Trees' scars hide a multitude of sins

You can see the scars along the edge of the meadow: trees with odd bulges on the trunks at barbed-wire height, bark bulging around electric-fence fasteners or support cables. The giant tulip poplar my husband cut down last week carried a constant reminder of the long presence of people in this area: a light fixture attached to the trunk about 20 feet up, its electric cables dangling, detached from any power source. Years ago he cut down another tree and found an impressive length of chain-link fence embedded within the hollow trunk. Apparently, previous residents of our property had no problem using trees as fenceposts and lightpoles, leaving behind enough embedded hardware to seriously mangle a chainsaw.

And harm the trees, too. Trees grow scars in response to damage, but that doesn't always lead to a full recovery. It has been 21 years since a local flood washed out the footbridge that used to cross the creek at the edge of our property, but the cables and spikes still firmly embedded in the sycamore bear witness to its absence. The resident lumberjack tried to remove as much of the hardware as he could as the cables are clearly strangling the tree, but whoever built that bridge intended it to last as long as the tree. Sadly, the cables may hasten the tree's death.

It can be hazardous to cut down even a small tree if it has barbed wire or metal spikes hidden inside, which is one reason commercial logging operations aren't interested in property like ours, where you never know what might be hiding inside a tree. The resident lumberjack was very careful to avoid the light fixture and electrical cords when he cut down the giant tulip poplar, but he couldn't know whether he might run his chainsaw right into something else equally dangerous. You never know what you might find when you chop down a tree. 

I keep waiting for the Lorax to pop out, but we really needed him 20 or 40 or 60 years ago to tell the previous residents to for heaven's sake stop pounding things into trees. Instead, we see the scars and hope for recovery--until it's too late.

You can see the light fixture on the far right.

And there it is again.

 

The song of the d[r]ying jellyfish: on accuracy in quotations

Today the number 36 inspires both gratitude and annoyance: gratitude for my colleague who found 36 errors in the draft of an academic essay I'm revising and annoyance at myself for having overlooked those errors. And now I'm wondering: how many times in the past have I let similar errors slip past my eagle eyes?

I'm in the final stages of revision of a 30-page article I've been working on for a few years, and given the number of times I've fiddled with it, I'm not surprised that some errors slipped in. The publication that asked for the revision insists that every quotation be compared word-for word with its source, something I would have been willing to do myself if I hadn't had my hands full with the grandkids and the sick Dad and the start of classes and--oh, just everything. 

Truth be told, I didn't want to do it. I've worked as an editor and I pride myself on taking very careful notes and transcribing quotations accurately, so I doubted that the effort of double-checking the quotes would result in much improvement; however, I didn't want to risk having the article rejected at this late stage, so I asked a former student, now a junior colleague, if he'd like to earn a little spare cash by doing some quote-checking. He was happy to accept the challenge to find all my mistakes.

I am embarrassed to admit that he found 36 problems in my very carefully proofread and edited 30-page document. He found a source listed in the Works Cited that wasn't actually cited in the paper, and he pointed out a sentence that, as he so tactfully put it, was "missing some things to make it grammatically sound." The other 34 were errors in transcribing quotes or citing the correct page numbers.

Many of the errors are pretty inconsequential: "to" for "into," "on" for "upon," and "insofar" where the source had "in so far," an error possibly introduced by cursed autocorrect. In several spots I messed up the punctuation in a quotation, leaving out commas or changing a semicolon to a colon, but nevertheless the meaning remained intact.

In five cases, though, my error led to significant misrepresentation of the original quote, and while five is a small number, I am embarrassed that I did not notice how seriously I'd damaged these quotations. Maybe a "drying jellyfish" is not much different from a "dying jellyfish," but if the source says "dying," then "drying" won't do. Elsewhere, I changed "squirming" to "squirting," which actually makes a little more sense in context but, again, is not the word the author wrote. In another quotation I somehow changed "writer" to "reader," which was bad enough, but I'm more concerned about the two spots in which I inadvertently changed "entailment" to "entanglement," which will require some serious thinking and possible revision since the concept of "entanglement" is so central to the essay that it appears in the title.

This process cost me a few bucks but it was definitely worth the money, not only because it revealed the work I still need to do to revise the essay but also because it provided a cautionary dose of humility. I notice errors all the time--in my students' papers, my colleagues' e-mails, and in newspaper articles and billboards and Facebook posts--and it always makes me cringe when I go back and read something I've written and notice obvious mistakes. Now, though, I'm reminded that the mistakes I notice may be just the tip of the iceberg. How many invisible errors have I released into the world over the years? How many times have I inadvertently altered a quote enough to misrepresent its meaning? 

I warn my students about accuracy of quotations all the time, but this time the tables were turned: a former student showed me just how easy it is to alter a quote and just how much I should value the services of a quote-checker. I'll be calling on him again. (But first, let's finish revising this essay.)

 

Buttonholed by beauty

I walked into a class this morning and heard a student say "You always have such cute outfits," and I had to look behind me to see if she was talking to someone else. But no: she was talking to me, which is kind of crazy because (1) some of my teaching clothes are as old as my students; (2) living in two houses means that I don't always have access to the items I need to complete an outfit; and (3) it's just plain black pants and a sage camp shirt today, nothing particularly special.

But I did remember--for the third time this semester!--to accessorize. The sage camp shirt features these lovely marbled brown buttons, which reminded me of a necklace I haven't worn for years. (I have a thing for cute buttons. Years ago, I bought a set of antique mother-of-pearl buttons at a flea market and then sewed an entire wool skirt suit to show off the buttons. Charcoal gray wool with a burgundy silk blouse, in case you were wondering.) 

So if that necklace has been sitting there for years--possibly decades--without screaming to be worn, why did I put it on today?
 
I blame my mom. Last week in Florida I looked at some of her pretty things and thought how sad it was that she used them so rarely, but then I realized that someday someone will say the same thing about me: all those earrings, necklaces, and brooches gathering dust in a jewelry box! Why not put them to use?

So while I'm working hard to prepare meaningful activities for my students, I'm also putting a little more thought into how I can use all the little pretty things in my jewelry box. I'll never be a fashion plate because I'm far more interested in comfort than style, but I can spend a few extra minutes in the morning bringing a smidgen of beauty into the world--just for today. (No promises about tomorrow.)

Button and necklace, made for each other.

  



 

Early-semester wish list

Only two days into the semester and I really need a nap, but no: what I really need is a pair of shoes I can stand in all day without joint pain, but no again: what I really really need is a virtual avatar that can go into classes for me while I control it from home where I'll sit and "teach" in my pajamas and slippers so I won't have to worry about whether my feet hurt or my shirt needs ironing or whether I can find earrings to match my outfit, but even that won't solve the problem of meetings so what I really and truly need to survive this semester is an emotional support wolverine trained to attack anyone who utters certain words in my presence, like assessment or engagement or Friday afternoon meeting, and if my emotional support wolverine can be trained to snarl viciously anytime a student asks a question that is clearly and obviously explained on the syllabus, then this semester may be survivable. But until all that happens, I guess I'd better just grit my teeth and get to work.

 

(S)lumbering giant

Yesterday a giant fell--or was it pushed? The resident lumberjack stretched ropes from the tree to the tractor and pulled them taut, made some cuts with the chainsaw and slammed in wedges, and then when the chainsaw wouldn't reach any farther, he stood by while the wind nudged the giant tulip poplar gently to the ground, dropping it neatly between the cliff, the house, the phone line, and the septic tank.

The septic tank was the reason I didn't have this tree removed by professionals, who were understandably reluctant to park their lift trucks on top of the septic tank. My husband kept insisting that he could take the tree down himself, but I was skeptical; it was huge, close to the house and phone line, hard to reach by ladder because of the uneven ground, and capable of doing immense damage to life and limb if it didn't fall exactly right. I guess I should have been more trusting, because when I got home yesterday, the tree was on the ground.

I loved that tree, which rose majestically next to the back deck. It blossoms attracted hummingbirds and other pollinators, and it provided shade and beauty for the whole back yard. But large limbs were dying and the ground around the base was getting soft, and we didn't want it falling on the house, so it was time to take measures.

Fortunately, we already have a replacement: the resident lumberjack dropped the tree so carefully that a skinny offshoot remained standing in place, promising more shade and beauty for years to come. It never looked like much, but with the giant lying on the ground, the little upstart fills the space nicely.

Now the giant lies on the ground, ready to be cut up for firewood. Its shade kept the house cool for decades, and now its wood will keep the house warm all winter. 

You can see the offshoot behind the stump.

The chainsaw pierced a cavity full of water, making it a wet project.

Slumbering giant

Dad, in decline

The only thing more boring than watching golf on television is watching someone else watch golf on television, but that's how I spent a good part of the weekend. I'm in Florida helping to get my dad out of the hospital and into rehab, and I thought he would blow a gasket when he discovered that the hospital doesn't have the Golf Channel. But we finally found some golf coverage for him and saved the day.

I won't lie: it's hard to be here. It's hard to see Dad weak and confused and needing a shave, and it's hard to sit by helplessly as he tries to grapple with everything that's happening. Sometimes he can converse intelligently about his condition, but then an unexpected question throws him into confusion and he's convinced that it's just a little touch of gout. Sometimes he thinks I'm my mom, and then he gets distraught when it turns out I'm not. I'm tempted to go along with his delusion, but that gets awkward.

Last year at this time my brothers and I and some other family members and friends gathered at Dad's house to celebrate his 85th birthday; today we're trying to get him transported to a rehab facility out of state--close to my brother's house--and I'm not sure when he'll see his own home again (but don't tell him that). The house feels empty and sterile, as if it's settling down for a long lonely rest. If I work at it, I can hear echoes of voices, see ghosts of events: here's where Dad took all our prom photos, next to Mom's beloved rose bushes (now sadly neglected). Here's Dad's TV-watching chair, still untouchable even in his absence--and you'd better believe I still feel like a scofflaw every time I adjust the thermostat. Here's the room where I donned my wedding gown, and here's where my toddler daughter slammed straight into the glass door and cut her head. Here's the kitchen where we cooked so many meals and the table where we gathered to eat and share news and sometimes disagree (loudly), and here's the driveway where we so often said goodbye.

I'll say goodbye to the house again on Wednesday when I head back to Ohio, and I don't know when I'll set foot in this house again. I'm relieved to know that the house will be in good hands, and so will Dad, getting the help he needs in a place where his family can keep a closer eye on him. My brother had a sudden moment of panic yesterday when he realized that he hadn't checked to be sure that the rehab facility has televisions in the rooms, but sure enough they do. Now all we need is the Golf Channel and all will be well with the world. 

A modest proposal for improving the sanity of the general populace

First, eliminate televisions from all waiting areas: airport terminals, dentist's offices, car repair shops, wherever. It's impossible to select a show that will please everyone in the room, so someone is bound to be disappointed or offended, which increases the general stress level in the room.

And if we must have televisions in waiting areas where captive audiences can't get away from them, then require that they be tuned to something innocuous. Last time I got my car serviced, the television in the waiting area showed a steady stream of home improvement shows. Perfect: nothing is more soothing than watching someone else solve a home improvement problem that costs me no time, stress, or money.

Today was a different story. I don't know which of a dozen previous customers was responsible for selecting the channel and I didn't want to confront them because they were all large, heavily bearded men, but no one should be forced to wait for a car repair while listening to William Shatner solemnly speculating about the possible existence of Mothman. By the time I heard the phrase "ancient astronaut theorists," I wanted to run screaming from the room. I don't want to know what ancient astronaut theorists have to say about anything, but I especially don't want to be stuck in a waiting room with a bunch of large, bearded men earnestly nodding over bizarre conspiracy theories guaranteed to lower the collective IQ by a dozen points at least.

Who will decide which shows are innocuous enough to merit public viewing in waiting rooms? Easy: I will. Problem solved.

Finally, if it is impossible to eliminate public televisions or regulate their content, then I propose that every establishment that has a waiting-room television be required to provide noise-cancelling earphones to anyone who requests them. You can make me sit and wait while you drill my teeth or change the oil in my car, but if you want me to remain sane during the waiting period, then you'd better give me a mute button.

Tangled web

Squeezed
between
the needs
of these:
my dad
my kids
my sick
colleague,
my syllabi,
my lawn,
the bills,
the tele-
phone
(it gives
me chills
each time
it rings)
my head
my eyes
so many
things
that pounce
on me
from 
every 
angle--
who knew
that life
was such
a tangle?
 

The campus buzz

I'd like to give a gold star to whoever came up with the idea of tearing out a bunch of boring bushes on campus and replacing them with zinnias, sunflowers, and other plants that attract pollinators. Every morning I walk to the office and thrill to the bright colors and the bees, birds, and butterflies zipping about the area. It must have taken a ton of work, but if it helps me start the academic day with a smile, then I heartily applaud the effort. And so, I assume, would the bees.

 

My plant-destroying skills seem to be intact

And then, this happened:

Yesterday morning this dragon tree had a full, bushy head of foliage--until it was decapitated. By me. Accidentally. (I fell into it while retrieving a fallen book.)

Oops.

The resident green thumb tells me that the plant could sprout new foliage and burst back into healthy life, but meanwhile it lurks beside my desk looking like a stand microphone. What what message does it send? If this is an omen about how this semester will go, I'm in trouble already. 

I prefer to see the decapitated plant as a sign of hope: like many of my students, it may appear to be stunted and lifeless, but with enough tender loving care, it can burst forth into lush green growth. 

I hope.

Pausing at the base of the stairs

The first thing I did when I got to campus this morning was to retrieve my houseplant from the department office, where the administrative assistant has very kindly been caring for it during my sabbatical and summer break. This is it, then: the party's over and it's time to get back to work. 

The plant looks great, and so does campus, but I still regret coming back. My reluctance may have more to do with the marathon of meetings facing me this week, followed by matriculation that somehow got scheduled at 4 p.m. Friday (because we all know how much  everyone loves to get into regalia and listen to speeches at the end of a week full of long boring meetings).

I've worked hard all summer, but ten days before classes start I still have tons of work to do, in addition to all the meetings: cleaning my desk, finishing my syllabi, assembling course packs for my capstone students, and more. But already I'm having trouble focusing: I miss the grandkids and I'm worried about my dad (facing a serious health scare in Florida at a time when I can't get away) and I'm concerned about a colleague's health problems and I need to finish mowing the lawn, and in my current state of distraction, it's hard to discern which of those things needs attention first. 

Shoes, maybe? I desperately need teaching shoes, but when I stopped off at the Skechers outlet on the way home from my daughter's house the other day, I first delighted in finding the usual long row of wide shoes but then noticed the largest size available was 8. I haven't worn shoes that small since fourth grade. Time to do some online shopping.

But what about my dad? I need to call or arrange to visit or at least send a card, but I've already forgotten the name of his nursing home so I have to text my brother first, and then I look up the address and discover that my father, whose parents emigrated from Lithuania with empty pockets 100 years ago, is staying at a place called The Mayflower, located at 1620 Mayflower Place. I suppose it's better than steerage. I hope.

The only way I'm getting through this week is one step at a time, but which step comes first? I waver and wobble and hover at the base of the staircase, looking longingly at the top so very far away. How will I ever make it up there? (Maybe it would be easier with new shoes.)

The plants are doing fine. Now how about the rest of the office?

 

Shopping for adventure

Someone asked my oldest grandchild what she's been doing since she's been at my house, and she said, "Lately we've mostly been shopping."

Shopping? I'd call that selective memory. In ten days I can recall three times we've been inside a store, once for groceries and twice for craft supplies. The rest of the time we've been exploring caves, going to playgrounds, having picnics, splashing in the kiddie pool, going out for ice cream, making craft projects, and basically having every kind of fun it's possible to have. Today we made the long drive back to the grandchildren's house, where whole family will be reunited tomorrow, but we broke up the drive today with a visit to the Franklin Park Conservatory in Columbus, where we could have spent all day just in the children's gardens and butterfly house. 

Not a lot of shopping in there, but that's okay. We've been shopping for adventure, wonder, and really great ice cream, and one of these days those memories will matter.

 

Little girls, big world

So here's the thing: when the website promises a one-mile handicapped-accessible path, they're not lying, but they're not telling the whole truth either. It is indeed possible to push a small child in a stroller half a mile down the path through the woods and half a mile back, which adds up to a mile of paved path, as promised. However, what they don't tell you is that the paved path only goes about three-quarters of the way toward the cave, and the rest of the path is the extreme opposite of stroller-friendly. I don't know how far I ended up carrying the youngest grandchild this morning, but I definitely got a good whole-body workout.

I knew from the start that I couldn't manage both little girls at the more demanding caves, so we didn't even try to visit Old Man's Cave or Rock House. But we got to Ash Cave early enough to have the whole place to ourselves, and what a place it was. Sunshine dappled the high cliff walls as we walked the path through the woods, and the older granddaughter kept asking how big the cave would be. 

Big enough, child--big enough. I've never seen a photo do it justice. The little one focused on tossing rocks in the creek while her sister climbed rocks and took photos on her own little camera.

At Conkle's Hollow we heard pileated woodpeckers and watched butterflies flitting over towering Joe Pye weed alongside the creek. We saw some smaller caves along the paved path, but then we encountered steep steps and a narrow winding trail leading to the final cave, so it was time to leave the stroller behind and do some carrying. It was worth it, though, to see the little girls' wonder over the caves, the creek, and the waterfall. 

They were so impressed that they came right home and started building their own caves out of blankets and pillows. It's not as big as Ash Cave or as twisted as Conkle's Hollow, but it's just the right size for the resident spelunkers--and if it keeps them busy long enough, maybe I can get a nap.

 
 

Sweet fowl feet

I never knew my life was not complete
Until I discovered gummi chicken feet.
Yellow and sweet and very gummy--
I guess you could call them yummy.
Now that gummi chicken feet have entered my system,
I simply can't resist 'em. 
So if you need some sweet fowl thing to eat,
I heartily recommend gummi chicken feet.