Who let the grouch out?

Here's some totally unsolicited advice for people filling my mailbox with holiday cheer: If I have to use a magnifying glass to read your annual letter, you need to pick a bigger font. Let's face it: none of us are getting any younger, and while I might have been delighted decades ago to read two dense pages of 9-point faux script, these days I'm more likely to put it in the "do it later" pile, where it will sit visibly reproaching me until maybe mid-February, when I'll finally decide that all the news is out of date and toss the letter in the trash.

I confess that I hate writing our annual holiday letter, but certain persons who shall remain nameless really want the tradition to continue and are willing to perform annoying household tasks in exchange for my writing it, and certain other persons get miffed if they don't receive our annual letter, and so I comply, year after year, trying to find something interesting to say to people who, if they're really close to us, already know everything important that's happening in our lives--and if they're not really close to us, why would they care?

My strategy is to keep it simple: choose three great photos, one for the front and two for the back, and print 'em in color big enough to have an impact, and then write the letter itself in a readable font, no smaller than 12 point. I don't try to talk about everything we've done all year because, frankly, it's not that interesting. The people who send me holiday letters describing their exotic trips to Cancun or their new skydiving hobby aren't going to want to read about how many varieties of tomatoes we planted and how many hours we spent weeding the garden.

Instead, I choose a theme and mention a few interesting incidents related to the theme; this year it was all about seeking and finding, which gave me a chance to write about my granddaughter's love for turning over rocks to see what's underneath, which is way more interesting than, for instance, a list of every single lake or stream we've paddled on or all the accolades my children are earning or every little step we've undertaken in a particular home improvement projects. 

(Tell the truth: you've seen those letters, haven't you? Maybe even written them! Will you consider me a total Scrooge if I ask you to please not send them my way?)

My philosophy of holiday letters is simple: Leave them wanting more. Offer just a hint of interesting incident and move on. In the writing of annual holiday letters, as with many other indefensible but irresistible cultural practices, less is more. (Except when it comes to font size.)
  

Road trip: heading south!

I'm sitting on the sofa, drinking hot tea, coloring birds with my new rainbow of pencils, my house so silent that all I can hear is a mouse scrabbling in the hall closet (attracted to the poison bait, no doubt), when my husband opens the door and says, "Hear that?"

It's the creek. We don't hear the creek from the house unless it's pretty high, so apparently we had some rain while we were out of town for holiday granddaughter time. We got home after dark last night and didn't notice that the creek was high, but as long as it's not over the road, I'm not worrying about it. I have other things to worry about. 

Like that mouse. Okay, it's eating the poison bait, but that means it will die, which is, of course, the goal, but suppose it dies while we're out of town and sits there rotting for the next week and a half? Once (a long time ago, in a different house with a whole different level of vermin infestation) we came home from a long road trip and I collapsed in exhaustion onto the sofa, only to hop right back up again when I smelled that familiar smell: dead mouse under the sofa. I don't care to repeat that experience when we get back.

We're leaving for Florida tomorrow, stopping in North Carolina to visit my brother's family and then heading south to visit my parents and brother-in-law. I've been pulling all my shorts out of storage since temperatures are expected to be in the 80s down there, which won't be that much of a change since we've had temps in the 60s here lately. In fact, if we didn't have to pack for the trip, I'd be tempted to try out our new canoe paddles this week. But the canoe is not going with us to Florida. 

Let's stow the snow boots and search for sandals--we're heading south! I'll worry about mouse when we get back. (The creek can take care of itself.)

In sync and in style

So stylish!

Here we are at the finals of the Synchronized Vacuuming competition, where Little E and Mommy will tackle the living room mess armed, respectively, with a Little Tykes play vac and a full-size Hoover Wind Tunnel. Fingers poise above the start buttons--and they're off!

They start their long program with a side-by-side parallel vacuuming extravaganza, but then they switch it up with a back-to-back move. Now Little E is running circles around Mommy--but wait, they're too close to the corner! Little E is stuck behind Mommy and the Hoover! That'll be a major point deduction if she can't find her way out--and can you believe your eyes! Little E and the Little Tykes vac duck under Mommy's legs and come zipping out the other side! The fans go wild!

Folks, you may never again see such a virtuoso display of synchronized vacuuming skills, and the judges are bound to give this dynamic duo extra style points for their colorful costumes. It just doesn't get better than this, folks--10s all around! The fans are on their feet! And, to top it all off, you've never seen a living room so clean! 

Robinson Jeffers on our (lack of) duty toward poetry

I've just finished reading Robinson Jeffers: Poet and Prophet, an excellent brief biography in which James Karman claims that "Jeffers, like planet Earth, had a molten interior around which a thick mantle of stone had formed," which sounds about right to me. The photos carried me back to the poet's stone house in Carmel, and Karman's careful explication of historical and cultural contexts illuminate the poems without diminishing their power. It would be a great text to use in a class devoted to Jeffers, if I ever get a chance to teach such a thing. I was especially struck by this passage from an essay Jeffers wrote in 1948:

I have no sympathy with the notion that the world owes a duty to poetry, or any other art. Poetry is not a civilizer, rather the reverse, for great poetry appeals to the most primitive instincts. It is not necessarily a moralizer; it does not necessarily improve one's character; it does not even teach good manners. It is a beautiful work of nature, like an eagle or a high sunrise. You owe it no duty. If you like it, listen to it; if not, let it alone.

He may be right--but if everyone took this advice, then I'd never have a chance to introduce poetry-phobic students to the powerful poetry of Robinson Jeffers.

In and out of the jury box

In retrospect, the worst part of serving on a jury this week was not, surprisingly, that time I missed a step coming out of the jury box and fell flat on my face in front of the judge and jury and attorneys and bailiff and clerk and security guards and social worker and various miscreants and then had to suffer all these strangers hovering solicitiously over me to ask whether I was okay when all I wanted to do was crawl under a pew and cry for about a week. 

That was a bad moment. It hurt. Still does. But it was only one of several horrible moments.

The first happened during jury selection, when I was safely ensconced toward the back of the courtroom with 14 people in the jury box and 12 ahead of me in line to replace anyone who got dismissed. Surely the judge and attorneys would not find valid reasons to dismiss 12 jurors, right? I felt certain that I would be heading home before the trial even started, but then as one juror after another offered compelling reasons for dismissal, the line of potential jurors in front of me got ever shorter until just one man sat between me and the dreaded box.

I'd been hearing him muttering under his breath in response to the judge's questions, and while I can't share the substance of his thoughts (but I'll paraphrase: "Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Off with his head!"), I felt pretty certain that if he made it into the box, he'd be quickly dismissed. So when a juror was dismissed and my neighbor in the pew got called up, I knew I was in for it. 


And I was.

In for what?

Straining to listen to a low-quality recording of a detective questioning a distraught and inarticulate 19-year-old explaining that yes, he did have sex with that 12-year-old girl, but he never forced her and he always used a condom and he really really loves her.

That was bad. But that was not the worst.
 
The worst moment was when the prosecuting attorney gently but pointedly questioned the now 13-year-old victim about what part of his body he put into what part of her body and where they were when it happened and how many times and what happened next, and then what happened after that?

What would it be like for a child to tell such a story with all these people watching? The judge, the attorneys, the jurors--we all could have been as friendly and supportive as Mr. Rogers, but we were strangers listening to details of a very private story she clearly did not want to tell.

That was the worst. Much worse than falling down. After all, I fall down all the time and I generally find a way to get back up again, even if it hurts. I only hope that girl can do the same. 

In the end we never got a chance to deliberate over the case. After we'd been sitting in the jury room for more than an hour this morning wondering what was up, the judge came in to tell us that the defendant had changed his mind overnight and had just pleaded guilty to all charges, including some unrelated to the case we'd been hearing. "Your time hasn't been wasted," he said, "because we would not have gotten to this point if you had not been sitting in that box." 

The best part of jury duty? Not the $20 I earned to compensate me for my time, and not even the kind words from the wise judge. The best part was seeing justice served--and finally going home. That didn't hurt one bit.

Ho ho ho hum

My house smells like gingerbread and roasting pork and the peppermint extract I spilled making fudge, but where have all the juncos gone? Where's the winter cold and snow? Yesterday I drove through a cloudburst so intense that cars were pulling off the interstate due to poor visibility, and today I see green grass and gray sky and temperatures so warm my rhododendrons are setting buds. That's just wrong. On the other hand, if all that rain yesterday had been snow, no one would have been driving anywhere.

I was on the interstate because I needed to exchange a sweater I'd received as a birthday gift and the nearest Macy's store is a 150-mile round trip, but the trip didn't hurt so badly after I'd paid 95 cents per gallon for gas (with a dollar-off-per-gallon coupon) and then exchanged one lovely sweater (not my size) for two sweaters for me, an outfit for my granddaughter, and a pair of socks. I didn't really need the socks but I don't intend to make that trip again any time soon so I was determined to spend every penny of the store credit I received for the sweater, but they were having such great sales that I ended up with seven dollars left over. What can you buy in Macy's for seven dollars? Hence, new socks.

The fact that I have nothing of any interest to write about aside from unseasonably warm weather and new socks suggests that the pace of life has slowed significantly. Yes: my grades are all turned in and I've finished my spring semester syllabi and I'm on my way to boring myself to sleep. Good thing I have an assessment meeting all day tomorrow and jury duty on Thursday! Otherwise I'd have nothing to do but sit here and look out the window and write about nothing of any interest to anyone. Not a bad way to start my winter break!

 

A little linky grading break

My eyes are blurry from squinting at every possible variety of student handwriting, from big swoopy swirls to tiny, faint block letters to chicken-scratchy blotches, but I'm stuck in a classroom for the next two hours while proctoring my final final exam. So let's give the old eyeballs a break and look at pretty things:

If you haven't visited the Hubble Space Telescope Advent Calendar, now is the time to repair that oversight (here). My favorite is number 8, but we still have half of December to go!

Speaking of space exploration, Terrain.org published four poems in which G.L. Grey addresses various heavenly bodies (here); my favorite offers advice to the Voyager II space probe:

                          .... I won't tell you
to embrace the space between destinations,
call someplace empty endurable, worthy.

But when you hit that unknowable edge,
Earth's message tucked inside your metal heart,
resist despair.

And speaking of embracing empty spaces, I recently watched the movie Mr. Turner on DVD, a beautiful and terrible and slow and not particularly pleasant glimpse into the life of the artist JMW Turner. I found the silent interactions between artist and landscape intensely moving, and I had to go take a new look at some of his art (here). They're like a vacation for tired eyes.   
 
I'm already tired of seeing these Harry & David Christmas sweater cookies pop up in my newsfeed (here). They're so cute that I want to give them a big hug, which would be a mistake and inevitably result in a shower of cookie crumbs all over my sweater, which might inspire me to go out and buy one like this. Then again maybe not.

I wouldn't call it pretty, but if you still need some great holiday gift ideas, head on over to Dave Barry's annual holiday gift guide (here). I don't know about you, but I definitely know someone who needs a camouflage kilt. If any of you are tempted to send me the wearable hummingbird feeder, I would much prefer that you go visit the Nature Conservancy website (here) and support the migratory bird resting area. I don't need any more plushed stuffed animals, no matter how adorable they might be, but it would make me happy at Christmas to know that some sandhill cranes might find a hospitable place to rest their wings.

Now that we're done resting our eyeballs, let's go grade those exams!

Acknowledging some universal truths of teaching

I wouldn't be sitting in my office right now if I hadn't violated one of the Universal Rules of College Teaching: If a student begs for a face-to-face meeting outside of office hours because it's the only time he can possibly meet, he won't show up. (Doubly true for Friday afternoons. Triply true if it's my birthday.)

I should have known better than to expect the student to meet me at the time he had specified, but the end-of-the-semester grueling grading mayhem marathon may have led to some discombobulation of my teacherly instincts. For instance, it is a truth universally acknowledged that the student who begs and pleads for an extra-credit assignment won't bother to turn it in, while the student who needs it least will complete the assignment. I know this! We all know this! So why am I surprised that my very rare offer of a tiny serving of grace was ignored by the student who's been lobbying loudest for extra credit?

Today I'm enjoying a rare hiatus between piles of grading: I'm caught up on grading but expecting two more piles of exams tomorrow and the final capstone papers on Friday. I wouldn't have come to campus today if I hadn't fallen victim to another Universal Rule of College Teaching: Any blank space on a professor's schedule functions like a powerful magnet to attract committee meetings, service obligations, and students who desperately need to meet (but then won't show up). 

And as usual, just when we've reached the time in the semester when things ought to be quieting down, suddenly we suffer the Attack of the Grade-Grubbing Quibblers. They come armed with arguments based on what their friends, family members, and favorite online paper services say about their writing but rarely with the actual paper under discussion, much less the grading rubric or prompt. 

It happens every semester so why should I be surprised? I am living proof of the truth of another Universal Rule of College Teaching: No matter how many times we see students screw up in the same old predictable ways, we always harbor some small hope that this time things will be different.

(Now how long do I have to wait before I give up on this guy?)  

Can't weasel my way out of this one

The first time I served on a jury, we reached a verdict based entirely on which attorney had better hair.

Maybe I'm exaggerating--but not by much. Twelve jurors, one judge, two attorneys, and a handful of witnesses spent an entire day adjudicating the thrilling case of the Eagle Scout who claimed that he honestly intended to pay for those baseball cards in his pocket but just forgot. This was more than 20 years ago so I don't remember why we voted to acquit, but I do recall that the defense attorney repeatedly gestured toward his visibly pregnant wife out in the pews, as if to suggest that a guy blessed with both terrific hair and an adorably pregnant wife couldn't possibly be involved in anything underhanded.

I think of this today for two reasons: first, our friendly little town made national news last week when a judge issued subpoenas and threatened dire consequences for potential jurors who ignored the call of jury duty (read it here); and second, because I've been called to serve jury duty next week, right in the heart of Can't-Pack-Another-Thing-Into-My-Schedule Season.

I mentioned yesterday that I've been called to serve jury duty, and a colleague said, "Again?" Yes: the county bailiff's preference for my name is so well known that even casual acquaintances know about it. "That's Bev," they say, "the county's favorite juror."

This is the fifth time this year alone that I've been called to serve on a jury, but so far four of those trials were cancelled and I weaseled my way out of another one by claiming pressing dental work. (True.) While I was on the phone with the bailiff sharing my tale of dental woe, I tried to persuade him to take my name off the list.

"I get called every year but my husband has never been called," I said.

He just laughed, so I went for the heartstrings:

"Listen," I said, "I was the foreman of the Grand Jury that indicted that 13-year-old kid who broke into the gun cabinet and shot his grandma and his disabled aunt at close range with a shotgun. I had to look at those crime-scene photos. Just on the basis of that trauma, I ought to be exempt from jury duty forever."

"We appreciate your service," he said, "But you'll have to come when you're called."

And so I do, but after all the fuss about threats to fine jurors who don't come running when called, I hope so many other jurors will show up that I'll be lost in the crowd. 

  

Give me a "Give me an A!" (Please?)

I walked down to the department office just to take a break and gripe about all the grading, and one of my colleagues said, "You can do it! Go go go!" And that's when I realized what I need to get through all the coming week: Cheerleaders.

Why not? Even utterly inept athletic teams merit cheerleaders, so why not those of us who do the academic work of the college? Surely someone could come up with some grading-related cheers:

Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar, 
make those spelling errors stand up and holler!

Give me an A! Give me some B's! Give me some C's! Give me some D's! Give me an F!
What's it spell? Bell curve! Bell curve! Bell curve!

Red pens to the rescue! Go! Grade! Win!

But since we don't all grade in a central area, we would need roving bands of cheerleaders going from office to office to jump and prance and shout encouragement, although frankly I don't know how they'd pull of those big pyramids and jumps in my little office. OSHA would probably object.

So instead I'll grab some pom-poms and offer encouragement to my colleagues who are similarly immersed in end-of-the-semester grading. Grab that red pen! Go! Grade! Win!

(Just don't ask me to do any fancy splits or jumps. I'll never get my grading done if I can't get up off the floor.)
 

Ten reasons I won't be shooting holes in my radio

Let me just admit right up front that I'm a sucker for Christmas music. My stack of favorite Christmas CD's is close to a foot tall and runs the gamut from Nat King Cole to Christmas with the Chipmunks. Listening to Pentatonix singing "Mary Did You Know?" gives me goosebumps every time, and the community oratorio chorus singing The Messiah brings me to my feet and makes my heart sing. When I hear Vince Guaraldi's soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas, I want to dance with abandon like those little cartoon kids.

BUT! If I turn on the radio and hear Elvis singing "Blue Christmas"--well, it's a good thing I don't carry a handgun in the car or my radio would be full of bullet holes. And you know that whiny "Last Christmas" song? I always want to insert new lyrics:

Last Christmas I gave you chlamydia
The very next day you gave it away...

Yes: I hate that song that much. And don't even get me started on "Santa Baby."

I love to hear just about anyone singing "Silent Night," even a children's choir singing it hopelessly off key (or especially a children's choir singing hopelessly off key). But Stevie Nicks singing "Silent Night"? The aural equivalent of waterboarding.

I'm not sure why my responses are so extreme, but I know that wandering through Wal-Mart is hazardous this time of year because they can't be counted on to avoid the songs that make me want to scream. So as an antidote to horrible holiday songs, I keep my favorites close by. I figure listening to the songs I love is a far better response than shooting out my radio. Here are my top ten:

10. Jose Feliciano, "Feliz Navidad." Limited lyrics and repetitive tune but it makes me want to dance.
 
9. "The Twelve Days of Christmas" is a tough call because when it's bad it's really, really bad, but no one does it better than Straight No Chaser.

8. Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, "Throw cares away"--and I do whenever I hear "Carol of the Bells." I can listen to just about any version with pleasure, but the two I can't live without are performed by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra and (I'm embarrassed to admit how much I love this) John Tesh.

7. Ottmar Liebert playing "The First Noel." Starts slowly but gets really fun fairly quickly.

6. "Sleigh Ride" by virtually anyone, from the college band to the Boston Pops. I like the version by the Ronettes, but I will even listen to Johnny Mathis if he's singing "Sleigh Ride."

5. I'm not a huge fan of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen," but when that folksy version by Barenaked Ladies comes on the radio, it brings me comfort and joy.

4. "Christmas Canon" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. So simple. So sweet. So Christmas.

3. "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," especially when sung a capella. It's one of the oldest hymns in the hymnal and it's in a minor key, but it nevertheless fills me with hope.

2. Anyone singing "O Holy Night" at a Christmas Eve service, especially my daughter.

1. "Joy to the World" sung by any congregation anywhere. I can't hit the high notes, but I take comfort in knowing that I'm not the only one. It's sort of like singing the national anthem--being there is more important than doing it well.

 

How did they fit twelve days into one week?

In the last week of classes a student gave to me a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me 
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy. 

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
eight research papers
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
nine metaphors mixing
eight research papers
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
ten fingers texting
nine metaphors mixing
eight research papers
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
eleven blank expressions
ten fingers texting
nine metaphors mixing
eight research papers
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

In the last week of classes my students gave to me
twelve gripers griping
eleven blank expressions
ten fingers texting
nine metaphors mixing
eight research papers
seven gpas plummeting
six bad excuses
five cell-phone rings
four office visits
three spent pens
two grammar flubs
and a draft that made me very happy.

Don't let me interrupt that extremely important cat video you're watching

Back in the Cold War era, when sympathy for the Soviet Union was thin on the ground, students in my high school Russian class used to begin each class period by standing and reciting in unison a formal greeting to our teacher: "Dobry ootra, Ivan Vasilevich!" While this tradition seems rather, um, Soviet in our current informal age, I find myself wishing for the days when students would acknowledge the existence of their professors.

When I walk in the classroom with a cheery "Good morning!", I'd like a student or two to look up from their smartphones and respond. I don't expect them to snap to their feet and recite a formal greeting, but a muttered "good morning" doesn't really require all that much energy.

And when I attempt to make small talk before class, asking how they enjoyed Thanksgiving break or how they feel about the impending end of the semester or whether they've read of the latest outrage in the news, it would be nice if someone--anyone--would say something. Anything!


The problem is most acute in my freshman classes, but it pops up elsewhere as well. What to do? I can banish smartphones during class time, but students insist on protecting those precious three to five minutes before class. Imagine what they would miss if they put down their phones and actually engaged in conversation! How dare I expect such a sacrifice?

I grow tired of silences and averted eyes. I worry about how these students will act in job interviews and networking opportunities, but more than that, I'm annoyed when I treat them like adults while they insist on treating me like an interruption. It makes me want to stamp my foot and make them snap to attention with a salute. (Now who's acting like a child?)

One of these days I'll get a smartphone of my own and then I'll stand in front of class texting "Good morning!" to my students. And then we'll conduct class entirely in emojis.

(How do you say "Dobry ootra" in emojis?)