Pointless

There's a line in You've Got Mail where Meg Ryan's character asks one of the guys who works in her store if he's online. He replies with something like, "The internet is just another way for me to be rejected by women." I am beginning to sympathize.

My eHarmony experiences have not been very good so far. The few guys I've gotten to the open communication stage with have been nice, but there's been no spark of any kind thus far. I posted pictures and had two guys tell me that they are "pursuing other relationships" and close the matches with me. I'm pretty sure that was their polite way of saying, "Oh NO, NO, NO" after seeing the pictures.

As you can imagine, this has been a tremendous ego boost for me. I don't know how much longer I'm going to keep this up. It's bad enough not to be able to find anybody locally. It's much, much more depressing to find out that not even the much touted eHarmony computer can find a match for me. I feel like a sideshow freak.

My membership with them runs until May, so I'll play it out until then. I just don't know how many more rejections from anonymous guys I can take. Even though I'm trying to stay positive about it, it just reinforces ideas I have already been fighting on a daily basis for years about my attractiveness and the possibility that a member of the opposite sex will ever see me as anything other than a friend.

Those voices are hard to fight, especially in the face of so much evidence to the contrary. I have always been the girl friend and never the girlfriend. It was made excruciatingly clear to me in the past that I didn't have what it took to be a girlfriend in the attractiveness department.

Sorry. I didn't intend for this to turn into a pity party. Well, chin up, laugh, clown, laugh, tomorrow's another day, and any other cliche that might apply.

The Joy of the Nap

I don't feel old. I don't feel anything till noon. That's when it's time for my nap.
Bob Hope

I got up today with the best of intentions. Today was going to be the day I did a lot of those dirty outdoor chores that have been piling up. I even made it outside and got halfway into one of the worst jobs, raking the live oak leaves away from the foundation of the house.

Suddenly, though, the sun was just too tempting. I laid aside the rake, grabbed The Secret Life of Bees, and sat down in the plastic chair in my back yard. That has become one of my great pleasures. I want to build a patio area back there, but I'm not sure about how to go about it despite the numerous HGTV shows I've seen on that topic. Next month, I may also get this incredibly tempting round lounger thing from Wal-Mart.

I read for a couple of hours. The combination of the warm sun, the cool winds, the sounds of the birds at the feeders, and the whuffling of the dogs was as potent a sleeping draught as any drug imaginable. The next thing I knew, I was sprawled out in the chair with my head thrown back and my book dangling by two fingers.

I decided to give up. I came in, shuffled my cat Yoda off the covers, and settled in. I feel better now than I have in a long time. Apparently, I wasn't as recovered as I thought I was. At least I've got Spring Break to make up for lost time. I hope I can get another day to just loaf and read. I really can't imagine a tropical retreat that would be any more pleasurable.

Miss Eudora's Photographs

A long time ago, I read about and saw a couple of the photographs Eudora Welty did for the WPA. I was struck by them at the time, and put it on my list of "things to explore". It fell by the wayside somewhat, as many things on that list tend to do when faced with the awesome demands of time and funds that is day-to-day life. Still, the idea of them was hovering around my memory.

About a month ago, I got to attend a seminar on Welty's fiction at Millsaps. Part of the seminar included a tour of the library's collection of photos from Welty. They were amazing. I loved her composition and the way she captured the spirits of the people she was photographing. I resolved to go ahead and actually get one of the collections of her photographs and explore further. I came home, went to my trusty laptop and amazon.com, and sent for Photographs, the collection of her work.

Today was the first time I've had time to do more than cursorily glance through. I sat today and savored each one. It's amazing how she was able to record the positive. It would have been so easy in that time and place to find darkness, despair, resistance, and resentment. We're talking about the segregated, poverty-stricken South of the 30s. What she found, however, was the indomitable, the joyous, the quietly hopeful, and the noble in her subjects. She records the dignity and the regal humanity of even the poorest of them. Even if I had never read her stories, I would love her for that alone.

I wish I could have known her. There are numerous anecdotes about people just sort of wandering up to her Jackson home and talking to her. I would never have been bold enough to do that. It would have been an inexcusable intrusion into a person's privacy. I still wish I had been fortunate enough to have been introduced and had a reason to know her. Not that I could have come up with intelligent conversation, but I think she would have been a great person to visit with. She seemed to have that now hard-to-find Southern class that comes not so much from money, but more from the constant awareness of others and a general concern for them. It's a graciousness that is in sharp demand and short supply these days.

I'm currently pursuing a Rolleiflex on eBay. I don't know yet whether or not I'll be lucky enough to win it. I want to try my hand at seeing through that lens. I am sure my amateurish efforts will never have a tenth of the clarity and...magic...of hers, but I think just the act will be wonderful. I enjoy trying to see the world through my Nikon. Perhaps I can achieve that clarity she found and revive my view of the basic goodness of humanity through the viewfinder of the Rollei.

Stupidity

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt. -- Abraham Lincoln

For some reason, I have a huge surge of energy that's keeping me up tonight, so I was cruising through amazon.com. I decided I'd look for another good book on pit bulls, especially one that deals with their health issues. When I came to the reviews for Pit Bulls for Dummies, I was disgusted by what I found there. Several miscellaneous fools had used the review site as a forum for their prejudiced and, in most cases, sadly misinformed diatribes about pit bulls.

Now, I'm not even going to dignify the "big bad scary evil dog" argument with a rebuttal. Throughout the past 20 or 30 years, there has been a dog breed that, for whatever reason, has been the "killer dog" du jour. It was Dobermans (Dobermen?) for awhile, then Rotties were on the hot seat. Now, pit bulls are the hunted ones. For more on the truth of these dogs, what they are and why they are what they are, please see a reputable site like The Real Pit Bull or expert trainer Diane Jessup's site. If you've read any of my previous postings, you know I am the proud owner of a beautiful red nose pitty princess, and I love this courageous, loyal, and exuberant breed.

What hacked me off about amazon wasn't just the rank and file stupidity of the "reviews", but more that they weren't reviews at all. None of those people then owned, had owned, or were planning to own either a pit bull or the book. My question is this: How in blue blazes did they get to be a published "review" at all? Is it a review if nobody is talking about the book?

There are forums for expressing personal opinion, for grandstanding, and for soapbox lecturing. I just don't think the review section of amazon.com is the place. If you read the book in question, great. Tell me what you thought. If you have no idea what the book is about, don't display your overwhelming vacuity to the entire e-universe. Get yourself a blog or a personal website and type yourself blue in the face. After all, that's what the polite rest of us do.

AAARRRGGHHH!!!

I feel like I'm going to die. My temperature keeps spiking. I went to school today, possibly one of my least considered choices ever, and I clung to the edges of control by tooth and nail.

I wish I could just stay home and not worry about it. I don't know why I drag myself up there when I'm sick. Deep down, I suppose I feel that unless I'm on life support, I should go.

Add to this the fact that we're in state testing season, and you have a perfect cocktail of guilt designed to pry me from the blissful comfort of my bed and my Kleenex. If only it weren't the week before Spring Break. If only it weren't the week before the writing test.

Despite all these things, if I feel as bad tomorrow morning as I did this morning, I'm staying home. Yup, the walls may collapse on my end of the high school hall, but I'm not able to put myself through what I went through today.

Sick Again

The creeping crud has crept up on me and caught me unawares. Yesterday, I started to cough a little and it hurt. Today, I feel as though a truck has backed over me and I'm running a fever. Joy.

When am I ever going to get any immunity? I know that all the kids and most of the teachers have been hacking and sniffing for awhile now, but it seems like every time I turn around I'm sick. Shouldn't I be building up some tolerance by now? This is almost the end of the second year.

I already called in and asked for a sub since I'm running fever. No point in my spreading it further. I'll go see the doctor tomorrow, get a hip full of decadron and some antibiotics that hopefully won't make me ill, and go back to school on Tuesday. Life goes on.

On a separate subject, I am looking at just about the cutest thing in the world. My pit bull has commandeered one end of my couch and my little golden beagle/dachshund has taken the other. They are both knocked out. The pit bull snores. :) That is what happiness is for me right now, a couch full of warm, content, snoring dogs.

I'm about to go join them. I slept about 14 hours today, but I'm still exhausted. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern

I've been working on R&G now for about 3 weeks with my AP classes, and their reception of the work has been less than warm, to say the least. It's been downright depressing at times.

It's not so much that I care whether they like the play or not. That's a personal thing, and no classroom full of people is ever going to like any work universally. That's fine. In fact, I'd be deeply worried by that kind of bandwagon consensus.

It's that they can't seem to find anything redeeming in it. I know they're young. I keep telling myself that. When I was young, I probably wouldn't have enjoyed it, either. Heck, it's not my all-time favorite now, even as a member of the English-geek tribe. I just hate seeing them act like they are.

I expect too much of them, I think. I expect them to be something more than senior. I expect them to hunger to learn, and I forget that frequently teenagers don't give a crap about school, even the "cream of the crop." I just want for them to make the best of all the latent ability they contain. I know they'll walk different paths, but I learned long ago that everything you learn, every tiny shred, opens up the world exponentially.

I don't think I'm going to teach this next year. If I approach it at all, I'll let them watch it at the end of the Hamlet unit rather than a video of Hamlet. I think that will be a better compromise. Maybe we can get through it without my being saddened.

Sunshine and Mountain Dew

Today, I packed up my workbag, and waiting for the grindingly slow progress of the clock hands toward 3:30. A small herd of students had sworn they were coming in to do makeup work (we're in the eleventh hour, so suddenly, everyone is in a state of panic), but nobody had shown up by 3:15, and I blew out my candle, shut down my computer, hoisted my ponderous bag, and bolted for the door.

It felt almost sinful to be leaving that early. Other teachers were still working in their classes; the sounds of the extended day students echoed in our high-ceilinged old halls. Sunlight streamed through the window so rich and so good that it almost had a taste as it flooded the central hall.

I moved down the stairs as fast as my stiff knees would allow, darted through the office, and then I was out into the parking lot. There were still cars there, and again, the feeling of doing something illicit through me. I put my PT Cruiser into reverse, rolled down my windows, cranked my Todd Agnew cd, and put the pedal down.

When I got home, again I marveled at the sheer luxury of being home in the daytime. I loosed Missy, she promptly took off to explore the privet hedge, and I got out a seldom-used plastic Adirondack chair.

Sitting beneath the bare branches of the chestnut tree in my backyard, I indulged in a Diet Mountain Dew and the first few chapters of A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch. My bottle tree caught the golden afternoon sun, the windchimes rang softly, Missy and Yelldo intermittently gave me doggy kisses, and Granny's daffodils shone in Wordsworthian glory. I felt peace descend like a winged spirit, and all the tiredness that has been plaguing me for the past week melted away.

It was a brief interlude, but a vital one. I needed those peaceful moments alone at home more than I had realized. Tomorrow, when the students are apathetic, when another unreasonable demand on my time is made, I will have the soft daffodil-scented warmth of today to carry me through.

Missy

 

Here she is, at long last. It was a rainy trip to Birmingham, but other than the rain, it went very smoothly. The very first thing she did when I got out of the car was to run up, put her paws around me, and kiss me on the cheek. She's so cute and so loving!

I will get to more actual blogging soon. Now, hopefully, we can find a rhythm and routine. I'm tired, but it's a good tired. 

The Ides of February

Whooo-hooo!!!! I got the news today that I have been accepted by one of the Pit Bull Rescue groups, and a lovely red-nose pit mix named Missy is going to become a part of my family. I have to figure out the logistics of getting her here (she's in TN, currently) and the timing (I hope Spring Break is going to be okay), but it's official!

This experience has been a mixed thing. Some of the groups I've talked to have been so kind and encouraging, even if there were barriers (mostly distance) to my adopting one of their dogs. A couple of the groups have been downright rude, though. I guess they probably have a lot of email to sort through, but when a person is legitimately trying to adopt an animal, that sincere wish should at least be acknowledged with an automated email.

Back to Missy.... She's beautiful, and the rescue society lady says she's good with other dogs and playful. I am excited for Yelldo. He has been so sedentary since Britta died. He needs a friend to play with. I think, once we get over the shock of new dog in my space, he's going to have a good time.

You can see a picture of Missy on the PBRC rescue site. Click here to go straight to Missy. You may need to scroll down a bit.

Well, I'm off to an afternoon of "dog dreaming." I am going to Wal-Mart tomorrow to start getting presents for her. It's so amazing that she's finally going to be mine!

eHarmony II

Well, I have entered the world of eHarmony, and I have to say that I'm still feeling a little odd about it. I have met a nice guy that I'm writing emails to, and that's a good thing, but I'm still in the weird phase of this. No funny tales to tell yet, but I'll keep everybody posted.

Snowy Saturday

That's right...snow. We've had flurries off and on today. I can't express how odd that is to those of us who live in Mississippi. Any trace of snow is cause to press one's nose up against the window and make preparations better suited to an eight-foot blizzard than a dusting of white. Bread and milk become scarce commodities, people drive at absurd speeds, and children cling to the radios in silent prayer for those most blessed of words, "Schools are closed today." If there is even a fraction of an inch of accumulation, tiny muddy snowmen appear like mushrooms on porches, in driveways, and wherever else the meager amounts of snow can be scraped together.

My dog, Yelldo, has had a wonderful day. He has been in various stages of unconscious sprawl on the leopard print furry blanket on my couch. Every once in awhile, he rolls, opens his eyes minutely, sighs deeply, and wiggles in bliss. Even getting him to go outside to take care of the call of Nature has been an effort today. I don't much blame him.

I spent the day watching one of my favorite film noir movies, Laura. It was a good day for old movies. I also watched IU play basketball. We lost. I was proud that we came back from such a great deficit, but it was sad anyway.

After watching, I got a burst of energy and tidied some of the mess here in the house up. There's a lot I can't do until I get the flooring back in the kitchen, but the word has come that next week is the week the installers are coming. Maybe by next weekend, I'll have my washer and dryer running again and get my refridgerator out of my living room.

There's really nothing else to tell. It was just a peaceful, if cold and snowy, Saturday.

Fear and eHarmony.com

Computer dating is fine, if you're a computer.
Rita May Brown

I did it. I sucked it up, typed in my credit card information, and joined eHarmony. I have a curious blend of feelings about the whole situation.

Part of me is relieved. Finally, I've gotten off my posterior and taken what will hopefully be a positive step toward finding somebody I can stand. I have good luck with finding things on the computer. After all, eBay and amazon have been good to me over the years. Whenever I've wanted something that I couldn't find locally, the magic of the internet has always come through for me.

Part of me is scared to death. What if there aren't any matches for me? What if I get an email from Neil Clark Warren saying they're refunding my money because they can't find anybody suitable? What if there ARE matches for me? I am hopeless with men. Truly, truly, hopeless. That's how I have gotten into my current situation after all.

Part of me wonders about the possibility of finding true love online. Despite the propaganda in You've Got Mail and every eHarmony TV commercial, I wonder if this is a good way to meet people.

As Eleanor Roosevelt said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." I am tired of just wishing for somebody, and I don't know any other step that I would be willing or able to take right now. Sooooo....here we go. Maybe it will at least provide interesting anecdotes....

The Gentle Art of Procrastination

One thing that's good about procrastination is that you always have something planned for tomorrow.
Gil Stern

This is a record...three postings in one day. Can you tell that I have reams of papers waiting to be graded?

It's amazing how appealing all other things become when I have papers to grade. In fact, I really cannot get any work done here at home. That's the main reason I stay at school so long each day; I know that saying, "I'll do it tonight at home" is just a big lie. It's not even a good lie. Nobody else is fooled, and I certainly know myself well enough not to believe it.

Through the years, I've gotten myself into all kinds of jams because of procrastination. I'll never forget the all-important paper in grad school I neglected to even start writing until 1:00 a.m. the day it was due. I think I spent most of that time procrastinating by playing a game on the computer.

Today, so far, I've gone to town with my dad for lunch, wandered around our local home improvement store aimlessly, refilled bird feeders (the feathered pigs are cleaning me out), looked over two or three well-thumbed catalogs, put away laundry, and of course, blogged. I keep telling myself that in thirty minutes, I'm going to get serious and get the work done. In reality, next thing I know it will be midnight and I'll just write it off and go to bed.

I think I'll try to break the cycle. I'm going to finish this off and start work on the handout my AP kids will need tomorrow. On the other hand, the house could use a general tidying, and I think Yelldo needs a bath....

The Is of the Thing

The Is of the Thing

This is a blog started just today by a friend of mine. If you're looking for some good reading, I recommend trying his site.

Picture

I promised this shot quite a while ago, but today was the first time the weather was clear and I was home/not sick, etc., enough to get it. I'll try to include some of my cameos later. This is my bottle tree. If you look carefully enough, you can also see Friedrik the Gnome lurking on an old tree stump. He keeps the daffodils tended and the bottle tree upright with Gnome Magic. That's the only explanation for why the wind we had last week didn't knock the whole affair over.

Looming on the Horizon

Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. ~Author Unknown

Live as long as you may, the first twenty years are the longest half of your life. ~Robert Southey, The Doctor

My thirtieth birthday is coming in a few days. Why thirty should matter is beyond me. It's just a number, and, I'm assuming anyway, no great revelation or change will happen when the clock strikes twelve on that day. Somehow, though, I find that I'm not where I thought I would be at thirty, and I am disconcerted. I wonder if anybody ever gets where they thought they were going. I wonder if anybody who does is ever happy there.

I am by no means unhappy with my life. Of course, there are a couple of things I wish were different, but that's just a part of the human condition.

I wish, profoundly wish, that I could have found a man to share my life with by now. I haven't had the best of luck with that. In fact, it's been about two years since I even met anybody I found remotely interesting in that department. What I'm looking for simply doesn't seem to be around here. I'm not sure why. I don't know if it's the locale or something in the water, but my ideas don't seem to mesh well with those of most men I meet. I am still looking, but I am thinking I'm going to have to look elsewhere.

Pushing that aside, I can't believe I've had some of the experiences I've had. Ten years ago, I never dreamed I'd have had the chance to travel to Costa Rica, Japan, Thailand, England, and Ireland. I never would have dreamed I'd have lived abroad, leaving home and family to pursue a job that fell into my lap and changed me forever. I would never have predicted that I would have met people from all over the world and worked with them, teaching and learning at the same time. It's been such a blessed thing so far.

I don't think I'm going to rush out and buy a Dodge Charger (probably not, anyway) or have plastic surgery or a wild fling with a college guy or any of those other mid-life cliches, but I am very reflective right now. I guess I'm in the process of adjusting all those childhood assumptions to the adult realities. It's strange. I'm not the person I thought I'd be (married, couple of kids), and I might never become that person. I've stopped taking it for granted that I will find a mate, and due to health issues, I stopped taking the babies for granted years ago.

Yet, despite these "missing pieces", there's a remarkable peace with things. I don't want to settle, but at the same time, I hope I'm going to enter this decade with a bit of dignity, not grasping and clawing after my fast-fading youth. I am hopeful that this decade will be every bit as full of pleasantly unexpected good things as the last one was. I guess I will just put the panic attacks off until the next big milestone looms on the horizon.

Under Pressure

"When in panic, or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout." -- R. Heinlein

Today was a day-long conference to work on realigning our English curriculum. I was so exhausted at the end of it that I could hear the humming dullness inside my own skull. I stopped meaningfully processing information a full hour before the meeting ground to a halt.

What we were doing was both important and valuable, but I thought I would go crazy before I could get away. I am excited that we are making changes in our curriculum, but I am so stressed out right now, that I can hardly bear the touch of a feather.

I have three sets of AP papers ungraded and four sets of regular papers that have to be graded. I haven't entered lesson plans in what seems like a hundred years. I got a message from the teacher support team leader that says I have to remediate, document, and meet about every student who was failing my class at semester.

I wanted to curl into a little ball under my desk and cry. How can we be expected to keep all these balls in the air? In fact, we've gone way past just juggling balls...they've added swords, flaming brands, and big fish. (Perhaps, an odd choice, but that's the image that sprang to mind.)

Once again, I talked with my mom and she brought me chicken strips and strawberry cobbler, five-year-old soul medicine, and I feel better. Tomorrow, I'll just work until I get it done. I might need more cobbler tomorrow, though....

Recovery

Diseases of the soul are more dangerous and more numerous than those of the body. ~Cicero

Today, I have a voice. It's the first day since Wednesday that I don't have moments of fade out or whisper. I haven't been sick like this in years, I think. I really can't remember the last time I had laryngitis.

The medicines the doctor gave me to "clean everything out" included a dose pack of steroids. I hate them. He gave me the painful horse dose in the hip before I left, and then prescribed these oral doses as well. Now, I am awake at absurd hours watching bad movies from the 80s, listening to music in celebration on Mozart's birthday, and feverishly crafting or shopping eBay.

Last night, I designed, cut, foiled, and soldered a stained-glass suncatcher of Psyche. I finished her about 3:30 a.m., and I am going to have to go back to it and touch up. Looking at it this morning, I can't even remember all the steps. I remember this period of incredible, almost humming, energy pouring through me after taking that last "bedtime" dose of those pills, but other parts of the process are a blur.

I am also healing from losing Britta. There are those, I have no doubt, who will question whether or not the loss of a dog, especially one who had not been a part of the family very long, could cause long-term pain.

Just today for the first time I could walk around and fill my birdfeeders without looking for her. Just today, filling out an application to start the process of seeking a pit bull to adopt didn't make me want to cry. I still miss her, but I think the worst of the darkness that has surrounded me since she died is starting to dissipate. I am hoping that this soul-sickness will give way to the golden keeping of the good and the sharing of the love she gave me with another needy dog.

I still find it hard to talk about the accident. I still can't easily accept the consolations of others. As is so often when the topic is something that hurts so much, I don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to explain it. I suppose the easiest way to think of it is that it's still too near, too sacred for me to be able to talk about with anything other than pain. I can only hope that this, too, will be something I can recover from in time.

Now, I am going to try to go get some sleep. The rain outside should help lull me. Tomorrow will be a new day, and I will get up, get dressed, and face whatever comes. I might even have a voice with which to address those issues. I don't know when the full recovery will come, but I am grateful for the progress that has been made.

Silent

Yesterday I was hoarse. Today, I have completely lost my voice. I went to the doctor after school, and the doctor told me to come home and be quiet for two days.

It's odd how many important conversations spring to mind when you're told not to talk. It's also ironic how many people suddenly want to have long talks.

I hate the fact that I'm going to have to miss two days of school. I know this is a quack, quack deal, and I need to just enjoy it, but I am still irked at getting even farther behind with Hamlet. Granted, most of one of my AP classes was going to be gone tomorrow anyway, but still...

I guess it just feels like cheating to me somehow. I always feel like if I can get up in the morning without visible means of life support, I should be at school working. I know the building isn't going to fall in, and my kids won't be any worse than they'd be for anybody else's sub, but it's a part of my Type-A personality. For two days, my private domain is going to be out of my control. It's not an easy thing to accept.

Still, today showed me that I can't just force myself through it. I should have stayed home today, but my formal evaluation was supposed to have happened today. It didn't for various reasons, but all day long, I was sucking down hot green tea and eating Halls trying to get even a Mickey Mouse voice to come out. I lectured and had a good class for both my APs. My regular tenth graders were writing today, anyway, so I didn't have to talk much. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from the effort at getting out little bits of sound, and, of course, all the wild pantomime that was a part of getting any message across.

I am going to try to focus on the fact that I have two days to get caught up with things both school-related and otherwise and not worry about what's going on at school. For better or worse, it will still be there when I get back, after all...

Week End

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
William Faulkner

I survived another week of secondary education, and I am now comfortably ensconced in my rocking chair watching sitcom reruns.

I am about to luxuriate in my weekend. The school week is so hectic with grading, preparation, and all the ridiculous crap that floats in unexpectedly.

I have big plans. I am going to read a book or two, watch some old movies, play with my dog, and generally do nothing. I'll come back and blog about it later. :) Won't you be on pins and needles waiting for *that* post.

Wherever you are, gentle readers, I hope you enjoy the end of your week, too.

Cameos

Discoveries of archaeological sites in Italy and Egypt renewed an interest in the classics that influenced cameos of the Victorian Era. Motifs included gods and goddesses from mythology and other subjects related to them, such as Bacchante maidens adorned with grape leaves in their hair, the Three Graces, who were the daughters of Zeus, and Leda, a woman shown feeding Zeus and more.
from the website http://www.victorianbazaar.com/cameos.html

I have become interested in cameos lately. I don't think realized that there was a symbolism to most of them. I am not sure that I ever noticed that they were anything but little portraits of women in old-fashioned garb.

My interest started when I was researching the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Some source or another stated that the Victorians used the myth as a decoration for cameos, symbolizing love triumphant. Intrigued, I went to eBay and started exploring.

I noticed that Psyche wasn't the only mythological figure that appeared. Daphne was there along with Athena, Diana, Ceres, Eros, Venus, the Maenads (Bacchantes), Hebe and Zeus....the list is practically endless. Each of these figures had a meaning for the Victorians. A woman wearing a Bacchante was very subtly advertising herself as a "wild" woman since the Bacchantes were devotees of wine, passion, and song.

I wonder how long it took a Victorian lady to dress everyday when practically every piece of clothing had a symbolism. What if you had an off day, got dressed quickly, and threw on something inadvertently lascivious? I don't think I would have done well in that world. I'm not nearly careful enough about clothing.

That being said, I do enjoy the "hidden meanings" behind these ubiquitous pieces of jewelry. A 1970's resin Three Graces my parents gave me for Christmas is a nice symbol for good cheer, beauty, and festivity. I have managed to get a nice shell Diana for myself (protector of animals, goddess of the moon, etc.), obtained a very nice Terpsichore (muse of Music) for my mother, and just today won an auction for a Psyche (the soul).

This will probably end my collecting. They are beautiful, but my LORD, they are costly on a school teacher's budget. Psyche is the one who started this quest, anyway. I will enjoy being able to wear her image, she who represents the soul, and I'll know, even if nobody else does, what she means.

Rain

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. ~Langston Hughes

Early this morning, long before dawn, it started raining. I struggled awake and, stupefied by sleep, started to get up to put the pans down in my bathroom to catch what I not-so-fondly call "the waterfall."

How nice it was to roll over, pull the covers back up to my ears (disgruntling cats along the way), and simply enjoy the sound of rain on the tin roof of the back part of the house. There were no leaks, no rivers, no pots to catch the drips. Rain has become an outdoor issue once again, and the peace I felt was absurdly transcendent.

It's such a relief not to have to arrange a barrier of towels and dishpans whenever clouds dot the sky. I can go away from the house with the sort of confidence one is supposed to have when one lives indoors. It's a small victory, surely, but it's one that's been a long time coming for me.

Total Chaos

I am sitting in my usual blogging spot, a rocking chair in my living room, and my refridgerator is almost close enough to touch. My dining chair currently serves as a cat perch at my shoulder, and I spent most of the day breaking down and emptying my bedroom closet. Life has GOT to get back to normal soon.

The man who is doing the repairs on the house is wonderful. I feel so confident now. Apparently, the whole thing was about to fall down. He's put in beams and insulation and floors. There are no longer crazy slopes to my kitchen floor or living room. It's a nice feeling.

As nice as it is to see these changes happening, I wish I could wake up tomorrow and not see my washer and dryer in my living room. Normalcy needs to return. Maybe by weeks end, I'll have linoleum and everything can move back to its usual place.

Shattered, Broken, Gone

"Playing in the fields of the Lord" -- epitaph on Britta's grave marker

I haven't written at all this week. In fact, I have just been going through the necessary motions with day-to-day life this week. On Monday, Britta was killed by a car.

I had been to Wal-Mart to pick up yet another big bag of dog food and I got home after dark. No graceful beast bounded across the yard to welcome me. At that moment, I knew. I called, hoping that she was off in the woods, although she was always waiting for me after dark. I listened, hoping against hope to hear that tiny musical jingle of her vaccination tag, but the only sound was that of the wind through the dead January tree limbs.

I got a flashlight, drove my car down to the road so I would have the headlights to see by, and started looking. I checked the ditches and the edge of the woods, but I didn't see anything, and for a few minutes, I started to hope. I even hoped that maybe somebody had taken her. At least that way, she'd be alive somewhere.

I called Mom and Dad who came down to help me. We looked and called and walked for about thirty minutes, and Dad found her. She'd been hit and was beside the road in a spot I had missed. They wouldn't let me see her until they'd wrapped her in a towel, but Mom was able to offer me the cold comfort that at least her death must have been quick.

She must have followed me to the road when I left for work. There's no other reason why she'd have been there. She never went to the road unless I was there, either leaving or coming in. She didn't chase cars; she was afraid of them.

My heart is broken. I know I only had her for a few short months, an accumulation of weeks, but I feel as though all the joy in my life has been shattered along with her poor brave body. Every time I look out the door, I expect to see her quizzical look. Today, I went about my Saturday routine, filling birdfeeders and tidying up the yard, and I had to sit down. Last weekend, I did the same thing with her playing and nuzzling me every step of the way. Today, the sky was the same bright blue, but there was no Britta to enliven me.

There's no more to say. She's buried out near the barn, and Mom made her a marker from an old metal barrel lid. I couldn't go out there until Thursday afternoon. When I saw the inscription, it was perfect. That is the way I am going to try to remember her, in full bound, racing across the yard...pure joy personified.

Mythology

I'm very taken by mythology. I read it at a very early age and kept on reading it.
Roger Zelazny

One of the first books I remember checking out of the library was a beautifully illustrated book about ancient Egypt. I can still remember the drawings. I was immediately hooked. I spent most of my summers reading about the gods and goddesses, learning how to write truly pitiful looking hieroglyphics, and dreaming of going to see the pyramids.

My early fascination with mythology never went away. Instead, it expanded to include other cultures. I love Greek and Roman mythology. Not as much as the Egyptians, but I have really enjoyed rediscovering the details of the myths as I have been teaching my AP students this year. My recent trip to Ireland got me digging into Celtic mythos. When I lived in Japan, I read book after book about Shinto gods and their folklore.

My favorite characters are spread among all these groups. I have always liked Thoth, the Egyptian god of magic and writing. The combination of those two areas under one deity intrigues me. I like the idea that writing is a form of magic. Another favorite comes from the Celts. I am intrigued by the Morrigan, the Battle Raven, the goddess of war and passionate love.

There are three Greco-Roman goddesses I find appealing: Diana, Athena, and Psyche. Diana, chaste goddess of the moon, protector of animals, is a figure I can identify with. I admire Athena, goddess of wisdom who burst from fully clad in armor from her father Zeus's head. The story of Psyche and her quest for true love with the god of love is probably my favorite myth.

I don't know what it is about these tales that draws me. Maybe it's the magic. Maybe it's the fact that cultures long gone and drastically different from my own had the same problems and the same quest to understand the world around them. In any case, I, like countless others before me, enjoy dusting off these old tales and exploring them in these modern times.

Two Collars, A Harness, and a Fitting

Today was hectic. I got to school for our work day and Mom called to say the builders were here and that Britta had to be chained. She came down to take care of it, and I told her that if Britta slipped the collar, she should call me and I'd come try to do something. Thirty minutes later, I got a call. Not only had Britta slipped the regular collar, she'd also slipped the choke chain.

I hastily left school, drove to the local Wal-Mart, bought two harnesses, and sped home. Britta and Mom were waiting when I got home. We had a three little bears moment (this harness is too small...this harness is to big... etc.), and I strapped her in. When I left, she was fussing and leaping about four feet straight up in the air.

This, apparently, was a strategy to loosen the buckles on the harness. Mom called right after I got back to my classroom to tell me Britta had slipped out of the new harness twice.

Now, the websites all warned me that pit bulls are escape artists. They are determined to the point of obsession. When they focus on something, they do whatever is necessary to obtain it. She, apparently, decided that being on the end of a chain wasn't on her agenda for the day. It was amazing. It had to have hurt. She ran the length of the chain and threw herself into the air to get out of this stuff.

Even though the construction crew eventually was okay with her being out, I have to have some way to restrain her just in case. Our local pet supply store has really great, knowledgeable people who work there, so I came home, loaded up Britta, and drove in to the store. She now has a very "bad dog" looking black leather harness which, in theory, she can't get out of. We'll see.

It was just tiring. Having to run back and forth between town and home all day wore me out. I did manage to get most of my preps for the week done, but, as usual, I have a hundred other things to get done.

This probably isn't very coherent, but I've been up 18 hours so far. I am going to go to bed, I think. Tomorrow, the kids return....

The New Year

If you're running a 26-mile marathon, remember that every mile is run one step at a time. If you are writing a book, do it one page at a time. If you're trying to master a new language, try it one word at a time. There are 365 days in the average year. Divide any project by 365 and you'll find that no job is all that intimidating.
~ Charles ( Chuck ) R. Swindoll

I can hardly believe this is the beginning of a new year. Where do the days go? Every Christmas and New Year, it always feels as though the days between have been a featureless blur. I can hardly believe that during the past year I went to the UK and Ireland, started teaching AP English, began renovation on the house, and got a really big dog. So much has happened.

I wonder what the year ahead will hold. Last night, as I waited for the end of the old year and the birth of the new, I heard the sound of exuberant fireworks all around me. In all the years I've lived here, I've never heard any fireworks. It made me feel like a part of a community, like I was not alone, even though I was in my pajamas in my livingroom and it was a foggy midnight outside. The sound filled me with a hopeful optimism that I haven't felt in a long, long time.

Another part of that optimism may be the fact that I just bought the missing supplies and tools to begin doing stained glass again. For those of you who don't know me well, during my undergrad years, I worked in a professional stained glass studio as an "apprentice." That time was the fulfillment of a fascination I'd had with stained glass since I was old enough to notice the stained glass window in the baptistry of our church. It's been years since I was able to do any work with glass, so I'm sure I'll have a lot to remember. I'm just excited that I have finally decided to step forward and begin.

For too long now, I've been saying "someday" to lots of things in my life. Some of them are small things; some of them are hobbies like the stained glass work. Some of them, however, are things that never should have been allowed to go by the wayside. I realized that I had not sent a single birthday card this year. I have everyone's birthday written in a calendar, but I never take the time to send the card. That may seem trivial to some, but it is just another symptom of how little contact I have had with my friends in the past year. Every other thing has taken that time, and this year, I want that to change.

I don't believe in formal resolutions. To me, making a statement like that is just like begging for failure. However, at this traditional time of reflection, I have found several areas I want to look at. I don't know if I'll be able to be successful, but perhaps the main thing is just to try.

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....