All Creatures Great and Small

When PBS began running the series "All Creatures Great and Small," I was an immediate fan. I just loved this charming series, gleaned from tales of a Yorkshire country veterinarian, James Herriot. Each week, we were treated to a new animal story intertwined with the human stories of Herriot, the two Farnon brothers--Siegfried and Tristan--with whom he worked, and the people of Yorkshire. I was so taken by these stories that I even tried to read the books on which they were based. I must confess Herriot's rendering of the thick Yorkshire accented English completely did me in, and I don't think I finished the book.



Lately, I feel as though I am living in an "all creatures" zone. It is completely of my own doing. All except the deer, of course. They have wandered in, bashed my one spruce tree, and sheered by hostas off to the ground. The other creatures have been invited into the space around our house by my feeding them. We even had our annual visit from the ducks who think our pool, with winter cover, is in fact a pond. The local guard dog is dispatched to dissuade them.


For many years, we had bird feeders, which I gradually gave up on. The refuse on the ground of sunflower shells made me a less than enthusiastic bird feeder. Then last year, we bought a new bird feeder, then another, and began feeding birds again. Buying a sunflower mixture has attracted a different set of birds, and lessened the number of shells falling on the ground. The tree cover has helped to discourage the swoop through flying of the peregrine.

Predictably, the squirrels soon discovered the bird feeders. They regularly raid the newly filled feeders, and I have yet to buy baffles to try to keep them out. I have taken another route--buying peanuts. After seeing a peanut wreath on RuthieJ's blog, I found one and dutifully filled it with peanuts.


Enter "my" squirrel. Perhaps you remember this fellow. This squirrel (I am convinced) is the one who caught my mini-snowball. Anyway, after emptying the bird feeders, he has begun to venture up onto the small deck next to our sunporch. Maybe the strategic placement of peanuts has encouraged him. In fact, he (I know this because I have seen his. . .ahem. . .equipment) comes up on the deck, stands up, curls one paw into his chest, and looks in the window. "Is the nice lady there who puts out peanuts?"



So, when I got the peanut wreath, I placed it within easy reach. Within seconds, it seemed, Mr. Squirrel (for some reason, I call him Alex) found the peanuts and proceeded to empty the WHOLE wreath, trip after trip after trip. I even ran out of peanuts, so my husband and I went shopping on Mother's Day to buy new bags of peanuts.


Now, Mr. Squirrel is making regular trips for peanuts. Sometimes he eats them right where he stands, leaving behind quite a mess. The spent peanut shells and husks have in turn attracted rabbits and cardinals, who peck away at the detritus.




All of this activity provides much entertainment or frustration for the two cats and one dog inside the sun porch.

What Were "They" Thinking?

Every now and then, I encounter an experience that makes me shake my head and laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Recently, I had two such experiences.


Today, I attended a Mother-Daughter luncheon with my step-mother. She has invited me to these events, held at the retirement village where she and my father live. It is very sweet of her to invite me, and I accept (barring an schedule conflict). But today's event was not the usual. First, it was scheduled to begin at 11:30 a.m., but didn't actually get underway until 12 noon. Okay. Then each of the courses was a little slow in being served. Okay again.

However, the "what were they thinking" moment occurred when it was time for dessert. There was a scrumptuous array of petit fours, mini-cream puffs, eclairs, strawberries, marshmallows and a chocolate fountain. Again--OKAY. However, the woman in charge said--this is self-serve so we will ask each table to go one at a time, beginning with Table 13 (we were at Table 4). Normally, this is a somewhat efficient way to serve a large group of people--HOWEVER, many of these dear ladies are in their 80s or 90s and many had canes or walkers.



Have you ever watched 100 elderly women go through a dessert self-serve line--ONE SIDE of the table only (because that's how it was set?) with a chocolate fountain as the FIRST stop? It. . .was. . .so . . .painfully. . .S-L-O-W. And I wasn't the only one annoyed at this arrangement. The woman immediately behind me in line had a walker, and she kept clicking her brakes on and off. I had to laugh--and she sheepishly admitted that she does that when she is annoyed. But the good news is, there were enough goodies for all.


On a much different note, I had a good laugh and a "what were they thinking" moment when I cleaned the bathrooms this week. Normally, cleaning the bathrooms does not set me into gales of laughter. Truth is, I really hate this particular chore. See here.


I was using a new container of toilet bowl cleaner, when I saw it. The warning label on the bottle.


My reaction--honestly, why on EARTH would we need to know that the toilet cleaner can kill the flu virus. Okay, I can understand "kills 99.9% of germs" (whatever that means) but the flu virus? Please. How could ANYONE catch flu from a toilet bowl?

What If. . .

The community at my community college is currently grieving--in the space of one week, two young students have been killed in auto accidents, for which neither was at fault. One was the daughter, in fact only child, of one of the faculty. The other was a young man who had made quite an impact in terms of his curiosity for learning, and his love of books. I had neither of them as students and did not know them at all. But such news does affect us all--perhaps in a John Donne kind of way--"the bell tolls for thee."


Each of these young people was an example of great promise lost. They had shown abilities that foreshadowed the lives they might have lived. But, of course, now they will not.


The vicissitudes of life is one of those things I ponder. An apt metaphor used during the Middle Ages was the great wheel of fortune. I previously wrote about this concept when I considered why elections turn politicians out of office. The wheel of fortune turns. . .some days we rise with it, some days we fall.


Of course, a life lost is more than just the turn of a wheel. There is only one path to any of our lives (unless you are Shirley MacLaine). I have sometimes wondered what might have happened if just one small detail of my life had been changed.


My daugher introduced me to a movie that explores this concept--Sliding Doors. This movie explores the consequences of a split second of timing in a person's life. In one version of reality, things turn out positively for the main character; in the other version her existence is somewhat more dreary. The movie is somewhat mind-bending as it plays with reality.


It poses the question that the death of the two students poses--what if? What if either of them had been driving down the road at a moment sooner or later? What if. . .so many endless variations.

the photo is not of THE pond I fell in, but one from the Internet that I enhanced a bit.

The closest "what if" moment in my life occurred when I was a very small child. My parents were visiting some people who had a pond. I was a toddler, and wandered off from the adults. Soon after, the young daughter of the family found me face down in the pond. Obviously, I didn't drown. I don't know how precarious my situation was. All I know is that it could have been an incident with a tragic outcome. What if?

Going to the Movies--reprise

Back in January, I went on a movie binge--seeing (along with my husband) most of the movies nominated for the Academy Awards' best picture category. I enjoyed them all--I guess I am a movie buff who attends movies infrequently.

Last night, I went with a friend to see the movie "The Counterfeiters." I highly recommend this movie, but I will caution any prospective viewer that it is not for the faint of heart. The movie reprises the story (previously unknown to me) about the Nazi efforts to destabilize the British economy during World War II by counterfeiting the British pound.

Code named Operation Bernhard, this effort on the part of the Nazis might well have contributed to propping up the German war effort. One of the critical conflicts in the movie is between two counterfeiters. Since they were all Jews, and therefore at risk of being exterminated in the death camps, one of the counterfeiters, the lead character named Saloman, keeps adhering to the personal credo--better to counterfeit and live than resist and die. Another character, Burger, feels conflicted by their work. He believes they should resist. The tension frequently breaks out into violence among the counterfeiters--fighting each other.

Image of forged five pound note from http://www.psywar.org/psywar/images/forgedfiver.jpg

There are two very poignant scenes in the movie. In one, one of the counterfeiters tries to assert his moral superiority because he says he was a banker before the war--not a counterfeiter. The irony is so thick in his statement.

In the second scene, the lead counterfeiter--Saloman (nick-named Sally and who had been a counterfeiter before the war) has asked for real documents to use in forging--for example, passports so the covers will be authentic. When the group gets a packet of real documents, one of the counterfeiters breaks down when he sees his own children's passports in a batch that were shipped from Auschwitz.

The counterfeiting operation was set up in the Nazi camp of Sachsenhausen. This is the camp that had the infamous gates with the slogan Arbeit Macht Frei--work makes free. In the case of the counterfeiters, even though their fate was to be death, the slogan was prophetic. For reasons not shown in the movie, they did all survive.

If you want a challenging movie that once again explores the theme of doing something "bad" with a good outcome--survival--see "The Counterfeiters." I found myself making mental comparisons to another recent movie that explores a very similar theme--"The Black Book" or "Zwartboek."

While the focus of the movie is clearly on the Jews in the horrific circumstances of the Nazi death camps, there are scenes that explore the actions of the Germans. I couldn't help but think once again of the question that haunts me--would I be so easily swayed to turn into the mindless majority as did the Germans during the Nazi era? There is no easy answer to such a question. The events of the current U.S. war in Iraq bring home to us the fact that seemingly good people can be too easily swayed by events and presumed authority.

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

Apologies to Charles Dickens for purloining one of the most famous novel openings ever written.

Well, another semester draws to a close. And, in general, that is a cause for celebration. Yes--it is early. I think this year the semester end is so early because Easter was really early. Our college combined spring break week and Easter break--thereby gaining a week of class instruction.

So, what's the best and the worst of this semester? Today, I had to deal with the worst--plagiarism. I absolutely hate plagiarism. I hate having to deal with it. But, I had a student who used three complete sentences from an external source without proper attribution and without using quotation marks noting that the words were not his own. When I handed back his paper with the offending section marked, he challenged me. I had printed off the original (which I found on the Internet) and showed him where he got the words. His defense--well, I cited a source. Yes, I said, but it's NOT the source where you got this section, and you failed to use quotation marks. He was adamant--he felt that since he gave SOMEONE credit, never mind erroneously, that he should not be dinged to plagiarism. HONESTLY. The worst.

Now, here's the best of times. It is spring on campus and the trees are blooming. The place positively sparkles.

See for yourself.

The last photo is of the newly constructed labyrinth, donated by student government. Isn't a labyrinth the most perfect visual metaphor for college? Here's a brief description of modern labyrinths and their uses. I like the idea of the contemplative aspect, which college students certainly need, combined with the seemingly endless journey. I have walked a labyrinth only once--it didn't do as much for me as I expected. But I still like the visual impact.

"To what purpose, April. . ."

Today, my husband and I began our annual spring task--opening the pool. We have had a pool in our backyard since the summer of 1981. In fact, I spent major portions of that summer floating in the pool--since I was pregnant with our daughter, the weightlessness that water affords was wonderful, as was the cool!

But each spring, this chore looms large. And, as I get older, my muscles and bones ache more and more each year.

The reward, of course, is getting the job done finally. We're not quite there--maybe another half day of work, but things are shaping up outdoors. In another month--plant all the annuals!

Opening the pool is one of the ways to measure the approach of summer.

Here are some other ways.

The ice cream truck returns to the neighborhood.

Boys climb trees

New puppies come out to play.

Before spring gives way to summer, let's celebrate the last days of April with this poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

APRIL

TO what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an
idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.


by Edna St. Vincent Millay

How NOT to do health research. . .

Today, students handed in their final work (except for the final exam) of this semester--a research paper. I really like their final project--it's a collaborative one, with students working in groups of 3 or 4. They have to select a developing country, then identify a problem in that country, and present an oral report the background on the country and problem, then argue whether or not the developed countries, especially the U.S., have an obligation to help solve the problem. Then each student writes her own research paper on the group topic. For example, one group selected Cambodia and the problem of human trafficking.

What I especially enjoy about this project is helping students to expand their research capabilities. Research is one of those things I do best. In fact, before I returned to teaching five years ago, I was engaged in research--sort of. Of course, there's a back story.

I have written about some of the various jobs I have held through my 40 + years of working, but I don't think I have written much about working at the health insurance company--my last full time job.

I was hired to do health policy research in a newly established institute. This institute was housed entirely within the health insurance company and was really something of a p.r. outreach arm. In other words, the folks at this company weren't really interested in doing true health research studies.

And how, you might wonder, did I learn about this? When I first joined the health insurance company, I had high hopes for doing some interesting health policy research and analysis. I enjoy figuring out why things are the way they are, so I envisioned pursuing some challenging health questions, for their own sake. When I first arrived at this new job, one study had already been completed, and another two were in publishing stages. So I set about to work with these works in progress.

Then I got my rude awakening. The completed study was on the health costs of violence--a very interesting subject. But the researchers were a small group from Princeton, NJ (not affiliated with the university) who had a preconceived notion of what they wanted the research to show--namely that the costs that result from violence are not really health costs, so health insurance shouldn't pay for them. Huh? I argued for awhile about that conclusion--I said what difference does it make which pocket you take the money from. If someone is injured by gunshot, the medical procedures needed to make him whole again have to be done, and someone will pay for the care. Clue # 1.

Then I had one of the doctors at the health insurance company come to me and say--why don't you do a research study that shows the terrible consequences of women having abortions. What do you mean, I asked. Well, they all suffer from guilt, and need psychiatric care--he answered. Huh again? See, when you do a research study you don't normally start out with the conclusion and then bend the data to produce the result you want. I nixed that "research." Clue # 2.

Another member of senior management came to me and said--let's research the health costs of caring for people in the last year of life. OK, I said--and then what? Well, then we (meaning the health insurance company) could decline to pay for really high cost medicine in the last year of life since it won't help the person anyway. Well, I noted, you don't know when a person's last year of life begins. So, I pointed out that such a study can only be done retrospectively and can never be applied prospectively. Oh. Another research study not done. Clue # 3.

Finally, another doctor asked if I could give some grant money to a company that had developed cancer treatments that could target specific cancer types. Sounded good. I asked how the researchers would identify which patients to use the treatments on. Then he said--we'll give them the patient information so they know who to contact. Huh? I suggested (gently) that it might not be a good idea to give to a third party confidential patient information. Oh. Clue # 4.

Well, my health research days were--shall we say--not long at that company. And my little health institute is no more. Truth be told--I am MUCH happier being "retired" and teaching college freshmen how to think clearly--I only hope their research efforts are less thwarted.

Hug a Hippo

Apropos of nothing I have blogged about recently, I am writing about hippos today.

Recently, my daughter sent me a link of a hippo story that ran on Sky News. It was one of the most unusual animal stories I have ever seen. As a child, I did see hippos in the wild, but I didn't have the same fear of them that I did of lions. I should have. An article that ran in the Smithsonian magazine two years ago noted the following: "But many Africans regard hippos as the continent’s most dangerous animal. Although accurate numbers are hard to come by, lore has it that hippos kill more people each year than lions, elephants, leopards, buffaloes and rhinos combined."

The video story tells another tale altogether. Herewith:





Who wouldn't love an animal such as Jessica. But in the house?

This story reminded me of another hippo story I saw not long after the December 2004 tsunami. In this case, the bond was not between hippo and human, but between hippo and a giant Aldabran tortoise. A baby hippo was washed out to sea off the coast of Kenya because of the tsunami. His entire hippo family was lost, so when human rescuers managed to get him back to shore, he was taken to a wildlife center. Now named Owen, the baby hippo encountered the tortoise Mzee--and you can read what happened next here.

I don't know about you, but after hearing/reading these two hippo stories, I have the strongest urge to hug a hippo!

'Tis the Season

No, not Christmas, but office cleaning.

Having just cleaned out my desk in my home office, we now have received notices here at my community college that we will be getting new furniture in early June. Consequently, we are to clean out our desks, file cabinets and bookcases, boxing everything up in preparation for this moving about of furniture.

Now, you would think that the announcement that we are getting new furniture would be cause for rejoicing. But you would be wrong.

All the office occupants here have become rather like pack rats. Professors have tunneled into their little burrows and stowed away, for lo these many years, books, papers, doo-dads, Lord knows what all. And, frankly, they are now deeply resentful that they might have to rid themselves of some of this detritus.

(thank goodness, this photo is NOT of the office I am in!)

It is really quite humorous to listen to these conversations. Grumble, grumble, mutter, mutter--who do they think they are?

I was flabbergasted at this reaction. See--the furniture here is what one might call from the early random collector and discarded items period. Nothing matches. Some of the items would not be in offices in state government. Trust me, having worked in state government, I know dull green desks when I see them.

In the office I share with two full time faculty, we have three desks--two are beige metal with a faux wooden top, the third is green metal, same top. We have two white bookcases that one of the full time faculty brought in, one short metal bookcase in taupe, another tall bookcase in beige. And the three desk chairs that we have are all different.

The new furniture will be modular (and matching), which may be part of the uproar. Faculty have collected small round tables, coffee tables, side tables. They have boudoir lamps, refrigerators, coffee pots, microwaves, radios. Every imaginable accoutrement which gives each office the vague air of a college dorm room. The word is, all these will have to go when the new modular furniturre is in place.

{YAWN} That's me barely concealing my boredom with the griping.

I have slowly set about tidying my things to store in boxes. And, in the process, I came upon this note I had posted to the door--it was making the rounds last year in email.

YOU KNOW YOU'RE LIVING IN 2008 WHEN. . .

1. You accidentally enter your PIN on the microwave.
2. You haven't played solitaire with real cards in years.
3. You have a list of 15 phone numbers to reach your family of three.
4. You e-mail the person who works at the desk next to you.
5. Your reason for not staying in touch with friends and family is that they don't have e-mail addresses.
6. You pull up in your own driveway and use your cell phone to see if anyone is home to help you carry in the groceries.
7. Every commercial on television has a web site at the bottom of the screen.
8. Leaving the house without your cell phone, which you didn't even have the first 20 or 30 (or 60) years of your life, is now a cause for panic and you turn around to go and get it.
10. You get up in the morning and go on line before getting your coffee.
11. You start tilting your head sideways to smile. : )
12. You're reading this and nodding and laughing.
13. Even worse, you know exactly to whom you are going to forward this message.
14. You are too busy to notice there was no #9 on this list.
15. You actually scrolled back up to check that there wasn't a #9 on this list.

AND NOW U R LAUGHING at yourself.

Updates on the office refurbishing as news is forthcoming. I just got
the official email, which concluded thusly:

"On Friday, June 13th, after 5:00 PM, the movers should be removing and disposing of furniture from (said office) Bay. Removing carpet and painting (two coats) can commence immediately with new carpet and furniture being installed by June 20th. During that week, staff from (said office) must function elsewhere."

R-i-g-h-t! Function elsewhere--hhmmmmm!

Dent de Lion

SUBTITLE: Mouth of the Lion (read on)

As I was leaving campus yesterday, I spotted one of the earliest and most tenacious spring flowers, though not necessarily anyone's favorite: the dandelion.

These perennials (isn't that ironic) are among the hardiest of plants, as any gardener knows who has tried to groom a dandelion-free yard. They are also much loved by children who love to grab the puff balls and blow them to the winds. Skilled photographers have captured dandelion seeds mid-scatter.

What fascinates me is the origin of the name dandelion. It comes from old French dent de lion (literally lion's tooth) derived from the shape of the leaves. Imagine--deep within human experience is this association between the shape of a plant leaf and the tooth of a feared animal, the lion.

The image of the lion's mouth figures in various ways in Biblical literature, particularly in the Psalms. Portions of the traditional Requiem Mass use a phrase from Psalm 21 which, in Latin, says--Salva me ex ore leonis (Translation: Save me from the mouth of the lion). In the mass it becomes Libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum. (Translation: Deliver them from the mouth of the lion, lest the abyss swallow them up, lest they fall into the darkness).

I always loved singing that particular portion, whether Mozart's Requiem, or Fauré's or Durufle's Requiems. Each composer has a different musical interpretation of the section, and for the singer it is great fun to see how text translates to music.

photo of lion from http://www.conservationafrica.net/gallery/index.php?pid=60

I suspect one of the reasons the mouth of the lion has such power for me, if not people in general, is the terrifying prospect of being swallowed up by a lion. That may seem fanciful to you, and perhaps you even think me prone to exaggeration. But it is an image with which I grew up. One of the earliest stories I recall hearing was of a missionary who was, in fact, mauled to death by a lion. In brief, he had gone out to track a lion that had been preying on villages in what was then Northern Rhodesia. All this happened in 1931 (more than a decade before I was born), but my grandfather, who had been a missionary, and two co-authors wrote about this event:

"The lion charged. Myron Taylor (the missionary) shot but the bullet missed. The rifle jammed and the beast was upon him, mauling his right ankle and right hand and biting his left forearm. All the people who had accompanied him fled up trees for safety. The missionary was left helpless. The beast sat quietly by him for possibly fifteen minutes. . .then it ambled off into the bush."

Myron Taylor was carried to the mission station, and even though he received medical help, he died after two days. An interesting additional detail is that he was then buried at Sikalongo Mission, and when my sister died 17 years after his death, she was buried next to him.

I have no recollection of ever seeing a lion in the bush during my childhood, but such a vivid story imprinted itself full well on my brain. Oh, I am not at all fearful of dandelions (please!) but I find most fascinating the degree to which lion imagery rouses something deep within the human psyche.

To remove the image of the mouth of the lion, here's a smattering of spring flowers much more loved than dandelions.

Parting Gifts

Today, I decided I had to clean out my desk. I have somewhat co-opted our third bedroom and turned it into an office. When we first moved into our house (in 1980), there were just 3 of us--my husband, me and our son. The smallest bedroom was originally our son's. Then when we were expecting our daughter, we made this small bedroom into a nursery. And it remained our daughter's bedroom until our son moved out of the house, after college. One time, she went storming back into her bedroom, after some "discussion" we were having--she announced: I am going back into that closet you people call a bedroom. Her point being, it is a small room. But it makes a fine office.



Back to the desk. I had sort of let stuff accumulate. So, today was cleaning, pitching and tidying day.

And what should I come upon but these--special cards with various messages on the pink folded cards, each with its own blank insert, save for my name inscribed.



These cards were a parting gift from the time I held a position in our state Department of Health. I left that job in 1993--and I still have most of the pink cards. So, out they go in this cleaning frenzy.

It did make me think about the parting gifts we get when we leave jobs. I have held four different jobs prior to my current part time teaching in a community college. First, I was an instructor in a four year college; then I went to the state medical association; from there to the health department job; then a large health insurance company in our state. At two of those jobs I was feted to a going away honors.

But in each case, the gifts were . . .well-intentioned, but not what I might have picked. At the state medical association, I received a framed commendation from the board of trustees, and a large book called A Day in the Life of America--lots of interesting photos. I looked at it, then shelved it--no idea exactly where it is right now.

At the health department, my secretary arranged a lovely luncheon. I was given two gifts--a silver covered photo album, and the aforementioned note cards.

I don't know what a perfect parting gift might be. At one time the custom was the proverbial gold wristwatch (or maybe even at one time the pocket watch). I have received more clocks than I know what to do with--from having served on various advisory boards.

When I left the health insurance company, some of my employees took me to lunch. One of them gave me an electronic footwarmer! Never used it.

OK--my ruminations on parting gifts are over.


How did the desk cleaning out go? Quite fine, I think.


And the office cat even approves.





Any thoughts on the perfect parting gift?

Are You a Good Wife?

When our children were small, we went on a family vacation, driving up through some of the New England states. We visited Cape Cod, Provincetown, Newport, RI, and Boston. One of our stops was at Plimouth Plantation. This lovely site is a recreation of the original Plimouth Plantation that was settled by the Pilgrims who emigrated from England.

The village buildings and layout reproduce the presumed conditions of 1627, and the people there (actually actors) stay completely in character. As one website notes:

People in historic period costumes carry out their daily tasks which would have been conducted by the occupants of the settlement. Their dialect is recreates the flavor of the period as well.

When we visited there we had a lot of fun interacting with the “residents.” I particularly enjoyed myself, and probably embarrassed my children in the process. We went into one house just around the noon hour, and the residents were getting ready to eat. They told us that they would always sing a psalm before the meal. In fact, they said the plantation leader had rewritten many of the psalms into hymn mode, and would we like to sing along? Well, I need no second invitation to sing, so I joined in. That’s when my children looked embarrassed—Mom, you didn’t have to sing along.

Another house we stopped in was the residence of the village physician. At the time, I worked for the state medical association, so I really enjoyed conversing with the physician. In his garden, he was growing several medicinal flowers, including foxglove.




Foxglove is a flower from which digitalis, used in treatment heart ailments, can be extracted. Thinking myself quite smart, I asked the physician if he had heard of using willow bark to reduce fever and relieve pain. He was totally in character, and asked me whence came this knowledge? I replied, well, it is well known to the Indians that willow bark has these properties. He drew himself up and sniffed his reply—use something on good Christians that comes from savages? We would never do such a thing. So much for me showing off what I knew.

Then came the coup de grace. As we were walking around the village, one of the villagers asked me if I was a good wife. I think I sort of spluttered—well, I try to be. Ah, he said—then you are not a lady or a gentlewoman, but a good wife. Humph—a little light clicked in my brain, and I realized he was asking about my social status, not my upright moral character. And then I remembered the Nathaniel Hawthorne story “Young Goodman Brown.”

See, social ranking would have been lord and lady, gentleman and gentlewoman, or goodman and goodwife. So much for social climbing. And I was just a goodwife!

First two photos from Wikipedia; last one from the website http://www.pilgrims.net/plimothplantation/vtour/index.htm

Oh, My!

Note just received in my campus email (at my community college). . .

CANCELED: Tonight's Workshop, Thur. April 10th on "The Importance of Education"

Due to low participants our workshop for tonight has been CANCELED and will be re-schedule for the Fall semester, date & time TBA.

Note: message reproduced exactly as it appeared in my in-box.
Oh, my!

You’re Not My Type

Recently Laura posted her personality type, indicating “from KGMom,” but also indicating that “Parts of this made me howl with laughter.” Of course, I am curious as to why, but still don’t know what got her howling.

It did, however, get me to thinking about what a person can learn by knowing her “type.” First, note that Laura’s post is titled Myers-Briggs. This approach to personality typing (NB: there are many other approaches) was first set forth by Isabel Briggs Myers and her mother Katherine Briggs. As the official website indicates the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator® (MBTI) personality inventory, based on Jungian psychology, hopes to make the theory of psychological types understandable and useful for people. “The essence of the theory is that much seemingly random variation in the behavior is actually quite orderly and consistent, being due to basic differences in the ways individuals prefer to use their perception and judgment.”





Carl Jung



I don’t want to get all wrapped up in the theory. I just enjoy knowing my type—INTJ—and seeing how it explains some of the preferences I have.

My husband and I first encountered MBTI when my husband planned a retreat for an adult church group we belonged to at the time. He contacted some people to lead the retreat, and they used MBTI as the basis for their content. All of the retreat attendees had to fill out lengthy questionnaires in preparation.

On the first night of the retreat, the leaders divided us into two groups, calling out our names individually. One group was placed in the middle with all the other people forming a circle out around us. (I was in the middle group.) Then the leaders asked: when you go to a party where there are a lot of people you don’t know, what do you do? The people out around looked genuinely puzzled. What’s the big deal? They laughed and showed supreme confidence that the question was no challenge for them at all.

Those of us in the middle sat quietly. Perhaps we looked down, or tapped our feet nervously. Finally, one of us said—do we have to go to this party? AHA! The first aspect of MBTI had been revealed. There are people who love to be around other people, and then there are people who are quite content to be alone. Hence, extroverts (E) and introverts (I).

It was no surprise to me to learn that I am, in fact, an introvert. Many friends of mine were taken aback, or at least skeptical. I readily speak up in public settings, and for much of my career have been in a front and center type position. But, I crave solitude. I hate big anonymous parties. Nothing makes me cringe more than having to be at a training session where I know no one. I frankly can’t abide small talk.

The second set of initials—N or S—refers how people gather information. This is the one place in which I differ with my husband. I am an N, meaning iNtuitive, tending to see the “big picture” or more like to see the forest rather than the trees. My husband is the opposite—Sensing, that is focusing on details.

The most telling examples come at my expense. I have been known to go to the grocery store, in search of a specific product—let’s use peanut butter for an example. I will get the brand right, but miss the small print—crunchy. Hmmm—I meant to buy smooth! Oh well—big picture, at least it’s peanut butter. But to my husband, the crunchy vs. smooth DETAIL is very important.

One final example. The strangest pairing of letters is the final one—J or P. J means Judging, and P means Perceiving. Neither label tells you much. Judging people tend to be organized, preferring to complete a task. They make lists (boy, do I make lists). Perceiving means keeping options open—don’t ask me how you get that from “perceiving.” When we went to our church retreat, we had our son and daughter along. When our son took the test, he turned out to be a P, where his parents were both Js. LIGHT BULBS all over the place. I work to the task, wanting to get it done. Our son tended (and still does) to want to keep his options open. But when you are a young teen, and you are putting off a task, you can drive your goal oriented parents stark raving mad.

So, that’s why I enjoy knowing my type. No, it doesn’t answer everything. And, yes, it is an explanation, not an excuse. My husband and I are not the same type, but we are very similar and mesh very well. Knowing the type of a co-worker might explain a work habit that has been maddeningly puzzling otherwise. Knowing my own type helps me know how to compensate for what I might rather do.

If you want to take the test, go here.
And if you want to share your type--please do.



Artwork on INTJ from: http://www.teamtechnology.co.uk/myers-briggs/intj.htm

Fouling the Nest

Having recently posted on the assiduous encroachment of development at the expense of green space, I now turn my worries to a story I heard of only recently.

There is a huge garbage pile of plastic floating in the Pacific! Now, I am a fervent recycler--I have been recycling since before recycling was fashionable or even required by local laws. We used to save all our glass (divided by green, brown, and clear), our newspapers and our plastic containers. Then once a month we drove to a nearby collection center. About ten years ago, our township instituted weekly collection, simplifying recycling.

In addition to recycling, I try to be conscientious, requesting paper, not plastic, or better yet buying my own reusable bags. But, I am sure I could do more. I confess to buying bottled water--as George Carlin has observed: when did people decide they needed their own portable water supply?

I guess what I am driving at is that I consider myself environmentally aware, and even caring. I know I have a larger carbon footprint than someone living somewhere in Africa, but I do try to be less consuming. So, I was stunned to read about this plastic garbage dump. It seems the ocean currents in the Pacific have gathered up and trapped mountains and mountains of plastic trash. The brave organization Greenpeace has documented this phenomena. Estimates vary on the size: one estimate said double the size of Texas, and another said it is equal to the land mass of Africa.

To give you an idea of why this plastic collects in the Pacific, check out this animation of plastic in Pacific caught in vortex of ocean currents (from Greenpeace). And here's a link to a CBS news report on the subject:

http://www.cbsnews.com/sections/i_video/main500251.shtml?id=591802n

We are fouling our nest.

Now to another aspect of fouling. . .

While talking with a colleague at my community college the other day, she told me when she advises students which English professor to take, she gently steers them away from one particular professor. Apparently, there is someone at my college who tells students to include as many swear words as they want in their writing--after all, they should be learning to express themselves.

I was astonished to learn this. Not because I am such a paragon of virtue, mind, but because I thought we were to be teaching students how to write in a formal context. Having spent quite some time in the business world, I have never encountered swearing in writing in the business world. Oh, to be sure, such language probably is used in some places. But not in my composition classes.

Here's why. I want students to expand their vocabularies. And I tell students that when they swear, they are demonstrating a paucity of language. Predictably, they say--huh? So I just say--look it up.

I came across a site that analyzes blog content for swearing.
Here's my "score"-

Created by OnePlusYou

I am no angel, but I do try to practice what I preach. Rich vocabulary here, folks, not salty.

I suppose if I were to swear in my blog it would be in response to the problem of the plastic garbage dump. And, it would go something like this: what the hell is wrong with us humans?

You’ve Got Mail

From the time I was 15 until 20, my parents and I lived apart. They were working as missionaries in Africa, and I stayed here in the US when they returned to Africa after a long vacation. Because of this separation, our primary—actually, our only—means of communication was letter writing.

To facilitate letter writing, we used aerograms—I don’t even know if this letter form is still available for purchase, but they were single blue sheets that you wrote on the inside, then folded up into a self-contained envelope. These letters were sent via airmail, and were the quickest means of getting news back and forth across the Atlantic Ocean.

I would write a letter to my parents, mail it, and in a week they would get it. Then they would respond with a return aerogram. In all, it took two weeks for questions and answers or news to go back and forth. Long distances advice with a significant time lag!

This asynchronous means of communication came flooding back to me this week, following a somewhat humorous exchange between my daughter and me. She had sent me an email, indicating her plans to do something; whereupon I replied “make sure you [blah blah blah].” She responded cautioning me not to be a transatlantic nag.

I thought that was such a funny response, but it also got me to thinking. What a world of difference in communication in some 40 years.

Throughout the five years my parents and I were separated, we must have written hundreds of letters back and forth. Usually my mother wrote to me, but one time my dad took up the weekly writing. I don’t remember this, but he does—apparently, getting a letter from my dad was so singular, that I went running through the halls of my college dorm yelling that I got a letter from my dad. And, of course, I must have told him that I did that because he remembered the report of the event.

Sometimes the asynchronous timing meant that stale news was going back and forth. Not long before my parents returned to the U.S., I had written asking my dad to round up a coin series of Rhodesian coins for my then boyfriend, who was a collector. My dad dutifully complied, bringing the coins along back. However, by then, that was stale news as the boy in question was no longer my boyfriend. I had no instant way of saying—never mind. My dad gave me the coins, and I gave them to the ex-boyfriend, to my dad’s regret (I think).

If I had an especially pressing personal problem that I wanted to talk out with my parents, the time lag was excruciating. True, I had my uncle and aunt who were my legal guardians but they had moved from Pennsylvania to Illinois, exacerbating the distance from adults to give advice. One of the impacts on my personality, not surprisingly, is the high degree of self-sufficiency that I possess. But still, it would have been nice to talk some issues out with my parents.

Times change. Not only do we have the advantage of daily emails, if we wish, with our daughter and of instant messaging, but we also can talk to her as often as we want. The advances in telephone communication are almost as breathtaking as those in letter writing. Phone technology such as communicating through computers has completely revolutionized this means of contact.

During the 5 years that my parents and I were apart, I talked with them on the phone ONCE. That’s right—once. There were no satellites to relay phone calls, only the transatlantic cable. So, if you wanted to talk with someone by phone, you had to call the international operator and RESERVE time. And then the cost was very steep. My college friends took up a collection gathering $25 for a 3 minute phone call. So once in our 5 year separation, I heard my mother’s voice, my father’s and my brother’s and sister’s voices once.

We compensated for this lack of voice communication by sending audio tapes back and forth. I recounted one of the amusing outcomes of these tape messages in my post on Sibling Stories II. My mother, trying to get my sister to talk, told her to “talk to Donna” while pointing at the tape recorder. My sister hesitated, then said in her little girl voice—is Donna inside that machine? The result was so much more authentic than anything a little girl of 3 or 4 might have said.

Contrast to this long distance oh so slow voice communication the near weekly telephone conversations with our daughter. I marvel at the changes, and cherish all the news sharing we can do. And, deep down, I think of my mother and just know how much she would have liked to hear her elder daughter’s voice.

So, we have gained and we have lost with the changes in communication. The gains are obvious—fast, easy contact with loved ones. The losses—all those letters that will no longer be written. Several years ago, when I wrote a biography of my grandparents, I relied on letters they had written to each other during their courtship years. Letters from the early 1900s provided me a wonderful insight into their young lives. With email today, who will save these “letters”? Who will print them off, lovingly fold them, place them in a box, and store them in an attic?



Mail call—letter for Donna! Or “you’ve got mail”—either way, I love staying in touch with my family.

By George, I've Got It!

Since my prior post about the loss of green space, and the stories that many of you shared in your comments, I have been stewing trying to think of how we could solve urban sprawl.

I know, I know--I am not running for office. And I have no power base from which to mount any campaign to save green space.

But I just recently read about a potential way to help preserve green space. Why can't we urge local and state legislators to establish green spaces?

Now, where in the world, you might ask, does such an idea exist in reality? In the UK. Here's a description. Here's the paragraph that captures the basic description:

In United Kingdom town planning, the green belt is a policy for controlling urban growth. The idea is for a ring of countryside where urbanisation will be resisted for the foreseeable future, maintaining an area where agriculture, forestry and outdoor leisure can be expected to prevail. The fundamental aim of green belt policy is to prevent urban sprawl by keeping land permanently open, and consequently the most important attribute of green belts is their openness.

Actually, this concept explains why when we have visited the UK, I do not see the constant gobbling up of land. Towns and villages have a discernable beginning (and end).

The city where we live does have a green belt--a series of interconnected green spaces, but these spaces run through the city and in no way delineate the end of urban growth.

Thank goodness for some good news in our area. We are located in some of the rolling hills of the Appalachians--many of the place names here feature the word "gap" for the places where you can pass between one mountain and the next. One such gap--Waggoner's Gap--is along some of the raptor flyways, and has as many raptors passing through as the famed Hawk Mountain. Several groups, including the PA Audubon Society, have gone together to buy up acreage in this area, to keep it wooded and available for all to enjoy nature.

Aerial view, courtesy of MapQuest, of Waggoner's Gap Rd., Route 74

A small victory in the face of the all the greedy destruction of open space.

So, my new mantra--we need green space, we need green space. . .

If Only. . .

In our local news lately, we have had a story about a Catholic high school, presently located in the city, which is planning to move its existing location which was built in 1930, to a new suburban location. Perhaps not surprisingly, the proposed location is on land not yet built upon. In fact, the land is field and a small wood. The choice of location makes me very sad—it is an open field I drive by on a weekly basis. True—there is not much on that land right now, but I am sure it is habitat to myriad small creatures and many birds. Depressing.

Then, in today’s New York Times, I found two stories that really increased my glumness. The first deals with continuing disappearance of amphibians--specifically glass frogs. Here’s the

story.

Photo of glass frog from http://www.nmnh.si.edu/rtp/students/2002/virtualposterinfo/poster_2002_cisneros_heredia.htm

A second story relates the problem of dying bats. Now, many people are less than enthusiastic about bats. For some reason, I really like them. They are marvelous creatures and help keep us from being knee deep in insect infestation. But, bats are dying under very mysterious circumstances. Not just a dead bat here or there—they are dying in huge numbers. Here’s the Times story.

On the list of things that I worry about, over which I have virtually no control, is the degree to which we continue to act in ways that throw our planet out of balance. Disappearing toads and dying bats are surely evidence of that imbalance.

So, the local Catholic school will move, another open field will disappear. And I will worry and fret. If only—if only we made decisions with reverence for all creatures with whom we share this planet. If only we elected leaders who cared about the environment. If only we didn’t believe that every square inch of earth needs to have a building erected upon it. If only. . .

Five Years On . . .

What an interesting convergence of information. We have just passed the 5th year anniversary of the U.S. military action in Iraq. Last night, during the various national news broadcasts, the television news covered this milestone. This morning, I turned on BBC News and heard an announcer talk about the war “five years on.”

The phrase caught my fancy. And it got me to thinking. I have just begun watching the HBO series on John Adams. Based on the book by David McCullough, which I read several years ago, this series covers the life of John Adams, second President of the U.S. and one of the architects of the American Revolution.

The convergence is that the same amount of time—five years—is what it took for the 13 colonies to achieve their independence. They declared their independence from King George III in 1776, and achieved military victory, with the surrender of General Cornwallis in 1781—five years.

As the 5 year anniversary of the war in Iraq was noted, President Bush asserted his absolute personal conviction that the goal of freedom for Iraq is worth whatever the cost. And as I watch the John Adams series, I can’t help but ponder the differences.

The colonial leaders who fought their way toward freedom from King George III anguished over the right course. The Continental Congress debates pitted the fiery New Englanders, who were front line in protesting the unfair tariffs imposed by England, against the pacifist conflict-avoiding Quakers in Pennsylvania. John Adams was thoroughly disgusted with the seeming hesitancy of the Pennsylvania delegation. But he knew, in his bones, that they ALL had to unite to achieve their independence.

When the Declaration of Independence was finally adopted, all 13 colonies had united in their opposition to King George III. Freedom was not an idea that some external entity suggested they try. They had experienced the increasingly unjust governing by the crown, and worked their way toward a new way of governing as 13 different colonies all united in one goal.

Five years on. Freedom is not fairy dust that you can grab a handful of and sprinkle it over a country. Enough said.