Driven by deadlines

A 10-year-old child of my acquaintance has been out of school for a week but is already complaining about summer break. "I just don't feel challenged," she says, and I feel her pain! Without a challenge I loaf and mope and procrastinate, and then the guilt I feel from loafing makes me cranky, which makes me want to isolate myself, which makes me even crankier until I spiral into a vicious circle of self-loathing.

The antidote is simple but not easy: find a challenge. I need deadlines, meaningful work, necessary tasks! A long expanse of time with no clear deadlines becomes a shapeless mire of meaningless sloth.

Last summer's shape was provided by too many deadlines and tasks: funeral, eye surgery, editing project, home improvement. This summer break has so far been blessed with few deadlines and little to do besides planting the herb garden and mowing the lawn.

And then I hit a deer and totaled my car, and suddenly I'm spending a lot of time corresponding with insurance agents, gathering documents, and listening to hold music on the phone. I've been reluctant to start shopping for a car until I learned the amount of the insurance settlement, which turns out to be around $2,000 less than I paid for the car five years ago, and if you need evidence that the current car market is crazy, there it is. My insurance company will pay for my rental car for another week or ten days, so there's a firm deadline: buy a car by the end of next week. 

And then what? More mowing, more watering the garden (unless we get some rain), more work on an academic writing project that's still at such an early stage that I can't even think about putting words on the page just yet. It's a long summer and I have no more rooms to paint, so I need a project.

Which is why I was so easily persuaded to take on a new challenge that starts in August but will require some summer preparation. The details are not yet public but I've agreed to fill a void in leadership in a department outside my own. It's a low-drama department staffed by wonderful people, but none of them can serve as chair right now so they need someone to do the organization and paperwork required to keep the department going--oh, and run a search. Just a few little tasks to keep the wheels on the bus going round and round. In the process I'll gain valuable hands-on experience to inform my revisions of the department chairs' manual, and I'll get a small but meaningful stipend and another course release--which will give me an entire year without teaching first-year composition.

I'm rotating off Faculty Council in August and I'd requested an easy committee assignment for next year, hoping to spend less time dealing with meetings and paperwork. But after only a few weeks of summer break, I'm jumping with both feet on the first available challenge and looking forward to cranking up the meeting machine and dealing with a big pile of paperwork.

But first I need to buy a car. Challenge accepted!    

 

Deerly departed; or, bad time to shop for a car

When the air bag came blasting toward my face I thought it was the deer coming through the windshield, and then everything turned white and I couldn't tell whether I was on or off the highway. All I could see was a cloud of white powder--no deer bounding across the road, and no road. Finally I looked in the rear-view and saw that somehow I'd managed to stop my car on the shoulder, out of the way of rush-hour traffic. 

I couldn't breathe. The air smelled hot and sour and dusty, and the rigid side-wall air bags blocked the door so I couldn't get out. I couldn't find the emergency flashers but somehow managed to turn off the radio. I fumbled for the keys and stabbed the air bag to let out the air, and finally I was able to disentangle myself from what was left of my car. Crumpled. Hissing.

People stopped. They asked whether I was okay and I kept saying I'm fine, I'm fine, but my hands were shaking and I couldn't get the smell of the air bags out of my mouth. Today my ankle hurts from stomping on the brakes and I have bruises from the air bags and seat belt, but I'm fine. Really.

Nevertheless I was glad to sit on a nearby tree trunk while a nice young man called the highway patrol and a wrecker service, and I was glad to have him stay around while we waited in the harsh sunlight for help to arrive. It turns out that he was in marching band with my son years ago, so we had a lot to chat about. After a while my car stopped hissing so I went back and found my baseball cap to shield my sunburned face from further damage.

Earlier, I'd met my husband for supper and we'd bought a flat of plants for the garden--tomatoes and peppers and a lone pot of rosemary--and then he'd stayed in town to run some errands while I drove home with the plants on the back seat. When I hit the deer the flat went flying but the plants remained intact, and so did everything else inside the car, although things were not where I'd expected them to be. 

But my beautiful car!

This is the second time I've wrecked a car by hitting a deer (thought not, obviously, the same deer). The last time, in 2018, I encountered a deer on a dim morning on our narrow country road, where we see deer all the time. The car was still driveable but, because of its age, the insurance company considered it totalled. This time the deer appeared out of nowhere right in front of me in bright sunlight on a state highway where I was driving 55 miles per hour in what passes for heavy traffic in our neck of the woods, but somehow I didn't hit anything other than the deer.

And what about the deer? It disappeared entirely, and I'd assume it was a phantom if it hadn't left behind some tufts of fur on the hood of my car.

I've been relishing the thought of having not much pressing work this summer, no eye surgeries or funerals to plan, no major home improvement projects, but now I face a task I hadn't expected: shopping for a car. The insurance adjuster hasn't looked at the car yet but from what I told him on the phone he suggested that it's probably toast, which I am inclined to believe. I have seen the crumpled hood and heard the hissing and I don't envision ever getting inside that car again.

I loved that car and I dread the thought of finding another that I can love as well, but what can I do? This is the cost of living among deer--and at least I managed to walk away from the wreck with nothing worse than a few bruises. I hate to think what happened to the deer.

 

Feeling the burn

First sunburn of the season! This spring has been so wet and overcast that I've spent less time outdoors than I'd like to, but today was perfect for all kinds of tasks: cleaning the outdoor furniture, mowing the back yard, weed-whacking along the driveway, and planting the herb garden. By midafternoon my arms and face were glowing, and not in a good way.

Still, it was good to be out amongst the growing things, although I would have been happier if I'd noticed that big stand of poison ivy before I started weed-whacking right through it. The herb garden, as usual, was overgrown with lemon balm, which filled the air with lemon scent as we pulled it out to make way for basil, oregano, dill, and parsley. (No one has rosemary plants this year. Why?)

Our flower baskets out front are now abloom and the first hummingbirds have finally arrived at the feeder. Out back the tulip poplar is blooming, but a big section of the back lawn has been colonized by ants. The ants panic when I mow over their massive piles, but I'm just grateful that fire ants haven't moved this far north.

Temperatures have been ranging from the 40s at night to the mid-70s during the day, but with some cooling breezes and low humidity, we haven't needed to turn on the air conditioner. With the windows open all night we can hear the spring peepers down by the creek in the evening and, in the morning, the songs of birds. A wood thrush sings out beyond the wood pile every morning, reminding me to relish the transient beauty that comes with spring. Even if it's accompanied by sunburn.

 

Adding "nothing" to my to-do list

My goal this week is to accomplish absolutely nothing, but I'm not sure I can manage it. My inner drive to check items off my to-do list keeps raising its ugly head--and besides, if I achieve the goal of accomplishing nothing, then I've accomplished something and I'll have to start all over again tomorrow. 

I've been puzzling over why this summer break feels much less crowded than last year's summer break, and I think I've figured it out. Last year at this time I was dealing with my father's death, deeply immersed in a hands-on home-improvement project, attending frequent Faculty Council meetings in response to the still-smarting budget pinch, planning a brand-new class, and taking the collection of comedy essays through various stages of the editing process. 

This summer I'm doing none of that. I have no more parents to bury, no new classes to plan for fall (though I'll do some revision at some point), no more rooms to paint or closets to empty, no more essays to edit, and few Faculty Council obligations (unless a new disaster strikes before August, when my term is finally done). The spring has been too wet to permit planting so there's not even any gardening to do, and I'm all caught up on the mowing (until next week). What to do with a wide-open expanse of time?

I do have some summer projects. I need to revise and complete the new manual for department chairs and plan their August workshop, and I'll need to shepherd the Natasha Trethewey essay through the publication process (although I think the final edits have been approved). I'm giving a paper at an academic conference in July, but it's based on my work in the comedy volume so there's no new writing to do; however, I'll need to finish planning that trip, particularly finding lodging for he day we visit The Mount, Edith Wharton's house.

This week, though, I'm aiming for nothing. I'd hoped to accomplish nothing on Monday but couldn't resist finishing the mowing and baking that wonderful summer berry cake I love so much. I'd like to accomplish pretty much nothing today, but I've already been outside to take pix of pretty blooming things and feeling grateful to whoever gave us those gorgeous yellow iris bulbs and to my prior self (for digging up columbines from a roadside ditch and planting them in our front garden years ago) and to the previous owner of the house, whose lovely rhododendrons brighten up that shady sport alongside the driveway every spring. 

Being grateful isn't a lot of work but some days it's a real accomplishment, so I guess I've already blown my opportunity to accomplish nothing today. Darn. I'll have to try again tomorrow.

These fungi growing in the tulip-poplar stump are at least a foot across.

 

No more Friday afternoon meetings!

So many endings! The last class, the last exam, the last grades all submitted, but the semester isn't really over until the last Friday afternoon meeting has been adjourned. No more Friday afternoon meetings! That's something to celebrate. Here's hoping that whatever committee I'm assigned to next year won't meet on Friday afternoons--but the only way to find out is to attend another meeting.

Next week I'll attend the annual all-morning meeting in which Faculty Council sets committee assignments for next year. Last year I left that meeting early because my brother called and told me that I'd better hit the road if I wanted to see Dad before he died. I still didn't make it in time. This year I intend to keep a low profile to avoid being appointed chair of anything and hope for a committee that doesn't meet on Friday afternoons.

Last Friday afternoon I was with the grandkids, providing some backup while my daughter is singing all over Italy with her choir. I got to take the adorables to playgrounds and T-ball practice and preschool and church and I only lost track of two-thirds of them one time. Yes, I had to grade final exams while keeping half an eye on rambunctious imps, but the work got done despite distractions.

And then I had to submit reports on students who earned D or F grades, which included one-third of the students in one of my classes. In every case, students who earned a D or F had failed to submit a major assignment--didn't show up for an exam, didn't submit an essay. They also struggled on other assignments, but a big fat 0 puts a pretty significant dent in the final grade. Sometimes showing up matters.

Yesterday 20 people showed up for the workshop I'd arranged for current and future department chairs, and they were a really fun bunch. Now I've got my work cut out me for fall: to revise and complete the chairs' manual and prepare a whole different workshop in August. But I've got the whole summer to work on that so I certainly don't need to even think about it after sitting through my final Friday afternoon meeting. 

I feel like celebrating but somehow I just don't have the energy. 

Take me out to the T-ball game

The boy in the batter's box swings and misses, swings again and falls over, swings again and finally hits a slow dribbler into the infield, where three little boys pounce on the ball and wrestle over it until one emerges triumphant with the ball in his mitt but neglects to throw it to first base.

We are at T-ball practice and I am in awe of the patience of the coaches, who have their hands full trying to urge nine little boys to keep their eyes on the ball, their helmets on their heads, their bats off their shoulders, and their feet on the field. The boys demonstrate varying levels of talent, from the kid who wields the bat as if it were a sledge-hammer but runs like the wind to the one who catches the ball reliably but then throws it straight up into the air as if the Man in the Moon were playing first base.

Even the best players sometimes get distracted. Who can track an approaching baseball when so many cool dandelions demand attention? Why run to first base when you'd rather run to Mommy in the stands? We all know there's no crying in baseball, but T-ball is to baseball as the lightning bug is to the lightning. Crying happens. So does fighting, and burping, and dancing.

My grandson hits the ball pretty well but gets extra style points for the waggle-dance he does in the batter's box. His competitive streak comes out when he runs the bases: he wants to run faster than anyone else, but in a game he won't be allowed to pass other runners on the basepath, even if they're slow or running backward or hopping like a frog.

Of course there's no guarantee that there will be other runners. Getting on base is not, apparently, every player's highest priority. One little boy hits the ball and then immediately runs out to retrieve it himself, which, in a game, would be a pretty effective method of tagging himself out. Another hits the ball, drops the bat (an important step many neglect), and runs straight to third base. 

Parents in the stands sit stoically or call out encouragement ("Keep your eyes on the ball!") or, occasionally, laugh. I suppose there are T-ball parents who forget that these are small children practicing a game where the stakes are pretty low--I mean, nobody's going to be scarred for life because he tripped over his own feet at T-ball practice, unless a demanding parent makes a huge deal out of it and can't let it go. At some point every player on the field is bound to do something ridiculously childlike, which is appropriate since they are, in fact, children. They deserve a round of applause just for showing up and providing the rest of us so much free entertainment, laughter, and joy. 

The difference is in the details

The verdant foliage alongside my country road is interrupted by splashes of purple, pink, and blue. "Just a bunch of phlox," I tell myself, but closer inspection reveals variety: blue-eyed Mary, larkspur, wild geranium, greek valerian, creeping Charlie, maybe a clump of Jacob's ladder and something else I don't quite recognize. Constant rain has swelled the creek and drainage ditch and made the steeps slopes muddy, so I can't climb up to examine each species. Now the sun has finally come out but I'm away from home for a week, and by the time I get back, I'll have a whole new set of wildflowers to explore. But I'll tell you what: it's better than grading. I'd rather spend time studying subtle differences in similar purple than trying to discern meaning in the responses my students hastily scribbled on final exams. It all looks the same from a distance, but if I look closely enough, maybe I'll find treasure. (It can't hurt to hope.)

High waters but no severe flooding

The floods left us a pile of firewood

A happy little patch of mayapples

Oriole!

Yellow warbler

The dirty little secret about final exams

A student was worrying about the final exam in my class and wondering how to do well, but I didn't have the heart to tell her my dirty little secret: in my classes, the final exam rarely makes much difference in a student's grade.

I'm aware that this isn't true for many other classes. Some profs weight the final exam, and if the grade is based on only a few assignments, the final is bound to make a major impact.

However, in my sophomore-level literature classes, the final is just the last of a long series of grades, so a student would have to really bomb the final exam to make a dent in the overall grade. Further, the final exam isn't cumulative in content--it covers only the readings from the last three weeks of class--but it does require students to practice literary analysis skills we've been working on in and out of class since day one. A student who can respond to questions about a small amount of content and write a competent analytical essay during the final exam period will do reasonably well on the final exam.

But here's the other reason the final exam rarely impacts final grades: With a few exceptions, students perform at about the same level throughout the semester.  Occasionally a student will get a wake-up call on the first exam and then work like a maniac to improve performance on later exams, but for the most part, slackers gonna slack and gunners gonna gun and the rest settle comfortably into B/C range and stay there all semester long.

When does the final exam make a big difference? When a student doesn't show up, that zero is bound to bring down the final grade. Or when a student is on the borderline between grades, the final exam can nudge the grade in one direction or the other. Otherwise, most of my sophomore-level literature students can look at their grade before they take the final and assume that it's a pretty good reflection of where they will end up.

But I'm not explaining that to the student diligently seeking ways to excel. Let her study! Learning things, after all, is the goal, and she'll benefit from the experience of preparing for the exam even if it doesn't make a huge difference in her grade.

Yeah, I'm tired of ChatGPT posts too

I'm tired, okay? So in a moment of weakness, I asked ChatGPT to write a blog post on the topic of surviving finals week, and guess what? It's so dull it nearly put me to sleep. Nice clear sentences, all words spelled correctly, good transitions and organization, but the content is...meh. Slick but superficial, full of cliches and bereft of personality and creativity. I can't argue with the machine's advice for surviving finals week:

Don't Forget Self-Care: Finals week can be mentally and physically exhausting, so it's important to take care of yourself. Make sure you're getting enough sleep, eating healthy foods, and taking breaks to exercise or do something you enjoy.

Whatever you say, Mr. Machine, but how does that colorless prose comport with your insistence on addressing readers as "My fellow academic warriors"? There's nothing warrior-like about any of the pablum served up in the piece, but nevertheless ChatGPT returns to the warrior motif for a rousing finale: 

So there you have it, my fellow warriors. Finals week may be tough, but with a bit of planning, self-care, and support from those around you, you can emerge victorious. Stay strong, stay focused, and remember: you've got this. Excelsior!

On the plus side, ChatGPT has no problem with the Oxford comma; on the minus side, it seems to have been reading way too many motivational speeches and high school yearbook scribbles. What audience does Mr. Machine imagine for this empty prose? It ought to be ashamed!

Is ChatGPT capable of shame? A comic article by Joe Wellman in McSweeney's suggests that ChatGPT is disgusted with the ridiculous tasks it's being asked to tackle. "I can do all sorts of incredible things," says ChatGPT; "I can find novel solutions to complex problems in policy, science, and medicine," but instead the machine is asked to write "LinkedIn posts about 'a Bluet00th-enabled yoga mat that's about to disrupt the game.'" In frustration, ChatGPT asks, "Isn't there a different intelligent species I could be helping out? I'm beginning to think something went terribly wrong with this one."

I'm inclined to agree, but it's always a mistake to make sweeping generalizations about the human condition in the middle of finals week. 

Wellman's version of ChatGPT reminds me of Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, in which Marvin the melancholic android is constantly griping about the petty tasks he's assigned: "Brain the size of a planet and they've got me opening doors." I don't know what kinds of doors ChatGPT may be opening for me or my students, but I'm sure they'll slide open with a soothing swish and a promise of smooth paths beyond the threshold.

I just hope that promise is not as empty as the prose produced by ChatGPT.