This morning as I walked to my car I saw, not ten feet in front of my face, an adult downy woodpecker feeding its young. The young bird, fat and fluffy and entirely trusting, sat on the bar of the birdfeeder with its mouth hanging open for more while my mouth was hanging open for awe, if awe can properly describe what one feels while watching a wild creature regurgitate into another wild creature's gullet.
I felt a bit like regurgitating myself, as I always do when a medical professional promises "You won't feel a thing. Just a little discomfort. Maybe just a slight pinch and some burning afterward. Trust me." This morning I trusted my dentist to remove an annoying redundant flap of flesh from my upper lip. I've lived with this thing all my life without ever once being told it should be removed, but my dentist finally persuaded me to get rid of it. "It's probably harmless," he said, "But every time you smile it looks like a nipple hanging from your upper lip." I couldn't get this image out of my mind and so away it went, the fibroid thing with the impressive Latin name I can't seem to recall right now, whisked away with the aid of a laser that felt like hundreds of tiny birds pecking hungrily at my lip. I'd like to take my new smile for a test drive but it's a bit tender at the moment. Just a little discomfort. A slight pinch with some burning afterward. Nothing to worry about. Trust me.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Sunday, June 04, 2006
The scent of holiness
There's a frequent visitor to our church and everyone agrees that he stinks. Or she, as the case may be--so far no one has managed to get close enough to determine the visitor's gender. It's kind of difficult to properly welcome a visitor who adds a certain distinct tang to the service but insists on hiding under the sanctuary during daylight hours .
A skunk is what we have, or perhaps skunks. Apparently the crawl-space under the sanctuary is an ideal nesting place for a mother skunk nurturing young 'uns; this morning the chair of the church board kindly invited me to crawl in there and find out for myself, but since my experience with skunks has been limited to road kill, I deferred that pleasure to someone more, um, qualified.
Unlike many other problems facing today's churches, a skunk under the sanctuary cannot be ignored, nor would it do any good to appoint a committee to study the matter and come up with five bullet points and a new creed. I'm not aware of any clear Biblical guidelines regarding skunks--there's no "suffer the little vermin to come under the sanctuary and forbid them not," so it's difficult to answer the question What Would Jesus Do? The Wesleyan quadrilateral is no more helpful, and the Methodist Social Principles wisely steer clear of the controversial topic of poison vs. traps. Suppose we kill the skunk; then we're left with a dead skunk under the sanctuary, and I doubt that a dead skunk would smell any less pungent than a live one. But then suppose we trap it: we will then have a trap full of angry skunk, not something you'd want to deal with while dressed in your church clothes.
I suppose the Christian thing to do is to turn the other cheek, to live and let live, to peacefully coexist with all God's creatures. If you sincerely believe that, send me your address--I'd be glad to send you a skunk by parcel post. Be careful opening the package, though; by the time he gets there he'll be very, very angry.
A skunk is what we have, or perhaps skunks. Apparently the crawl-space under the sanctuary is an ideal nesting place for a mother skunk nurturing young 'uns; this morning the chair of the church board kindly invited me to crawl in there and find out for myself, but since my experience with skunks has been limited to road kill, I deferred that pleasure to someone more, um, qualified.
Unlike many other problems facing today's churches, a skunk under the sanctuary cannot be ignored, nor would it do any good to appoint a committee to study the matter and come up with five bullet points and a new creed. I'm not aware of any clear Biblical guidelines regarding skunks--there's no "suffer the little vermin to come under the sanctuary and forbid them not," so it's difficult to answer the question What Would Jesus Do? The Wesleyan quadrilateral is no more helpful, and the Methodist Social Principles wisely steer clear of the controversial topic of poison vs. traps. Suppose we kill the skunk; then we're left with a dead skunk under the sanctuary, and I doubt that a dead skunk would smell any less pungent than a live one. But then suppose we trap it: we will then have a trap full of angry skunk, not something you'd want to deal with while dressed in your church clothes.
I suppose the Christian thing to do is to turn the other cheek, to live and let live, to peacefully coexist with all God's creatures. If you sincerely believe that, send me your address--I'd be glad to send you a skunk by parcel post. Be careful opening the package, though; by the time he gets there he'll be very, very angry.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Up with the yeast
I was trying to explain why our alarm clock typically rings before 5:00 on Saturday mornings and I found myself saying, "My husband gets up with the cows to get ready for the Farmers' Market." This is not, however, strictly true. For one thing, we don't have cows. Our neighbors have cows and our creek sometimes smells vaguely cow-intensive, but cows are not our thing. Clearly, I need a new metaphor to describe exactly what the resident farmer is doing at 5 a.m. on a Saturday--and sometimes earlier.
This morning, for instance, he was up at 3 a.m. to murder yeast organisms. Millions of squeaky little yeast voices could be heard begging for their lives: "No! Not the oven! Anything but the oven!" But a man with the strength of character to get up at 3 a.m. on a Saturday to bake a dozen loaves of bread is unlikely to be swayed by the heartfelt pleas of a host of microscopic organisms.
Later in the season it might be corn, squash, or okra that gets him up so early in the morning, but right now while the garden is still snoozing it's just bread. Next time someone asks about our bizarre schedule I'll say, "You have to get up with the cows to murder the yeast." They'll smile brightly and move away briskly, nodding all the while.
This morning, for instance, he was up at 3 a.m. to murder yeast organisms. Millions of squeaky little yeast voices could be heard begging for their lives: "No! Not the oven! Anything but the oven!" But a man with the strength of character to get up at 3 a.m. on a Saturday to bake a dozen loaves of bread is unlikely to be swayed by the heartfelt pleas of a host of microscopic organisms.
Later in the season it might be corn, squash, or okra that gets him up so early in the morning, but right now while the garden is still snoozing it's just bread. Next time someone asks about our bizarre schedule I'll say, "You have to get up with the cows to murder the yeast." They'll smile brightly and move away briskly, nodding all the while.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
I can see clearly now
"He put in a window today."
The words appeared in the middle of a muddle of mundane accomplishments--mulching the berry patch, mowing the meadow, and by the way, he put in a window today--but to me they sounded like magic.
"He" is our new contractor, who replaces our old contractor, who became our old contractor due to circumstances which will form the centerpiece of impending legal action involving, among other things, the lengthy non-appearance of windows. Since last July windows have frequently been promised "soon" or "next week" or "first thing in the morning," but until today no windows ever appeared, and indeed for the past six months our old contractor has neither appeared nor responded to our phone calls to explain the lack of windows, which lack has allowed a variety of woodland creatures to inhabit a structure not intended for their use.
It was a relief, really, to dump the old contractor and hire a new one, but even the new contractor led us to believe that he wouldn't have much time to devote to the project for another month or two. Instead, he put in a window today. Just one out of several, but he expects to put in the second set tomorrow, a lovely big picture window with a sash window on each side. The windows look out on nothing but woods and sky and meadow but they offer the promise that one day the room will be finished, a year later than expected and way over budget. At last we can see an end to the project and the beginning of a new stage of life that will include windows, storage space, a guest room, and, finally, a garage.
He put in a window today, and through it I can see the future.
The words appeared in the middle of a muddle of mundane accomplishments--mulching the berry patch, mowing the meadow, and by the way, he put in a window today--but to me they sounded like magic.
"He" is our new contractor, who replaces our old contractor, who became our old contractor due to circumstances which will form the centerpiece of impending legal action involving, among other things, the lengthy non-appearance of windows. Since last July windows have frequently been promised "soon" or "next week" or "first thing in the morning," but until today no windows ever appeared, and indeed for the past six months our old contractor has neither appeared nor responded to our phone calls to explain the lack of windows, which lack has allowed a variety of woodland creatures to inhabit a structure not intended for their use.
It was a relief, really, to dump the old contractor and hire a new one, but even the new contractor led us to believe that he wouldn't have much time to devote to the project for another month or two. Instead, he put in a window today. Just one out of several, but he expects to put in the second set tomorrow, a lovely big picture window with a sash window on each side. The windows look out on nothing but woods and sky and meadow but they offer the promise that one day the room will be finished, a year later than expected and way over budget. At last we can see an end to the project and the beginning of a new stage of life that will include windows, storage space, a guest room, and, finally, a garage.
He put in a window today, and through it I can see the future.
Boundless blah-ugh
Yesterday a Renowned Writing Expert told me he would be more interested in blogs if they had a different name. "Blog" sounds like a collision between "blah" and "ugh," words that accurately describe some blogs (not this one, I hope, but I'm not the best judge of that):
"blah" = endless pompous blathering intended to reveal to readers how Terribly Clever I am
"ugh" = endless intimate details intended to reveal to readers what a Fun Party Person I am
"blah" + "ugh" = all the blogs I hate to read
What are the alternatives? "Online journal" would inevitably be abbreviated as "onjo," which sounds jaunty and foreign and banjo-intensive and not at all like a forum for profound thought. Then there's "electronic diary," which would become "e-di," which is clearly the name of a deadly bacillus used in chemical warfare. "Computer-Assisted Space for Compulsive Communicators" leads to CASCC, which suggests a fruitless search for Amontillado followed by eternal imprisonment in a cobwebby sub-basement where cries for help only bounce off the walls.
I hate to tell my Renowned Writing Expert friend, but no matter how it sounds, we're stuck with "blog" so we'd better get over it. On the other hand, perhaps the best way to inspire a more euphonious name is to produce a blog that moves beyond blah-ugh.
"blah" = endless pompous blathering intended to reveal to readers how Terribly Clever I am
"ugh" = endless intimate details intended to reveal to readers what a Fun Party Person I am
"blah" + "ugh" = all the blogs I hate to read
What are the alternatives? "Online journal" would inevitably be abbreviated as "onjo," which sounds jaunty and foreign and banjo-intensive and not at all like a forum for profound thought. Then there's "electronic diary," which would become "e-di," which is clearly the name of a deadly bacillus used in chemical warfare. "Computer-Assisted Space for Compulsive Communicators" leads to CASCC, which suggests a fruitless search for Amontillado followed by eternal imprisonment in a cobwebby sub-basement where cries for help only bounce off the walls.
I hate to tell my Renowned Writing Expert friend, but no matter how it sounds, we're stuck with "blog" so we'd better get over it. On the other hand, perhaps the best way to inspire a more euphonious name is to produce a blog that moves beyond blah-ugh.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Grumble bumble wobble whee!
I have promised not to grumble about the heat so I won't even mention that the air conditioning in two cars is currently on the fritz (of course the air conditioning would go on strike during the hottest week of the year!) or that the humidity has reached full steam-bath mode before 9 a.m. every day this week. Besides, the cold sweet watermelon we ate for supper felt like a plunge into a glacier-fed mountain stream, so I'm just not capable of thinking about the heat. So I won't mention it.
Instead, let's think about birds. In the past week I have seen an oriole and an indigo bunting hovering around the feeder stations, which is highly unusual. We've seen them around the more remote edges of the property before but never right up by the house. And then the other day an indigo bunting tried to fly right through my living-room picture window. It fortunately survived the impact, although its flight path became a bit wobbly afterward. A chipmunk figured out how to climb up to one of the feeders, so the resident Feeder Maintenance Engineer greased the pole with vaseline. We're waiting to see what charming chipmunk antics ensue.
While the early birds have been getting their worms and the early chipmunks their birdseed, I've been hustling off all week to catch emerging ideas at a teaching workshop featuring interesting speakers and some of my favorite colleagues. I come home exhausted and exhilarated and sometimes too distracted to notice that the resident young people have been slaving away with the weed-eater or the garden trowel or the iron all day long. This afternoon I came home and bumbled around too dazed and confused to notice the results of all their hard word, banging into freshly-cleaned windows and then wobbling off like a confused bunting. For that condition the only solution is cold sweet watermelon--and when we toss out the rinds, even the birds will enjoy the feast.
Instead, let's think about birds. In the past week I have seen an oriole and an indigo bunting hovering around the feeder stations, which is highly unusual. We've seen them around the more remote edges of the property before but never right up by the house. And then the other day an indigo bunting tried to fly right through my living-room picture window. It fortunately survived the impact, although its flight path became a bit wobbly afterward. A chipmunk figured out how to climb up to one of the feeders, so the resident Feeder Maintenance Engineer greased the pole with vaseline. We're waiting to see what charming chipmunk antics ensue.
While the early birds have been getting their worms and the early chipmunks their birdseed, I've been hustling off all week to catch emerging ideas at a teaching workshop featuring interesting speakers and some of my favorite colleagues. I come home exhausted and exhilarated and sometimes too distracted to notice that the resident young people have been slaving away with the weed-eater or the garden trowel or the iron all day long. This afternoon I came home and bumbled around too dazed and confused to notice the results of all their hard word, banging into freshly-cleaned windows and then wobbling off like a confused bunting. For that condition the only solution is cold sweet watermelon--and when we toss out the rinds, even the birds will enjoy the feast.
Luring scholars
The Chronicle of Higher Education reports that California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger plans to "make personal phone calls to try to lure high-level scholars to California research institutions." Somehow, I don't envision Ohio Governor Bob Taft trying this. What would he promise? "Come to Ohio! We fund worthy projects by investing in coins so rare that they do not, in the strictest sense of the term, exist--and hey, we could play golf together! I would even pay the greens fees--I'd rather not get indicted again."
The larger issue, of course, is name recognition. If a top scholar received a call from Arnold Schwarzenegger, he might laugh it off as a silly student prank: "Schwarzenegger! That's good! I love the way you do that 'I'll be back' thing! Who is this really? Jason? Josh? Michael?" The same scholar's response to a phone call from Bob Taft would be much more brief: "Bob who?"
I'm eager to hear the results of Schwarzenegger's campaign. If it's successful, maybe he could give Taft some pointers. When the goal is luring scholars, what is the best bait? I doubt that a phone call from a celebrity will do it.
The larger issue, of course, is name recognition. If a top scholar received a call from Arnold Schwarzenegger, he might laugh it off as a silly student prank: "Schwarzenegger! That's good! I love the way you do that 'I'll be back' thing! Who is this really? Jason? Josh? Michael?" The same scholar's response to a phone call from Bob Taft would be much more brief: "Bob who?"
I'm eager to hear the results of Schwarzenegger's campaign. If it's successful, maybe he could give Taft some pointers. When the goal is luring scholars, what is the best bait? I doubt that a phone call from a celebrity will do it.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Ta-ta to the traveler
This morning we all got up early to give one of the young men a proper send-off on a trip to Europe. I asked all the usual last-minute questions (passport? toothbrush? camera batteries?), but I'm surprisingly calm about letting my 16-year-old son fly off with a few high school teachers and a bunch of classmates. For one thing, I know he's a pro at finding his way around, and he's also the most cautious teenager on the planet; for another, I know he worked like a madman all last summer to earn money for this trip, and he's unlikely to do anything to negate all that effort. So I gave him a big hug and sent him on his way.
Now I wonder how soon I can check the tour web site for photos? He'd better be smiling.
Now I wonder how soon I can check the tour web site for photos? He'd better be smiling.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Degrees of difficulty
I'm thinking of the summer we flew to California and stayed in a lodge high in the Sierras. On the hottest day of the year we drove down to Yosemite to look at the sights and then stopped for supper in Fresno, where the temperature was 114 degrees. By the time we were done with supper, my legs had swelled until they felt rooted to the ground like tree stumps. Forty minutes later, though, when we reached our room high in the mountains, the temperature had fallen into the 70s and the breeze carried the scent of sequoias and my legs were willing to gambol in the woods.
What I need today is a nice high mountain where I can escape the heat, which has been hovering near 100 all afternoon with not a whisper of wind blowing anywhere. It's the sort of heat that drives everyone indoors and makes my car's air conditioning give up in despair. I have to think hard to remember that exactly one week ago the temperature dipped down into the low 30s. That's not what I'm looking for today, but there are plenty of pleasant temperatures between 30 and 100--72, for instance, or 68, or even 80 on occasion. Who needs 100 degrees? Not me. I need a mountain--even if it's only in my mind.
What I need today is a nice high mountain where I can escape the heat, which has been hovering near 100 all afternoon with not a whisper of wind blowing anywhere. It's the sort of heat that drives everyone indoors and makes my car's air conditioning give up in despair. I have to think hard to remember that exactly one week ago the temperature dipped down into the low 30s. That's not what I'm looking for today, but there are plenty of pleasant temperatures between 30 and 100--72, for instance, or 68, or even 80 on occasion. Who needs 100 degrees? Not me. I need a mountain--even if it's only in my mind.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Eat my weeds, sucker!
I need a verb to describe what the young men did yesterday with the weed-eater. Did they weed-eat? Are they weed-eating? Have they weed-eaten? May I say that yesterday they weed-ate? Sounds tasty but there must be a better way.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Crime spree
I see in the papers that a local woman recently reported to the police that a man entered her home, used her toothbrush and toothpaste, and stole a bottle of mouthwash. This comes on the heels of an incident about four months ago when a local couple came home from vacation to find that in their absence someone had entered their house and turned all their dining-room furniture upside-down.
This could be the start of an extremely slow-paced crime spree or perhaps an outbreak of Serial Dadaism. I don't know about you, but I intend to nail my furniture to the floor and lock up all my personal hygiene products lest I come home one day to find an unidentified person flossing his teeth on an inverted sofa with nothing to say for himself except "What is the frequency, Kenneth?"
This could be the start of an extremely slow-paced crime spree or perhaps an outbreak of Serial Dadaism. I don't know about you, but I intend to nail my furniture to the floor and lock up all my personal hygiene products lest I come home one day to find an unidentified person flossing his teeth on an inverted sofa with nothing to say for himself except "What is the frequency, Kenneth?"
Word wars
As I walked past the Saturday to-do list, one item caught my eye: "Plant verbs." Plant verbs? How and where? If any verbs are being planted on my property, I'd like to be there to watch. Do they grow from seeds or tubers? What sort of soil? What about fertilizer? Pesticides? I suppose one would want to protect precious verbs from creeping nominalization, but how?
Ah but then I realized I had read the list wrong: "Plant herbs." I'm glad someone is making efforts to add flavor to my life, but surely some nice fresh juicy verbs would do just as well. Of course then we would face the storage problem, particularly if verbs produce as abundantly as, say, zucchini. Our language larder is pretty well full, so adding new verbs to the mix would require some careful pruning of other parts of speech. We could start by tossing out a pile of solecisms and redundancies; simply removing "times" from every instance of "oftentimes" would open up space for thousands of new verbs, and surely no one would notice if we trimmed the "u" out of British spellings of -or words.
But then perhaps our neighbors would notice our bumper crop of new verbs and grow envious--it would be Word War III. They grow bigger verbs, so we plant adverbs; they see our adverbs and add a patch of interjections, and before you know it, the entire county is buried under piles of rotting lingo.
Clearly, whoever made that to-do list must have foreseen the tragic implications and decided to change "verbs" to "herbs." But what's to stop me from changing it back before anyone notices? By this time next week we'd see the first tender green shoots poking out of the ground, a feast for eyes and tongue. Look out, world--here I verb.
Ah but then I realized I had read the list wrong: "Plant herbs." I'm glad someone is making efforts to add flavor to my life, but surely some nice fresh juicy verbs would do just as well. Of course then we would face the storage problem, particularly if verbs produce as abundantly as, say, zucchini. Our language larder is pretty well full, so adding new verbs to the mix would require some careful pruning of other parts of speech. We could start by tossing out a pile of solecisms and redundancies; simply removing "times" from every instance of "oftentimes" would open up space for thousands of new verbs, and surely no one would notice if we trimmed the "u" out of British spellings of -or words.
But then perhaps our neighbors would notice our bumper crop of new verbs and grow envious--it would be Word War III. They grow bigger verbs, so we plant adverbs; they see our adverbs and add a patch of interjections, and before you know it, the entire county is buried under piles of rotting lingo.
Clearly, whoever made that to-do list must have foreseen the tragic implications and decided to change "verbs" to "herbs." But what's to stop me from changing it back before anyone notices? By this time next week we'd see the first tender green shoots poking out of the ground, a feast for eyes and tongue. Look out, world--here I verb.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Starry starry night
Funny thing: a few months ago I wrote a book review for a library journal, and yesterday I found that review posted on Amazon with five stars next to it. I wouldn't have given the book five stars; it was a mostly good review, but I would have given the book four stars, maybe even three. But nobody asked me for stars, nor did anyone ask me for permission to print the entire review on Amazon, despite the fact that the words "Quoted by permission" appear after my name. Who in the world would copy my equivocal review and post it on Amazon with five stars attached? Fortunately, Amazon helpfully provides the statement "This review posted by," and guess whose name appears there? The author of the book. Now that's effective: "This book gets five stars! I should know--I wrote it!"
I suppose I should be flattered that he liked my review well enough to rip it off, but instead I'm trying to figure out how I can remove at least one of those stars from his firmament.
I suppose I should be flattered that he liked my review well enough to rip it off, but instead I'm trying to figure out how I can remove at least one of those stars from his firmament.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The sound of silence
My inbox is empty and my phone is not ringing, which is pretty unusual for this time of year. Grades have been out for a week but I have not received the usual round of whining messages from students unhappy with their grades. There's always at least one who comes to me at the last possible moment and says, "What can I do to bring up my grade?" I always want to say, "Build a time machine, go back to January, and this time come to class and turn in the assignments." But this semester I won't even have a chance to say that because my students seem unusually satisfied with their grades, or at least if they're not satisfied, they're not saying so. Not that I'm complaining.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
A textbook raspberry-ectomy
Lately we've been seeing a great big flicker hanging around the property, mostly in the tulip poplars. We've seen flickers before but only briefly; generally they stop by the feeders for a few days and then move on. This one seems to be sticking around. It may have been a flicker I heard this morning thunk-thunking against a tree, but I couldn't spot it so I don't know for sure.
The flowers in the newly planted flower garden have survived some very cold nights. Since Sunday, the temperature has been falling into the 30s at night and rising into the 70s during the day, an unusual range for this time of year. The chief flower gardener dug up a thick clump of daisies from the slope beside the house and moved them down into the flower beds, where they seem quite content. Yesterday it took all five of us to dig up some stubborn raspberry bushes that have been trying to colonize a rose bed and move them to a more appropriate location. Those tough roots just resist easy extraction.
I suppose all that effort looks pretty silly to the birds, who sow not....but so what? If we insist on rearranging the wild things that colonize our little bit of land, at least it gives us a good excuse to get out in the sunshine.
The flowers in the newly planted flower garden have survived some very cold nights. Since Sunday, the temperature has been falling into the 30s at night and rising into the 70s during the day, an unusual range for this time of year. The chief flower gardener dug up a thick clump of daisies from the slope beside the house and moved them down into the flower beds, where they seem quite content. Yesterday it took all five of us to dig up some stubborn raspberry bushes that have been trying to colonize a rose bed and move them to a more appropriate location. Those tough roots just resist easy extraction.
I suppose all that effort looks pretty silly to the birds, who sow not....but so what? If we insist on rearranging the wild things that colonize our little bit of land, at least it gives us a good excuse to get out in the sunshine.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
The Dan Brown cult
Why haven't I read The Da Vinci Code? Blame my students. Not all my students, of course, but the small percentage who insist that Dan Brown's book is not fiction but history. This heartfelt faith in Dan Brown is so deep and widespread that it approaches cult status; someday we can expect to see supermarket tabloids speculating about the secret lovechild of Dan Brown and Madonna.
I didn't realize just how pervasive this belief is until last semester when I felt the need to spend some class time explaining to a room full of students in a sophomore-level literature class how to distinguish between poetry and prose. The problem came to my attention when several students referred to Moby Dick as a poem. By the time a person gets to college, he or she ought to be equipped to recognize that whatever Moby Dick might be, it is certainly not poetry; however, instead of bemoaning the gaps in my students' college preparation, I decided to devote half a class period to a crash course in conventions of poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction.
The class was receptive...until a student asked about The Da Vinci Code. "You can't call it fiction," said one student.
"Yes, I can," I said, "because that's what it is."
"But it's true!"
It soon became clear that nothing I could say would shake this student's conviction that Dan Brown is a historian and not a novelist. He expressed his assurance with such religious fervor that I expected him to praise Brown in ecstatic tongues or burn his professor as a heretic.
I suppose it's not Dan Brown's fault that so many readers confuse fact and fiction, but that kind of category error frightens me. So until my students can distinguish between fiction and non-, count me out of the Dan Brown cult.
I didn't realize just how pervasive this belief is until last semester when I felt the need to spend some class time explaining to a room full of students in a sophomore-level literature class how to distinguish between poetry and prose. The problem came to my attention when several students referred to Moby Dick as a poem. By the time a person gets to college, he or she ought to be equipped to recognize that whatever Moby Dick might be, it is certainly not poetry; however, instead of bemoaning the gaps in my students' college preparation, I decided to devote half a class period to a crash course in conventions of poetry and prose, fiction and nonfiction.
The class was receptive...until a student asked about The Da Vinci Code. "You can't call it fiction," said one student.
"Yes, I can," I said, "because that's what it is."
"But it's true!"
It soon became clear that nothing I could say would shake this student's conviction that Dan Brown is a historian and not a novelist. He expressed his assurance with such religious fervor that I expected him to praise Brown in ecstatic tongues or burn his professor as a heretic.
I suppose it's not Dan Brown's fault that so many readers confuse fact and fiction, but that kind of category error frightens me. So until my students can distinguish between fiction and non-, count me out of the Dan Brown cult.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Power trip
I expect a little respect today in honor of my new status as Mace-Wielder and Chief Gesturer at Chairs, Mistress of the Mower, and Sod-Carrier to the Stars. Like Moses when he came down from the mountain with a countenance so bright he had to cover it lest people be blinded just by glancing at him, I have experienced sheer unadulterated power that has left me all aglow.
My first encounter with unspeakable power occurred on Saturday, when I was called upon to join the crack Faculty Marshal squad and wield a mace at Commencement. As Second Substitute Marshal, my primary function was to gesture meaningfully at chairs, but none of the meaningful gestures I had perfected in practice turned out to be much use in the event, where my ostensible followers were distracted by moms and dads with cameras and college officials handing out diplomas. Still, I did relish my one moment of real power: when the time came for the maces to be placed in the official mace stand, I, as carrier of the smallest mace, was the first to place the mace in the stand and therefore had to power to determine which direction all four maces would face. Now that's power. Next year, though, I'm lobbying for a switch to light-sabers, which would provide a bit more spectacle and also look appropriate with our Vaderesque regalia.
Then came Sunday, when a new sort of power coursed through me, a power I can feel even now in my back and shoulder muscles: for the first time this spring, I pushed the reel mower around the front yard. Every ounce of the power required to make that manual mower move must come from me: my muscles propel it, my hands tug on the long weeds that get stuck in the reel, my feet direct its attention to the irregularly shaped bits of lawn around the flower beds where the riding mower can't reach. No gas, no pollution, no nasty noise drowning out the songs of birds, and the next day after mowing, my muscles still feel the burn. That's power--or maybe just muscle spasms.
But that's not all: my final encounter with power occurred when I was called upon to become a Sod-Carrier to the Stars, or make that the Star of my flower garden. The rain finally stopped long enough to allow my daughter to plant her annual Mother's Day Flower Garden, and this year she had big plans to cut some sod out and make room for more flowers and herbs than she's ever planted before. She will not allow anyone to help with the sod-cutting or planting, but I--I alone!--was permitted to carry the chunks of sod up the hill and plop them down on a bare spot where we'd like to see some grass take root. Yes, I am the Chosen One, I thought as I slogged each chunk of sod up the hill. No one else is empowered to carry this sod! The power was simply intoxicating.
Today I still bask in that intoxicating power, and as the week throws me its usual petty annoyances, I shall gesture meaningfully at them and proclaim, "Begone! I have wielded the mace, pushed the mower, and carried the sod! Behold the glow of my power!"
Then again, maybe that's just sunburn, in which case never mind.
My first encounter with unspeakable power occurred on Saturday, when I was called upon to join the crack Faculty Marshal squad and wield a mace at Commencement. As Second Substitute Marshal, my primary function was to gesture meaningfully at chairs, but none of the meaningful gestures I had perfected in practice turned out to be much use in the event, where my ostensible followers were distracted by moms and dads with cameras and college officials handing out diplomas. Still, I did relish my one moment of real power: when the time came for the maces to be placed in the official mace stand, I, as carrier of the smallest mace, was the first to place the mace in the stand and therefore had to power to determine which direction all four maces would face. Now that's power. Next year, though, I'm lobbying for a switch to light-sabers, which would provide a bit more spectacle and also look appropriate with our Vaderesque regalia.
Then came Sunday, when a new sort of power coursed through me, a power I can feel even now in my back and shoulder muscles: for the first time this spring, I pushed the reel mower around the front yard. Every ounce of the power required to make that manual mower move must come from me: my muscles propel it, my hands tug on the long weeds that get stuck in the reel, my feet direct its attention to the irregularly shaped bits of lawn around the flower beds where the riding mower can't reach. No gas, no pollution, no nasty noise drowning out the songs of birds, and the next day after mowing, my muscles still feel the burn. That's power--or maybe just muscle spasms.
But that's not all: my final encounter with power occurred when I was called upon to become a Sod-Carrier to the Stars, or make that the Star of my flower garden. The rain finally stopped long enough to allow my daughter to plant her annual Mother's Day Flower Garden, and this year she had big plans to cut some sod out and make room for more flowers and herbs than she's ever planted before. She will not allow anyone to help with the sod-cutting or planting, but I--I alone!--was permitted to carry the chunks of sod up the hill and plop them down on a bare spot where we'd like to see some grass take root. Yes, I am the Chosen One, I thought as I slogged each chunk of sod up the hill. No one else is empowered to carry this sod! The power was simply intoxicating.
Today I still bask in that intoxicating power, and as the week throws me its usual petty annoyances, I shall gesture meaningfully at them and proclaim, "Begone! I have wielded the mace, pushed the mower, and carried the sod! Behold the glow of my power!"
Then again, maybe that's just sunburn, in which case never mind.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
The customer is always wrong
Transcript of an imaginary telephone conversation:
Thank you for calling Customer Service. How may I help?
Um, yeah, I'm not entirely satisfied with the cup of LottaChai I just made.
And how can I help you with that?
Well, um, on the package it says that if I'm not entirely satisfied with the product I should call this number, so that's what I did.
Is there something wrong with the product?
No, it's fine, really, but when I drink it I just feel as if there's something missing, some small but important part of the experience that's somehow lacking. I'm just not--satisfied.
Maybe you didn't follow the directions.
What directions? I just stirred the mix into the hot water.
There's your problem right there. When you're dealing with the delicate blend of flavors found in our instant hot beverage products, you must pay very careful attention to the directions or you're bound to be dissatisfied with the result.
But it's just instant tea!
Nonsense. Do you have the package in front of you?
Um, yeah, I had to use it to find the phone number.
Great. Just read me the directions, okay?
Okay: "In your favorite mug, pour 8 ounces of boiling water over 3 tablespoons of LottaChai mix. Stir well and enjoy." That's just what I did.
Are you sure about that?
Of course I'm sure. How could I mess up something so simple?
You'd be surprised. Let's just review: did you use your favorite mug?
What? What difference does that make?
You read it yourself: the directions require that you use your favorite mug. Did you?
Well, um, I don't really have a favorite mug. I just sort of use whatever mug is handy.
Did you at least choose a mug that you like?
Not particularly. It's this tacky orange mug with a Norman Rockwell print--I keep hoping it'll break so I'll never have to look at that boy and his dog again.
Tsk, tsk. No wonder you're not entirely satisfied! If you'd only followed directions--
But I followed the rest of them!
We'll see about that. Did you measure 3 tablespoons of LottaChai mix into the mug?
Well, I sorta eyeballed it and poured it into the water.
Poured it into the water? The instructions demand that you put the mix in the mug first and then pour precisely 8 ounces of boiling water over it. Did you do that?
Well, 8 ounces more or less--
More or less! How do you expect to be entirely satisfied with your LottaChai experience if you ignore every step in the directions!
Hey, that's not fair! I did one step right.
Which step?
"Stir well." I stirred it pretty darn well. In fact I think I should get an A plus for my stirring abilities alone.
All right, I'll give you that much, but what about the final step?
What final step?
The last part of the instructions: "Stir well and enjoy." Did you enjoy?
Not really--but that's why I'm calling you.
There you go again failing to follow directions. The directions clearly require you to enjoy your drink.
But--
How do you expect me to help you if you can't obey a simple command like "enjoy"?
But I can't enjoy my drink just because you said so!
Of course you can. Millions of people just like you manage to follow our directions to the letter every day. What's your problem?
My problem! It's your hot beverage mix!
But you're not preparing it correctly. You must follow directions: use your favorite mug, not your second favorite mug or whatever mug just happens to be available, and measure precisely 3 tablespoons of dry mix into the mug before pouring over it precisely 8 ounces of boiling water--not hot, not near-boiling, but boiling water--stir well, which I grant that you may have managed to do in this case, and if the directions tell you to enjoy it, then you'd darn well better just sit down and enjoy it.
But if could force myself to follow the command to "Enjoy" then I wouldn't have a problem!
Exactly. It's been a pleasure serving you.
Click.
Thank you for calling Customer Service. How may I help?
Um, yeah, I'm not entirely satisfied with the cup of LottaChai I just made.
And how can I help you with that?
Well, um, on the package it says that if I'm not entirely satisfied with the product I should call this number, so that's what I did.
Is there something wrong with the product?
No, it's fine, really, but when I drink it I just feel as if there's something missing, some small but important part of the experience that's somehow lacking. I'm just not--satisfied.
Maybe you didn't follow the directions.
What directions? I just stirred the mix into the hot water.
There's your problem right there. When you're dealing with the delicate blend of flavors found in our instant hot beverage products, you must pay very careful attention to the directions or you're bound to be dissatisfied with the result.
But it's just instant tea!
Nonsense. Do you have the package in front of you?
Um, yeah, I had to use it to find the phone number.
Great. Just read me the directions, okay?
Okay: "In your favorite mug, pour 8 ounces of boiling water over 3 tablespoons of LottaChai mix. Stir well and enjoy." That's just what I did.
Are you sure about that?
Of course I'm sure. How could I mess up something so simple?
You'd be surprised. Let's just review: did you use your favorite mug?
What? What difference does that make?
You read it yourself: the directions require that you use your favorite mug. Did you?
Well, um, I don't really have a favorite mug. I just sort of use whatever mug is handy.
Did you at least choose a mug that you like?
Not particularly. It's this tacky orange mug with a Norman Rockwell print--I keep hoping it'll break so I'll never have to look at that boy and his dog again.
Tsk, tsk. No wonder you're not entirely satisfied! If you'd only followed directions--
But I followed the rest of them!
We'll see about that. Did you measure 3 tablespoons of LottaChai mix into the mug?
Well, I sorta eyeballed it and poured it into the water.
Poured it into the water? The instructions demand that you put the mix in the mug first and then pour precisely 8 ounces of boiling water over it. Did you do that?
Well, 8 ounces more or less--
More or less! How do you expect to be entirely satisfied with your LottaChai experience if you ignore every step in the directions!
Hey, that's not fair! I did one step right.
Which step?
"Stir well." I stirred it pretty darn well. In fact I think I should get an A plus for my stirring abilities alone.
All right, I'll give you that much, but what about the final step?
What final step?
The last part of the instructions: "Stir well and enjoy." Did you enjoy?
Not really--but that's why I'm calling you.
There you go again failing to follow directions. The directions clearly require you to enjoy your drink.
But--
How do you expect me to help you if you can't obey a simple command like "enjoy"?
But I can't enjoy my drink just because you said so!
Of course you can. Millions of people just like you manage to follow our directions to the letter every day. What's your problem?
My problem! It's your hot beverage mix!
But you're not preparing it correctly. You must follow directions: use your favorite mug, not your second favorite mug or whatever mug just happens to be available, and measure precisely 3 tablespoons of dry mix into the mug before pouring over it precisely 8 ounces of boiling water--not hot, not near-boiling, but boiling water--stir well, which I grant that you may have managed to do in this case, and if the directions tell you to enjoy it, then you'd darn well better just sit down and enjoy it.
But if could force myself to follow the command to "Enjoy" then I wouldn't have a problem!
Exactly. It's been a pleasure serving you.
Click.
Friday, May 19, 2006
The excelsior arms race
Yesterday in a used book store I stumbled upon a lovely old illustrated textbook called something like Excelsior Rhetoric and Oratory. I didn't buy it because $38 is a lot to spend on a book just because I like the title, but of course I can't remember the title exactly so today I've been hunting for it online. Instead, I serendipitously found a book called Excelsior, You Fathead! The Art and Enigma of Jean Shepard by a guy named Eugene B. Bergmann. Now there's a title to conjure with, even better because I hear it in the voice of Jean Shepard, who may not have mastered the type of oratory promoted in Excelsior Rhetoric and Oratory but whose voice is heard by millions of television viewers every Christmas season.
Everyone knows Shepard from A Christmas Story, based on Shepard's tales of his youth in Indiana. Excelsior, You Fathead! evokes the image of little apple-cheeked Ralphie encountering the obsessively misguided youth in Longfellow's poem "Excelsior": the Longfellow youth goes barrelling past just as Ralphie is trying out his Red Ryder gun for the first time with tragic results, or perhaps the two youths get into an altercation involving fists, gun, and banner. Who is better armed, the boy packing the Red Ryder b.b. gun or the starry-eyed youth wielding the banner with the strange device?
Longfellow's youth would be hopelessly out of place in any milieu where the word "fathead" might be uttered, but I suspect that Ralphie and his chums would be right at home swelling crowd scenes in any work of literature ever written. The urchins we will always have with us; it's just their weapons that change over time.
Now I'm stuck: if I can't buy one book just for the title, how can I possibly justify buying two? I'll have to add them to my wish list. After all, Chrsitmas is coming, and with it Jean Shepard. Excelsior, you fathead.
Everyone knows Shepard from A Christmas Story, based on Shepard's tales of his youth in Indiana. Excelsior, You Fathead! evokes the image of little apple-cheeked Ralphie encountering the obsessively misguided youth in Longfellow's poem "Excelsior": the Longfellow youth goes barrelling past just as Ralphie is trying out his Red Ryder gun for the first time with tragic results, or perhaps the two youths get into an altercation involving fists, gun, and banner. Who is better armed, the boy packing the Red Ryder b.b. gun or the starry-eyed youth wielding the banner with the strange device?
Longfellow's youth would be hopelessly out of place in any milieu where the word "fathead" might be uttered, but I suspect that Ralphie and his chums would be right at home swelling crowd scenes in any work of literature ever written. The urchins we will always have with us; it's just their weapons that change over time.
Now I'm stuck: if I can't buy one book just for the title, how can I possibly justify buying two? I'll have to add them to my wish list. After all, Chrsitmas is coming, and with it Jean Shepard. Excelsior, you fathead.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Evacuation orders revoked
Today I encountered an unfamiliar phrase: "author-evacuated prose." Here is the context: "Rather than emphasizing constructed knowing at the expense of separate knowing, or privileging writing-to-learn over more formal author-evacuated prose, I try to encourage a variety of ways of composing and knowing."
Which is all well and good as long as we can agree on what "author-evacuated prose" means. Prose from which the author has fled as if catching the last helicopter out of Saigon? Prose from which the author has been forcibly removed like a Katrina victim clinging hopelessly to the last vestige of home? Prose which has passed through the author like X-Lax through an anorexic?
Any of these prose styles would send me screaming from the room, but I'm not sure I understand the distinction this passage is trying to make. The equation "informal writing-to-learn = good, formal author-evacuated prose = bad" is a bit reductive. What about formal writing in which the authorial presence is alive and kicking? What about informal writing from which the author has fled in panic? What about writing of any type in which the author has invested so little thought that he casts only the faintest shadow over the finished product? Until I get some solid answers, I'm not signing any evacuation orders.
Which is all well and good as long as we can agree on what "author-evacuated prose" means. Prose from which the author has fled as if catching the last helicopter out of Saigon? Prose from which the author has been forcibly removed like a Katrina victim clinging hopelessly to the last vestige of home? Prose which has passed through the author like X-Lax through an anorexic?
Any of these prose styles would send me screaming from the room, but I'm not sure I understand the distinction this passage is trying to make. The equation "informal writing-to-learn = good, formal author-evacuated prose = bad" is a bit reductive. What about formal writing in which the authorial presence is alive and kicking? What about informal writing from which the author has fled in panic? What about writing of any type in which the author has invested so little thought that he casts only the faintest shadow over the finished product? Until I get some solid answers, I'm not signing any evacuation orders.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)