That Wonderful Sound

I got a new computer with some of the money from this year's summer work.  I really needed one.  My old netbook had become so sluggish and grumpy that I just hated to use it for anything.  I think when I upgraded it to Windows 10, it just wasn't quite up to the job somehow.

This new one has no such issues.  It is nice to feel that the machine is a tool and not an obstacle again.  Even though I'm not a programmer or a power user, as a teacher, I need reliable access to be able to get everything ready for my job.  The old netbook just could not provide that anymore.

My favorite part of it is the most absurd, I suppose.  It's not the big screen or the backlit keyboard; it's the fact that it FOUND MY PRINTER without my having to perform an arcane ritual under the light of the full moon and that it PRINTED A DOCUMENT FROM WORD without my having to turn it into a PDF, route it through Thailand, and offer up incense and prayers.  I simply opened Word, clicked the little "quick print" icon, and that wonderful sound, that soft click and whir, issued from across the room.

Technology working like it is supposed to work.  Who ever thought of such a thing?

Reasons Why I Love Marvel Films

(an open letter of appreciation to everyone involved with the MCU that will never get read but that I want to write anyway)

I've been on a major Marvel movie kick lately, and I've been thinking about why they are so enjoyable.  Here's what I've come up with so far.

1)  A legitimate effort at fun has been made - Every day, it seems like the news is full of new horrors. People are killing each other for no legitimate reason.  Things are disappearing or being used up. Both America and the world seem to be increasingly divided.  People are just plain hateful to each other based on differences which make no difference.  Our political landscape is filled with a wide array of non-choices we'll have to pick from in a few month.

One of the greatest uses of entertainment is being able to escape all that, even for 120 minutes, and Marvel films do that so well.  The interplay between the characters is always a delight.  The snark between Hawkeye and Quicksilver in Age of Ultron. Tony Stark bating...pick a character.  Anyone.  Everyone, really.  Ant Man in Iron Man's wiring or in Sam's Falcon suit. Ant Man getting punched in the face by Hope.  Happy getting taken down by the Widow.  Spiderman and Bucky.  (Spiderman and everybody.) The entire Bucky/Sam dynamic.  One of my favorite scenes of all time was in Civil War when all those huge, ridiculously powerful guys are crammed into that old Volkswagen and Bucky asks Falcon to move his seat but Sam refuses.  It was short, little compared to the huge drama going on, but it was perfect.  My immediate thought was, "Actual Crap Guys Do."  I still snicker thinking about it.

And don't even get me started on Deadpool.  That entire film is just a gift.

2)  A legitimate effort at more than just escapism has also been made - Because they're not just fluff.  Even when we laugh at the one-liners, we can come away from the films thinking seriously about important concepts.  Loyalty (and who deserves it), purpose, self-definition, coping with situations that we can't control, the need for second chances, who gets to write history and tell stories, the effects of conflict and violence on the macro and micro level, it's all in there.  If you don't believe me, go to Tumblr for about five minutes and look at the way that talking about Marvel films is allowing people to talk about the very same real-world issues they help people escape for a minute, too.

It's a little like Shakespeare to me.  (I'm going somewhere with this.  I promise.  Don't throw things or pass out.)  He used these fabulous characters and riveting stories to present important ideas.  Mercutio is fabulous, so sparkly he almost steals the entire play from that other moody teen, but what we need to learn from him is that his excess destroys him and that friends can get caught up in our drama whether we intend them to or not.  Hamlet, with all his intelligence and sublime skill with language, teaches us it is possible to wait too long and that everybody suffers from it.  Macbeth shows us what happens when ambition subsumes loyalty and character.  And on and on.  This is a whole separate blog post from me, so I'll stop here.  What I'm saying is that the MCU films do a lot of this same kind of thing.  There's something deeper at the core of them that makes them more than blockbuster entertainment.

3) Even though it can't be easy to be an actor for these films, they always look like they like each other and like what they do - I know that being a part of something like the MCU has got to be a big choice for an actor for a lot of reasons.  I assume they are physically rigorous films, especially since many of the actors seem to be doing as many of their own stunts as they can.  They also seem to require long commitments to the franchise.  I don't know if that's a bad thing or not, but I'm assuming it limits what actors are allowed to do otherwise even though most of the MCU films do well at the box office.

I also figure that being a part of something like MCU denies those actors a great deal of the pleasure of being an anonymous person.  I'm just a lowly school teacher, nothing so public and glorified as a film actor, but I actually love to go hang out with my friends who live in other cities just for the sheer pleasure of not having to worry about who I'm going to see that might know me. I'll never forget the time I got one of my ear piercings redone and came to school the next day to be told, "We saw you getting your ears done."  I hadn't seen them, and the entire thing was paranoia-inducing.  Where were they?  Why did they care?  Was I floating around out there in a Snapchat getting my ears repierced?  Jesus....  If it's like that for me as a public school teacher, can you even imagine what it is like to be one of the actors in these films?  Is there anywhere they can enjoy being just them and not Cap or Nat, Bucky or Tony Stark?  I hope so.  Everybody deserves a place to be simply themselves.

The biggest thing I guess I'm talking about is the apparently endless parade of interviews and convention panels.  Because I have a board on Pinterest called Geekery that I add stuff to from Doctor Who, Star Wars, MCU films, etc., I see a bajillion interview pins (again, probably mostly assembled from things from Tumblr, that frothing bastion of fandom, God bless it).  It has to get old.  I wonder how many thousand times they get asked the same questions.  Some of the things I see they've been asked are things I wouldn't be able to respond to well, but they always seem to stay classy (reasons they're actors and I'm not, probably).

In spite of all these things that would be drawbacks to me, they also always look like they like each other and are having a lot of fun. They support each other, defend each other from the really brainless, tactless, and crass questions.  I really hope that's true.  I hope that they look forward to making these movies and mess around on set and during those ridiculous interviews and are basically just happy.  Maybe they don't all hang out at one of the hundred-and-eighty-seven-guys-named-Chris's houses on the weekend, but while they're there, it seems like they're having a blast. It increases the enjoyment of the films to me to think that it's in some way an effort of friends.

4) The female characters kick ass - The women are as interesting and strong as the men and nobody acts like that's anything other than the way it should be.  I have loved Wonder Woman since I was a little girl small enough to fit into Underoos, and I have always, always wanted to see a film in which she was not a cameo or just done wrong.  Marvel doesn't seem to have that issue. They aren't afraid of women who can hold their own. I can't wait to see Hope Pym as the Wasp.  When the Scarlet Witch blasted Vision through the floor in Civil War, I (silently) cheered.  Kick that ass, girl.  I'm still catching up on the Daredevil series, but Electra is so very well done, deadly and complicated.  And yes.  Like the rest of America, I do want an entire Black Widow movie.  She deserves it. (And throw some Red Room Bucky up in that, too.)

5) They are not afraid of brokenness - All of the MCU heroes have big, huge faultlines running right up the middle of them.  Serious things have happened to them, things they couldn't control.  They've made choices the best they could or had all their choices taken from them.  Accidents have happened.  They lost things.  They lost people they loved.  They've lost part or all of themselves.

Bucky is the poster boy for this and one of my very favorite characters in the entire MCU. Each time we see him in the films, he is picking the pieces of his life up and sorting through them. Even though he has been as destroyed as a person can be, with the help of his friends, he is trying to put those pieces back in place. Sebastian Stan does an amazing job showing this process.  Bucky can't be easy to play.

This is what real life does.  All that ugliness I mentioned at the top that surrounds us every day is doing this stuff to us, and we have to pick ourselves up and deal with whatever remains.  I think the MCU heroes do an excellent job of giving hope that it is possible to stand up and keep trying.  Sure, we're never going to be kidnapped by HYDRA, twisted by the Red Room, recreated by the mind stone, but we are going to get knocked down, hurt in hearts, minds, and bodies, and there's a lot to be said for seeing survival of the worst in fiction.  It's important to have stories that show us people can overcome.

6) The villains are complicated - As a million little Loki fangirls will attest, even Marvel's bad guys aren't simple.  Maybe it's the richness of the decades of source material and all the incarnations they've gone through as different writers shaped the characters, but instead of just big powerful evil, there's always a reason. There's always a backstory.  They aren't Iagos; they're Claudiuses. (And I promise, that's my last Shakey reference.) The Marvel villains are the flip side of the hero's brokenness.  They show us what happens when you choose NOT to get up.  When you choose to hold on the the darkness instead of finding some way to purge it or leave it behind.  They are as important in that dynamic as the heroes are.

My favorite of them is almost inevitably Wilson Fisk.  D'Onofrio always amazes me with the depth he brings to anything he plays, and his portrayal of the many, many layers behind Kingpin is one of the main reasons I like Daredevil so much.  The character is absolutely terrifying, utterly ruthless, but as the details of his becoming are revealed, it becomes possible to have compassion for him.  Then he decapitates somebody with a car door, and you are not quite sure how to feel.  That's the way a good villain is supposed to function.

7)  The characters grow and change - Captain America has undergone this beautiful and complex transformation, but all of them evolve.  The Tony Stark we saw in Civil War wasn't the same guy from Iron Man.  All the characters in Daredevil are shifting, and it's impressive to watch.  Even fairly newly-introduced characters like the Scarlet Witch and the Black Panther have changed dramatically from who they were when we first met them.  Others are poised on the edges of that kind of change, especially Bucky, and I hope we get to see it happen. Real life leaves marks.  When characters don't change due to what they encounter, they're allegories, and while allegories are interesting, I don't think we learn as much about survival from them as we do from more dynamic characters.

And I could probably go on, but I'll stop here.  It may seem kind of an odd thing for me to write about, but it's what was on my mind today.  Gotta go watch a movie.

The Tree

Christmas has always been one of my favorite holidays.  I always have problems around this time of the year getting into the Christmas spirit.  Part of it is that everywhere I look, it's a family time.  There are young couples wrapped up in each other, families out with all the generations together shopping or touring light displays.  And simply everywhere, everywhere are the children.  It makes me feel so very alone.

Additionally, there is the pressure that comes with my job.  The end of the semester is an endurance race full of deadlines, papers to be graded, last-minute emergencies, and altered schedules.  It leaves me too exhausted to feel very festive.

I had decided not to get a tree this year because of Stella.  She's still such a puppy.  I have had to put up baby gates to keep her out of parts of the house, and visions of my antique Shiny Brites in little shards kept dancing in my head.

Friends of mine on Facebook suggested several alternatives, including a rosemary tree, and I even went to Lowe's and got one.  It smells lovely, but it just didn't feel like Christmas.  In fact, looking at the tiny tree-shaped rosemary draped in colored lights felt exactly the opposite.

Today after lunch with Mom and Dad, I drove the short distance to Lazy Acres for a real tree.  When I got there, the "sleigh" that takes people around to the various parts of the farm was slowly filling with little kids holding their parents' hands.  The very last seat had already been commandeered by a young couple who, despite the unseasonable heat, were twined together in that way that only the newly-married seem to indulge in.  I had a giant case of the "nopes," but I also didn't feel like walking over the property on foot to find a tree.

We've been getting trees from Lazy Acres since I was about ten.  That's almost thirty years of trees for me from there.  Every year, either my family and I or just I alone have hiked out, inspected different types of trees, waited for that National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation moment of light from above, cut it down ourselves, and dragged it out to the sleigh.  This year, I just couldn't stand the thought of it.  So much of the joy of it had always come from it being a family thing, from the silly jokes we always told every year, from teasing each other over our annual tree-getting behaviors.  Without that, every part of the experience just felt like a chore.

While I was debating whether or not to suck it up and get on the sleigh, I saw the assortment of pre-cut trees they have near the checkout area.  I suppose they've always had them there; I've never really even looked at them, though.  There were some huge ones and some petite examples, too.  Since I had decided to get one small enough to put on a table to keep it out of Stella-range, I decided it couldn't hurt to look at them.  After all, it would keep me off that kid-filled wagon....

There was a perfect one toward the back.  I tore off the tag, paid, and had it tied to the top of my car in under thirty minutes.  It was back at my house, up in its stand, and covered in lights in under a full hour.

While I worked, I listened to my all-time favorite Christmas vinyl, a recording of carols and Christmas songs played on antique music boxes.  I've loved it since I was a child.  It makes me remember my earliest Christmases as a child with the big Sylvania turntable loaded with all our albums - Elvis, the music boxes, those Firestone Christmas compliations.  The music box one is so different and so lovely from all the others.  I always felt like Christmas was really here when I heard it. I played it through twice as I nestled lights into the boughs of the little tree.

So now my tree is up.  It's different than I usually have, elevated as it is.  There are no ornaments on it yet.  I'll hold off on that until I'm sure that Stella's current indifference is her real reaction to it.  She sniffed it twice, looked at me as if to say, "Sure.  If it makes you happy.  Whatever," and walked off.  She has been chewing on various toys ever since.

Despite the differences, just looking over the top of my computer screen at it makes me happier.  I'm glad I did it.  Maybe if I put enough little things together, then some of that magic I used to feel can return.

Stella Arrives

Tuesday, I got up early, loaded Chewie and Yelldo into the back seat, and headed two hours north to see a rescue pit bull.  She was beautiful and bouncy, but Chewie wanted nothing to do with her.  He was so deeply avoiding her that he turned his body in whichever direction she was not, like some kind of odd large white furry reverse weathervane.

So we loaded back up, drove back home, and I was very sad.

The lady at the rescue suggested that we needed a very young puppy to help Chewie feel less threatened, so after I took a long nap, I got up and started the search again online.  I sent several requests to rescues and shelters all over three states.  I asked for help on FaceBook.  I opened the PetFinder app on my phone.  Then I settled in to wait.

One of the FaceBook contacts responded to say that she had a pit who was about to have a litter of puppies.  If I were willing to wait 8 wks, I could be on the list for one of them.  It seemed like the best bet at the time, so I made my peace with it and went on about my life.

Then I got a message from the Madison ARK.  I had put in an application for Stella, a 5-month-old female, but I wasn't very hopeful after the debacle with the other young female in the north.  Stella had actually been on my radar for a long time; I remembered her adorable ears and her unusual light eyes from the search I had done before Dad's heart surgery this summer.  I talked to the people at the ARK, and I told them about my situation.  We agreed that I would bring Chewie out and see how he responded.  So yesterday morning, I loaded him into the car again and we set off.

Chewie behaved much better.  He walked along up and down the street in front of the rescue, and although he didn't seem to be very interested in being bounced on or playing, he did condescend to sniff her bottom and allow her to do the same, something he flatly refused to do in the meeting with the other dog.  I was hopeful. 

We took them in, and they continued to interact, and although Chewie would not engage her, he wasn't being the anti-dog weathervane, either.  The people at the rescue decided that he would probably just need time to adjust, and they asked if I would want to bring Stella home for a trial run.

I agreed.

We all came home, me driving, Chewie sitting in the middle seat and staring balefully out the window, and Stella confined in her travel crate in the back.  I pulled through Chick-Fil-A because Chewie always gets nuggets when he has to go do something, and after getting our order, we hit the interstate for home.

Upon arrival, I was fearful of how she'd react to all the other creatures and vice versa, so we shut her in her new big crate.  She was *most* unhappy.  She wanted to smell, to run, to play.  She saw her first cats as Dillon and Pearl came to stand in the doorway of the dog room, and she was fascinated.  Chewie and Yelldo came in to inspect the new addition, and Stella wagged and yipped.  

After an hour or so, I decided to see what was going to happen.  I put her on a leash and brought her out.  She bounced right across to Pearl who was watching from beneath the dining table and got her nose roundly slapped.  In true pit bull fashion, she blinked, sat back in confusion, and decided she loved Pearl too much not to try it again.   Poor Pearl....

Pearl has broken in too many dogs to be worried about something not very much larger than herself, so she held her ground, fluffed her regal mane, and growled like something from the pits of hell.  She looked like a pocket-sized grey lion.  Stella got weirded out and came and sat next to me.  Pearl simply looked down her nose at the dog and sashayed off toward the living room. Mission accomplished.  

We're twenty-four hours into the experiment, and Stella has been off-leash since about 4 pm yesterday.  She's been round and round the yard, sniffing like Roux used to, the noise I always called "truffle pig."  She's eaten half a large bowl of dog food by taking two pieces out at a time and running into the living room with it.  She's consumed two small exerhides in an epic battle of gnawing that took about 30 minutes each to destroy something Chewie crunches like a potato chip.  She's charged to the end of her leash after some unknown woodland beast in the dark of night.  I think she's having a good time....

She's currently unconscious on the floor next to my chair on a blue blanket having worn herself completely out most recently by going around and around my yard, barking her high-pitched little squeaky toy bark at my crows, trying to engage Chewie or Yelldo in play, sitting in my lap and giving me kisses, chasing the four hundred toys she has dragged out from the basket on the hearth, and generally being the precious little diva she is.  

In time, I really believe Chewie will warm up to her, especially when he realizes that he will still get the same attention as before. He is already consenting to be sniffed more often and following us around the yard. I look forward to seeing them run and play.

I have plans for her, too.  I want to see if I can train her for agility.  She can leap about two feet straight in the air just when something startles her, so I think she will be good at it and it will be a good release for her.  I will have to train myself to work with her, but that will be good for me as well.  

I love her.  She's not what I had thought would come to me, but she's perfect.  I realized two things about that.  One, her name is Stella.  She came to me with that name.  That was the name I had sort of picked for a daughter if I ever had one.  It's a family name on my mother's side.  I have always loved it because it sounds a little old fashioned and also because it means "star," which she totally is.  Additionally, and this didn't come to me until last night, if she's 5 months old, that means she came into this world about the time my Roux left it, almost as if Roux sent her to me.  While I know that 's not the way the world works, I can't say that coincidence didn't touch me.  

We have a long way to go.  There is bonding that needs to occur between her and me, between her and my other animals, between her and my parents.  I really believe all that will come in time.  She is going to be the most loved little baby pittie anyone ever saw.  By Christmas, her level of spoiled-rottenness should have reached really absurd heights.  

Brother

This song.  This. Song.  

I don't have flesh-and-blood brothers, but this pretty much sums up the way I feel about my close friends.  I think it's a beautiful picture of what real friendship is supposed to be, a place where both people are protected and valued, a place where we hold each other up and hold all the broken pieces together.

This has been on my mind quite a lot lately as something I should share with a particular person.  Every time I hear it lately, I think of that individual, but things there have gotten weird.  Instead of bothering that person with it, then, I'm just going to put it here.  

Ramblers in the wilderness we can’t find what we need
Get a little restless from the searching
Get a little worn down in between
Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes
Everybody needs someone beside em’ shining like a lighthouse from the sea

Brother let me be your shelter
I’ll never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you’re low
Brother let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

Face down in the desert now there’s a cage locked around my heart
I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were
Now my hands can’t reach that far
I ain’t made for a rivalry I could never take the world alone
I know that in my weakness I am strong, but
It’s your love that brings me home

Brother let me be your shelter
I’ll never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you’re low
Brother let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

And when you call and need me near
Sayin' where'd you go?
Brother I'm right here
And on those days when the sky begins to fall
You're the blood of my blood
We can get through it all

Brother let me be your shelter
I’ll never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you’re feelin' low
Brother let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

Brother let me be your shelter
I’ll never leave you all alone
I can be the one you call
When you’re low
Brother let me be your fortress
When the night winds are driving on
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home
Be the one to light the way
Bring you home

Fordite

"Fordite, also known as Motor Agate, is a unique automotive enamel material with an interesting history. The original layered automotive paint slag 'rough' was made incidentally, years ago, by the now extinct practice of hand spray-painting multiples of production cars in big automotive factories. 

The oversprayed paint in the painting bays gradually built up on the tracks and skids that the car frames were painted on. Over time, many colorful layers built up there. These layers were hardened repeatedly in the ovens that the car bodies went into to cure the paint. Some of these deeper layers were even baked 100 times. 

Eventually, the paint build-up would become obstructing, or too thick and heavy, and had to be removed. As the story goes, some crafty workers with an eye for beauty realized that this unique byproduct was worth salvaging. It was super-cured, patterned like psychedelic agate, and could be cut and polished with relative ease!"  - taken from fordite.com 
__________________________________

I'm obsessed with this stuff.  In addition to mad housecleaning, I am also using the internet as a tool for avoidance of reality, and as I stumbled through the rabbit hole of Etsy, I came across Fordite.

As the history blurb above details, this is a reclaimed thing, something that occurred as an accident, a nuisance byproduct for the auto industry.  How beautiful this nuisance is, though.

I wonder who the first person to notice the internal loveliness under the unsightly exterior was, who the first person to scratch the surface and find more than was expected.

Fordite, or Detroit Agate, isn't produced anymore.  Technology changed the manufacturing process, and this side-effect doesn't happen now.  What I'm sure the industry looked at as a waste now fetches as much money as some "real" gemstones, especially if it can be proven to have come from a particular auto maker, model, or factory, for example the Corvette factory in Bowling Green, KY.  I even saw one piece marked as "mustangite."  Guess what it was supposed to have come from?

I have found a piece on Etsy that I really love....well, probably more like five pieces, but still...and when my money from the AP reading comes, I am going to splurge on a piece.  Aside from the incredible visual appeal of it, I like the symbolic reminder that it's what's under the surface that matters, that the world rarely takes the time to look for less-than-screaming-in-its-face-obvious value and is prone to discard things of beauty and rarity.  It's a lesson worth remembering about a tendency worth avoiding.

I don't think that's too much philosophy to hang from a silver chain, right?  If it's too much for you, I guess you can just enjoy all the pretty colors.  To each, her own.

A Red Fiesta Pitcher

Today, I got something I've wanted for a long, long time.  Today, I got a scarlet Fiestaware pitcher.

After the UPS man delivered it and entertained my dogs in the process, I unpacked it and simply stood at the sink for a moment.  I felt its heft, inspected the places on the inside where the red glaze hadn't quite changed color totally in the firing process, not a flaw but part of the character of the piece.

I sort of fell a little in love.

It doesn't seem like much to someone else, I'm sure.  It's only so much clay, so much glaze.  It's not a limited run item.  It's not exotic or even very expensive.

There's something about it, though, that enchants me.  Maybe it's the art deco lines I love so much. Maybe it's the vibrant color.  Maybe it's the connection to family that I've written about before.  It's hard to nail it down.

The piece had some warehouse dust on it, so next I washed it. There is something about hand washing something that you love that takes the work out of that action.  It was pleasing to see the glaze shine through the soap suds, to watch the water sheet across the surface and leave it clean.

I finished up by making some pink lemonade.  It wasn't fancy or exotic.  I used no lavender and no mint.  It came from a Country Time mix.  Okay, I did supplement it somewhat by adding juice from half a lemon I had in the fridge, but that's the only extra I did.  I put it in the fridge and walked the dogs.

When I came back, I got a glass, opened the refrigerator door, and took a moment to admire the pitcher.  I swear it made the whole inside of my fridge happy.  When I poured the lemonade and put it back, I shut the door with a smile and wandered back into the living room just a little happier.

I am learning slowly but surely to let the little things brighten up my days.  Life is full of so many of these little things, trivialities, really, that are actually capable of being tiny drops of balm if we would only look around and allow them to do their jobs.  It might not always be a pottery pitcher.  It might be the bloom on my cucumbers, the fuzzy white chin of my cat as she sleeps with her head propped on my shin, the clean wood of the new stair tread my father replaced today on my south porch.  It might be a butterfly landing on a chestnut tree in tassel.  It might be the sound of snoring dogs gathered around my chair.  It might be the absence of the sound of a 5 am alarm.  Whatever it is, I mean to try to appreciate it wherever it can be found.  It's so easy only to see the nasty and the grim.  God knows there's enough of those kinds of things to swamp us, to blind us to anything else.  I think, though, that there are plenty of these good things, too, if we will take the time to look.

There's still more pink lemonade in that pitcher.  Think I'll go get another glass.

Little Broken Hearts

Every once in awhile, I stumble across an album that I can't stop listening to.  I loop it instead of listening and putting it into a rotation.  Generally speaking, I like variety instead of repetition.  Little Broken Hearts by Norah Jones is currently sort of obsessing me.

Oh, it's not new.  It's been out awhile.  I've had it on my list of things to get.  I finally did the other night, and it's one of those things I'm kicking myself for not getting earlier.

This album is rare in that I think I like every single song on it.  Some cut me more personally than others.  Since it's an album of broken relationships as indicated by the title, not all of these places Jones goes are happy ones.  They're rendered lovely, though, by her voice and artistry.  Sometimes there is beauty even in the shadows of the dark places we go, I guess.

As usual, I also find myself drawn to the lovely little tune with the crazy little lyrics.  I was halfway through "Miriam" the first time before I realized what she was saying.  I restarted it, pulled up the lyrics online, and I immediately fell in love with it.  I think I'm going to make a playlist of nothing but all these happy little psycho songs I have accumulated over the years.  I will do this without looking too closely at what that probably says about me....

Most of all, though, I will continue to enjoy the voice of Norah Jones.  She has such an unusual and rich sound.  Come Away with Me has been something I have enjoyed forever.  Little Broken Hearts, however, adds some edge to both her lyrics and her sound.  It's different, but unlike some of the reviewers I read, I don't think that's bad.  Clearly, as time goes on, we aren't the same people anymore.  Our life experiences change us, or they should, anyway, if we're living any sort of life at all.  Why do we always seem to expect every album from a performer to sound the same as if they aren't changing, too?  That's absurd.  We should enjoy the evolution instead of demanding what only really amounts to stagnation.

A Twenties Sort of Day

In the last 24 hours, I've read two and a half books.  The first two were utterly forgettable fluff.  The third, though, has been fabulous.  It's Bill Bryson's One Summer:  America 1927.

I've read a lot of Bryson's books, and he has the ability to make any subject fascinating.  I have no idea how many hours of research it must take him, but he never fails to show all the layers and connections of his chosen subject.

He also never fails to infuse that subject with humor.  Sometimes, it's just subtle irony.  Sometimes, it's absolutely side-splitting stuff.  His A Walk in the Woods has several passages that make me laugh until I cry.

In this book, he's walking the reader through the Roaring Twenties, showing how all things and people are connected by looking at one singular summer.  While it's true that a lot happens in this brief time, he doesn't limit the scope to just those weeks.  He traces histories and causes of the things that arise, and he also in some cases goes on to show the long-lasting repercussions and legacies.  It's fascinating.

So many of the people and things he's covering have become so well-worn in even the most basic overview of the history of the 20s that I don't think we generally appreciate how much work went into them and how special they really were.  He covers baseball, Prohibition, Lindbergh, politics, finance, international relations, and I'm only about halfway through.  It's fabulous.

Lindbergh is one of the key figures.  Everybody knows he was the first non-stop flight over the Atlantic.  Bryson presents the reader with so many things that have gotten lost from the broader, timeline-dot sort of approach to history. I know I personally walked through the Air and Space Museum and saw The Spirit of St. Louis, sort of took a moment to notice it and moved on.  Had I read this first, I think I could have appreciated it vastly more.  To tell the truth, I spent so little time and knew so little that I didn't even notice that it was a canvas plane treated with a metallic varnish.  Bryson's account brought home how terrifying it must have been to try to cross an ocean in what was essentially "a flying tent."  I can start to give the accomplishment the recognition it deserves because now I have a feeling of these people as more than photographs and footnotes.  I appreciate that depth tremendously.

This is what history textbooks should be like.  They should be less concerned with bulleted lists and more concerned with telling the story of the amazingly interconnected web of events that shapes the world.  I know that I began to love history only when I had a professor who made those connections for me.  My History of England professor assigned us readings that were largely bone dry, but in class, he told us stories of the very real people who were involved in, creators of, or trapped by the wheel of time.

If you're interested in American history, the 1920s, aviation, baseball, literature, politics, or just basic human life, I highly recommend this book.  I think it has something for everyone.  For me to say that and not have finished yet is probably the biggest indicator of how good I think it is.

Variation on a Theme

In the past two days, I have found myself enthusing over Chris Thile's new Bach album (more about that later) and the YouTube video series Thug Notes.  My first reaction to these in juxtaposition was that they were very different things.  After a little thought, though, I'm not so sure.

What I appreciate about both of them is that they're taking things I traditionally enjoy (Bach, literature) and putting a distinctive personal touch on them (mandolin, thugness).  You have to be very clever and very good at what you do to pull reinterpretation of a masterwork off correctly.  You can take do pale imitations all day long, but to make a genuine new version of something already great means you have to understand the work in question thoroughly.

I think of it like Picasso's art.  Everyone associates him with Cubism and abstraction.  How many people remember that before he found his own new style that he made sure he was a master of traditional techniques?  He admonished people to "[l]earn the rules like a pro so you can break them like an artist."  It's not that he couldn't paint in the more traditional way; it's that he had mastered and surpassed it.

Even though it may seem odd to put a YouTube series in the same category with Thile and maybe both of them with Picasso to some people, I can't help but see their relationship to one another.  True interpretation leads to a new invention all of its own.

The Great Game

It's been a long time since I was in a country where I could use my haggling skills.  I know some people hate it, but I sort of love it.  It's a game.  How low can I get you to go?  The price you receive depends directly on the skills you bring.  It's like competitive shopping.

I always come armed to the teeth.  One thing about growing up in the Deep South, I know how to manipulate the male ego.  It's not something I do often.  I find it almost distatefully easy when it doesn't matter to me.  It's not something we're taught.  It's something we sort of absorb, I suppose.

Like all fine arts, there is a procedure for it.  I find something I want and ask its price.  Then I get all sweet and Southern.  I smile a lot. My accent becomes a little more pronounced.  I start my end of the game at half of whatever the asked me for in the first place.  Every Southern man knows that underneath that little butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth smile is a straight razor.  These guys know it, too, I'm sure.  Maybe all men recognize that steel under the sweet.  God help them if they don't.  After all, it's all a part of the game.  Whether they see it or not, I must say that the straight razor never seems to bother them....

I got a marriage proposal today.  I wanted a scarf, and I could have come away with a husband.  This is another part of the game.  "You're so beautiful.  You're so fascinating.  Won't you give me a little more money if I tell you this?"  Perhaps this is their version of the straight-razor.

Again, Southern woman training comes in handy for that.  We grow up surrounded by gallant men who are so full of crap that hip boots are commonly required.  I know how to smile and say, "Aw.  Thank you, honey," and walk off to the next challenge.

And really, everybody is happy at the end of it.   Somehow the items I get this way mean more to me.  I have a ring I got in Costa Rica that was my best ever haggle. I paid less than half of his asking price. Every time I put it on, I think about it and smile to myself.  That was a good day.

Today was, too. Today I was sweetheart, darling, and I think even precious one time.  That's fine.  I got good prices on everything I purchased, and I felt like I won a State Championship.  They got what was undoubtedly a good profit on me, since that is the way of these things, and they also got to feel all manly and stuff.  Win-win.  Totally win-win.  I wish we did this back home.  I would probably shop more if we did.

That Was Unexpected

I went on a trip recently.  I wasn't expecting much from it.  In fact, I had totally negative expectations.  I was grumpy.  I stomped my feet.  I did not want to go.

Shows what I know.

I had a great trip.  Unexpectedly, I found myself with lots of people whose company I really enjoyed.  Some of them were old friends rediscovered.  Some of them were brand new acquaintances I hope to know better.  We had meals, saw the sights, talked together, and it was refreshing in a way I really needed.

Additionally, we got lots of new information and ideas to bring back to our school.  We had conversations with administration at the school and district level.  That hasn't happened in a long time.  I feel more positive about the upcoming school year than I have in a long, long time.

The most unexpected thing was meeting someone who caught my attention.  He's cute.  He's smart.  He's interesting.  Of course, I did what I always do in such prime situations.  I ran like hell, couldn't even talk much to him, he unnerved me so much.  (Sigh.)  I don't know if I'll see him again, but it's likely.  We're both "local," so I imagine we'll run into each other at some point.  Another chance to run away on another day....

Despite my general lack of sense and courage, the trip I was dreading turned into something quite refreshing.  It's nice when that happens.  Hopeful, sort of....

Alif the Unseen

“A girl he loved had decided she did not love him--at least, not enough. How was such a problem usually addressed? Surely not with the clandestine exchange of books and computer surveillance and recourse to the jinn.” 
― G. Willow Wilson, Alif the Unseen
_____________________

I saw this book mentioned on Twitter or Facebook by one of the NPR book bloggers, and I was curious enough based upon what they said to go find it on Amazon.  Once I read the full premise, I got a sample on my Kindle.  From that point I was pretty much hooked.

I've never read anything like Alif.  It's the story of a young man of Indian-Arab heritage who lives in an unnamed totalitarian Gulf emirate.  He has created a separate online life for himself.  He works as a programmer/hacker whose programs serve any organization fighting the restrictions of the government.

He has fallen in love with a beautiful, intelligent woman from a rich family.  When that relationship falls apart, he decides to use his computing skills to grant her last request of him, that she should never see him again.  What comes of his fit of anger and sadness is unexpected.  It will lead him into the world of the jinn, a world that has always lain side by side with his everyday world without his knowledge.

Alif is part political protest, part fairy tale.  Some of the events feel very current since it seems that hardly a week goes by without mention of some government who is seeking to control their people by controlling their access to the Internet.  The world of the jinn creeps up on the reader in the same way it creeps up on Alif and his companions.  By the time he's immersed in the deepest part of it, their city and way of living seems entirely possible.  Different, but possible.

I guess this book fits most neatly into the category of fantasy with a side-order of sci-fi.  That label is a bit misleading, though.  It spans other genres; bildungsroman, political theory, and philosophy are all there, too. There is a muted but still moving love story.  Issues of gender and cross-cultural communication are explored.

Then there's the hero himself.  Alif, like most of us, thinks his actions and his motivations are fairly good ones.    Even though he is selfish, careless with those who care for him, and self-isolated from the world around him, he thinks the way he's chosen to live is the right path. What he discovers is that reality has a way of stripping away illusion, even the ones we keep about ourselves.  This, then, is a story of a person becoming attuned to the real told through the profoundly imaginary.  It's lovely.

One of the most important things this book addresses is what it means to be free.  How can we keep ourselves free?  What should we do with freedom when we have it?  What is the price of freedom?  While this may seem trite, the way Alif deals with it is thought-provoking, especially in a time in which government surveillance of our online lives has been confirmed.  (Hi, PRISM.  Scan me.  Go ahead.  Scan me.)

This book is probably the best thing I've read this summer.  In fact, it's one of the best books I've read in quite awhile, period.  I would love to see some kind of sequel with more of the world of the jinn in it.  I think the possibility for that exists in a couple of ways.  I don't know if Ms. Wilson will pursue this storyline or not. What I do know is that as it stands, Alif the Unseen was a profoundly original work in a sea of copycat fiction.  It is very much worth your time.

First Blackberrying of the Year

After walking the dogs this afternoon, I walked over to the blackberry bramble at the edge of my pasture and looked over the current crop.  I picked a few, just a small handful, and came back inside.  Chewie, being Chewie, watched me pick the berries and eat them, and he started nibbling them off the bushes.  I laughed at him, and he stopped long enough to give me a giant toothy grin before returning to his efforts.  He's a strange dog, but he's all mine.

After dinner, I kept thinking about the blackberries. I decided that I would go up to our country place tomorrow and see if the brambles there were bearing yet.  Then I looked up some recipes on Pinterest.  This led to combing through my Granny's recipe box looking for her cobbler recipe.  I realized that I had to have more and that I didn't want to wait.

The beauty of summer is that the days linger gloriously.  Even though it was fairly late, the tops of the trees were still golden. Grabbing a leash and Chewie, I headed out to our place in the country and the tons and tons of blackberries that grow there. Chewie loves it there.  I had the windows down, and as soon as we came around the last curve before the gate to the property, he sniffed the air and started woofing softly.  We made our way down to the brambles, and I picked until it got too dark to ensure I wasn't about to step in the middle of a snake. Chewie and I found our way back to the car in the last blue-purple light of sunset and the dim glow of a fingernail moon.

Blackberries are tricky and imperious little devils.  They are not a "something for nothing" fruit.  There is nothing docile or generous about them.  They're primadonnas.    If you go to pick what they have produced, they are going to take from you as well.  Usually I get hung on one of the vines and cut my arm or hand open. I have always thought of it as the "blood sacrifice" required to complete the picking. Today, as I carefully reached around the thorns and plucked the ripe berries, I felt the waving tendrils of green grab at my shorts, tenaciously hook my tshirt, and finally one reached out and snagged a handful of my hair. It was surprisingly strong, and it required a little careful finesse to free myself.  If you flail once a bramble captures you, it's kind of like that plant Devil's Snare from Harry Potter - more and more of them grab hold making the situation worse. Once I managed to extricate myself, I apparently had paid my tithe.  Nothing else attacked me.

Chewie watched the whole thing from a safe distance.  He ran careful circles around the reach of the brambles, caused a large wild turkey to explode upwards into the treetops with a sound like a localized hurricane, rolled rapturously in the tall grass, and wore his nose off chasing scents.  Eventually, he flopped down and watched me, moving only when I went to another section of the bramble.  I offered him a berry I'd picked, but he apparently had his fill earlier.  He sniffed it, mouthed it, and spit it out before looking up at me with a hopeful wagging tail.  Apparently, he's decided he'd rather have his bacon treats instead.

In a fairly short time, I managed to fill a quarter of the gallon-sized ziplock bag I'd taken with me.  I brought the berries home, washed them, and put them in the refrigerator.  I don't know what I'll do with them.  I might indulge in one of the recipes I found.  I might make a mini-cobbler.  Probably, though, I'll just nibble them whole and savor that special taste of summer and home and deep woods pasture land.  That is probably special enough a recipe all on its own.

My Name Is Red

I've been working on My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk for about a week now in my continuing effort to learn more about the Ottoman Empire and Turkey in general.  Pamuk, a Nobel Prize winner, was recommended by one of the leaders of our trip, and My Name is Red in particular was specified as a good starting place for his work.  I got it on Kindle and headed into it.

I wasn't prepared for the journey that awaited me.  For general information, you can click through to the Wikipedia page. The novel deals with a community of artists in 16th century Istanbul, the miniaturists.  Each chapter is told by a different voice, but the main characters repeat throughout.  This reminded me a lot of Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.  (I know.  I see links where there probably are none, the the similarities are remarkable.)  The chapters are short and intricate, like the very miniatures the characters are commissioned with creating.  At first, I had no idea what was going on and who was involved.  It starts very much in medias res, and the first voice you hear is actually the voice of a dead man.  Once I got used to the flow of the novel and started to figure out who was linked to whom, it was charming.

The work has so much to enjoy.  First of all, there is all the historical research that must have been involved.  The time period is described so clearly.  That, however, pales when compared to the technical aspect of its creation. I cannot imagine the difficulty of maintaining no fewer than twelve narrative voices, one of which is actually the "split personality" of another.  Each character has a distinct and realistic voice and view on the world. It's an amazing accomplishment to see the world through so many eyes.

Woven into the plot of murder and intrigue is a healthy dose of folklore, custom, and even costuming.  It was a perfect choice for me to read just now because it perfectly accompanied the course text and readings we had.  So many of the things the text described were humanized and made accessible through the story.  Stories about famous characters from folk tales, poetry, songs, patterns of behavior, even architecture is presented in such glorious detail.  Every chapter really was a little picture.

I have another book by Pamuk, his Istanbul, which is quite different, a set of memoirs of the city he grew up in and still lives in today.  I have a few other things I want to read first, but it's in my near future.  It will be interesting to see how he continues to reveal this place I am becoming increasingly more and more fascinated with.

Bonfire

You got a lot of lovers with star-crossed wrists

They keep a candle burning on the corner you kissed.

One day I might die, until then there's too much to do

But I'll keep a bonfire for you.

I've seen the pretty boys that you're keeping around

I know how it goes, I've got a girl in town.

And she likes me enough to do what I like to do.

But, I'll keep a bonfire for you.

Let the other lovers talk about who carries the torch

Let them talk about the beauty that they carry it for

Let the other lovers talk about who got what

And who got burned and who got cut

I'll be in the orchard when you get tired

Day after day of the shouts from the choir

Eating the apples and eating the peaches, too

And waiting by my bonfire for you.

In the dark anybody will do for love

But you're the only one I want when the sun comes up

No burning ball of fire set in the sky will do

Next to my bonfire for you.

Let the other lovers talk about who carries the torch

Let them talk about the beauty that they carry it for

Let the other lovers talk about who got what

And who got burned and who got cut

I need a little motion, need a little relief

I get a little lonely at the end of the week

And I want it so bad and if you want it so bad, too

I'll be over here with my bonfire for you.

You got a lot of lovers with star-crossed wrists

They keep a candle burning on the corner you kissed.

One day I might die, until then there's too much to do

But I'll keep a bonfire for you.

~ "Bonfire" - Josh Ritter

________

I love just about everything I've heard by Ritter, but there are certain songs of his that always feel like they were more or less stolen right out of my own thoughts.  (Of course, if this is the case, he's dressing them up in prettier clothing than they had when they were with me.  Heh.)

This song, "Bonfire," is one of those I identify with closely.  Switch some genders here and there, and it's just about the situation I find myself in.  I like the fact that he's not pining and following. Others might thrive on the drama of "star-crossed wrists," but I, like the speaker in the song, am just much more comfortable taking care of life, hanging out in the orchard.

 There is tremendous personal truth for me in the line "One day I might die, until then there's too much to do."  I'm busy.  I have a ridiculous schedule and probably will for the rest of my life.  It's not conducive to marriage or happy homelife.  I've known that for a long time.  Who would put up with me leaving early in the morning and not coming home until after 6:00 most nights?  Who would willingly suffer the slings and arrows of being married to a teacher?  I'm not sure that I really expect anybody to.

That doesn't really prevent me from keeping that bonfire going.  Just because I don't think it will work out doesn't seem to be a deterrent to feeling.  I understand that "bonfire" level of desire all too well.  Candles are all well and good; they give some light and a certain aura of romance, I suppose. However, a candle's lifespan is limited before the match ever touches the wick.  I think a lot of relationships have that same quality. When you think about love, which would you really rather have - the temporary glamor, beauty of limited use and duration, or the permanent that provides on so many different levels?  

Bonfires may require work to make and work to keep them going but they give more heat, more light, more protection from all those things that hunt in the night. They are actually functional rather than decorative.  The metaphor is perfect, then.  Who wants a purely decorative love?  Is it really love at all? The speaker says no.  He has a girl whom he likes and who likes him well enough to "do what [he] likes to do," but this is presented as a necessity, a place-holder.  It's not the real deal, and he's not pretending that it is. He knows good and well he's only got a candle at the present.

This is the place the speaker and I diverge.  I'm not interested in candles.  I don't have the time for them.  I'm only interested in bonfires, I guess.  In fact, that metaphor can go right next to the Sonnet 116 ones as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway....  As you can tell, I've English Teachered this song more than once in my head.  This is probably a lot more thought than it was ever intended to evoke.  (Sorry for beating your song to death, Josh Ritter.)  This is almost certainly more thought than you really wanted to read.  For some reason, though, this was the thing I needed to say just now, so, as always, caveat emptor.  And now, I have some papers to grade and a bonfire to tend.

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

I bought my tickets for Turkey yesterday.   I shopped around, tried to use my SkyMiles to defray the cost of the ticket, and finally just clicked "Purchase" with no small amount of both trepidation and relief.  It's done.  When you click the big green button, it's done.

I still can't believe it, though.  The more I read and discover, the more fantastic it all seems.  I got my main course textbook from Primary Source last week, and I looked at it some last night.  I also got on our course Moodle and started meeting the people I'm going to be traveling with.  As usual, I'm the only person from the Deep South.  Well.  Every trip needs a token chick from MS, right?  In all seriousness, it looks like it will be a good mix of disciplines, grade levels, and parts of the country.

I also started digging through the list of "extras" one of the course instructors put up.  I ordered a couple of used copies of some books about Istanbul/Ottoman Turkey from Amazon, and I got one of Orham Pamuk's novels on my Kindle.  I can see that what I'm supposed to be doing and what I want to be doing are going to be at war with each other for the next few weeks.  (So what else is new, right?)

One of my last purchases, a whim I indulged after somebody else brought it up again on FB, was the They Might Be Giants song "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)."  I remember that song from a million years ago.  C. and I laughed about it when we were in Venice and I was still waiting to find out whether or not I had gotten in for this institute.  It's a very silly song, but somehow it was the perfect thing to celebrate.  It feels very, very good to have this ticket, something to hold on to in the rough week ahead of me.

I'm now running very late to start my day, but it's worth it.  If you haven't heard this song or heard it in a long time, I leave it here to get stuck in your head, too.  Enjoy.

Chewie Lives

Yesterday, I got mostly through a faculty meeting when a headache waylaid me.  I staggered upstairs through disgustingly-glorious sunlight to my Maxalt.  I took one and, per our usual routine, called to let my Mom know I'd had to take the big drugs.

She was out-of-breath, and once I managed to make my broken brain and her frantic speech connect, I understood that Chewie had gotten injured on his afternoon walk, and she was taking him to the vet.  I got off the phone and managed to drag myself home.  (Once again, recitations of "To Be or Not to Be" helped me focus.)

When I got home, I fell down.  Then I was unconscious for three or four hours.  When I woke up, Mom was sitting on the foot of my bed.  She had just gotten home from the vet. Chewie hadn't just been injured.  He'd been bitten by a snake.

He was just out doing his usual big fluffy white dog thing, and Mom said she saw him spring sideways in a giant leap.   By the time she got him back to the house, he was dragging his front paw and moving with great difficulty.  Mom never saw the snake.

The vet kept him overnight for medication and observation.  Roux walked around the house with huge eyes looking for him.  She kept coming over to me and hugging me as she does when she needs a little extra comfort.  Even the cats (who do not like him, even a little) searched for him.  When I put Roux up for the night, she seemed so sad sitting next to Chewie's empty crate.  This morning when I walked her and Yelldo, they were both very droopy.

I had another migraine today, but by the time I got home, Chewie was back.  He will need more medicine and more care.  He's restricted as far as his level of activity.  There will be no deep-woods foraging for him for a couple of weeks.  He's exceptionally lucky, though.  Mom told me that our vet had two dogs brought in yesterday with snakebite.  The other one didn't make it.

I am looking over at him right now.  He's lying in the floor being Chewie.  He's had pizza crust (one of his favorite things) and as many hugs and pats as he desires.  Even in my current state of semi-incapacitation, I am so happy to see him.  My big furry white dog child is going to be okay.  Everything else in the world can rock on however it wants to.

Sing to the Moon - Laura Mvula

I stumbled over Laura Mvula last week when her album was on NPR's First Listen.  I have more or less become obsessed with it since then.  The whole album is in every way fantastic.  Right now, though, this is my favorite song.  The words are beautiful as are the images.  It touched me very personally, so I wanted to share it here.
____


(Verse)
Hey there you, shattered in a thousand pieces
Weeping in the darkest nights.
Hey there you, try to stand up on your own two feet
And stumble into the sky.

(Pre-Chorus)
When the lights go out and you’re on your own
How you’re gonna make it through till the morning sun?

(Chorus)
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

(Verse)
Hey there you, looking for a brighter season
Need to lay your burden down.
Hey there you, drowning in a hopeless feeling,
Buried under deeper ground.

(Pre-Chorus)
When the lights go out it’s a waiting game.
Never gonna see a day when your world will change.

(Chorus)
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, lead you to the other side.
Sing to the moon and the stars will shine
Over you, heaven’s gonna turn the time.

New Boots

When I was little, I had a pair of bright yellow wellies.  They had Big Bird on them and a fastener that always reminded me of the oval-shaped looping sticks on the lollipops I received at the end of each doctor's visit.  I guess in those days, that was an easy connection for me to make since I was forever sick, forever going to doctor, forever getting shots or having blood drawn, and forever having it pseudo-comforted by green hard candy on a cardboard stick.

Those boots always made me happy.  I remember playing in puddles with them and being oddly fascinated that my feet did not get wet even if I stood in ankle-deep puddles.  When I outgrew them, no other rainboots emerged to take their place.  I always missed them, though.

I've looked at rainboots off and one for a long time.  I stand morning and afternoon duty outside at least one week a month, sometimes two.  Our weather here in Mississippi is...well...ridiculous.  We frequently have monsoonish rains that make the entire universe slush.  Even my other "waterproof" shoes can't always do the job, and very few things make me feel as icky and miserable as soaked socks.

I finally found a pair I liked, and they were my "monthly splurge."  I have no idea why wellies are so freaking expensive, but they are.  They had to qualify as an indulgence in my current budget.  They came today, and they are so infinitely worth it.

Since wellies are fashionable right now for some odd reason, there were bunches of patterns to choose from.  They had stripes, brights, even animal prints.  None of those things really called out to me, though.  Instead, I picked a pair in a color called matte red.  That means that unlike so many of the pairs of boots running around right now, there is no insane (and easily scuffable) gloss shine to mine.  They are a cheerful red, one of my favorite pick-me-up colors.  It's the same red that the rubber balls I used to have as a child were.  I've started calling them my red-rubber-ball wellies, and that association makes them even nicer.

It happened to be raining today when the package arrived (hm. imagine that.  rain in Mississippi....), so I put on some socks, slipped on the wellies, leashed Roux, and went outside to walk dogs and test boots.  They're fabulous.  I wasn't expecting much by way of comfort, but I think I could wear them indefinitely.  Best of all, as Roux sniffed and strolled, I splashed through puddles, hesitantly at first and then with increasing confidence and into increasing depth.  No cold trickle of water seeped in.  I felt like I did when I was small, marveling at the everyday magic of being sealed safely inside my bright boots.

Swackett glumly predicts rain for tomorrow.  If its predictions pan out, I'll wear the red-rubber-ball-boots to school and be able to ford the rivers in the parking lot with no more worry than if it were a bright, dry day.  It's a little thing that makes life better.  Money well-spent, indeed.