has commandeered the loveseat, and I've spent quite a bit of time curled up on the sofa. It's amazing.

I'm even prouder of my office than I am of my sofas, though. Dad and I finished it Tuesday. I installed a ten-foot countertop as a work surface, and it's just the greatest thing since sliced bread. I have already done three projects that have been hanging around since last summer, and I can actually walk in and lay hands on any of my sewing and craft materials without having to get on my hands and knees with a flashlight.

I now have space for my copier and its paraphenalia on a table across the room, and ten feet of empty, clean workspace. There's a huge amount of storage under the table and the countertop, and I have shelves to grow into. I can't believe I finally have a room like this. I've been dreaming of it for a long time. I love it. Once I can get the power strip put in and the TV connected to my satellite, I may never leave it again.

I only hurt myself badly once during the whole process. I was sort of amazed. I was hammering the grommets on the curtain that hides the undercounter area, and I missed the grommet die. I don't know if I"m going to lose the thumbnail yet, but I do know that I CRIED. I haven't hurt myself that intensely in a long time.

I also bought and (with help from Dad) installed a rainfall showerhead. The showerhead by itself is very nice, much nicer than one might expect a showerhead to be, actually, but the best part is the ten inch swan's neck extender bar. Being a tall woman, I have always sort of had to do acrobatic contortions to get the shampoo out of my hair. No more. I can stand under the thing and still have a good 6 inches between me and the showerhead.

Another change was a subtraction instead of an addition. The old TV antenna that had bent in half when Katrina came through finally came down today. Dad took it down while I made a water haul to town trying to do errands and meeting with frustration at every turn. It's strange for it not to be there. That antenna was probably almost as old as I am.

The roof repair is still in the planning phase. I called the recommended roofer, and he's supposed to be getting back to me soon. If he can't do it, the wonderful man who's going to come do the kitchen floor is going to recommend someone else. It may take several more months to get everything finished up, but I'm so excited that something has finally started to get done.

Well, this is the end of my week of Thanksgiving holidays. Tomorrow, I'll have to get back in harness with school work. At least I have a nice place to do it in now.

Frankenstein

I am watching the 2004 Hallmark production of Frankenstein in preparation for my AP classes' viewing this week. I am amazed by how much of this story I had forgotten before I reread it to teach it. I had forgotten how good it really is.

I almost always sympathize with the monster in any movie where there is one. I have always been that way, and I don't even want to think about what that probably says about my mental health or lack thereof. It's the same in Frankenstein. I have such sympathy for the monster.

He never asked to be created. In fact, his creation must have been filled with pain. Then, once he's been dragged into this world, Frankenstein abandons him. He's basically an infant in an adult body, and he has to figure out everything on his own. Everyone who sees him hates him without knowing if he is really evil. He is judged on appearance alone.

So many of the issues in the novel still haunt us today. We still seek knowledge and we still ignorantly rule people as "monsters" based on our own criteria. I am very glad I rediscovered Frankenstein. I'll probably come back to this entry later when I have a little more focus and revise.

Equilibrium

I went to my parents' house last night, and I took the crap curriculum. I wanted my mother, retired from teaching after 35 years, to look over it and give me her opinion. Her opinions were almost exactly mine. That simple fact calmed something that had been raging in my heart since late August.

Today I pulled together several copy packets from the crap curriculum. I waded through it and took the things I thought would be good for my students and sent them out to be printed.

I think that I have peace about it now. If nobody will come and shake my proverbial monkey tree, I think I will be able to find a balance with it.

I also signed my loan papers today. There was no thunderclap and no pain. I am ready to go look at shingles and carpet. I think, now that my own personal Swords of Damocles have fallen, I can finally get some perspective and move forward. It's a good feeling.

Now if I can just get my grades in the computer....

Cowardly

"You must do the things you think you cannot do." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

This quote has been something I've tried very hard to live my life by. Tonight, though, I totally chickened out of something I should have done.

Like most things, it wasn't a huge, earth-shattering moment of decision. It was just a difficult hymn in the evening service. Since our sanctuary is being remodeled, it's just me on the piano at night, and it's been a LONG time since I was the sole means of accompaniment for the congregation. In fact, I'm usually playing the organ, not the piano, and while it may all seem like keyboards to the casual observer, there are differences.

Anyway, I had practiced this one hymn, but not enough. It was still rough around the edges. The music director told me that he'd give me the choice. When it came time to do the hymn, he'd look toward the piano and I could nod or shake my head. When it came time, I shook my head and we did a "backup" hymn instead.

I regretted it the whole time. Such a silly little thing. Why didn't I go ahead and play it?

It ties in with what I was telling my kids as we studied the poem "George Gray" by Masters. It's the things you don't do that you regret.

This is especially true in the romantic area of my life. I always seem to take the "better safe than sorry" route. There have been times when I really should have taken a chance, even if it meant the notes were a little sour.

I have a friend who was totally fearless about love. At church camp, she's the one who always had at least ten guys begging to throw away her lunch tray or carry her bag. When she saw a guy she was interested in, she could articulate it. She could "work it." I am still in awe of her.

I am so awkward. My first feeling whenever I start to be interested in a guy as more than a friend is always one of prevailing dread. I lose my ability to make sense. Even though I want to be around him and talk to him, I become the Queen of Cowards and I usually run away. I have all the social grace of a bumbling twelve year old. It's all about fear, and it's embarrassing. I passed twelve a long time ago.

In the meantime, I guess I'll set myself a few goals. I will continue to try to live up to my goals of truth and honesty. I will try not to beat myself up when I fail. I will continue to hope that someday, I will have the courage not be twelve anymore. Most importantly, next time, I will play that song.

Twice in One Night

I guess maybe I'm making up for lost time, but after I finished the previous post, I went to view the usage stats for my blog. I figured they'd bottomed out. After all, I have been silent for nearly a month.

To my surprise, some of you are still out there checking in regularly. Thank you. For some reason, those random cyberspace brushes are encouraging to me. Thank you for not abandoning this even though you've had ample cause.

Ages and Ages

Obviously, I haven't been faithful to my resolution to keep writing daily. I've come to accept the fact that, at least for this school year, my blogging is going to be sporadic at best. The AP curriculum consumes almost every moment I spend online, and I've been sick a lot lately, so there hasn't actually been that much online time at home. It's been more of a come home and fall down time.

A couple of interesting things are going on right now, though. A friend of mine from work gave me a copy of a book full of places to get my poetry published. Apparently, the book is published every year, is reliable, and is well known. I had a duh moment. Why the heck didn't it occur to me that there would be a resource like that? I haven't had a chance to do much more than browse through it, but I'm excited. During the upcoming holiday breaks, I'm going to try to start sending poems out. If nothing else, maybe I can get some quality feedback to help me refine.

The second thing is really BIG. I am about to start major repairs on my house. Katrina did a number on my roof, and it has to be replaced. It was old to start with, and having 100 mph winds didn't help. The financial implications of this are staggering. I'll be okay, and it's a workable situation, but never before has the mantle of "adulthood" weighed so heavily on my shoulders.

In fact, lately, I've felt that leaden cape dragging me down further and further. I can't help but feel, however irrationally, that signing the requisite paperwork in the next few days is going to be like Faustus signing the Devil's contract in his own blood. (Since I just got through teaching Marlowe's play, I see Mephistopheles around every corner these days...)

Once I sign and once I begin this work, I will be clipping my own wings. It will be a commitment to stay in this job, to stay in this town. Never again will I be able to pick up and go abroad for a year or two. Never again will I be free. I am trying to look at it in terms of obligations, in terms of blessings, in any terms but the terms of a cage door swinging shut, and most of the time I can focus on these other worthy things, but sometimes, especially right before I go to bed, I can hear the squeaking hinges, and I ache between my shoulderblades where those feathers used to be. It's not the money; it's the limiting of choice.

It's foolish to wish for everything. As my father is so fond of saying, "Wish in one hand and spit in the other. See which one fills up fastest." I just wish I didn't sometimes have this terrible, panicky sense of entrapment.

There's a song by David Wilcox called "A Young Man Dies." It deals with him looking through old photographs and finding one of himself at a much younger age. The chorus says, "In the years it takes to make one man wise, a young man dies." I feel like this is the death of the "young" me. That seems highly melodramatic, even to me, but in some ways, I think it's also very true.

So what comes next? Heck if I know. I'll make some changes, fix some things, go on teaching...all those little things that won't matter at all to anyone else but me. I'm committing to this path. Hopefully I can look back later and be satisfied.

Henry the VIII

A mnemonic to remember the wives of Henry the VIII: Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived

Even though he was a lecherous old goat, I get a kick out of Henry the VIII. I have to respect somebody who said, "You won't let me divorce? Fine. I'll go start my own flippin' church then." Of all the events of the Renaissance, none other was so influential, yet so driven by personal greed. There was no religious fervor, only the desire of a man in hot pursuit of the next young thing and a son to secure his kingdom.

I love the Tudor dynasty in general. They fascinate me. Elizabeth's delicate juggling of foreign invaders-cum-suitors; poor, twisted, demented Mary trying to avenge her mother and her overwhelming desire for a baby that would never come; Edward, the fading child-king...has there ever been such a collection of personalities in one family?

I enjoy most of the British monarchy, at least the ones long gone. History of England was one of my favorite classes in undergraduate. That was probably due to the teacher. I think most history classes probably sink or swim based on the teacher.

Back to Henry...
I like the fact that he was interested in a lot of things. I wonder what he was like before he got old and sick. I wonder if he really wrote Greensleeves. I bet he was one of the most arrogant creatures ever to walk the earth. Who wouldn't be when taught from birth that your will is an extension of the will of God?

One thing always makes me feel badly for him: Catherine Howard. I know she was probably forced into marriage with him, but all the records say he was truly in love with her. I wonder if he'd ever been in love before in all his life. Then to have her abandon him for a younger lover must have been beyond heartbreaking. I'm sure he knew he wasn't physically attractive anymore. I'm sure he never really expected marriage to anything other than a means of procreation. Somehow, though, he truly came to love her and was betrayed. Maybe it's this one moment of genuine emotion that makes him real to me.

I stood in the hallway at Hampstead Court that Catherine Howard supposedly raced down to plead with him at prayers. I could almost see him kneeling at the rail, head in hands, heart torn, pride wounded, making the decision to cloak himself in royal anger and wreak destruction on the sources of his pain. I wonder if he ever turned to the door where she was screaming for her life.

One of my favorite doodads from my recent trip to the UK is a tiny sterling silver charm of Henry. I got it at St. Paul's Cathedral in London. It's a fairly detailed and heavy piece. I smile every time I put on. I don't know how he would have felt about being reduced from divine-right sovereign to kitschy silver souvenir, but I like to think maybe, just maybe, he'd have been amused.

A Miracle

To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace. ~Milan Kundera

Sheppa is going to live. The vet said she has a fractured pelvis, but that it should heal. She is also going to lose her beautiful plumy tail, but she will live.

I got the news at school. I had called at lunch, but there was no news. After the end of day bell, Dad called to tell me the news. I cried. All day long, I had been waiting for something and fearing the worst. I felt the huge weight fall away and I burst into tears.

She's got a long way to go for recovery, but at least we still have her. I can't wait until she's up and around again.

Losing an Old Friend

I got a call just before I started to write this. My dad called to say that one of the two dogs we've had for the last 10 years or more had an accident today. I raced up to their house to see her.

She's not in any pain, but she can't stand up. She's just laying in what used to be my bathroom on some blankets. I went in and sat with her for a little while.

Memories flooded my mind. I remembered the day she came to live with us. Someone had thrown her out on us. She came into the yard, lean as a rail and hungry, but looking for attention. Mom tried to run her off twice, but then she started barking and lunging at the tall grass nearby and killed a large snake. She had a home with us from that day forward.

I remembered other times. I remembered taking a nap on the back deck with her. It was a cool fall day, and when I woke up, she was curled into me. I remembered the way she'd always fling herself off the front deck and through the air, landing and racing around the front yard in big circles of joy. I remembered how she'd charge the cows and then run when they weren't intimidated. I remembered the way she'd grab the leg of blue jeans or overalls and shake them like a chew toy.

I've known for some time now that her health was failing. She's had heartworms for a couple of years. The medicines she takes keeps that under control. Her arthritis has been getting more pronounced. She can only see light and shadow and she can only hear high tones.

For all that, she's still been happy. She has roamed around the hills and woods where my parents live and chased squirrels with our other dog. She's followed my mother around the yard in endless circles while Mom does yardwork.

Now, tomorrow, the vet will probably have to put her to sleep. I am keeping a crazy, foolish hope alive that she'll get up again tonight and be okay tomorrow, but I know in my heart that tonight was probably the last time I'll get to sit beside her and pat her head. Tonight was the last time I'll get to tell her what a good dog she is. I would do anything if there was some way to help her. The hardest thing is when there's nothing else to do, no path to pursue, no hope of reclamation.

I'm going to try to focus on my bouncing young friend right now. I'm going to try to see the fearless flyer instead of the broken and grounded dog I left behind. I don't know of anything else to do except remember, hope, and cry.

Recent Stuff

No quote. I'm doing well to be posting.

Life has just piled up on my lately, and I haven't felt much like posting. Mostly, I've just been grading papers and planning classes. This is the bad time of the year for me. The beginning of the school year and the end are okay. It's the mid-semester time when grades have to be in and everything is in process instead of wrapping up that things get tense.

I am going to be shedding some extra things that I've taken on. I hate to do it, but I had a crying panic attack the other night, and I think it's about time to accept the fact that I can't do everything. I did not come into this world swathed in a red cape with an "S" on it, and it takes far less exotic things than Kryptonite to bring me down.

I am also going to force time back into my life for some things that I love, but have abandoned. I am going to the gym Monday afternoon. I am going to go out and shoot pictures again. I am going to find a way to take a pottery class.

Basically, it's about balance. Mine is way off and I have to fix it.

I did have one complement, of sorts, yesterday. One of my AP students told me that my class was his favorite and that I was one of the only teachers he had whom he didn't hate. :) Left handed, but still pretty high praise from him. At least somebody appreciates what I do.

Well, this is short, but the point is that I did it. I really do enjoy my blog. I love to write and this has been such a good medium for me. This is another one of those elements that I am trying to find space for. I suppose only time will tell how successful I am.

Faulkner

I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.
William Faulkner

I am starting the process of teaching Faulkner's novel As I Lay Dying to my AP kids. It's been years since I read it myself, so the re-reading has been a pleasure.

Faulkner's world is such a thoroughly messed-up, yet somehow familiar place. Those characters he crafted are slices of Southern culture. They still exist. I see fragments and shades of them in neighbors and family members. I don't know what that says about me. Is it a bad thing when you recognize Faulkner characters?

For years I wouldn't read Faulkner. My first experience with him was The Sound and the Fury. I hated, hated, HATED that book, a reaction that is rare for me. I wouldn't read anything else by him and considered him to be highly overrated. Sometime in graduate school, I came back to him. I suppose it was more out of curiosity than anything else. I don't even remember what book it was that I read. It might have been AILD. I enjoyed it. That lead me to read more of his work. With each one, I found a rich world waiting that was fictional, yet familiar.

Faulkner distills the South into tiny, shimmering, jewel-like drops. Even though lots of things have changed since his South dissolved into mine, so many of his observations hold true. I don't know if that's because things change so slowly here, or if it's because the characters he wrote share traits that will be a part of human makeup one hundred years from now. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

I am by no means a Faulkner scholar, but I have learned to enjoy him. There are many more of his books that I need to read. I even have plans to revisit TSTF to see if it's really as bad as I remember. (Probably.)

Teaching Poetry

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson

I love teaching poetry. It makes this job worth doing. Every time I open a textbook or anthology, I feel a sense of wonder. I feel like a mage opening a tome of wisdom. And when I spin out the words, say them and hear them, I feel the magic of them unfold like a sparkling woven mantle wrapping me snugly.

Meanwhile, the kids are rolling eyes, printing misspelled slogans on their notebooks, and praying for the bell to set them free. I can't understand them. They are Other. Yet, not all of them have built those walls. Even some who are firmly entrenched may find that the power of the words slips through a chink, a bolt hole they forgot to secure, and touches them.

I will spend money on books, especially good poetry anthologies, faster than any other item. I bought one yesterday, and I bought another today. (If you're looking for a good anthology, I recommend the Garrison Keeler collection Good Poems for Bad Times. ) I love the feel of the covers in my hands. Paperback, hardback, clothbound, or rare, rare leather, it doesn't matter. There is luxury in the weight of it, the heaviness of ideas contained within. Every new poem and every old, familiar one demand and deserve my attention.

I sit in my new chair in my 70's paneled living room, and I open the pages. The words tumble out like a treasure chest of jewels spilling across the crocheted afghan in my lap. This is true luxury. I may never own the best or most modern of things, but as long as I have these words, these shards of their writers' souls, then what more could I ask?

Tomorrow, I will go back into the classroom full of enthusiasm. I will fight the gnawing void I find there and stand guardian over my poor, broken-winged student-doves once again. Maybe a few of them will see the vast wealth that beckons. If I can share even the tiniest glimmer of the magic, then I suppose it will have been a good day.

Monkey with a Tape Recorder

Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. ~Voltaire

For those of you wondering where I've been the past 5 days, have I got a story for you.

The week just started out badly. I was tired and cross, and the following days did nothing to improve things. Monday was forgettable. Tuesday saw my beloved cat Yoda at the vet's because she'd somehow hurt herself. She's taking antibiotics and pain medicines, and will hopefully be better soon. Wednesday, though, came and took the prize for worst day EVER at school, eclipsing all that had gone before.

As those of you who read me often know, I'm a high school English teacher and our professional lives here in MS are subject to the gravitational pull of State Testing. Our school is seeking to improve scores and had invited an educational consulting firm in.

I was expecting a lecture of dubious value on teaching methods, blah, blah, blah. I was expecting to have a headache and possibly, depending on where they decided to seat us, a literal pain in the posterior by day's end. What I was not expecting was that they would bring an entire curriculum in and tell us to teach it and only it....or else.

Every word was scripted. Every activity was prepackaged right down to little captions saying, "Say this now...." Every novel, every short story, every poem had been chosen for us with no input allowed. We were to become glorified monkeys with tape recorders, and we were to be grateful for the chance to become such wonderful teachers with so little effort on our own parts. If we chose not to use the material, we needed to be aware that they (the consulting firm) would be doing surprise drop-in visits just to make sure everything was "on track". Should they find us not using their materials in the approved way (naughty, naughty), they will write a nasty little evaluation that bypasses our principal and goes directly to the system superintendant.

The three other 10th grade English teachers and I were stunned. I could not have been more shocked if the tidy little blond in the navy blue suit had gotten up on the conference table and started breakdancing. My eyes actually teared up, and I thought I was going to have to flee the meeting to recompose myself. Was this what they thought of my teaching? If so, if I was so incompetent, shouldn't they replace me?

The information got even more grim when we were told that the company was behind in development and publication of this magic tool. Only the first nine weeks of curriculum was ready. The second nine weeks was to be shipped in early October, and the following semester hasn't even been written yet. No full course progression exists, nor could anyone tell us exactly when our major works would fall, or even what those major works might be. We broke for lunch and staggered out of the meeting into the sun of the parking lot.

The English department as a whole is known for being...er...opinionated. We are the hallway most commonly avoided by the administration because of our propensity for grabbing the hapless principal and dragging them into our rooms with a muttered, "Come here...I have to tell you something..." I'd say those of us who teach 10th grade are probably at the loud, frayed, leading edge of this.

That being said, you can imagine the conversation when the four of us went to Sonic for lunch. We were all varying shades of mad, hurt, and/or hopeless. Rebellion was fomenting. Ultimatums were flung along with wild french-fry enhanced gestures. Solidarity was forged. Chocolate was sought and consumed on our way back for the second half of the day-long meeting.

I went up to my room during sixth period to collect a couple of text books for discussion at the tail end of the meeting, and found an additional problem awaiting me there. The kids, as kids will do with a sub, were talking and laughing instead of taking care of their assignment. The sub was sitting at my desk playing with her cellphone and the radio was blasting boom-boom music. I almost blew a blood vessel. They were supposed to be writing an essay, and she hadn't even given them the paper for the assignment. They were supposed to be WRITING an ESSAY and she had boom-boom music going.

I displayed heroic restraint, passed out the papers to the kids, ignored the sub, went back downstairs, found the principal in charge of substitutes and gave him an earful. He went to deal with it. I wanted to smite her. It was just too much to deal with when I was already so distressed because of the meeting.

By the end of the day, I felt as though I had been beaten head to toe. I was heart and soul sick. I wanted to pack my Shakespeare bobblehead and walk away for good. I picked up the tattered remnants of the assignments I'd left for my classes and went home. I ate something and crawled into my bed.

The next day, I was still sick. I woke up with my stomach churning. I dragged myself to school and went through the motions. I could not shake the thought of the monkey with the tape recorder. It would save the system so much money, after all.

One of the other teachers went and had a talk with our head principal. He said that he wasn't aware that the consulting firm expected us to use their materials to the exclusion of all else, and that he would not support that. He told us not to worry, and yesterday morning, he came by my room to talk with me personally about it. I felt so much better.

This week has been a total crap-fest, but I am hopeful that next week will be better. Even though I will lose two days to testing, I think I can stand anything as long as my principal doesn't throw us to the testing wolves.

This is where I've been over the past week. Hopefully, this particular "long, dark night of the soul" has passed.

All Things to All People

To weep is to make less the depth of grief. ~William Shakespeare, King Henry the Sixth

I haven't been keeping up with this very well this week. Just another stone of guilt and obligation around my neck, and I'm already so weighed down that I can barely stand it. I am almost at my break-and-run stage. I am so burned out from trying to be all things to all people.

I'm tired of trying to get all the stupid limbs out of my yard. I'm tired of constantly dragging them only to find that I haven't really made any progress at all. I'm tired of seeing the tops of the pines lying in the middle of my circle drive and knowing that I have neither the tools nor the strength needed to get them moved.

I'm tired of trying to keep my house immaculate. My floors need the vacuum, my tub needs to be scrubbed, and I need to sweep my porches. I need to dust, polish, and mop. I can't keep up with all of it.

I'm tired of trying to be a perfect teacher. I'm tired of the weight of fourteen sets of papers dragging at my shoulder every day when I leave school. I'm tired of putting together my best efforts and it not mattering at all.

I'm tired of coming home to a dark and empty house. I'm tired of having to do everything all by myself, including picking myself up when I feel like this, and I'm mortally tired of pasting the socially-acceptable smile on my face and pretending that everything is okay so nobody has to worry about me. I'm tired of being the shoulder that's cried on and never having anyone to turn to myself. I'm tired of all the circle closing and me being on the outside everytime.

I guess this is going to be my form of venting, and tomorrow, I'll probably have all this back under control, but right now, I just can't juggle these balls any more. If there's no entry for a few days, it's because this is one thing I can drop from my daily routine without huge effects. I'm just sick and tired and in need of an extended holiday.

Power Returns

Fallen-tree video is absolutely essential to hurricane broadcasts. The most sought-after footage is, in order of ratings: 1. Big tree on strip mall. 2. Big tree on house. 3. Big tree on car. 4. Small tree on car. 5. Assorted shrubbery on car.
Carl Hiaasen

Today, eight days after the hurricane, I have electricity again. I hardly know how to live. I have been walking around in the humid darkness for so long, that turning on a lamp seems almost foreign. All the windows in my house are now closed, my air conditioner is functional, although set very high because I've become so used to HEAT, and there is a pitcher of Red Diamond Sweet Tea chilling in my refridgerator. In a few moments, I will partake of the almost unheard-of luxury of a hot shower.

The past week has been strange and beyond strange. I started to title this entry "A Country Girl Can Survive", but I opted for the more prosaic title above. I am trying to make the transition from manual labor and tree clearing to secondary education again. I learned to live by the light of kerosene lanterns. I became adept at the mind games of "it's not really cold water...it's just cool and pleasant." I tied a bandana around my mouth and cleaned out nasty things with odors that almost gagged me from my freezer and refridgerator. I ate vegetables cold from the cans.

Right now, everyone is very tense about fuel, and another storm is brewing. Everywhere you look, there are still massive trees lying in forlorn chunks and people sort of wandering around their yards staring at things. Crazy people are shooting at rescue personnel in New Orleans, and every moment seems to be writing historically momentous events. I don't know what tomorrow is going to bring, but for tonight at least, I have power again, and all the often-taken-for-granted pleasures that it bestows.

Alive

No quote. I'm on my parents' aged computer and I don't want to take up a lot of their computer dial-up time.

I am alive. The city where I live is slowly recovering. I still don't have power, but my parents do, so that's where I am at the present time.

Sometime later, sometime when I have power at my own house (whenever that is), I'm sure I'll write something terribly clever about the whole thing, but right now, all I wanted to say is that I'm alive, my house stands tree-free, I have no power, I'm sick to death of soup from cans, and that I am very thankful to be here, even in these conditions.

For all of you who have been praying, thank you. Only God could have gotten us through this. Please keep praying for all the people not so far from here who have lost it all.

More later....

Waiting for Katrina

The first rule of hurricane coverage is that every broadcast must begin with palm trees bending in the wind.
Carl Hiaasen

I went to Wal-Mart today after Sunday School to pick up a couple of tiny radios in case we lose power in the next few days. For those of you who don't know because you live in another country or because you haven't turned on a TV or seen a newspaper lately, a big whopping hurricane called Katrina is approaching the Gulf Coast. The city I live nearest to is a major interstate hub, and from the time I went to church this morning to the time I came home from town this afternoon, the traffic coming from the Coast and New Orleans had quadrupled. They've one-wayed the south-bound interstates and now, everybody is rushing north to escape.

Every car that passed was loaded to capacity with people, pets, and possessions. I saw a big white and brown hound riding in the back of a pickup truck. In true dog form, he had his long ears flapping in the breeze. He was the only comical element in what was really a deadly serious flight.

Some of the cars were curiously empty; others were taxing the springs with the weight of their cargo. Almost all of them bore Louisiana plates. New Orleans, always on the brink of being under water, is being evacuated because if Katrina walks into town, the great pumps under the streets won't be enough to keep it dry. In the cars, I'd see odds and ends pressed up against the windows, and I kept trying to figure out how you'd even chose what to take in a situation where everything you love might be under water in 48 hours.

People in Wal-Mart were frothing at the mouth and ready to cut each other for bottled water and batteries. I hate it when emergencies bring out the crap in people. It seems like everyone would try to be kinder and more helpful, but instead, it was a snatch and grab environment. I only had three items in hand having bought supplies a few days ago, but cartloads of the oddest stuff were being pushed to the registers. I've never seen so much sliced ham and so many cases of coke being bought at one time.

Katrina is one of the biggest hurricanes ever to hit the Gulf Coast. Of course, comparisons are being made to that mother of all storms, Camille. My father was in the Coast Guard in N.O. when Camille came in, and he tells stories that will turn your hair white. This was when my mother and father were still dating, and Dad had to drive from where she lived down the state back to New Orleans through the storm. Just another one of those cases of God protecting, or there's no way he would have made it back in one piece.

I can almost visualize the hurricane as an entity. I have this picture in my head of a female wraith-like creature dancing on the water. The face is horrible. I don't know why this keeps coming to me, but since I first imagined it this way, I can't get rid of it.

Right now, of course, the sun is shining. Yellow swallowtail butterflies are feeding on my abelias. Only the increasing wind and the ominous, distant, gray curtain of cloud tells that something terrible is coming.

My windchimes are ringing with growing urgency, and in a couple of hours, I'll go outside and take all the birdfeeders and windchimes down. I'll also find safe places for all the potted plants and rocking chairs on my porch, unhook the chains on my porch swing, and put away all the decorative doodads that accumulate. I'll park my car under the car shed, and call my parents to put Mom's van in, too. I'll run a work cooler full of water, make sure my hurricane lamps have oil, and arrange lighters and flashlights in places where they can be found. I'll generally batten down the hatches and hope for the best. When faced with one of nature's Furies, what else can you do?

They're expecting Katrina to walk right over where I live, so it's likely that you won't hear from me for a few days. Hopefully, I will be writing to you tomorrow evening, but if we're without power, then I'll be back when the electricity is. I hope all of you are battened down and ready as well. Take care.

Not Really What I Had In Mind

Procrastination gives you something to look forward to.
Joan Konner


I got up this morning with every intention of grading. I had it all planned out. Then, around 11:30, Mom called saying she and Dad were on their way back from the landfill with an empty trailer. They were planning to stop off here and pick up more stuff to take in another load.

That's how it started. We loaded the two ancient, broken-down recliners from the guest bedroom, then the microwave that practically glowed every time it ran. Once we'd loaded the worst of the junk, we started to shuffle things from the house to the storage van out in the yard. The small bed I replaced earlier this year was moved out of the guest room from where it had been standing against the wall for months. Several pieces of bed linen were folded and put away. Curtains were discussed.
By the time I realized it, most of the day had crept away.

Intending to do work, I took a minute to eat some lunch. While I ate, I picked up a book, Something Rotten by Jasper Fforde, and read. That turned into a several-hour long reading spree in which I finished off the book and lost the rest of my day. Oh well....

Tomorrow, after church, I will HAVE to grade. I hope nothing else shiny comes along to catch my attention.

Blues in the Soul

Blues is easy to play, but hard to feel.
Jimi Hendrix

I drove home from a rich meal of fried shrimp and a dessert called Death By Chocolate to the sounds of one of my favorite radio shows, "Highway 61". Our local public radio station has made Friday into a blues night. They play three blues shows back to back, and it makes for a very nice way to relax after a long, hectic week of crap.

The sun was setting, and as I flew down the highway, Howlin' Wolf's big wonderful voice filled up my car. It's said he was a giant of a man, more than six feet tall and weighing in at 300 plus pounds. Nobody else has a voice like his. It's raw and powerful, yet capable of presenting every subtle nuance of the lyrics.

I have always wished that I could have seen him perform. The biographies and reports that I've read say he swayed like a man possessed. He got his nickname from the way he howls when he sings. I think I would have enjoyed seeing him live. When he howls in the recordings, it's like an electrical current runs right up my spine.

The blues move me. I don't know if I absorbed it gradually through the water and the red clay of Mississippi, but there is something in those simple patterns that feels elementally right. Even though I don't know the harsh life of Delta farming, I, too, have baked in the sweltering heat of Mississippi summers. I've played in cow pastures and waded in creeks. I've eaten real barbecue and gotten the sauce from ear to ear. I've read Faulkner and Welty, and I recognize family and community members in their stories. I've seen incredible prejudice and incredible unity in the face of hatred. I've known people who are fulfill every Southern stereotype and others who completely destroy them. It hasn't been necessarily the same experience of a Delta Blues artist, but it has been a Mississippi life, barring a few extended trips elsewhere.

I love the Delta Blues most of all. Simple guitars and bared emotions, tales of love, loss, and revenge, the human heart exposed with all its gold and dross before refining, these are what I hear in those oldest and purest blues. When I feel my worst, I turn to Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, B.B. King, and the magic master of them all, Robert Johnson. I dance and sing, feeling the slide guitar pulling the weariness away.

All in all, it was a great way to end a cruddy week. As the sun hung on the edge of the horizon, and the rolling ultra-green Mississippi pine hills unfolded on either side of the highway, I felt the emotional catharsis of the blues, and I felt at peace with world.

Sisyphus Days

No quote. Too tired/lazy to look it up. Also too tired for complete sentences. Grammatical nightmare.

Okay, enough of that. I was having a really crappy day today. I won't go into huge details, but I didn't feel well. I was having one of my disconnected days. I hate that.

The kids were also whiny today. Some of them are about to drive me crazy about grading. I do at least a double set of papers/cards every day, and by the time I get that done, I am completely burned out. Tomorrow, I have to get them off my back. It's time they figured some things out, such as, they'll get the stinking essays when they get the stinking essays.

I got this really nice email in the afternoon, though, from a friend. It had a short funny story in it, and that moment of connection to another adult, to a friend who knows the real me and not the me I have to be in front of the kids, made all the difference.

That difference between who I really am and who I have to be in the classroom weighs on me. I can be more of my real self with the AP kids, but there won't ever be a time that I can take down all the masks and illusions. It's nice to touch base with my friends and feel like I am an entity outside of the classroom.

The wonderful lady who ran our AP seminar this summer talked about that. I didn't realize how MUCH I would feel this way, though. I've taught challenging courses before, but this one feels like a giant stone pressing down on me. I feel like all I do is grade papers. I am at school long after everyone else has gone home to family and relaxation, and I am still always behind. I feel like Sisyphus and that damn rock.

More and more this year, I long for somebody to lean on. There's a U2 song that I increasingly identify with, "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own". I am in that place right now. I need somebody who will help hold me up, make me eat real food, and be sure that I come home before all the weirdos start hanging around our school. Until that time, I'll have to keep pushing the rock up the hill and focusing on the tiny sweet bits that come my way.

The Screen

You learn something every day if you pay attention. ~Ray LeBlond

Today, I won a huge victory. I got an overhead projector screen for my room. I wanted to dance with glee. Now that I've achieved this unreachable goal, I don't know what I'll set my eyes on next. I can take down the square of white paper that's been what I've used for so long.

Yes, this is hyperbole, but not by much. I have been waiting for so long for something that most people probably wouldn't even spend money on. Such is teaching in America.

I heard a piece on NPR this morning talking about the lawsuit Connecticut is filing against the government for No Child Left Behind. I don't know all the particulars, but from what I heard, I am saying GO CONN!!! The Federal government and their ivory tower bastion of edu-experts (and I use the term loosely) can't possibly have any idea of how much pain their mandates create.

I'm a teacher in a state that doesn't really make much of a priority of education. In fact, I'm a citizen in a nation that spends vast amounts of money on everything except education. The only time politicians seem to worry about those of us in the trenches is when they need numbers to throw at each other to get this pet project pushed through or that candidate smeared. I'm sick of it.

I wish that TPTB could see that we are fighting a war with no equipment other than raw courage. I wish that TPTB could spend one full week substituting in one of our classrooms and understand some of the realities of dealing with teenagers.

I am not criticizing our kids. For the most part, they are doing the best they can. I am saying that if our governments (national, state, and local) don't quit padding their own pockets and pointing accusatory fingers, the war will officially be lost, and worse still, there won't be any replacement troops coming up to try to turn the tides. After all, none but the truly dedicated would be excited over the prospect of getting a bright, shiny, new overhead screen.

When You Really Should Be In Bed

"Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." -- Ben Franklin

I don't know why I'm doing this instead of sleeping, but here you have it.

Today was a crapfest of epic proportions. We were giving the retest for our state mandated NCLB stuff and the master computer at the state department of education from which every tester's computer in the state gets its data went down. I spent 15 minutes frantically running from computer to computer with my "magic password" trying to right the situation, but it didn't work. The students were bemused, then bored, and I finally let them play solitaire or surf the web.

It wasn't until lunchtime that I was told the test had been called off by the state dept. Apparently, they couldn't get the system back up. Lucky us, we get to do the whole crappin' thing over again next Tuesday. That means another day of my classtime for THIS year's testers has been stolen. Oh how I hate it....

Well, there's more to tell, but I guess I better finish my copying and go to bed. I'm late enough as it is.

Spam on the Blog

I had my first blog spam today. Some stupid wretched advertiser actually had the nerve to post their crappy ads as a response to my blog. I just want to go on record as saying that they SUCK and I wish them ill.

It wasn't a little ad, either. It went on for pages and pages. It was some absurd crap about speculating in forestry. Since I have relatives in that business, I was doubly offended.

There are so many places to advertise in this world. Heck, it seems like you can't even sit in your own living room without being attacked by some form of advertising, even if you're not watching TV, using the computer, or listening to the radio. It's all-pervasive.

Don't advertising companies realize how much it hacks people off when they keep shoving stuff down our throats? My advice to them is: make a good product, tell people about it in a reasonable fashion, and then leave them the heck alone. My top don'ts? Simple: DON'T SPAM MY BLOG, don't call me and try to sell me crap at home (I'm on the No-Call, but sometimes they're adventurous), and don't make commercials that an amoeba would find intellectually inferior.

Once you take a look at all the subliminal/psychological stuff going on in ads, it's really quite insulting. Actually, it might be more frightening than insulting since they are apparently based on solid research about the things that motivate humanity. Maybe if we elevate ourselves, advertisers will follow suit.

Oh well, that's probably enough for a Sunday night. Again, all manner of Egyptian curses and voodoo evil to you blog spammers out there. For all the normal readers and those of you just out cruising cyberspace, a good night and a better day tomorrow.

James Bond

No quote.

What is it about James Bond that makes people like to watch him? Right now, I'm typing and watching AMC's month-long Complete Bond movie festival. It's The Man with the Golden Gun, not one of my favorites, but here I am watching it all the same.

I think part of it is the travel aspects. He's always in some exotic location. In the past two I've watched, I've had the odd experience of actually having been in some of the same places he's in. It's kind of neat to be able to say, "Hey, I saw that."

Another draw has to be the gadgets. Especially starting with the Roger Moore movies, Bond just had cool stuff. I think it satisfies that little kid with the overactive imagination in all of us. Who didn't want a car that could turn into a submarine or suddenly sprout wings or skis? Heck, I still want that.

As I've gotten older, one thing that sometimes amuses and sometimes annoys is the cheesy double-entendre. Sometimes I wonder how the actors ever delivered those lines with even the slightest straight face. For that matter, I wonder how the actresses who were playing the evil women with the sexual names ever managed to get through that inevitable scene where they introduce themselves. I think the all-time worst character names were Pussy Galore and Plenty O'Toole. I mean, COME ON. Those actresses were underestimated if they could deliver those lines without even a bit of irony.

That, of course, is the whole basis of the Mike Myers Austin Powers series. That's another post, of course. Well, I guess I'd better go. I have laundry to dry and no Bond magic toy to do it for me.

Grading

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. -- Douglas Adams

I've been grading too long. I have a feeling in my head that's like the high-voltage buzz of an electrical transformer. I also have another set of papers in my work bag that are awaiting grades. I don't know if I can do this tonight.

The grading is killing me. I still like the teaching, but I need a vacation from the constant grading. I don't guess that's going to happen, though.

This is one of those teacher things. It's just one of those things that you have to do. I just hope it slacks off some before I go outside and howl at the moon. I know this isn't one of my deeper or better entries, but this is really all the energy I have tonight. Maybe I'll be profound tomorrow.

Run Away! Run Away!

No quote tonight. Look out...

I'm sad and tired tonight. It may be hormonal, or it may be because I was up WAY too late last night grading essays. I don't know.

I found out today that I may have to start taking allergy shots. Apparently, I'm allergic to most of the great outdoors and a good bit of the inside, too. Ugh. I hate needles. There is no good shot. Something about the thought of that sliver of metal sliding into my skin makes me shiver. Even the thought of it just now raised the hairs on the back of my neck. You'd think a "big girl" like me could grow up about that, but although I've come a long way from screaming and crying over it, I still have to fight it every time I get a shot.

The allergy shot thing wasn't the biggest deal today. It just kind of topped off a long, odd day. We were without air conditioning for the most part today. My classroom hovered around 80 degrees all day. The brilliant head of maintenance sent an email telling us the heat was "all in our minds" and to leave him the heck alone, basically. Of course, he was safely off campus. Otherwise, I might have had to have tracked him down and smacked him around.

All day, whether because of the heat or the massive paper stack weighing me down like a millstone round the neck, I've been in full-fledged run away mode. I have postcards and pictures from places I've been on my speakers' stand on my desk, and I sometimes daydream between trying to wrangle my students through the subtleties of subject-verb agreement.

Today, I was wishing I was in Ireland. It was even more pronounced because I've set my computer desktop at school to a picture of a place we went on our trip. I'd like to just have time to take a book, sit on a hill, and get all this crap off my back. I would like to be safely anonymous and go back through some of the places I went on the trip without a big group to be responsible for. I'd like to see a couple of the people I met on the trip and just sit and talk with them some.

I guess I'll have to settle for a stuffed baked potato, some cheesecake (none of which I had to cook), and a Fred Astaire movie. It's not hardly Ireland in any degree, but maybe I can rest a little in the world of overly-happy vintage Hollywood.

Cancer

We have common enemies today. It's called childhood poverty. It's called cancer. It's called AIDS. It's called Parkinson's. It's called Muscular Dystrophy.
Jerry Doyle

First of all, for those of you who know me and read this, this isn't a revelation that I have it. And for those of you who read this often, this is a theme I've visited before.

Cancer has been the red specter floating through my life for years now. When I was a sophomore in high school, my father's mother died from lung cancer. She was the first person that I'd ever lost. She was also the person who took care of me when I was a baby. I stayed with her until I went to kindergarten. She taught me to do needlework, to woodburn, to love books, and so many other things. I'll never forget seeing her gasping for breath. She'd had half a lung removed in an effort to get the cancer.

I lost my mother's father and my mother's mother to it. I lost a beloved cat to it. Now, the shadow is back. Another pet, a dog we've had for 10 years, has it.

I hate cancer. I hate the stealthiness of it. It's a vicious, backstabbing sort of disease. How horrible that your own body can betray you. How nightmarish that cancer can stroke you with its bony, putrified finger and the future can shrink from years and retirement to day-by-day. I wish with all my soul that I had been given the wisdom and the intelligence to be a part of the fight against it. I see it as a physical presence, a living, sentient thing. I want to take up a sword and hack at it.

One of my biggest fears is that I'll develop it. I don't want to die that way. I had rather whatever happens be quick, a snap of the fingers and a transition from this world to the next. I don't think I'm strong enough to die by inches. I remember watching my grandparents, and they were all so strong. They had time to make their peace with the disease, to say goodbye, and to take care of the things that were most important to them.

They thought I might have cancer once. I had surgery, and once they checked what they removed, they found that it wasn't. Ever since, when I go to the doctor or have a twinge in my side, I think about it. I remember driving home from tests that showed the original problem and the Chris Rice "Time Means So Much" being on the radio. I had to pull to the side of the road. The meaning of the song seemed crafted for that one moment in my life.

Now, as we try to take care of our sick pet, all these issues are coming back again. It may seem trivial to some, but for us, it's another battle with the monster.

The Friend I Lost

Without friends the world is but a wilderness. There is no man that imparteth his joys to his friends, but he joyeth the more; and no man that imparteth his grieves to his friend, but he grieveth the less.
Francis Bacon

I had a dream last night about the friend I lost. It was actually not so much about her as it was a bizarre collage of memories and daily trivia. Japan was mixed in, as it almost always is, and a person who was a friend in high school. At the end, the person from high school morphed into my missing friend, and I woke up feeling sad again.

I met her in graduate school. Being in a small department means you have classes with all the same people. We started and finished at the same time and worked together teaching at the university. We discovered an affinity for chili cheese dogs, kitsch, and old movies. I went to Japan and she stayed, but after my first year, she was looking for a job, the Japanese university was looking for a teacher, and she came to Japan. She had the apaato under mine and we had a great time. We'd go shopping at the 100 yen store and enjoy the wonderfully, cheerfully tacky stuff in the shops at the train station.

After Japan, we communicated about twice, and suddenly, all communication stopped. The horrible part is that I don't know why. It's not like we had a big fight. I don't know what happened. I think about it often. Did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong? What could it have been? I know I was late sending a birthday present, but would that cause a person to end a friendship?

Maybe I was wrong about the strength of the friendship. Maybe it was one of those things that meant more to me than it did to her. I counted her as one of my very best friends, and trusted her with things very few other people know. She knew not just the public person, but also the flawed, cracked clay pot under the glaze. Maybe, ultimately, the imperfections were more than she could tolerate.

I have tried at least three times to contact her. I've emailed several different people who knew us both, but nobody seems to know anything. I guess I must have somehow done something horrible. I just wish I knew what it was. I keep hoping that one day I'll open my inbox and find a letter from her telling me about her life in the interval, or simply telling me to go to perdition. Anything would be better than the horrible, incomprehensible communication vacuum I'm currently in.

Very simply, I miss my friend. A part of me has been wounded and I don't know why. If ever you read this, my friend, I wish you'd give me the chance to know what it was that I did and a chance to put it right.

The Potential for Evil

Never write a letter while you are angry. ~Chinese Proverb

Something happened this afternoon and I got angry. I don't mean I was hacked off, I mean the red haze came down, the hackles stood on end, the teeth bared, and, had the object of my ire been handy, I probably would have done a considerable deal of damage.

It was no trivial matter. I don't get really angry over trivia. It takes quite a lot to really make me literally see red. Of course, like anyone else, I get irritated, but I learned a long time ago to keep the leash on the starving attack dog of my true anger. Someone I love very much had an injustice committed against them, and if I could rush to this person's defense and do some good, I would.

It has always scared me that something that powerful and dark lives inside. Maybe I come by it honestly. My heritage is Irish and Apache. If you go back to the bizarre genetic race heritage theories, I guess maybe I get my temper and my poetry from them. I don't buy that too much, though.

It passed through me like an evil wind, and now I'm tired beyond description. Where does that darkness come from? Do we carry it around in us all the time like a deep well full of horror movie monsters? How do we kill it off and purify the flow? I don't have all the answers, just more questions and what feels like sandbags beneath my eyes. I think it's time for a shower and bed.

Geekdom

Whatever the reason, being a nerd, a geek, a dork - whatever you want to call the tragically unhip - is becoming a source of pride. BellSouth News

Look, I'm ahead of the curve again. I saw this article today in my lunchtime news browsing, and I had to laugh. How quaint that the feeling I've had all my life of not quite fitting, of seeing things through a different lens, is now the fashion of the day.

I don't know how many of you out there have ever been a geek, but I have never really wanted to be any other thing, at least not seriously. To me, it was never a matter of labeling myself as this or that. I just tried to pursue the things that I liked, and devil take the hindmost. Isn't that supposed to be what life's all about?

And who decides what is cool or worthy of attention anyway? Hasn't it ever struck anyone as odd that the "cool" things are almost always addictive or self-destructive? Why is that?

Back to the concept of Geekdom, I have to admit that I'm looking for a geek to date/marry. I could never get serious about someone who allowed the outside world to dictate what he liked. I want a man who knows why Tom Baker was the best Dr. Who EVER. I would love a guy who collects PEZ, likes to spend a long time in bookstores because HE READS, and doesn't mind having bizarre and abstract debates late at night. He may have had a D&D character, even. Unfortunately, my consort, the Geek King, doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight. :(

I was glad to see in the article that perhaps for a short time anyway, teenagers are feeling free to be themselves. I don't know how long it will last, but Viva la Geek!

Nothing to Say

Sorry about last night. There was just nothing I needed to say. I have been so tired lately that all I ever want to do is sleep.

Today was okay. The kids are starting to come out of their comatose states. Some of them are showing signs of life, anyway. The AP kids took their first reading test today. You could practically smell the desperation. Now, the desperation is on my end with the grading.

The afternoon turned into a crap fest, though. We just got an LCD projector for our department. It's going to be my little friend and live in my classroom. It's GREAT...but my classroom computer is so crappy that it won't run it. I'm going to have to figure something out for that. Maybe I can convince somebody to donate one. I am going to write some letters and see what happens.

That in and of itself was merely frustrating. The true crap began when I went to the local Sprint store to try to get a new battery for my phone. Talk about singularly unhelpful. Had they degrees in being not helpful, I don't think they could have done a better job. I waited a good 30 minutes in line only to be told that they couldn't answer any of my questions OR help me get a replacement battery. I was exceedingly pissed. I was given a phone number and dismissed so the person at the desk could continue to flirt.

I called the number on the way home, wrangled with the world's most annoying invention, the automated help line with a smarmy, unctuous voice, and almost had several wrecks before finally getting connected to the sales department. It was so bad it brought out a small church steeple in the other lane (see previous postings). It was the first steeple I'd seen in some time, but as bad as the day had turned, I was also looking over my shoulder for a tank or a load of fire hydrants.

Well, I need to get some stuff done and go to bed. Tomorrow will come early whether I'm prepared or not. Groan....

Taking Care of the Minimum

No quote tonight.

I went to bed very early last night. I was more tired than I had realized and slept for about 12 hours. I felt rested this morning for the first time in weeks.

I spent the day cleaning up messes. I had stuff stacked everywhere, and I couldn't even see my dining table. It was full of paperwork and souvenirs from the trip. I sorted, round-filed, and stored until I had two bags of trash, a clean table, and my office reassembled and functional.

I don't know why it always takes me so long to do this stuff. I already feel better because the space doesn't scream "crap pile" every time I walk through the room. It's horrible to see a big pile of unresolved mess when you come in the door every day.

I did laundry, mowed grass, cleaned up the kitchen...basically, I did what the title says. I took care of the minimum number of things necessary to keep the house from falling in or looking like white trash lives here. There's still a lot to do, but at least I got the stuff that's several months old taken care of. ;) Off to finish cleaning....

Hummingbirds and Hydrogen Bombs

Including those initially listed as missing or who died afterward from a loosely defined set of bomb-related ailments, including cancers, Hiroshima officials now put the total number of the dead in this city alone at 237,062. -- MSNBC 8.5.05

I spent some time this evening sitting on my front porch petting my dog. I am home so little that I don't get to spend much time with him. He's a lap-sized dog, and it was pleasant to sit out in the cool of the evening on my porch in a rocking chair.

While I was out, the hummingbirds were furiously buzzing around the feeder I have in my rose bed. I guess there were about five of them, and they dipped and swirled, fussing at the top of their tiny lungs. One of them had decided that he was the sole ruler of the six-seat feeder, and he wasn't allowing anybody else to have any of the sugar water inside.

I never really knew hummingbirds fought like that. I always think of them as fragile creatures. They seem to be so tiny; they must be almost glass-like, ready to shatter at the slightest blow. The aggressive little birds poked each other with their beaks and became so involved in their combat that they almost crashed to the ground before one of them broke and fled.

Something about that scene was so metaphorical to me. How much of the current strife in the world is caused by someone hoarding plenty? How many times do people destroy in their single-minded goal for possession?

Today marks the 60th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. I did not go to Hiroshima when I was in Japan. It was a conscious choice. Just thinking about the magnitude of pain and death that happened in moments and the suffering that continued and continues for generations makes me weep.

It's just another instance of humanity's seemingly endless well of cruelty and terrible skill at creating new methods of destruction. Like the hummingbird at the feeder, we are so good at pushing away and keeping out when we should be sharing. I can't help but wonder how much longer it's going to be before this spiral of battle and fighting causes us all to crash to the ground.

Deer in the Headlights

Every beginning is weak. -- Celtic Proverb

Today was the first day of a new school year. It was strange to have been there at the beginning and be prepared. The last few years of my teaching life have been start-late-fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants experiences. Today, my room was set up and all the elements were in place. It was nice.

My tenth graders had the distinctive, vacant-eyed, deer in the headlights expression today. They said almost nothing, and hardly even moved. I suppose the shock of a new environment had incapacitated them. Don't worry. It won't last. The new will wear off quickly and then we'll see what they're really made of.

The AP classes were another matter altogether. One class is boisterous and the other is more subdued. I think they're both going to be great fun. They, too, were shell-shocked, but not by environment. Course expectations were what struck them between the eyes. I wonder if any of them will bail on the class.

Well, tonight, too will be short. I'm very tired and tomorrow will be another long day. Sigh. Maybe over the weekend I can get the grass mowed and make my house look something like a house again.

The Day Before School

He who opens a school door, closes a prison.
Victor Hugo

Today has been a very long day. It started with a meeting at our vocational school, progressed to a horrible test results review, and concluded with me working way too late. Right now, the copier is humming in the background, and I am craving my bed.

Tomorrow will be the first day with kids. I am looking forward to it, but I'm not sure how prepared I am. I never feel prepared for the first day. I could have a script memorized, but I still wouldn't feel adequately prepared.

I've gotten several complements on my classroom, and I am not worried on that account. Mostly, I never know whether or not I have enough stuff for us to do. I hate it when there are 5 or 10 minutes at the end where everybody is just staring at each other. It's also bad if there's too much and something gets left off or rushed. Pacing on the first day is just problematic.

This is going to be very short because I need to prep some more stuff for tomorrow. Suffice it to say, I'm alive and getting ready for tomorrow.

Teeth

Trips to the dentist - I like to postpone that kind of thing.
Johnny Depp


After a long day of preparation for Thursday, I went to the dentist to have my two invisible cavities drilled and filled. This is a fairly new event for me. Until this year, I had no fillings of any kind. I don't know if genetics, diet, or obsessive brushing protected me for so long, but I enjoyed my "perfect record."

My dentist is quite good. The most uncomfortable moment is when he gives me the shots to deaden my gums. I hate needles, and even the sight of one hovering that close to my mouth gets me very, very tense.

It all took less than 30 minutes. It's amazing how fast something like tooth drilling and reconstruction takes now. Granted, these were sort of pre-cavities, so I'm guessing they weren't very deep. However, I seem to remember such things taking a lot longer for other friends and my family who've had cavities in the past.

My dentist also made a point of telling me that these fillings would be white, so if I looked, I probably wouldn't see anything. Hmmm....several centuries of dentistry, and they just now got around to making them white? Why didn't this occur to somebody before?

There's really not much else to tell about today. I have some other stuff that I may get to in another post, but that's it for now. Now, I'm going to bed so I can get up for another day of fun, fun, fun. At least now I'm dentally sound. :)

Old Movies

I don't take the movies seriously, and anyone who does is in for a headache.
Bette Davis

When I got home today, a treat awaited me. I had ordered a used copy of All About Eve from amazon.com (oh, how I love used DVD's) and it arrived. I popped it in and am watching the story unfold. Even though I know how it will end (I've seen it a million times), I am still gripped by the performance.

I love old movies. It seems as if the characters were so much stronger then. I don't know why. Maybe it's because the actors were different somehow. Most of them had such forceful (euphemism, anyone) personality off screen that perhaps their performances were flavored by it. So many of them must have been fascinating to know. Difficult, vain, primadonnas, and real jackasses, but probably fascinating to know.

Some of my favorite movies are All About Eve, Some Like It Hot, Singin' In the Rain, and Sunset Boulevard. Two are silly, and two are serious. I am trying to build a collection of my favorites, but, in truth, I can watch almost any old movie.

Some of my favorites are seasonal. For Halloween, I like Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte or House of Wax (the original, not the crappy new one). Another really scary b/w film is the original The Haunting of Hill House. It's based on a Shirley Jackson story and even though there are no mega special effects, the tension is fifty times greater than that awful remake of a few years ago. I scared myself silly with that one on a summer night when I was staying in the dorm by myself.

When I was in grad school, the film studies department at that university offered a series of free screenings of classic films. I got to see Casablanca from film just as it would have been shown in the theater. They showed a great selection every year. It was great to go in and sit in the dark with people who also liked those great old films and just enjoy.

Another of my favorite old movie memories happened when I was very young. The town near us has one of those enormous, elaborate movie palaces built in the 20's. It has a theater organ that has been restored, and to celebrate the completion of the renovation, they brought in an organist from the state capital and showed the original silent version of The Phantom of the Opera. It was spellbinding. Maybe that's when my love of old films began. There was an intermission with a sing along. They also showed a serial and a news reel. I was captivated. They've never done it again, but every year I hope for the magic to come back.

Those movie palaces were built to transport people away from their normal world. I love that. As you may already know, I am a big proponent of fantasy. Today's theaters don't really transport me anywhere, nor do the films they show. I guess that's one reason why I don't go very often. I'd much rather be in a place like the Orpheum in Memphis watching their organist rise up out of the pit in his white tux with tails and see something truly funny like Some Like It Hot on the big screen. Maybe if I can build up enough of a collection here at home, I can capture some tiny sparks of that feeling to revisit from the comfort of my couch.

Loose Ends and New Beginnings

The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.
John Galsworthy

I skipped the reunion. I have very little guilt about this, either. It was raining, tomorrow is work, bright and early, and I had to go buy this month's groceries. There was only one possible circumstance under which I'd have regretted not going, and I don't think that particular event was a possibility.

Tomorrow is the official beginning of the new school year. I've been to the school to work registration and to decrapify (won't spell check have a good time with that word) my room. Tomorrow, though, is the first time everybody will be back together since the bitterness at the end of last year.

I saw one of my teacher friends when I went to fix the paycheck problem earlier in the week. He told me again to focus on how much I am looking forward to teaching the class and forget about the rest of it. I am going to do my level best to do this. I am so excited about the class that I think I can put up with most of the other silliness.

While I was out buying stuff for the month, I bought two large frames for the two Walter Anderson prints I bought at the beginning of the summer. I hung them with another of the same series (his alphabet woodcuts) and now have my initials across the wall of my library/sun room. For some reason, it was important to me to get those hung before the school year started. It feels completed somehow.

Another thing I took care of was getting a copier for the house. I've been wanting one for a long time, but they've been too expensive and I've been too broke. This year, with the help of Mom and Dad, I got a small one. It also does faxes, so now I don't have to run around looking for one whenever paperwork has to go in. I really like that.

This is the ending of summer and the beginning of another school year. For the first time in a long time, I'm looking forward to seeing how this one is going to go. If nothing else, going back to school will undoubtedly get my mind off "the guy"....

HGTV Junkie

"You should see...what's on HGTV" -- commercial tagline, HGTV

As you can tell from the quote, tonight's post will be light and fluffy. I haven't done any light and fluffy in awhile, and even though I am still turning some pretty heavy stuff over in my mental rock tumbler, I am tired of writing about it. Therefore, I have chosen a topic which can't possibly turn into angst: HGTV.

I have an addiction to watching HGTV. I love to watch people transform their houses. My favorite shows are Design Remix, Design on a Dime, and Decorating Cents. There are about a hundred other shows, but I don't really watch them that much.

As I've said in other posts, I live in an old house. The last remodel on it was done in the mid-70s, so I have lots of orangy carpet and light colored pine paneling. Fortunately, my Granny was a lady with vision and taste, and I also have a fairly open floor plan. The original house had lots of tiny little rooms, but she did away with lots of walls so the living space, kitchen, and dining area all flow together.

Also previously pointed out, I teach and therefore have NO money ever. This makes overhauling my house problematic at best. I would like to rip out all the paneling and put up sheet rock. I'd love to have hardwood floors and some carpet that is younger than I am. I really want one of those deep spa jet tubs in my bathroom and something other than the faux marble patterned cabinet tops. I want the ceilings raised and plastered. I have a whole list of things I want to accomplish.

However, since I have no money, no help, and very little experience with construction and power tools, I mostly work on small changes right now. I have repainted my office and am planning to put in some shelves a la Mission Organization. I have used baskets for storage per the advice of Design on a Dime, and, although it's not really an HGTV show, Clean Sweep has inspired me to sort, file, and discard.

The shows give me inspiration. They also help me feel like big changes are possible even if I don't have professional assistance or lots of money. They make me feel that I can continue to make my house more and more my home. I love them for that.
Very few things make me feel as good as finishing one of my little projects and seeing that part of my house come together to reflect my personality and be a welcoming space for others. My house is probably my most important sanctuary.

Working on the house also makes me feel tied to my grandmother. It seemed she was always redoing things. My cousins and I used to move furniture for her all the time. She was always redesigning the front guest bedroom or sewing new drapes. I guess maybe I got this urge to rearrange my nest from her. It makes me feel that she'd approve whenever I finish a project and it comes out well.

For all these reasons, I enjoy HGTV. I may not be able to make my room look as good as they do after an episode of Design Remix, but I always feel inspired. Instead of looking around at my house and seeing limitations and dated furnishings, I see potential and ways to go from 70's blah to "retro". Long live HGTV and their happy, smiling, kind hosts and hostesses. Long live all of us who are trying to make juice with the fruits we've been given. (I won't call my house a lemon, but you know what I mean....)