Facebook is a dream come true for someone like me. All my life, I have been kind of narrating myself in my head. I have one friend who confessed to me once that she does this too. I suppose it’s a writer thing, although I’m pretty sure that not all writers do it. But now we have a program that encourages us to share this self-narration with everyone we know! An audience--for all the little pieces of writing that constantly float through my head--wow. Who could ask for anything more??
When Aunt Maggie, also a writer, was dying, I sent what I didn’t know at the time would be my last email to her. In it, I mentioned Facebook. I said that I found myself crafting the status messages like little poems. I’m sure I am not the only literary-minded Facebooker who sometimes deletes her own content because it’s not well written enough. I love status messages. Even when they’re not really poetry, they often are interesting little snatches of life as we know it. (Go to your own profile page and read back through some of your old ones, and see what comes back to you.... Notice what you noticed at the time, and what you notice now... if you dare.)
Maybe our images of ourselves through Facebook are impossibly distorted. I think about all the different levels of privacy and self-disclosure that people are comfortable with. But I wonder, does our Fb behavior pretty much mirror how we are anyway? I am careful with my Fb postings--I do have a sense of privacy, and I don’t really want to embarrass others (well, occasionally I give in to the temptation to embarrass Laura, but that is just so damn easy). I am also careful not to “friend” just anybody who comes along. Even people I really do know, never mind the fake ones. I like Facebook because it really does connect me with people I care about. Writing has always done that for me, although like lots of people, I have always written letters and even emails in fits and starts, long broken-up lines of communication with old friends, extended family--always feeling the struggle to keep up with everyone I do truly care about.
I’m not sayin’ that Facebook is perfect, and I have perfect sympathy for all my friends who say “NO WAY”--as well as for the ones (like my brother Tim and his wife, hey I miss you on there!) who start and then drop off. It can be a time suck. I admit it. There are days when I like it too much. But all in all, in the balance, as I look at my life as the New Year approaches, I think that Facebook has enriched my life. As a writer, as a friend--even as a mother. And hell, it’s FUN. We could all use more of that, right?
I spent today in airports and planes en route to Vermont, in a state of Internet deprivation, still narrating my life in my head as I have always done, but now I have the reflex of crafting status messages out of this mundane material. I can see why people post messages from their mobile phones. (Uh-oh.) Have fun out there, and happy new year.
P.S. Oh by the way--the first free airport wifi I found all day was here in Burlington. Vermont ROCKS.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Soup (a seasonal poem)
soup:
broth
deep layers of flavor
edged with salt
sentiment at the surface
bright flakes of green parsley
scent of lemon
trick you into believing that you know
what is roasted in the bone underneath
and simmered long --
essences wrought for the tongue,
mysterious
and savory.
broth
deep layers of flavor
edged with salt
sentiment at the surface
bright flakes of green parsley
scent of lemon
trick you into believing that you know
what is roasted in the bone underneath
and simmered long --
essences wrought for the tongue,
mysterious
and savory.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A little bit about my mother's death
I wrote this piece about my mother's death in May 2007. It doesn't have anything in particular to do with Christmas or with my birthday, but today is my birthday, and tonight Laura and I decorated our Christmas tree, and I guess it's fair to say that everything is always about my mother, in some way or another - often poignantly, but not always.
~~~~~~~~
Let’s get this part over with right up front: my mother was killed in a car crash in August of 1988. It was a harsh way for her to leave the world. Her body was crushed. Her sister, who was in the car with her, survived and remained conscious throughout the aftermath. Imagine.
My mother drove a Honda Civic. This was in the days before air bags were standard. (I don’t think about how it might have turned out if her car had had air bags.) She was hit by a much larger vehicle; it might have been a Ford Explorer. It was something big enough to throw a Honda Civic right off the road.
The state trooper knew the driver of the big car: he had cited that man for reckless driving in the past. As I remember it now, the story went that this trooper had said to him on some previous occasion, “You’ll kill somebody one day if you keep on driving like that.” But he still had his license and insurance.
As these things go, my two brothers and I ended up being represented by a PI attorney in a lawsuit against the driver’s insurance company. The attorney was a nice man, even a classy man, not the ambulance-chaser type I associate with that type of legal practice. He said that he had never seen such an open-and-shut case with such clear evidence of fault. He did what lawyers do, very competently I am sure, and as a result my brothers and I received sums of money in exchange for our mother’s death.
It was a strange thing to receive payment in exchange for feeling like an enormous hole had been ripped through me.
My then-husband and I went to see an investment broker because we knew nothing about what to do with this money. We did not tell her exactly where the money came from—we must have said that it came from my family, something vague like that. She remarked how lucky we were to have received this money. I liked her, and I didn’t like her any less because she said that. She just didn’t know. She is still my broker, and I still like her.
Several years later my father (who had been divorced from my mother long before her death in a guilty, uncomfortable, unresolvable, and protracted process that no one was ever able to feel good about) made some casual remark about this money—perhaps it was a comment about being able to afford to buy a house—which prompted me to say, “I would give back every penny right this minute if it would bring her back.” He looked at me, horrified, because of course he knew that. I’m sorry, Dad, I knew that you knew that. I know you would bring her back yourself if you could. You would have done anything to bring her back.
My dad was the one who told me she was dead. I was traveling in Europe at the time, and he had a terrible time finding me. First a telegram went astray, and then one night in a London guesthouse I got a message to call home. At the age of 27 I was still unacquainted with the inevitable signs of tragedy, and I did not realize what this message surely had to mean. My dad had a hard time making me understand. My brothers were backpacking together in the Cascade mountains and they didn’t find out until they came off the trail and my uncle picked them up. He had to tell them himself.
My father and his brother, it makes me weep now to think of them and what they went through in those awful days. Maybe they were not the greatest communicators who ever lived, but they loved us, and they knew enough of life and enough of my mother and of us to comprehend what we had lost. I think now that they, along with my aunt who was in the accident, my other aunt who was my father’s brother’s wife, and my grandmother who had lost her daughter, must have absorbed huge amounts of our grief and carried it for us, because we knew nothing about this kind of losing. It took us years to process this loss. We are still processing this loss. Our mother and the loss of her are layered into who we are in every way, at every level of our being. I cannot go a day without thinking of her. I have never been good at remembering her birthday or the anniversary of her death, but I am good at remembering her every day. Now, as I am starting to approach the age at which she died, I see her sometimes when I look in the mirror.
I do not really know why I am writing this essay about my mother now. I started it two days ago, on Mother’s Day, after I went on a bike ride. As I rode home I was thinking of my mother, and then I wrote a posting to my bike club listserv about the ride, and I added a paragraph about how I had been thinking of my mother. I have been writing to this listserv fairly often, even through the winter even though I don’t ride much in the winter, because there is a man in the group who interests me and I like the idea that he reads my postings. I didn’t think my mother would mind that these things coincided—my thinking of her on mother’s day, and my eagerness to come up with something good for the listserv that this man might read and enjoy. So here is the paragraph:
"It was chillier than I expected, and more overcast, and as I rode home, properly clothed, with Kleenex in my pocket for my runny nose, I reflected on how fortunate I was in my choice of a mother. She and my dad took us camping and hiking and canoeing throughout the Southeast during my childhood. I am now certain that my mother was the original inventor of the idea of layered clothing. She had that down long before the sporting goods companies ever thought of it. She also kept a Kleenex in every pocket of every article of clothing she owned. She was way way ahead of her time in carrying water bottles, and she never went anywhere without a snack in her purse or her daypack. She could pee behind a bush, change her clothes in the car, make instant coffee with a little electric gizmo that she stuck into a mug of water, and drink her beer from the bottle (or the can). In short, she knew how to be ready to go with what she needed. She died in 1988, and I still miss her, but oh how lucky I was, and I think I even knew it before I lost her."
~~~~~~~~
Let’s get this part over with right up front: my mother was killed in a car crash in August of 1988. It was a harsh way for her to leave the world. Her body was crushed. Her sister, who was in the car with her, survived and remained conscious throughout the aftermath. Imagine.
My mother drove a Honda Civic. This was in the days before air bags were standard. (I don’t think about how it might have turned out if her car had had air bags.) She was hit by a much larger vehicle; it might have been a Ford Explorer. It was something big enough to throw a Honda Civic right off the road.
The state trooper knew the driver of the big car: he had cited that man for reckless driving in the past. As I remember it now, the story went that this trooper had said to him on some previous occasion, “You’ll kill somebody one day if you keep on driving like that.” But he still had his license and insurance.
As these things go, my two brothers and I ended up being represented by a PI attorney in a lawsuit against the driver’s insurance company. The attorney was a nice man, even a classy man, not the ambulance-chaser type I associate with that type of legal practice. He said that he had never seen such an open-and-shut case with such clear evidence of fault. He did what lawyers do, very competently I am sure, and as a result my brothers and I received sums of money in exchange for our mother’s death.
It was a strange thing to receive payment in exchange for feeling like an enormous hole had been ripped through me.
My then-husband and I went to see an investment broker because we knew nothing about what to do with this money. We did not tell her exactly where the money came from—we must have said that it came from my family, something vague like that. She remarked how lucky we were to have received this money. I liked her, and I didn’t like her any less because she said that. She just didn’t know. She is still my broker, and I still like her.
Several years later my father (who had been divorced from my mother long before her death in a guilty, uncomfortable, unresolvable, and protracted process that no one was ever able to feel good about) made some casual remark about this money—perhaps it was a comment about being able to afford to buy a house—which prompted me to say, “I would give back every penny right this minute if it would bring her back.” He looked at me, horrified, because of course he knew that. I’m sorry, Dad, I knew that you knew that. I know you would bring her back yourself if you could. You would have done anything to bring her back.
My dad was the one who told me she was dead. I was traveling in Europe at the time, and he had a terrible time finding me. First a telegram went astray, and then one night in a London guesthouse I got a message to call home. At the age of 27 I was still unacquainted with the inevitable signs of tragedy, and I did not realize what this message surely had to mean. My dad had a hard time making me understand. My brothers were backpacking together in the Cascade mountains and they didn’t find out until they came off the trail and my uncle picked them up. He had to tell them himself.
My father and his brother, it makes me weep now to think of them and what they went through in those awful days. Maybe they were not the greatest communicators who ever lived, but they loved us, and they knew enough of life and enough of my mother and of us to comprehend what we had lost. I think now that they, along with my aunt who was in the accident, my other aunt who was my father’s brother’s wife, and my grandmother who had lost her daughter, must have absorbed huge amounts of our grief and carried it for us, because we knew nothing about this kind of losing. It took us years to process this loss. We are still processing this loss. Our mother and the loss of her are layered into who we are in every way, at every level of our being. I cannot go a day without thinking of her. I have never been good at remembering her birthday or the anniversary of her death, but I am good at remembering her every day. Now, as I am starting to approach the age at which she died, I see her sometimes when I look in the mirror.
I do not really know why I am writing this essay about my mother now. I started it two days ago, on Mother’s Day, after I went on a bike ride. As I rode home I was thinking of my mother, and then I wrote a posting to my bike club listserv about the ride, and I added a paragraph about how I had been thinking of my mother. I have been writing to this listserv fairly often, even through the winter even though I don’t ride much in the winter, because there is a man in the group who interests me and I like the idea that he reads my postings. I didn’t think my mother would mind that these things coincided—my thinking of her on mother’s day, and my eagerness to come up with something good for the listserv that this man might read and enjoy. So here is the paragraph:
"It was chillier than I expected, and more overcast, and as I rode home, properly clothed, with Kleenex in my pocket for my runny nose, I reflected on how fortunate I was in my choice of a mother. She and my dad took us camping and hiking and canoeing throughout the Southeast during my childhood. I am now certain that my mother was the original inventor of the idea of layered clothing. She had that down long before the sporting goods companies ever thought of it. She also kept a Kleenex in every pocket of every article of clothing she owned. She was way way ahead of her time in carrying water bottles, and she never went anywhere without a snack in her purse or her daypack. She could pee behind a bush, change her clothes in the car, make instant coffee with a little electric gizmo that she stuck into a mug of water, and drink her beer from the bottle (or the can). In short, she knew how to be ready to go with what she needed. She died in 1988, and I still miss her, but oh how lucky I was, and I think I even knew it before I lost her."
Monday, November 23, 2009
so thankful, it's hard to know where to begin
I am having a hard time allowing myself to write about one thing I am thankful for because I have this odd (irrational) fear that all the other things I am thankful for will feel left out... and that somehow this will damage the spiritual connection my thankfulness could create. I am not sure this even makes sense, so probably I need to just get over it.
Last week I was struggling with something that seemed like it should be easy, but wasn't - making some travel arrangements to visit my family in Vermont at New Year's. Nothing seemed to come together - flights, timing, etc. I complained to Doug that I didn't even feel like going, that I couldn't see any reasonable way that he could come with me, that it was too much trouble for such a short trip, that I hate traveling during the holidays, that winter weather is too risky... yadda yadda yadda. The inner Grinch was stealing my winter vacation.
Raising his eyebrows slightly at this (he's always at the low-key end of the reaction spectrum), Doug spoke straight to the heart of the matter: If you don't go, you won't see your dad.
My dad is doing fine, but he is not young, and there are only so many chances left to visit him. I know this. Doug also knows it; his parents are not young either, and he too does not know how many chances are left. We count these visits with our parents like heartbeats. Thankfully, we are still able to enjoy them. Thankfully, they are still well. Thankfully, they are still independent, drive cars, feed themselves, accommodate guests. We know this: none of these things can be taken for granted.
So Doug started in. He does travel planning online, with many Firefox tabs churning all at once, comparing flights and prices and schedules and layovers, considering hotel options and driving distances. He looks at planes, trains, shuttles. He is creative. He tests ideas that seem crazy to me, he expands the field of possibilities, he thinks about what might be fun. This is all data, and problem solving, to him - and this is what he is good at. Not because it's easy, even for him; plainly it's difficult. There are dead ends and crappy flights and overpriced routes and disconnects everywhere. He takes it on. He has a sense of timing and he's patient. When nothing seems to work he lets it go for a while.
Fast-forward a few days. I have a ticket to Burlington on a flight that arrives within five minutes of my brother's flight. Doug has a ticket to Boston for the next day, and a rental car reservation. We both have tickets home from Boston. We have a notion of taking our x-c skis, of visiting Doug's son Willy. We have a room at the airport Hilton for one night. The Grinch is in thrall to Cindy Lou-Who and I am looking forward to our trip. Thank you thank you.
I am thankful for so much. Did I mention that I thought I had started out to write about just one thing, and ended up feeling grateful for my whole life?
Last week I was struggling with something that seemed like it should be easy, but wasn't - making some travel arrangements to visit my family in Vermont at New Year's. Nothing seemed to come together - flights, timing, etc. I complained to Doug that I didn't even feel like going, that I couldn't see any reasonable way that he could come with me, that it was too much trouble for such a short trip, that I hate traveling during the holidays, that winter weather is too risky... yadda yadda yadda. The inner Grinch was stealing my winter vacation.
Raising his eyebrows slightly at this (he's always at the low-key end of the reaction spectrum), Doug spoke straight to the heart of the matter: If you don't go, you won't see your dad.
My dad is doing fine, but he is not young, and there are only so many chances left to visit him. I know this. Doug also knows it; his parents are not young either, and he too does not know how many chances are left. We count these visits with our parents like heartbeats. Thankfully, we are still able to enjoy them. Thankfully, they are still well. Thankfully, they are still independent, drive cars, feed themselves, accommodate guests. We know this: none of these things can be taken for granted.
So Doug started in. He does travel planning online, with many Firefox tabs churning all at once, comparing flights and prices and schedules and layovers, considering hotel options and driving distances. He looks at planes, trains, shuttles. He is creative. He tests ideas that seem crazy to me, he expands the field of possibilities, he thinks about what might be fun. This is all data, and problem solving, to him - and this is what he is good at. Not because it's easy, even for him; plainly it's difficult. There are dead ends and crappy flights and overpriced routes and disconnects everywhere. He takes it on. He has a sense of timing and he's patient. When nothing seems to work he lets it go for a while.
Fast-forward a few days. I have a ticket to Burlington on a flight that arrives within five minutes of my brother's flight. Doug has a ticket to Boston for the next day, and a rental car reservation. We both have tickets home from Boston. We have a notion of taking our x-c skis, of visiting Doug's son Willy. We have a room at the airport Hilton for one night. The Grinch is in thrall to Cindy Lou-Who and I am looking forward to our trip. Thank you thank you.
I am thankful for so much. Did I mention that I thought I had started out to write about just one thing, and ended up feeling grateful for my whole life?
Friday, November 13, 2009
not easy being green
The suburbs are organized for people's cars. This point is driven home to me (pun intended) every single day I try to travel to work without my car.
The Metra train, just a few blocks from my apartment, gets me to a station three miles from where I work. The train runs on a very infrequent schedule and is often late. In theory, bicycles are allowed on the train (three miles is a pretty easy distance to cover on a bike), but also supposed to be limited to three bikes per car, and cyclists are completely at the mercy of conductors who can throw them off the train anywhere, or refuse to let them on at all. This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but I'm holding my breath for the day it happens to me on my way to work. "Hi, this is Karin, I have to cancel my morning class today because the Metra conductor wouldn't let me on the train with my bike, and it was an hour until the next train." I do not want to make that phone call.
I tried a folding bike as a way of combatting this problem, but I don't really like riding the folding bike. It feels kinda little and wobbly, and the adjustment points don't hold, so they have to be readjusted all the time. I like my old hybrid bike, Bessie, best for commuting - it's more comfortable and bigger and I feel more visible on it. So now that Daylight Savings is over, I have been riding Bessie instead.
But last night I wished I had had the folding bike - the Metra train was running on the center track and couldn't board passengers from the platforms. So they were boarding at the grade crossings, and everyone had to get on and off from the head car. This slowed the boarding process, and as I was waiting for the train, and waiting, and waiting, it gradually dawned on me that there were probably gonna be a lot of bikes in that one head car already - and very likely, the conductor was not going to let mine on - and, of course, the next train would be an hour later.
At the last minute, I hastily locked Bessie to the nearest railing and got on the train without her. I was right - the bike area was stuffed already and the conductors were commenting to each other that they couldn't take any more bikes.
So that's Metra. Late, unreliable, poor accommodations for bikes, unpredictable conductors, infrequent service.
Then there's Pace - the bus service. There's no real coordination that I can discover between any bus and train schedules, and the bus service is just as infrequent and unreliable as the train service. You can get a bus on any given route about once per hour, and it may or may not be on time. One of the drivers I have encountered most often drives like she's in Nascar, taking turns in ways that make people's unsecured belongings fly and roll all over the bus. She's scary and loud and insulting, too. And that's just the driver - I'll leave the passengers to your imagination.
If I leave my apartment at 7:45am and take the train and the bus and everything works just right, I can walk into my office at just about 9am. This is half an hour longer than it takes to drive, and about 10 minutes longer than it takes if I bike instead of bus.
In the afternoon, I can leave my office at 4:10, catch the bus, wait in downtown Glen Ellyn for the 5pm train, and if the train is on time, arrive home in Oak Park about 5:45. This is about 45 minutes longer than it takes to drive, and about 25 minutes longer than if I have my bike.
I can read, and sometimes I can do work, on the train and on the bus. But most of my real work requires a laptop and an internet connection, since I am trying to be "green" - that is, paperless - in collecting assignments from my students thru Blackboard. I also need access to Blackboard to post lesson plans and assignments, and I need to get to my email for most other kinds of faculty work. I don't exactly waste time on the train and bus, since napping and spacing out at least part of the time can be considered of great value in my busy life, but still, green commuting in the suburbs is really not at all efficient. It takes a lot of extra time and effort.
This does not mean I am giving up or quitting all of this. I am going to keep on mixing it up; some days I will drive, and other days I will ride and read. I'll be as green as I can without going around being pissed off about how difficult it is.
The Metra train, just a few blocks from my apartment, gets me to a station three miles from where I work. The train runs on a very infrequent schedule and is often late. In theory, bicycles are allowed on the train (three miles is a pretty easy distance to cover on a bike), but also supposed to be limited to three bikes per car, and cyclists are completely at the mercy of conductors who can throw them off the train anywhere, or refuse to let them on at all. This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but I'm holding my breath for the day it happens to me on my way to work. "Hi, this is Karin, I have to cancel my morning class today because the Metra conductor wouldn't let me on the train with my bike, and it was an hour until the next train." I do not want to make that phone call.
I tried a folding bike as a way of combatting this problem, but I don't really like riding the folding bike. It feels kinda little and wobbly, and the adjustment points don't hold, so they have to be readjusted all the time. I like my old hybrid bike, Bessie, best for commuting - it's more comfortable and bigger and I feel more visible on it. So now that Daylight Savings is over, I have been riding Bessie instead.
But last night I wished I had had the folding bike - the Metra train was running on the center track and couldn't board passengers from the platforms. So they were boarding at the grade crossings, and everyone had to get on and off from the head car. This slowed the boarding process, and as I was waiting for the train, and waiting, and waiting, it gradually dawned on me that there were probably gonna be a lot of bikes in that one head car already - and very likely, the conductor was not going to let mine on - and, of course, the next train would be an hour later.
At the last minute, I hastily locked Bessie to the nearest railing and got on the train without her. I was right - the bike area was stuffed already and the conductors were commenting to each other that they couldn't take any more bikes.
So that's Metra. Late, unreliable, poor accommodations for bikes, unpredictable conductors, infrequent service.
Then there's Pace - the bus service. There's no real coordination that I can discover between any bus and train schedules, and the bus service is just as infrequent and unreliable as the train service. You can get a bus on any given route about once per hour, and it may or may not be on time. One of the drivers I have encountered most often drives like she's in Nascar, taking turns in ways that make people's unsecured belongings fly and roll all over the bus. She's scary and loud and insulting, too. And that's just the driver - I'll leave the passengers to your imagination.
If I leave my apartment at 7:45am and take the train and the bus and everything works just right, I can walk into my office at just about 9am. This is half an hour longer than it takes to drive, and about 10 minutes longer than it takes if I bike instead of bus.
In the afternoon, I can leave my office at 4:10, catch the bus, wait in downtown Glen Ellyn for the 5pm train, and if the train is on time, arrive home in Oak Park about 5:45. This is about 45 minutes longer than it takes to drive, and about 25 minutes longer than if I have my bike.
I can read, and sometimes I can do work, on the train and on the bus. But most of my real work requires a laptop and an internet connection, since I am trying to be "green" - that is, paperless - in collecting assignments from my students thru Blackboard. I also need access to Blackboard to post lesson plans and assignments, and I need to get to my email for most other kinds of faculty work. I don't exactly waste time on the train and bus, since napping and spacing out at least part of the time can be considered of great value in my busy life, but still, green commuting in the suburbs is really not at all efficient. It takes a lot of extra time and effort.
This does not mean I am giving up or quitting all of this. I am going to keep on mixing it up; some days I will drive, and other days I will ride and read. I'll be as green as I can without going around being pissed off about how difficult it is.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
hospice, beautiful and sad
Nan had many visitors today. The end is coming and no one is pretending otherwise. This is so wise, so simple - and so rare that we are able to experience it in this gentle but raw, unprocessed way.
There is a woman in a hospital bed. She does not speak, but people speak to her - lovingly, teasingly, cheerfully, gently -and touch her and rub her hands and wash her face. She opens her eyes from time to time but there is not really any way to know for sure what she can see, hear, or understand. She is lovely, her face softened.
The room is small and light and cozy. There seems to be space enough for anyone who wants to be there. There are cards, posters, flowers, pictures. This is a space for love and goodbye, and you cannot be there without weeping, and I cannot write this without weeping, yet I am overcome more with love than grief, more with memory than loss.
Here is such beauty. In this room, Nan's presence is strong even as her spirit is letting go of her body. Her presence is alive in all the people who surround her now, and we all know, we know together as one, her death cannot change that.
~~~~~
Standing by is about Nan and her daughter.
There is a woman in a hospital bed. She does not speak, but people speak to her - lovingly, teasingly, cheerfully, gently -and touch her and rub her hands and wash her face. She opens her eyes from time to time but there is not really any way to know for sure what she can see, hear, or understand. She is lovely, her face softened.
The room is small and light and cozy. There seems to be space enough for anyone who wants to be there. There are cards, posters, flowers, pictures. This is a space for love and goodbye, and you cannot be there without weeping, and I cannot write this without weeping, yet I am overcome more with love than grief, more with memory than loss.
Here is such beauty. In this room, Nan's presence is strong even as her spirit is letting go of her body. Her presence is alive in all the people who surround her now, and we all know, we know together as one, her death cannot change that.
~~~~~
Standing by is about Nan and her daughter.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
A new "right" of passage
I am done taking my daughter on family vacations. By last summer, she already seemed too old at 15 to be told: this is where you're going and when and who you're going with. She's not quite at the age where she can manage her vacation planning and trips all by herself... but I guess this is the transitional time in which she will learn how. This year, I am going to Vermont for the family visit over New Year's, but she is not - she is going to Florida to visit her friend Olivia.
A related development is that Laura has told her dad she does not want to spend any of her winter holidays at his house. She wants to have a "normal" vacation at home in Oak Park for at least part of her two weeks off. I approve of this. She will see her father on Christmas, and they can visit back and forth as much as they like, but she shouldn't have to pack up for an extended stay out there, away from her friends, away from her room and her stuff, away from the nice perks we have here, like our health club two blocks from home. She's not portable like she was when she was 10. Her life is here, and she is old enough to claim her right to this life.
Last summer, I had interesting and thoughtful conversations with my family about Laura's need to choose for herself about family visits. My stepmother, who has a certain gift for honesty that I often can truly appreciate, commented that she and my dad do not really want the older teens to visit if they don't want to. I think this is wise. They know that the children love them (they do!), and the children know they are welcome and loved by their grandparents (they are!). The issue is whether the teenagers will enjoy a family holiday in rural Vermont, or whether they will actually be kind of drag to have around. My brother and his wife are sad to lose a playmate and helper for their two younger boys, but they are realistic and very understanding. We will all miss Laura, but we get it.
Strangely, the one who is most resistant to this new policy is my ex-husband, who tried to persuade Laura to go to Vermont this winter by offering her a free ticket to Florida for the week before Christmas, if she would also go to Vermont with me. He said that he is trying to reinforce the importance of family for Laura by doing this.
I wrote him an email to explain that I was not willing to take Laura to Vermont unless she wanted to go, and also that my family as a whole had already agreed on this. He responded oddly, I thought: "She knows that if she really wants to go to Florida then she will really be wanting to go to Vermont too." Hmmm. Maybe to him, her agreeing to go to Vermont in order to get a free ticket to Florida is the same as her wanting to go to Vermont. But not to me, and not to her.
It seems well worth it to contribute some money to Laura's ticket to Florida (Merry Christmas, Laura!), and very satisfying for Laura to be able to pay the rest herself from her babysitting jobs.
Autonomy: priceless.
A related development is that Laura has told her dad she does not want to spend any of her winter holidays at his house. She wants to have a "normal" vacation at home in Oak Park for at least part of her two weeks off. I approve of this. She will see her father on Christmas, and they can visit back and forth as much as they like, but she shouldn't have to pack up for an extended stay out there, away from her friends, away from her room and her stuff, away from the nice perks we have here, like our health club two blocks from home. She's not portable like she was when she was 10. Her life is here, and she is old enough to claim her right to this life.
Last summer, I had interesting and thoughtful conversations with my family about Laura's need to choose for herself about family visits. My stepmother, who has a certain gift for honesty that I often can truly appreciate, commented that she and my dad do not really want the older teens to visit if they don't want to. I think this is wise. They know that the children love them (they do!), and the children know they are welcome and loved by their grandparents (they are!). The issue is whether the teenagers will enjoy a family holiday in rural Vermont, or whether they will actually be kind of drag to have around. My brother and his wife are sad to lose a playmate and helper for their two younger boys, but they are realistic and very understanding. We will all miss Laura, but we get it.
Strangely, the one who is most resistant to this new policy is my ex-husband, who tried to persuade Laura to go to Vermont this winter by offering her a free ticket to Florida for the week before Christmas, if she would also go to Vermont with me. He said that he is trying to reinforce the importance of family for Laura by doing this.
I wrote him an email to explain that I was not willing to take Laura to Vermont unless she wanted to go, and also that my family as a whole had already agreed on this. He responded oddly, I thought: "She knows that if she really wants to go to Florida then she will really be wanting to go to Vermont too." Hmmm. Maybe to him, her agreeing to go to Vermont in order to get a free ticket to Florida is the same as her wanting to go to Vermont. But not to me, and not to her.
It seems well worth it to contribute some money to Laura's ticket to Florida (Merry Christmas, Laura!), and very satisfying for Laura to be able to pay the rest herself from her babysitting jobs.
Autonomy: priceless.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
What I wrote to my students this week
MIDTERM: THE CARROT AND THE STICK
Some students in my English 1102 classes start to feel confused at this point in the semester. It's just midterm, and we just about have a full draft of your long paper assigned. What's left that's going to take up the rest of the term, you might wonder.
What's left is the possibility of taking that essay to a much better place - and the learning that is possible for you in the process. If you have looked carefully at the grading rubric for the final essay, you may have begun to realize how many arts of writing are involved in getting a good grade. These arts take practice, effort, and focus. They can also have great payoffs in building your confidence as a writer and developing skills that you can use in the many writing projects you will face in the future.
If you bring the best possible essay draft that you can write on your own into the feedback process (which includes both peer reviews and an instructor conference), then you will be much more likely to get feedback you can really use. If we spend our time giving you feedback on basic stuff that you could have completed on your own if you had done more work sooner, you won't get the feedback you need to actually do better.
So that's the carrot: learning is available to you in this process if you work this process, do the assignments faithfully, read and review the textbook and apply what it says. You can improve your writing arts, and you can get a better grade that way.
(You know the carrot and stick metaphor, right??)
So here's the stick: I am going to grade your final essay really, really hard. If you want to know what I'll be looking for, study the rubric. By the end of the term, you will have had many weeks to try to do your best to achieve what it demands. There won't really be any excuses left that I'll be interested in at that point.
I always promise my students that I will do my best to be a good teacher. But I know, after many years of teaching, that students have to be full partners in their own education. Many of you are excellent partners, and it's my great pleasure to work with you.
If you are one who has not been doing your best up to now, please step up. It's not too late to go back and learn from assignments that you haven't done yet. It's not too late to meet with me and get extra help. It's not too late to become one of the students who asks questions in class, who does more research to fill the gaps, who suddenly realizes that doing better work is worth the personal satisfaction.
There's an ironic element of pride involved in working hard in a class like this. Often the students who work the hardest are not prideful during the process of developing big writing projects - they ask a lot of questions, they seem like they don't have a lot of confidence, they realize how much they don't know, they struggle to get things right. But in the end, when they get their good grade, and they know they did their best and they realize how much they learned, they are excited and filled with pride!
Every one of you still has the potential to be one of those students.
Some students in my English 1102 classes start to feel confused at this point in the semester. It's just midterm, and we just about have a full draft of your long paper assigned. What's left that's going to take up the rest of the term, you might wonder.
What's left is the possibility of taking that essay to a much better place - and the learning that is possible for you in the process. If you have looked carefully at the grading rubric for the final essay, you may have begun to realize how many arts of writing are involved in getting a good grade. These arts take practice, effort, and focus. They can also have great payoffs in building your confidence as a writer and developing skills that you can use in the many writing projects you will face in the future.
If you bring the best possible essay draft that you can write on your own into the feedback process (which includes both peer reviews and an instructor conference), then you will be much more likely to get feedback you can really use. If we spend our time giving you feedback on basic stuff that you could have completed on your own if you had done more work sooner, you won't get the feedback you need to actually do better.
So that's the carrot: learning is available to you in this process if you work this process, do the assignments faithfully, read and review the textbook and apply what it says. You can improve your writing arts, and you can get a better grade that way.
(You know the carrot and stick metaphor, right??)
So here's the stick: I am going to grade your final essay really, really hard. If you want to know what I'll be looking for, study the rubric. By the end of the term, you will have had many weeks to try to do your best to achieve what it demands. There won't really be any excuses left that I'll be interested in at that point.
I always promise my students that I will do my best to be a good teacher. But I know, after many years of teaching, that students have to be full partners in their own education. Many of you are excellent partners, and it's my great pleasure to work with you.
If you are one who has not been doing your best up to now, please step up. It's not too late to go back and learn from assignments that you haven't done yet. It's not too late to meet with me and get extra help. It's not too late to become one of the students who asks questions in class, who does more research to fill the gaps, who suddenly realizes that doing better work is worth the personal satisfaction.
There's an ironic element of pride involved in working hard in a class like this. Often the students who work the hardest are not prideful during the process of developing big writing projects - they ask a lot of questions, they seem like they don't have a lot of confidence, they realize how much they don't know, they struggle to get things right. But in the end, when they get their good grade, and they know they did their best and they realize how much they learned, they are excited and filled with pride!
Every one of you still has the potential to be one of those students.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sick at home, alone
This week's rash of Facebook messages from friends who are at home with sick children reminds me sharply of the first time I left Laura home alone with the flu and went to work. She must have been about ten years old. Laura is pretty calm when she is sick, and she tends not to do very dramatic things like spike high fevers or go into spells of awesome vomiting - but still, the first time you drive off knowing your sick child is at home all alone is certainly memorable.
In those days, I was still getting used to being a single parent. I assumed that my ex-husband would help care for Laura when she was ill, as he always did when we lived together as a family. In the first months following our separation, I would ask him if she could spend sick days at his house if she had a cold, since he and his new partner often worked at home. Their house was on my way to the office, even after they moved out to Downers Grove, and we did that a few times, but it seemed like none of us really liked this arrangement.
Then she got the flu, and she was a lot more sick than just a cold. I spent one day at home with her. I probably could have figured out some way to stay home longer, but my job really is fairly demanding, and it's bad to cancel classes - students need to know they can count on their college teachers to show up and teach. There are only so many class meetings in a term, and we have to finish the course before the term ends, no matter what.
I thought hard about calling my ex and asking him to let Laura spend a couple of days on his sofa while I went to work. But what I could see, once I let myself see it, was that she would be more relaxed and more able to get well if she could stay home in her usual nest and not have the extra stress of being moved to her dad's. So I left her at home and crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. How strange it was to come to understand that she would be better off at home, on her own, than at her father's house with an adult present. But there was also liberation and a kind of peace in realizing that we would be fine without his help.
This week Laura has again been home with the flu, and I asked her if she could remember that long ago time. She does - but what she remembers is that she got to lie in my bed all day and watch TV. I'm glad.
In those days, I was still getting used to being a single parent. I assumed that my ex-husband would help care for Laura when she was ill, as he always did when we lived together as a family. In the first months following our separation, I would ask him if she could spend sick days at his house if she had a cold, since he and his new partner often worked at home. Their house was on my way to the office, even after they moved out to Downers Grove, and we did that a few times, but it seemed like none of us really liked this arrangement.
Then she got the flu, and she was a lot more sick than just a cold. I spent one day at home with her. I probably could have figured out some way to stay home longer, but my job really is fairly demanding, and it's bad to cancel classes - students need to know they can count on their college teachers to show up and teach. There are only so many class meetings in a term, and we have to finish the course before the term ends, no matter what.
I thought hard about calling my ex and asking him to let Laura spend a couple of days on his sofa while I went to work. But what I could see, once I let myself see it, was that she would be more relaxed and more able to get well if she could stay home in her usual nest and not have the extra stress of being moved to her dad's. So I left her at home and crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. How strange it was to come to understand that she would be better off at home, on her own, than at her father's house with an adult present. But there was also liberation and a kind of peace in realizing that we would be fine without his help.
This week Laura has again been home with the flu, and I asked her if she could remember that long ago time. She does - but what she remembers is that she got to lie in my bed all day and watch TV. I'm glad.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Standing by
Nan, a single mother with a daughter in college, in her early 50s, a cousin of my ex-husband, is going into hospice care. Treatments are over now. She is dying of cancer, and many people are standing by.
Nan's daughter is in the process of requesting of her college downstate that she be allowed to go home for her mother's last weeks and complete her courses online.
Nan's sister is staying for the duration as well - working from her laptop, somehow holding onto her job on the east coast.
Nan is not married, but her daughter's father has been present in their lives all these years, remaining close to Nan and her daughter. Last night a relative told me that lately he has been sleeping in Nan's hospital room.
Nan's aunt - the kind of aunt you grew up with who has long been divorced from the uncle who is actually your blood relative but somehow she never stops being your aunt - has been visiting several times a week.
Nan also has another sister here, a father and stepmother, a mother and mother's partner, not to mention layers of other friends and relatives. All standing by. All offering what we can offer, and all waiting - for release.
This is what I reckon, from my removed and partial view: Nan and her family are really preparing themselves for that release. They are tired and their good options are past. This is not to say that the letting go will not be deeply painful, sometimes agony. But I am glad for everyone's sake that they are preparing, not denying or fighting against what is coming.
I know that I am writing about this because of how much I am thinking of Nan's daughter. I think of her frequently, yet I do not want to try to enter into her experience. I really believe she has everything and everyone she needs right now.
She is five years older than my daughter; they have known each other for all of my daughter's life. I cannot help but think that my daughter will be much affected by all this, though she will not show it outwardly: here is another only daughter of a single mother, getting ready to lose her mother.
I know, though - from my own hard learning, from my own mother's death - that Nan's daughter cannot lose her mother. Nan will be with her always. We may be forced to let someone go from their life in the body, but we dwell together forever nonetheless.
As I write this, I hear Nan's voice in my memory, talking to our girls, as she would have on any given day when they were little. "You're missing a word," she would say with a teasing lilt in her voice if they didn't say please. On your birthday, at any age, Nan would proclaim, "Free paddlywhacks!" She always had ideas, advice. She knew the fastest way to drive from any point to any point around Chicago and the suburbs. She organized parties and gatherings. She offered food and conversation and plans and outings.
No one can take any of this away from Nan's daughter - and she has the added blessing of all these people standing by with her, people who know and love all that Nan is and has been, who know and love all that her daughter is and will become, into the future. We are standing by, many of us, in a thick circle that cannot be broken.
Nan's daughter is in the process of requesting of her college downstate that she be allowed to go home for her mother's last weeks and complete her courses online.
Nan's sister is staying for the duration as well - working from her laptop, somehow holding onto her job on the east coast.
Nan is not married, but her daughter's father has been present in their lives all these years, remaining close to Nan and her daughter. Last night a relative told me that lately he has been sleeping in Nan's hospital room.
Nan's aunt - the kind of aunt you grew up with who has long been divorced from the uncle who is actually your blood relative but somehow she never stops being your aunt - has been visiting several times a week.
Nan also has another sister here, a father and stepmother, a mother and mother's partner, not to mention layers of other friends and relatives. All standing by. All offering what we can offer, and all waiting - for release.
This is what I reckon, from my removed and partial view: Nan and her family are really preparing themselves for that release. They are tired and their good options are past. This is not to say that the letting go will not be deeply painful, sometimes agony. But I am glad for everyone's sake that they are preparing, not denying or fighting against what is coming.
I know that I am writing about this because of how much I am thinking of Nan's daughter. I think of her frequently, yet I do not want to try to enter into her experience. I really believe she has everything and everyone she needs right now.
She is five years older than my daughter; they have known each other for all of my daughter's life. I cannot help but think that my daughter will be much affected by all this, though she will not show it outwardly: here is another only daughter of a single mother, getting ready to lose her mother.
I know, though - from my own hard learning, from my own mother's death - that Nan's daughter cannot lose her mother. Nan will be with her always. We may be forced to let someone go from their life in the body, but we dwell together forever nonetheless.
As I write this, I hear Nan's voice in my memory, talking to our girls, as she would have on any given day when they were little. "You're missing a word," she would say with a teasing lilt in her voice if they didn't say please. On your birthday, at any age, Nan would proclaim, "Free paddlywhacks!" She always had ideas, advice. She knew the fastest way to drive from any point to any point around Chicago and the suburbs. She organized parties and gatherings. She offered food and conversation and plans and outings.
No one can take any of this away from Nan's daughter - and she has the added blessing of all these people standing by with her, people who know and love all that Nan is and has been, who know and love all that her daughter is and will become, into the future. We are standing by, many of us, in a thick circle that cannot be broken.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
"I don't cook - I purchase."
This is what I said to the dinner coordinator Thursday night when I delivered about 40 servings of fresh fruit to Laura's swim meet for the girls' dinner. I had washed all the grapes and apples, cut the grapes into bunches, and cut the bananas in half. All organic, all neatly presented in a couple of cartons that no one had to return to me - simplify, simplify. Next week I am bringing "salad" - which will consist of bags of salad greens, bags of prepped carrots, bottles of salad dressing, and perhaps one or two other toppings that require only the opening of a package.
I used to cook, and I'm not a particularly bad cook, and I even enjoy cooking when there is a little time for it. When I lived in a household with two adults, and there was more than one driver, more than one shopper, more than one cook, and more than one child supervisor, cooking seemed like a good idea. It made economic sense, and even though we both were busy working people, the fact that there were two of us made a difference, and we probably cooked dinner three or four nights a week.
But for over six years now, there's only one of me. Now I do all the driving, all the shopping, all the homework supervision, all the scheduling. I pay all the bills. I go to Curriculum Night and teacher conferences and sign permission slips and call the attendance office. I pack breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for days when Laura will be at school from 6am to 6pm with two swim practices. I arrange dentist and doctor and orthodontist and acupuncturist appointments. I do the "volunteer" work for church and school. I clean our apartment, take care of our cats, do laundry. I make lists. I remind Laura to do things and take stuff and take care of things. Sometimes I hound her a little. Sometimes she has to hound me a little, like reminding me over and over that her bathtub was clogged. It was hard to imagine how to find time to get someone in here to fix it. I found a lovely handyman who would come on Saturday morning, what a blessing.
Every once in a while something catches me up and I notice how amazing this really is. I made a homemade dinner one night this week, and we really enjoyed it. It may be a month before I make another one. But that's all right. When I say, "I don't cook - I purchase," I say it with happiness and without guilt, because I am loving my full and wonderful life. Laura won't be here very much longer, and she doesn't like my cooking all that much anyway! Our apartment, halfway between Penny's Noodles and Trader Joe's . . . well - as the saying goes, "there must be a reason." Or, as Laura and her friends say, "It's all good." Yes. It is.
I used to cook, and I'm not a particularly bad cook, and I even enjoy cooking when there is a little time for it. When I lived in a household with two adults, and there was more than one driver, more than one shopper, more than one cook, and more than one child supervisor, cooking seemed like a good idea. It made economic sense, and even though we both were busy working people, the fact that there were two of us made a difference, and we probably cooked dinner three or four nights a week.
But for over six years now, there's only one of me. Now I do all the driving, all the shopping, all the homework supervision, all the scheduling. I pay all the bills. I go to Curriculum Night and teacher conferences and sign permission slips and call the attendance office. I pack breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for days when Laura will be at school from 6am to 6pm with two swim practices. I arrange dentist and doctor and orthodontist and acupuncturist appointments. I do the "volunteer" work for church and school. I clean our apartment, take care of our cats, do laundry. I make lists. I remind Laura to do things and take stuff and take care of things. Sometimes I hound her a little. Sometimes she has to hound me a little, like reminding me over and over that her bathtub was clogged. It was hard to imagine how to find time to get someone in here to fix it. I found a lovely handyman who would come on Saturday morning, what a blessing.
Every once in a while something catches me up and I notice how amazing this really is. I made a homemade dinner one night this week, and we really enjoyed it. It may be a month before I make another one. But that's all right. When I say, "I don't cook - I purchase," I say it with happiness and without guilt, because I am loving my full and wonderful life. Laura won't be here very much longer, and she doesn't like my cooking all that much anyway! Our apartment, halfway between Penny's Noodles and Trader Joe's . . . well - as the saying goes, "there must be a reason." Or, as Laura and her friends say, "It's all good." Yes. It is.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
12 Stages of Disgust
A friend who is growing disenchanted with his job asked me if I could name the 12 levels of Disgust. This led to an earnest effort on our part to arrive at descriptors for 12 levels of Disgust, followed by a corresponding 12 levels of Catharsis. I kind of imagine that these lists might live in some hazy psycho-social universe between the Stages of Grief and the 12 Steps of Recovery. An English colleague mentioned that it made him think of Dante's Levels of Hell. Enjoy - and feel free to suggest amendments.
(Disclaimer: this is a free-floating vocabulary exercise, and any resemblance to any responsible theoretical or research framework is purely accidental.)
(Disclaimer: this is a free-floating vocabulary exercise, and any resemblance to any responsible theoretical or research framework is purely accidental.)
12 Levels of Disgust
- Mild Distaste
- Strong Distaste
- Medium Dislike
- Full Dislike
- Medium Aversion
- Strong Aversion
- Mild Disgust
- Strong Disgust
- Full Repulsion
- Overwhelming Revulsion
- Inability to be in the same room
- Urge to violence
- gentle exhale
- sigh
- mild gesture, such as a shake of the head
- stronger gesture, such as rolling the eyes, or the classic shrug of arms and shoulders together with the palms raising
- a polite but honest expression of disappointment
- a focused, articulate complaint
- a brief and controlled rant
- a full expression of frustration
- an actual repudiation
- a calm refusal to engage
- a forceful refusal to engage
- no longer having any awareness of the previously offending party or issue
Saturday, August 1, 2009
where's the box
This week my bike club listserv once again debated where and where not to ride on the west side of Chicago. The conversation started when a cyclist who's new in town asked for advice on how to ride between Oak Park and downtown Chicago.
This is an eternal topic for our bike club. We are often asked for route advice along these lines. I always urge caution about riding through Chicago's west side for the simple reason that there have been many real, dangerous, documented incidents in which cyclists, both men and women, have been attacked. Some have been quite seriously injured. I recently had a conversation with an Oak Park man who was beaten up on his ride home from the Loop - just because he happened to be there when someone's impulse to violence took over. Last year a young man was killed in an apparently random, opportunistic attack.
I am not a fearful rider, have never personally had a problem, and I do ride alone quite a bit. But I'm sure I look like an easy target. So I am careful about where and when I ride. I respect the choices that other cyclists make as well. If you know what the risks are, and you choose to ride where I would not go, I am glad you are braver than I am. I wish you well. Maybe your being there makes those neighborhoods safer somehow - I hope so.
The title of this post is "where's the box." I realized as I wrote my own response to the newcomer cyclist's query on our listserv that I have a mental map of Chicago with a box on it, outlined approximately by North Ave, Austin, the Ike, and Western Ave. I stay out of that box unless I am with experienced riders who are confident of the route.
This is an eternal topic for our bike club. We are often asked for route advice along these lines. I always urge caution about riding through Chicago's west side for the simple reason that there have been many real, dangerous, documented incidents in which cyclists, both men and women, have been attacked. Some have been quite seriously injured. I recently had a conversation with an Oak Park man who was beaten up on his ride home from the Loop - just because he happened to be there when someone's impulse to violence took over. Last year a young man was killed in an apparently random, opportunistic attack.
I am not a fearful rider, have never personally had a problem, and I do ride alone quite a bit. But I'm sure I look like an easy target. So I am careful about where and when I ride. I respect the choices that other cyclists make as well. If you know what the risks are, and you choose to ride where I would not go, I am glad you are braver than I am. I wish you well. Maybe your being there makes those neighborhoods safer somehow - I hope so.
The title of this post is "where's the box." I realized as I wrote my own response to the newcomer cyclist's query on our listserv that I have a mental map of Chicago with a box on it, outlined approximately by North Ave, Austin, the Ike, and Western Ave. I stay out of that box unless I am with experienced riders who are confident of the route.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
eating on the porch
Growing up in East Tennessee, in a house with no airconditioning, we started eating on the porch in April and didn't move inside until we had to - sometime shortly before Halloween. Eating indoors was kind of exotic after 6 months of the porch. The walk from the kitchen with the dishes seemed so amazingly quick!
Now I live in a condo in Oak Park, IL, and I'm lucky if it there's even one day when it hits 70 degrees before May 1. Today, in fact, is May 31, and it was barely 70 today. The imprinting of childhood is so strong that I still find this shocking, despite years upon years of living in the midwest. (I like the midwest, so that's ok.)
I bought this condo last summer. By the time I was the right and proper owner and was fully moved in, it was the height of summer. So I am experiencing my first spring here. Last summer I wanted a casual, cocktail-type table for my condo balconey, and I ordered something that was a great price from Sierra Trading Post but it seemed wrong. In my infinitely procrastinating wisdom I never sent it back, and a couple of days ago I had a friend coming over for lunch on a day when it seemed to be reaching 70 degrees, so I got it out, since it was all I had.
And I realized that this table is perfect for two people to eat a meal at. My friend and I sat at it and enjoyed our lunch, but I didn't understand the full significance at first. Tonight it hit me, though. This evening, my daughter and I had dinner "on the porch" for the first time, as a family ritual, like the ritual family dinners of my childhood, outside, in the cool of the evening. Aaahhhhhh. This seems like an important blessing for our new home.
Growing up, I did not understand why my parents loved eating on the porch so much, but now I do.
(This makes me miss my mother - she would have liked this posting. Oh well.)
Now I live in a condo in Oak Park, IL, and I'm lucky if it there's even one day when it hits 70 degrees before May 1. Today, in fact, is May 31, and it was barely 70 today. The imprinting of childhood is so strong that I still find this shocking, despite years upon years of living in the midwest. (I like the midwest, so that's ok.)
I bought this condo last summer. By the time I was the right and proper owner and was fully moved in, it was the height of summer. So I am experiencing my first spring here. Last summer I wanted a casual, cocktail-type table for my condo balconey, and I ordered something that was a great price from Sierra Trading Post but it seemed wrong. In my infinitely procrastinating wisdom I never sent it back, and a couple of days ago I had a friend coming over for lunch on a day when it seemed to be reaching 70 degrees, so I got it out, since it was all I had.
And I realized that this table is perfect for two people to eat a meal at. My friend and I sat at it and enjoyed our lunch, but I didn't understand the full significance at first. Tonight it hit me, though. This evening, my daughter and I had dinner "on the porch" for the first time, as a family ritual, like the ritual family dinners of my childhood, outside, in the cool of the evening. Aaahhhhhh. This seems like an important blessing for our new home.
Growing up, I did not understand why my parents loved eating on the porch so much, but now I do.
(This makes me miss my mother - she would have liked this posting. Oh well.)
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Blackhawk Ride, One Year Later
Yesterday Doug and I rode the long hilly route of the Blackhawk Country Roads ride from Rockton, IL, into southern Wisconsin, 65 miles. This is a beautiful ride, well routed on side roads with almost no traffic. Long stretches of quiet woods, farms, open fields, lovely views. I love hilly rides because of the scenery - but I'm learning to love the hills with my legs, too.
Last year I was training for TOMRV, my first long challenging ride - and we went on this same ride for the conditioning. I was just starting to get the feel of a longer cycling day then. I wasn't used to sitting on a bike for hours at a time, and my body was still quite surprised at being required to continue this kind of exertion for so long. For the last 10 miles of a day of 60 or 70 miles, I would be completely exhausted, desperate to just finish the ride. And this ride, the Blackhawk Ride, has some pretty serious hills. Last year Doug tried to coach me how to ride the hills, to get momentum on the approach, to use the short rollers efficiently, to stand up and pump on a steeper hill. I tried as best I could to follow his instructions, but I was mostly too tired to process much of what he was trying to teach me.
Well, what a difference a year makes. Even though I am not training as deliberately this year, I am a much more efficient rider. My legs have learned a lot about climbing hills. I am starting to learn where it will pay off to invest my energy in speed, and where to just let the hill slow me down, because it will anyway, and relax and take my time. There's a kind of giving in to the hill that makes sense sometimes. I'd like to have my knees last a few more years. I really enjoyed those hills yesterday - liked feeling the changes in my riding skills in those moment-to-moment decisions about how to shift gears, when to stand. I loved the feeling of speed and rhythm on the rollers, the satisfaction of making it to the top of the long slow hills, the reward of the panorama at the top.
I also noticed yesterday how there are levels to tiredness, and I can begin to manage my own experience of the tiredness somewhat. This is something I could never have learned without doing an endurance sport. I was starting to feel tired after the first 15 miles, and that worried me a little. I slowed down a bit, told Doug I was pacing myself for the distance, and really paid attention to where I was investing hard work. I drafted off Doug in one windy stretch and got a little rest. Eventually I realized, though, how little meaning that first level of tiredness really has. If I ride at a decent pace for an hour, I'll start to feel that in my legs, and I experience it as getting tired - but that's not even a quarter of the day's distance. So, as I found yesterday, there are much deeper reserves of strength in my legs, and a really different kind of tiredness comes later. I felt the real tiredness after 45 miles - but instead of being exhausted and desperate to make it to the end, I was just, well, tired.
Tired and happy. The last 10 miles yesterday were still fun.
Last year I was training for TOMRV, my first long challenging ride - and we went on this same ride for the conditioning. I was just starting to get the feel of a longer cycling day then. I wasn't used to sitting on a bike for hours at a time, and my body was still quite surprised at being required to continue this kind of exertion for so long. For the last 10 miles of a day of 60 or 70 miles, I would be completely exhausted, desperate to just finish the ride. And this ride, the Blackhawk Ride, has some pretty serious hills. Last year Doug tried to coach me how to ride the hills, to get momentum on the approach, to use the short rollers efficiently, to stand up and pump on a steeper hill. I tried as best I could to follow his instructions, but I was mostly too tired to process much of what he was trying to teach me.
Well, what a difference a year makes. Even though I am not training as deliberately this year, I am a much more efficient rider. My legs have learned a lot about climbing hills. I am starting to learn where it will pay off to invest my energy in speed, and where to just let the hill slow me down, because it will anyway, and relax and take my time. There's a kind of giving in to the hill that makes sense sometimes. I'd like to have my knees last a few more years. I really enjoyed those hills yesterday - liked feeling the changes in my riding skills in those moment-to-moment decisions about how to shift gears, when to stand. I loved the feeling of speed and rhythm on the rollers, the satisfaction of making it to the top of the long slow hills, the reward of the panorama at the top.
I also noticed yesterday how there are levels to tiredness, and I can begin to manage my own experience of the tiredness somewhat. This is something I could never have learned without doing an endurance sport. I was starting to feel tired after the first 15 miles, and that worried me a little. I slowed down a bit, told Doug I was pacing myself for the distance, and really paid attention to where I was investing hard work. I drafted off Doug in one windy stretch and got a little rest. Eventually I realized, though, how little meaning that first level of tiredness really has. If I ride at a decent pace for an hour, I'll start to feel that in my legs, and I experience it as getting tired - but that's not even a quarter of the day's distance. So, as I found yesterday, there are much deeper reserves of strength in my legs, and a really different kind of tiredness comes later. I felt the real tiredness after 45 miles - but instead of being exhausted and desperate to make it to the end, I was just, well, tired.
Tired and happy. The last 10 miles yesterday were still fun.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Mom to Laura
Questions to ask yourself when considering whether a relationship is a good one to be in / stay in:
Do you like the person you show up as, when you're together? Do you feel clear in who you are when you are with her? Does she treat you like you are the kind of person you want to be? Does she treat you like you are her toy? Does she make threats or impose conditions? Does it feel like she wants to control you?
How well does she take care of herself? Does she eat and sleep enough? Does she show consideration for her family and communicate well with them? Does she participate in the give-and-take of healthy family life? Does she take responsibility for herself, her well-being, her choices, her future? Does she have worthy goals for her life? Is she making good plans? Is she making good decisions?
Does she have other good relationships with friends her own age and with adults who can mentor her? Does she listen to and act on wise advice from peers and mentors? Does she seek out help when she needs it, and does she seek help from the right kinds of people, depending on the kind of help she needs?
Does she know herself well, see herself clearly, see how others see her? Can she see other people's points of view, and accept them if they are different from her own? Can she learn from other people's points of view? Can she learn from you? Can you learn from her?
What do you like (and not like) about her? Can you grow as a person while you are part of this relationship? Does it bring out the best in you? What does she contribute to you? In the long run, will you be a better, happier person if you stay in this relationship?
Do you like the person you show up as, when you're together? Do you feel clear in who you are when you are with her? Does she treat you like you are the kind of person you want to be? Does she treat you like you are her toy? Does she make threats or impose conditions? Does it feel like she wants to control you?
How well does she take care of herself? Does she eat and sleep enough? Does she show consideration for her family and communicate well with them? Does she participate in the give-and-take of healthy family life? Does she take responsibility for herself, her well-being, her choices, her future? Does she have worthy goals for her life? Is she making good plans? Is she making good decisions?
Does she have other good relationships with friends her own age and with adults who can mentor her? Does she listen to and act on wise advice from peers and mentors? Does she seek out help when she needs it, and does she seek help from the right kinds of people, depending on the kind of help she needs?
Does she know herself well, see herself clearly, see how others see her? Can she see other people's points of view, and accept them if they are different from her own? Can she learn from other people's points of view? Can she learn from you? Can you learn from her?
What do you like (and not like) about her? Can you grow as a person while you are part of this relationship? Does it bring out the best in you? What does she contribute to you? In the long run, will you be a better, happier person if you stay in this relationship?
Monday, May 18, 2009
be a grownup - a rant
I'm tired of Laura's dad writing me nasty emails about how I am doing such a bad job bringing up my daughter. I'm tired of calmly requesting that he moderate his tone and address me respectfully. I'm tired of reminding him that he should check out the facts of any given situation before he jumps to conclusions and goes on the attack. Why do I have to bring him up, too?? He had a mother. He's a grownup now. He should act like one.
He should be smart enough to know that the parents of a teenager should support each other, not attack each other. He should be smart enough to know that I'm not interested in his feelings or his needs - we have been divorced for years, for the love of god. He should be smart enough to know that taking care of Laura in the best way we can is the only good use of any time we spend communicating with each other. Any time I have to spend explaining to him, again, how to be nice and play fair is time I could spend doing something more valuable. He should know that I am doing the best I can to raise my daughter and that if I'm not perfect it's because I am human and I can't do it all by myself.
Not that he has any time to act like a father. No. Despite the urgency of his last email (it was so urgent that he also text-messaged it to me) about how I'm not up to scratch as a mother, and how we need to have a meeting, he is not available until two weeks from now. Nice to know what a high priority parenting is for you, dude. Good of you to rearrange your world.
He should be smart enough to know that the parents of a teenager should support each other, not attack each other. He should be smart enough to know that I'm not interested in his feelings or his needs - we have been divorced for years, for the love of god. He should be smart enough to know that taking care of Laura in the best way we can is the only good use of any time we spend communicating with each other. Any time I have to spend explaining to him, again, how to be nice and play fair is time I could spend doing something more valuable. He should know that I am doing the best I can to raise my daughter and that if I'm not perfect it's because I am human and I can't do it all by myself.
Not that he has any time to act like a father. No. Despite the urgency of his last email (it was so urgent that he also text-messaged it to me) about how I'm not up to scratch as a mother, and how we need to have a meeting, he is not available until two weeks from now. Nice to know what a high priority parenting is for you, dude. Good of you to rearrange your world.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
mother's day
Noticing my level of neutrality about this holiday, now almost 21 years after my mother's death. I think of her gently, I guess, maybe even peacefully. For years, I grieved for her in unexpected sudden waves that would strike suddenly, bring me to my knees, but I haven't had one of those in a long time.
I have so many years of being a mother myself by now that the holiday has taken on that cast - although Laura and I do not have a big tradition about it. We seem to resist big traditions, which I note can turn into big obligations, burdens, and guilt trips. Better not to go there. We make it up year by year. We change. We want different things. We are tied in with each other, but loosely, somehow. This seems like a good thing. I want her tied in, but I want her to feel her freedom growing. I see her growing, see how I need to prepare her for more and more freedom. It's an awkward and uneven process. She messed up using the CTA card at the El station yesterday - she wasn't paying attention. "Read what it says," I was testy. Oh well. A small thing, a tiny learning - you have to pay attention to the readout on the turnstile. A person who goes on the CTA independently needs to know that very small thing, and now she does. Someday soon she will go on the El by herself. And either she will, or she won't, pay attention to what she's doing, and she may keep herself safe, or she may learn something else, maybe hard, maybe easy.
She's not a little girl in a bubble of rules, padding and safety straps, adult supervision. She is starting to get around on her own.
Happy mother's day to me.
I have so many years of being a mother myself by now that the holiday has taken on that cast - although Laura and I do not have a big tradition about it. We seem to resist big traditions, which I note can turn into big obligations, burdens, and guilt trips. Better not to go there. We make it up year by year. We change. We want different things. We are tied in with each other, but loosely, somehow. This seems like a good thing. I want her tied in, but I want her to feel her freedom growing. I see her growing, see how I need to prepare her for more and more freedom. It's an awkward and uneven process. She messed up using the CTA card at the El station yesterday - she wasn't paying attention. "Read what it says," I was testy. Oh well. A small thing, a tiny learning - you have to pay attention to the readout on the turnstile. A person who goes on the CTA independently needs to know that very small thing, and now she does. Someday soon she will go on the El by herself. And either she will, or she won't, pay attention to what she's doing, and she may keep herself safe, or she may learn something else, maybe hard, maybe easy.
She's not a little girl in a bubble of rules, padding and safety straps, adult supervision. She is starting to get around on her own.
Happy mother's day to me.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
why don't *I* try harder??
In a self-justifying mood after writing that post yesterday.... But I am trying to figure out how I could get my students to see the gap between their efforts and the higher level of quality that I want them to aspire to, without making more work for myself. Seems like it could be done by shifting the work. I don't see how I can do more conferences or grade more homework. But I could do conferences earlier, and I could do them a little differently, maybe by showing them where they are falling short right on the grading rubric. When I requested my fall schedule, I said I was on a roll with this course. I did a lot of things right, and I have built a lot of stuff into Blackboard already -- I can keep building on that and make it stronger. I know more about what works now.
Blah blah blah I don't know why I am writing this here. What is the point of this blog anyway, I'm just talking to myself, this is just turning into another way of journaling but letting Google do the storage instead of filling up my bookcase. What the hell. I don't know. Who cares, I can just do this however I want, that's what it's for.
Ok, so if this posting is really just for ME, then this is what I want to remember from what I'm thinking about right now:
Blah blah blah I don't know why I am writing this here. What is the point of this blog anyway, I'm just talking to myself, this is just turning into another way of journaling but letting Google do the storage instead of filling up my bookcase. What the hell. I don't know. Who cares, I can just do this however I want, that's what it's for.
Ok, so if this posting is really just for ME, then this is what I want to remember from what I'm thinking about right now:
- Conferences should be earlier - hopefully before midterm.
- The conference draft of the long paper should be shorter, 5 pages or so, and it should have very specific requirements--at least five sources cited, the lead written, the purpose established, the most important background sources included.
- The conference should introduce the rubric, probably with some elements grayed out to show that they will be added for the final version.
- The conference draft should be graded and should count for about 20% of the final course grade.
- More chapter quizzes to encourage reading the textbook.
- Figure out how to automate warnings for required assignments that they miss.
- Add Source Check as a graded required assignment.
- Establish that they have to use MyCOD email through Bb.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
why don't they try harder?
Today I am reflecting on my students' apparent unwillingness to try hard. I don't like to be too judgmental in how I think about this. They have enormous competing demands on their time and energy. I know that some of them are not really sure they even want to be in college at all. But as I am grading final papers for English 1102, I wonder what they have been telling themselves this semester as they willfully chose not to do, or not to learn how to do, what they were assigned to do, often to a very large extent.
I'm not really willing to forgive this in assigning grades on this essay. We spent most of a semester writing one 10-page paper. Why should they pass that paper easily? They shouldn't.
What mystifies me, I guess, is what I did wrong - but is this the real mystery? Maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm just way too quick to assume that if they are not working hard, it has to be my fault. They make choices. They learn lessons. Maybe one lesson they can learn is that it really is possible to get a D on a paper that we spent all those weeks working on... or NOT working on, as the case may be.
I really, really wish they cared more about the quality of their work. It is painful to me to read a badly flawed paper that could have been so much better, if only the student had done the work I assigned. Gosh, it seems so simple when I write it down this way. They made their choices - now they have to live with the results. Ouch. Adulthood - it can be cold sometimes.
I'm not really willing to forgive this in assigning grades on this essay. We spent most of a semester writing one 10-page paper. Why should they pass that paper easily? They shouldn't.
What mystifies me, I guess, is what I did wrong - but is this the real mystery? Maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm just way too quick to assume that if they are not working hard, it has to be my fault. They make choices. They learn lessons. Maybe one lesson they can learn is that it really is possible to get a D on a paper that we spent all those weeks working on... or NOT working on, as the case may be.
I really, really wish they cared more about the quality of their work. It is painful to me to read a badly flawed paper that could have been so much better, if only the student had done the work I assigned. Gosh, it seems so simple when I write it down this way. They made their choices - now they have to live with the results. Ouch. Adulthood - it can be cold sometimes.
Monday, May 4, 2009
hunger
I have writing hunger. It's back. Is it because it's spring?? I have no time for this. I am supposed to be grading papers. I am supposed to be getting ready for teaching today. I am not even dressed, and it's already after 8am. The radio is spewing traffic reports and news of the day, and I am sitting in front of my open patio door with the chill on my feet and the sunny spring morning spilling in to make me alive, thinking that suddenly I MUST GET MY BLOG GOING AGAIN. Oh dear. Panic. What is the blog for. Am I a cyclist blogger, a teacher blogger, a mom blogger, can I be all of the above, oh shit. I will bore myself to death with this pretty fast so I better give it up, post this terrible paragraph, just to say to myself (because nobody else is gonna read it), the blog is back.
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