To Sleep, Perchance...

...to dream.

Of course, "to dream" is the continuation of the line from Hamlet's famous "To be or not to be" soliloquy.  But, there are times when I think the "perchance" applies to the "to sleep" part.  At least, that is what it seems to be for me some nights.

And last night was such a night.

When my husband and I had both retired, and were free--like water--to seek our own level, we found we have different body clocks.  Work requirements, of course, impose a body clock on any of us.  I am perfectly capable of getting up early in the morning.  In fact, after our son, our first child, was born and I was still teaching college, I had a 7:30 a.m. class.  So I got up at 5:30 a.m. on those days, got myself ready, woke up our son and got him dressed.  Then we headed off to campus, where one of the faculty wives living on campus took care of him.  I nursed him, then headed off to class by 7:30 a.m.  

But, when given the opportunity to go to sleep when I was ready, and get up when I was done sleeping, I found my natural timing was late to bed, late to rise (sorry, Ben Franklin).  I rarely wind down before midnight, and usually prefer to sleep to around 8 a.m.

As I have gotten older, a new dynamic has crept in--occasional insomnia.  It takes me a long time to unwind--make that, a L-O-N-G time.  I read at least a half an hour, then turn out the light and even then stay awake maybe another half hour before I finally drop off the sleep cliff.  I am doomed if I fall asleep a bit, then awake immediately.  That dooms me to an even longer struggle to go to sleep.  As I said, last night was such a night.  I turned out the light at 12:05 a.m., then fell asleep somewhat quickly, but awoke within 5 minutes with a tickling cough.  And that was it--I could not get back to sleep.  All told, it took me an hour and a half to get back to sleep.

My mind jumped from project to project that I COULD do--say, clean out a closet, or tidy up the basement.  But I made myself stay in bed.  However, my body seemed to think adrenalin was called for, which woke me even more.  Eventually, I got out of bed, went to where one of the cats was curled up, and snuggled up to her for a while--that is very calming.

The one thing I didn't do is read--because, frankly, reading just wakes me up.  Finally, I did get to sleep.

I find it humorous that one of the proverbial ways to drift off to sleep is to "count sheep."  My luck--I would end up shearing them, carding the wool, weaving it into yarn and then knitting a sweater--all before I finally got back to sleep.

Hope your sleep is less disturbed than mine.  Sweet dreams.

What Color is the Sky?

Respond to the question "what color is the sky?"--quickly.  Don't think about it; just blurt out your answer.

Most likely you said "blue"--which is the standard answer we give because--after all--the sky is blue.  Except when it isn't.  Go outside at night and look at the sky.  What color is it?  Or how about on a stormy rainy day.  What color is it then?

It doesn't take long for you to begin to change your answer.  Sometimes the sky is black, sometimes grey, sometimes white.  At sunrise or sunset, it can be glorious shades of pink, purple, salmon.

OK, you say--where is all this speculation going?  Well, here's where.  I happened to catch a fascinating radio program several weeks ago.  I tuned in at the point where the discussion turned to the color blue.  And the story was about a tribe that did not distinguish blue as a distinct color.  To test this, members of the tribe were shown something like the patches of color below.  And they were asked--which one is different? 

What would you answer?  

I would say--all the squares are green, except the one on the lower right which is blue.  Except this tribe did not say that.  They saw no difference in color among the squares. 

The radio show explained a whole lot more about that particular experiment--which you can listen to if you follow the link and stay with the program.  The story led to the introduction on the program of the linguist Guy Deutscher, who writes about how language shapes our perception of reality, and vice versa.  Of course, I am doing great violence to his extensive research and writing.  I just want to get to the point that having a word for something allows you to perceive it.

If you don't have a word for BLUE, can you see blue?  And that's where the question of what color is the sky comes in.  One of the presenters on the radio program talked about conducting an experiment with his daughter who was developing her language skills.  He decided not to tell her the sky was blue.  He would play naming games with her--showing her something and asking what color it was.  But he had enlisted his wife NOT to tell the child that the sky was blue.  

So finally, one day he asked his daughter--what color is the sky?  And she puzzled over it for a time, and then refused to answer.  This interchange was repeated over many days.  And always she would ponder, but not answer.  Finally, one day she tentatively said the sky was blue, no white, no blue.  Back and forth. 

The interplay between language and our perception of reality has startling implications for us all.  We don't all speak the same language, even when we are speaking the same language. 

I used to do a quick little exercise with students to help them understand how changeable language is.  I would ask them if they knew what the word "hussy" meant.  Oh, yes--they would reply.  Then I would pick out one of the young women who seemed to think herself special and I would ask--would you be offended if I called you a hussy?  Of course, she would reply.  But, why?--I asked.  Hussy is simply an abbreviation of the word "housewife."  Perception and reality and the role language plays in it all.

There are so many paths that lead off from this musing of mine.  And I will eschew following any of them.  I will leave you to your own devices.  Perhaps you will wander outside and ponder "what color is the sky?"

There Is a Balm

Here is a continuation of my a-peeling story in the previous post.

The news is, I am still peeling.  Though a bit less each day.  And, I also received a very gracious letter from the parent company of the product I wrote of in the prior post.  They included several coupons for products in their overall parent company's stable.  Many of those products I use, so I happily accepted the coupons.  One small irony--they also included a coupon for the product I suspect caused my wee predicament in the first place. 

Oh, well.  Two steps forward, one step back.

Now, the balmy part of this post.  I suddenly recalled a product I had first learned about some 30 years ago.  When we had our first (wonderful) English setter--a sweet dog named Shannon--she occasionally developed hot spots.  She would fuss at and lick various places on her paws.  In a casual conversation with a neighbor, she mentioned that what I needed to use was Bag Balm.  This neighbor and her husband had owned a general store in rural central Pennsylvania, and Bag Balm was something they always had on hand.  She gave me a small sample.

Well, it did the trick.  But the history of Bag Balm is quite amusing to me--originally it was developed for farmers to use on cows whose udders became inflamed from milking.  Hence its name--Bag Balm. 

It is very nearly wonder stuff.  It cured the hot spots. 

When I saw it for sale at one of my favorite websites for shopping--the Vermont Country Store--I ordered some.  And it arrived yesterday.  I tried it on my peeling hands--and for now they are becoming soothed and smooth.

Oh, yes, there is a balm.

I'm Appealing

...make that I'm a-peeling.

This is a rather strange tale and my only reason for telling it is a kind of caveat emptor effort.

I recently bought a liquid body soap product.  I am an enthusiastic shopper fan of Costco--a great store with a good record of fair treatment for employees (as far as I know).  And, I really don't mind buying a gross of whatever as long as the product is unlikely to go stale, bad or otherwise deteriorate.  Since I like using a liquid body soap for showering and, since my old favorite wasn't available, I bought a different brand than what I had been getting.

This product was the one pictured here.  I am not naming it perhaps for understandable reasons.  Read on.

Anyway, I began using it.  It really was creamy, and generally worked quite well.  But then...but then, I noticed that when I touched things--for example, petting my cats--things felt extra silky and soft.   Even running my hands over my own hair, it felt...different.  Mildly put-off, I wondered--is this the new soap.

Then, after about a week of using the product, my hands began to peel.  Yes, PEEL.  My skin began peeling off slowly as if I were moulting. 

So, I stopped using the product IMMEDIATELY.  I offered it on Freecycle to others who might have used it.  One woman responded--oh, this stuff is fantastic, so figuring she had used it with no problems, I gave it to her.

Then I wrote to the parent company.  I thought they might want to know that not everyone can tolerate their product.  Here's the answer I got back:

Thank you for contacting us.

We do apologize for the experience you reported concerning our Dxxx Body Wash..

We would like to assist you further. In order for us to do so, please forward the following additional information:

- Your telephone number (daytime, evening, cell, etc.)
- The UPC code (bar code) off of the product
- The manufacturing code off of the packaging
- The store name and address where the product was purchased


Upon receipt, this additional information will be forwarded to our Specialist who will contact you shortly.

Now, understand, I had already filled out an auto-response type form.  Phone number was NOT a required element, so I left it blank intentionally.  I also informed them since I no longer had the product, I did not have a UPC code or a manufacturing code.  I just wanted them to know what effect the product had on me.

Oh, I also ruled out any other variable--no other change in anything: no new laundry detergent, no new food, no new med, etc.

So, now what?  I guess I can contact the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.  Or I can blog.

So, that's my tale of a-peeling.  And my appeal--always always let the buyer beware.

The Great Divide

Our recent river trip through Germany took us across a continental divide.  While not so grand as the North American continental divide (think the Rockies), the rise took us from sea level at the North Sea to the Black Sea.  To traverse this continental divide we traveled through a series of locks, first rising bit by bit, then—after crossing the divide—descending the same distance. 

So, why this musing on the European continental divide?  Well, I am deeply troubled these days by the great divide that has grown in the U.S. over the past decade or so, that only seems to be deepening.  Part of what troubles me is trying to think how we might extricate ourselves from our current poisonous political environment and find a way to move forward as a country.  And the analogy of the series of locks to traverse the continental divide came to mind.  Isn’t that what we have lost?  Locks operate by incremental movement.  Need to achieve a rise of several hundred feet (or meters)?  You can do so by moving up a few feet or meters at a time.

I recently heard Thomas Mann and Norman Ornstein, who have collaborated on a recent book with the intriguing though depressing title of It’s Even Worse Than It Looks, note that presently in the U.S. the Republicans in Congress are functioning as though we have a parliamentary system.  Allegiance to the party’s mindset overcomes and “trumps” any thought of working together or compromise.

I can’t claim to have thought nearly as elegantly or as compelling as that observation, but it did strike me early on in President Obama’s presidency that some Republican leaders had hit upon a perfect way to defeat him.  Senate Minority Leader McConnell announced, practically from day one, that his only goal was to make Obama a one term president.  To accomplish that—block every initiative put forth by the president. 

While we have had previous times in our history where the country has been pulled this way and that by hyper-partisanship, today’s impasse strikes me as coming close to what led to our Civil War. 

Many issues seem to be at the heart of the great divide.  We battle over how to spend government money, we battle over how to raise government money.  We have elected officials who are badgered by non-elected self-appointed guardians of democracy who extract pledges never to raise taxes, before the elected official even takes office.  We have values issues, where one group's values become the dictates to another group’s freedom of conscience.  We have issues where choice means you cannot choose, and other issues where choice means you can opt out of public participation in something as basic as education.

And so I come back to the great divide.  I confess to a great heaviness of heart.  What does this ever-widening chasm portend for our country?  Forgive my Cassandra tone, but I am looking, very seriously looking, for someone who can lead us toward the locks that gently elevate us, and then lower us—to help us cross the great divide.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

With apologies to the Bard (who, by the way, DID write the plays of Shakespeare), I find myself speaking that portion of Hamlet's most famous soliloquy quite a bit these days.  I am in the midst of a bout wrestling with sleep.  


Since both my husband and I are now retired, and thus can pretty much live to our own body clocks, we have discovered we have different internal clocks.  My husband has always been an early riser--and now, even though he need not rise early, he continues to do so.  He winds down in the evening--so, don't even think about beginning a discussion after--say--9 p.m.  His mind is sufficiently wound down that anything that revs up the adrenaline is counter-productive.


I, on the other hand, have discovered that I am a night owl.  Try as I might, I cannot wind down much before midnight.  Even if I get sleepy earlier in the evening, the MINUTE I get up to do the final evening chores (e.g. emptying the dishwasher) I am AWAKE.  After I get ready for bed, and settle down in bed to read--I can read, get sleepy and turn the light out.  Even so, I still almost always take at least a half an hour to fall asleep.


But several times, of late, that half hour has turned into hours.  I had one night recently where I was still awake at 4 a.m.  I really can't figure it out.  Oh, occasionally, I know I have had a bit more caffeine than I should have.  But we have changed our coffee habits--partly to help me.  I now drink my diet Pepsi sans caffeine.  And in the evening, I have ONE cup of coffee--that is half caf/half decaf.  


Frankly, I chalk it up to aging.  Just as "other things" change as we grow older, no doubt our ability to sleep changes too.  


I mostly keep in good spirits--I figure, well, I can get by on 6 hours of sleep, or 5, or 4...You can see how the night goes, as my mind keeps bouncing around, careening off the walls of my skull.  


I think I'll start reading every time I can't sleep.  At the current rate, I should be able to whip through several novels a week!

Where are They Now?

Occasionally, I fall for a magazine, stacked up at the cash register of a grocery store, when it trumpets from the cover WHERE ARE THEY NOW?  Usually, there is a photo spread of stars of yesteryear, or other people in the public.  I am always curious about the paths that people's lives take.

With the arrival of social networking sites, such as Facebook, we can now indulge in our own version of "Where are they now?"  Maybe you have played this game.  After you sign up with Facebook, chase down immediate friends, relatives, neighbors, whoever--eventually you get to the point where you wonder "who else can I friend?"  (Sorry, it annoys me as much as you that we have converted yet ANOTHER noun into a verb!  After all, isn't "befriend" a perfectly good verb? Yet FB insists on "friend" as the verb form...but I digress.)

I love the graph below suggesting who finds YOU on Facebook.  Thus far that has not been my experience.  I have, however, had the experience of befriending someone who later, summarily "unfriended" me.  And, truth be told, I have done the same thing.  After all, no need to be subjected to reading updates about things which matter not on whit to me.



If you like the above graph, you can find more at GraphJam.com.

Recently, one of my Blogger friends, AC, hauled out a third grade photo, and had his readers guessing which cherub was him. That post engendered another, as he found a second grade photo as well.

That got me to musing...I know somewhere I have a fourth grade photo.  So I hauled it out.  I have only one such school photo.  Most of my elementary school days were spent in government run schools in then Rhodesia.  I don't think they took class photos there.  At any rate, in the mid-1950s, my parents returned to the U.S. for a furlough (extended vacation time).

Time enough for me to go to part of third grade and fourth grade at the Shepherdstown Elementary School.  My teachers were Mr. Meyers and Mr. Ryder.  How unusual then to have had two men as grade school teachers.  Looking at the photo, I have distinct recollections of most of the students.  One girl, standing right next to me, was named Ginny. 

I suspect every class has someone like her.  You see, her problem was cleanliness.  Or rather lack thereof.  She came to school day after day, frequently in repeat clothing.  Her hair was dishevelled, her face unwashed.  And her body odor was painfully rank.  Poor girl.  No--really.  POOR girl.  I don't know who cared for her, if anyone.  No one in class would tell her she needed to bathe, and use deodorant.  We all steered clear as much as we could.

By the time my family returned to the U.S. in the 1960s, and I finished high school, returning to the same school system, many of those third grade classmates were still there.  But not Ginny. 

Well, Facebook hasn't revealed any Ginnys to me.  I do not recall her family name at all.  And, yes, there are times when I wonder "Where is she now?"

One Man's Mutilation

An ad I saw the other day in the New York Times sent my mind spinning. And it made me recall what was so much fun about teaching.

There are many things I loved about teaching, but far and away my favorite part has always been having spirited class discussions.

Soon after I returned to teaching, at the local community college, I learned that a new essay text was going to be picked. When the writing coordinator asked if anyone wanted to help select it, I volunteered. We ended up picking a neat text of essays (called Every Day, Everywhere) that included a wide range of delightful readings.

Early in a semester, I would assign Germaine Greer's incisive essay titled "One Man's Mutilation is Another Man's Beautification." You can read it here, if you like.

To get students' minds working, I would show them various photos--here are some samples.

from top left, clockwise: Neck elongation; skin scarification; henna painted hand; lip enlarging using wooden disk; bound foot (pointing straight down); and filed teeth.

Invariably, students would react negatively. The one practice that really seemed to bother them was foot binding. A spirited discussion always followed my showing that photo.

Of course, I was lying in wait for them. After the students got lathered up in discussing the barbarian practice of foot binding, I would ask--you mean you wouldn't submit to such a practice? Of course not, they indignantly replied.



And then I showed them photos such as this.

What's the difference? I asked. And then the discussion really heated up.

I am particularly interested in the answer. Shoes with such a high heel go in and out of style. I remember spike heels. I wore some when I was younger. I do NOT wear anything like that today. I wince and hobble with bad knees, even if I am bare foot, or have my favorite pair of Clark's on my feet. Super high heels? Well, you may as well tell me to have my feet bound.

Of course, what I am tapping into with the discussion is the cultural variations we all exhibit. And that's what Germaine Greer meant by her provocative title.

Bound feet...
Super high heels
Scarification...
Body piercings...
Tattooing...
Teeth filing...
Teeth capping...


Ah, the ad? Well, it was those photos of women's super high heels. Inflicted cruelty in the name of fashion, if you ask me, resulting in long-term mutilation all for the sake of short-term beautification.

One man's (or woman's) mutilation is indeed another man's (or woman's) beautification. OK, class, discuss among yourselves.

Remembrance of Things Past

Those readers who know me realize I am a big fan of the Writer's Almanac. I receive it as a daily email, a practice I began when I missed the NPR segment too often. So now every day, I can start out with a literary bon mot to savor.

For example, today is Marcel Proust's birthday--July 10, 1871. And I know that because I read my Writer's Almanac. Two Proustian amusements I enjoy--one is the recurring reference to him in that charming independent movie of a few years back--Little Miss Sunshine. Steve Carell plays a very depressed scholar who fancies himself the number # 1 Proust scholar...until he learns of someone ELSE who is even more the # 1 Proust scholar.

The other is the title of Proust's most famous work--Remembrance of Things Past. At least that's how the title is rendered in English. Apparently, that title, though so well-known by most literature students, should have been rendered as In Search of Lost Time. I like Remembrance of Things Past better--maybe because that's what I feel I frequently do when I set out to write a blog.

For the purists, Proust's title in French is À la recherche du temps perdu. which I confess really does translate better into In Search of Lost Time. OK, whatever.

The other day, on the anniversary of the poet Shelley's birthdate (of which the Writer's Almanac reminded me), I went searching for a suitable Shelley poem to use on Facebook. I found the poem "When the Lamp is Shattered."

Interesting how the themes in this poem seem to echo that search of lost time, or even remembrance of things past theme.

Herewith the opening stanza--the rest you can read by clicking on the link above:

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

I heard a successful movie script writer being interviewed by Terry Gross the other day. He made the point that, in his opinion, most movie scripts are really the same story told over and over again. He gave some examples to illustrate his point. I see what he means--and that repetition of theme certainly occurs in literature. Only there--we call them archetypes.

There is that recurring theme of the intransigence of existence--the mutability of all things. Contemplate how an entire play--Hamlet--seems to hang up on that theme. And Hamlet's awareness incapacitates him. He wanders around musing "to be or not to be."

About now, dear reader, you may be wondering--what's gotten into her. Oh, maybe I am just musing. Tempus fugit. Memento mori.

Let's hope that the next Writer's Almanac puts me on the path of a cheerier theme.

Rest for the Weary

With the horrific line of storms that moved across the U.S. over this past weekend, our area ended up with record breaking rain. The previous record of rain for the day of April 16 had been just shy of 2 inches. Until this past weekend...we had three and a half inches on Saturday--on top of several inches so that in several days we had 5 inches of rain, in a very wet spring. The effect was very much like pouring a full glass of water on top of an already soaked sponge.

On Saturday evening, my husband went to our basement around 9 p.m.--and I heard him say something like--that's bad news. What? Well, our basement floor is getting wet. We have lived in our house for 30 years and have only had water in basement once before--when it bubbled up through our french drain. This time, water was coming in at the edge of the basement floor.

So, nothing to do but go to work. We grabbed towels, put them on the floor and in very short order the towels were soaked. We got out the wet/dry vacuum and began sucking up the water. What with my husband running the wet vac, and me throwing towels on the floor until they were soaked, then I would wring them out, throw them down again, wring again--repeat, we kept the water from encroaching all the way across our basement. We confined it to one third the total basement. But we worked for four hours.

Finally, the rain stopped, but by then, the hydrostatic pressure underneath our basement floor had sent a spidery network of minute cracks across the basement floor, and little bubbles gave away the leak source. Vac, mop, vac, mop.

We declared victory or defeat around 1:15 a.m. and went to bed. Now--two days later, I am slowly recovering from aches and weariness. Rest for the weary.

I note, somewhat ruefully, that this tendency to feel overwhelming weariness is increasing with my age. That realization makes me recall the two most significant senior women in my life--my mother and my mother-in-law.

When I first met my husband, and would spend time at his house, it did not take long for me to feel very much at home. And, his parents must have been comfortable with my being there. His mother had worked most of her adult life, so not surprisingly when she came home in the evenings--after the dinner dishes were cleaned up and put away--she would get into her nightgown, and come sit with us as we watched television. And she would frequently fall into a light sleep. Then she would awaken, get up and go to bed. Rest for the weary.

I think of my mother who, as she began to experience the consequences of a defective heart valve, would sometimes slip upstairs to her bedroom to lie down and rest. She was a most amazing woman who was seemingly indefatigable in every day life. But you could tell that her energy would flag when she slipped off for one of those little naps. Rest for the weary.

One more thought on weariness. Since we are now less than a week away from Easter, it's time for my husband and me to engage in one of our Easter preparation rituals--playing Handel's Messiah. We began doing this several years ago, and have enjoyed listening to this great uplifting music.

Perhaps that is why, as I contemplate the weariness of body, I suddenly found myself humming the marvelous aria from Handel's Messiah: Come Unto Him, All Ye that Labor.

Well, I trust that if you overdo your labors this spring, as I have recently done, you will find rest for the weary.

Come unto me, all ye that labor...and I will give you rest.
Matthew 11:28

The Old Neighborhood

For someone who grew up moving back and forth between continents (in my 12 years of basic education, I attended 7 schools in different locations)--I have stayed put in the same area for more than 4 decades.

My husband and I moved to the south central Pennsylvania, when he was finished with college and beginning his first job. Initially, we lived in an apartment, like many newly-weds. But after several years, we decided it was time to buy a house. Our son was just one year old when we began house hunting. We were decidedly not wealthy--my husband was teaching public school, and I was teaching college part time. Then, as now, part time college teaching pays woefully little. And public school teachers had only just won the right to bargain and strike if need be to raise salaries. So, we did not have loads of disposable income. We are also very sensible people, and made sure we looked at houses we could afford. The concept of buying so far over one's income level as to be "underwater" had not even been invented.

We were shown some very sorry houses--one tiny house with grey stone exterior had well water and a septic tank, not unusual. BUT this house was in a suburban neighborhood where all the houses around it were on city water and sewer. Another house, at that time 25 years old, had its original furnace. My husband envisioned a wheezing failing furnace and us with our restricted finances.

Finally, we found the right house--a one-story ranch house in an integrated neighborhood that was about 15 years old. The owners of the house that we were looking at were a former priest and a former nun who had found the strictures imposed on them by the Catholic Church to be untenable--so they left their vows and got married. They had been active in the anti-war movement during the Vietnam era, and had entertained some of the luminaries who came to town when the Harrisburg Seven were being tried. One of the people whom they housed over-night was Father Philip Berrigan--one of the seven-- and they had entertained his brother Father Daniel Berrigan.

On a side note, a dear friend of ours--who gave her son the middle name of Berrigan--when she visited our old house walked out on our lawn, and said--Daniel Berrigan walked here. Anyway, that's not why we bought the house. But it was an interesting back story to that place.

We lived there for about seven years. We weren't really looking for a new place, but one day--when our son was 8, we were out bike riding, and came upon this tiny new development very near our old house. We saw a house with a for sale sign in front. We got off our bikes, peered in through the windows--and thus was born an idea. Why not move?

Well, we did. When we left the old neighborhood, it was with a touch of sadness--leave takings are always thus. But it was a house we were leaving. Not really a neighborhood. Oh, true, we had neighbors--we knew their names, we said hi and such. But we never really got to know anyone. Almost all the yards were fenced in--a kind of metaphor for the lack of contact between neighbors. The only people we ever had inside our house were one couple (whose husband was also a public school teacher), and one little neighbor boy who wandered into our kitchen one day. I turned around--and there he was. I asked if his parents knew he was out--and he said, no. Strange. I just walked him home--not surprisingly, his parents were as blasé about his being out and about as he was.

The new neighborhood to which we moved--well, we have lived here for more than 30 years. And we know just about everyone in our neighborhood. Given our preference, we'd just as soon not move again!

Resolved: that...

One of the activities in which I participated when I was a college student was collegiate debate. Our small college had a relatively decent debate team, and--unlike sports--we competed against far bigger colleges. We had lots of exposure to other campuses as well as we traveled for intercollegiate competition.

There was a movie a couple of years ago that did a fairly accurate job portraying collegiate debate: The Great Debaters. The movie had other points that it was making, and debating was only a vehicle for those themes. But, still, it helped show how debating can work.

Every year, all the colleges would focus on a single resolved. The first year I debated the resolved was:

RESOLVED: That the non-communist nations of the world should establish an economic community.

The next year it was:

RESOLVED: That the federal government should guarantee an opportunity for higher education to all qualified high school graduates.

It is interesting to me to note that, in part, the first topic has been realized with the European Union.

I debated on the affirmative side of the issue. That meant that I and my partner had to do the research to PROVE the resolution. The negative team also had to do research, but could also focus on pulling the affirmative team off topic. I don't think my partner and I won many debates, but the experience was memorable and enjoyable.

So, why this reverie on debating. Because the word RESOLVED leads me to think of resolutions. Resolutions are sort of personal RESOLVEDS that you take the affirmative on and try to prove.

Every year, many people engage in their own little debate--whether or not to make New Year's resolutions. I say--do it! RESOLVED: that making resolutions at New Year's is a good thing to do.

A quick word about resolveds. They should always be worded in the positive. So, you would not say RESOLVED: making resolutions at New Year's is not worthwhile.

But, I digress.

Here's why I like resolutions.

1. They give you a goal to focus on for the new year.
2. They help you affirm the possibility of possibilities.
3. They give you the opportunity to leave behind what was less than perfect in the year gone by.

I make modest resolutions.

I resolve to
--take part in a book club
--clean out my closets before they overflow
--have lunch with friends more frequently
--take longer walks.

I never make too many resolutions. Too hard to keep track of! And, one thing I never do. At the close of the year, I do not beat myself up for any resolutions unmet. I stay on the affirmative, and eliminate the negative.

So, are you on the affirmative on this question? Or the negative?

Let's Face It

So, I had a follow-up appointment today with a plastic surgeon. No, no, dear reader--I am not one of those vain folk who seek to alter their appearance. I am what I am--as Popeye said. But part of what I am is fair-skinned. German genes and all, I have red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin that only freckles (and burns if I am not careful).

That makes me obsessive about taking care of unexplained spots that appear and refuse to go away. I am careful to go to a dermatologist annually. A couple of years ago, I had a small spot under my right eye--I asked the dermatologist about it. He was dismissive--oh, it's nothing. But it stayed. I persisted, asking my family doctor about it. Eventually, when I got to a specialist who paid attention to my concern, it turned out to be a basal cell carcinoma, which had to be excised. So, obsessiveness pays off.

BUT, it can also be a bit embarrassing. Recently, I noticed two small spots on my face. Hmmm, could these be nascent basal cells again? So, I quickly made an appointment with a plastic surgeon. Last week, he did a punch biopsy (giving my husband endless amusement just to get me to say PUNCH biopsy). Today, I got the results.

A keratosis and a plain old flat wart. A wart? Really? It certainly did not look like any wart I had ever seen. But, it did embarrass me. Taking up the time of a plastic surgeon just to find out I had a wart.

Harrumph! And, embarrassed. But, but, but--I am very careful about not neglecting a budding skin cancer.

Sigh. . .

Oh, well--at least it gives me something to say at the Thanksgiving table--I am thankful that I don't have skin cancer.

Flattened and Impaled

Certainly the title of this post sounds dire, no? Well, it's a brief health report. . .of sorts.

One of the joys of womanhood is the periodic demand to get flattened. By that I mean the annual (or biennial, depending upon whose advice you are heeding) mammogram. I am somewhat remiss--sometimes I let more than two years go by. I am not unmindful of the benefits of screening tests, but I follow medical studies, and the evidence is still coming in as to whether or not screening mammograms do more than BSE (breast self-exam) in discovering early cancers.

However, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and my husband kept reminding me to schedule my mammogram. So, I did--finally. And earlier this week, I trundled off to be flattened. I am always completely relaxed for my mammograms, even though I am not wild about the whole process. I amiably chatted with the radiology tech as she turned me this way and that. I noticed two ammonia ampules taped to the side of the mammogram machine. I asked--do people sometimes faint? Oh yes, she replied, we have a fair number of women who collapse as soon as the machine releases. I tried to envision that--being flattened, then released, then fainting dead (only temporarily) away.

The report--all is well; free from flattening for another year (or two).

The impaling part of this report, thankfully, had NOTHING to do with the mammogram. My husband and I were working around our house the other day, gathering up various yard items and storing them for the winter. We also refurbished and refilled the bird feeders. On a whim, I decided to reposition an iron tripod plant holder. It was wobbly, so I thought--why not move it.

When I got it in its new location, I decided to step on the lower brace to push the tripod stakes into the ground. I was wearing my wonderful Privo sandals, and gave no thought to the suitability for use as a sledge hammer.

The next thing I knew, a part of the iron ornamental stand poked through the bottom of my sandal, completing impaling my shoes but--thankfully, going right between my big toe and the next toe. It did whack the side of the nail on my big toe, knocking it lose like a child's tooth.

I could not pull my sandal up, being entirely captive to the iron spoke sticking through my shoe sole. For a second or two, I tottered trying to balance and then fell backwards, landing FLAT on my back. And I mean flat. Flatter than a mammogram, I might say.

It reminded me very much of the time our son took judo lessons. He was in his early teens and thought judo would be a fun thing to do. He spent hours in our back yard practicing falling. He would fall straight back, landing on his back. He flung his arms out to the side to dissipate the energy along his arms, and protect himself from being hurt. It worked.

I wasn't feeling very judo-like, but I really didn't hurt anything other than my pride and dignity. I must have looked ridiculous. My husband was momentarily horrified. Right before I fell, I had hollered that I couldn't move my foot--he thought that meant the iron spoke has gone through my foot! No, no--I reassured him--just my shoe.

Well, the end of the story is that I was sternly admonished to stand there, while my husband went and got a real hammer, and a board, which he used to hammer the stand into place.

The End of the Story

I have been greatly preoccupied of late (just ask my husband) with a writing project. I was commissioned to write a biography of my parents for a small church historical journal and the submission deadline is September 1. So I have been hard at work.

Yesterday, I hit a bit of a writing wall (all you writers out there will know exactly what I am talking about). The reason? I was at the point in my parents' lives when I had to write about my mother's death. This is one end of the story I would rather not to have to write. But write it I did. Having written about her death on this blog before helped.

As I am writing about my parents' lives, I am also doing a lot of thinking about my own. Have no fear--these are not deep dark thoughts. More like gentle rumination on the living I have done thus far.

I confess--I am consumed with curiosity about the future. Oh, not so much what will happen to me in the remainder of my life. More like--what will happen to EVERYTHING as time keeps on marching.

I am known in my family as one of those readers who turns to the last page of a novel just "to see how things turn out." I think that is part of the frustration I have when I contemplate my own life span being limited. I don't really want to live forever. But I do want to know where the story goes. . .

Do humans wake up and take real steps to protect their planet? Do humans learn to live with other animals? Do nations find ways to live peaceably with other nations? What happens? What happens?

Oh, maybe I really don't want to know all that--maybe the knowledge would be overwhelmingly crushing. True, I can't flip to the end of this story of human history or even earth's history. But that doesn't stop me from being curious about the end of the story.

On Target

I've been thinking a lot lately about the growing divide in the U.S., the so-called culture wars that rage. The latest salvo fired--OK, it does seem like there are bombardments all over the country every day--is the Target dust-up.

Target (now included in the definition of "person" according to the Supreme Court) gave a donation to the Republican candidate for governor in Minnesota, Tom Emmer. Emmer is very out-spoken in his opposition to issues of concern to gay rights groups. As a result of this donation, gay rights groups are calling for a boycott of Target.

Wait, it gets more complicated. Target has a long history of being "unwavering" (the word Target's CEO used) in its support of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender workers.

So, here we have a company donating to a candidate for governor who opposes the rights of workers that said company is unwavering in support of. Huh?

What's a person to do?

One mother has made her decision. Randi Reitan, the mother of a gay son, decided on a one-woman protest. You can see what her response was here.

When I first read her story, I felt the tugging of boycotts long past. It's been a while since I boycotted a national company. There was the grapes boycott, in support of farm workers; there was the boycott of Nestlé . This latter one REALLY got complicated when you started following the string of who owned whom and was affiliated with whom. Talk about multi-national intertwining of corporate interests.

I posted the link of Randi Reitan's response on Facebook with a note that I too would be boycotting Target for a time. Well, I got two responses--one from a dear cousin who posted the EXACT same link and indicated that "Let Target know you DO NOT support this boycott, but rather SUPPORT them in their decision to donate to Tom Emmer's campaign!! I typically don't get involved in these issues, but I believe it's time we LET OUR VOICES BE HEARD!!"

I also got a note from a FB friend who pointed out Target's long-standing commitment to supporting gay and lesbian rights.

Wow--so complicated.

Then I wondered--was this what it was like pre-Civil War. No, I am not issuing dire warnings that that is where we are headed. But, I do ponder--have we become so schizophrenic on some of these issues that we meet ourselves coming and going. Is it possible to hold civil dialogue on such issues? Can we find common ground anywhere?

I do wish that the media would enable such dialogue. I am a strong supporter of a free press in part because that can foster dialogue. But what do we get instead? Angry voices pushing harder to have us face-off.

I could have used the recent Shirley Sherrod incident as an example. That sad episode illustrates painfully how quickly we rush to judgment without bothering to dig for all the facts.

Where does that leave me? Confused. Saddened. Numbed. Will I boycott Target? Still thinking on this point. Ultimately what matters to me is whether my action does more good than harm.

Oh yeah--it's complicated.

Wolf at the Door

Years ago, when my son was still a little boy and I was reading stories to him, I read him the wonderful children's novel Julie of the Wolves. I have previously written about this, so I won't dwell on it, except to say that the novel features wolves in an absolutely positive light, and humans not so much so. In fact, before I had ever even heard of Sarah Palin and the abhorrent practice of shooting wolves from fixed wing aircraft, I was completely distraught to read about it in Julie of the Wolves.

Perhaps no other animal has been so vilified in human literature and expression. The title of this blog is but one of many expressions--the supposed origin for the expression "wolf at the door" that you will find on the Internet suggests it comes from the children's story "Three Little Pigs." Hmmm--I suspect the origin goes further back into human mythology.

If you should happen to be teaching a class on literature for children, you could try this exercise. Surprising how many children's stories use the wolf as villain.

But, I am not really thinking about wolves in children's literature or even in common expressions. The wolf I have buzzing around my head right now is the novel I am currently reading: Wolf Hall. I may write another blog about this work when I am finished. Suffice it to say that it is a most engrossing read. I didn't realize to what the title referred until I perused the handy guide just inside the novel's cover: Wolf Hall is the name of the Seymour family home which existed mid-1500s in England. No such residence stands today, the place having long ago fallen into disrepair. The novel centers on Thomas Cromwell, advisor to Henry VIII throughout a major portion of his reign.

Simultaneous to reading Wolf Hall, I encountered another wolf this weekend. My husband and I attended a production of Gilbert & Sullivan's comic opera The Mikado, which was performed at Wolf Trap. If you have never been there--and if you live in some proximity to Washington, DC, it is a treat of a place to visit. I admit it is the most tenuous of links--the word "wolf" in the novel title and the place name. Sorry about that.

Back to the various wolf expressions we use. "Wolf at the door" means to keep hunger or poverty at bay. The current economic times certainly have many people busily working to keep away the wolf at the door.

I had an interesting conversation this past week--I went to my hairdresser for a haircut. In an effort to engage in small talk--something at which I am woeful--I asked: so how's business been? Fantastic, she said. This week things have really picked up. Then, she observed, that the hair business is one of the last ones to be affected when the economy slows down, and one of the first to pick up, when the economy recovers. Maybe, the wolf will be kept from the door. Unless, he needs a hair cut!

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Cover photo of the "The True Story of The 3 Little Pigs"--this delightful book was a birthday gift I received from a friend several years ago--a reworking of the traditional child's fairy tale, told from the wolf's perspective.

Exhausted...

Of late, I have been somewhat remiss making the rounds of my blog friends. I am sorry. I have been a bit distracted.

There was the wedding--already noted here. And then there is the kitchen redo--currently ongoing.

Now, I admit, I am doing NONE of the work on the redo. We have two brothers who have come in--they are custom builders, meaning simply they do work when contracted to so do; they no longer work on speculation. So, while they still build entire houses, they only do that when someone contracts with them to do that. As you might expect, business has been a bit slow for them.

So when we went looking for a builder to redo the kitchen, we came upon their names, by way of referral. What a great job they are doing. A future post will detail the project a bit more, complete with photos.

Here's why I am exhausted--I have too many balls in the air. This business of being retired is crazy. People have always told me that--and, truth be told, at first it was NOT so. I officially "retired" in 2002. I had not planned to retire exactly when I did, but the company I worked for thought it was a good idea.

So, when I first began time at home--and before I started teaching in my adjunct capacity--I had time on my hands. Days crawled by. I always thank our dog for keeping me on an even keel. She was thrilled to have me home, and thought 4 or 5 walks a day were a grand idea.

Well, those days of little on my hands are gone. I have responded positively to various requests to help out here and there--mostly with the Presbyterians. I am now finding I need to pull back.

OK--where am I going with this post.

These last several days--of watching workers rebuild a kitchen--have got me to thinking about my paternal grandfather. I have written about him several times before here, and here.

As he approached retirement age, he and my grandmother were teaching at a small college in Pennsylvania. With a bit of land on the college campus available, he decided to build the house in which they would live out their final years. Now, when I think of my grandfather, I do NOT think builder. As a young man, he had done many things with his hands--including homesteading in Saskatchewan--but he was much more a thinker than a builder. But he doggedly set about to build a small two story house.

It was during that project that he discovered he was going blind. He went to sight up part of the building to see if it was level, and realized he could not see with enough acuity to level the project. So, my aunt helped him do that.

When the house was finished, it was perfectly adequate--not elegant, but livable. My parents, brother and I even lived in the upstairs, which was made into a small apartment, for a brief time in the mid 1950s.

Now, these days, watching the workmen, I think about my grandfather. How did he do it? He was an old man when he began that project.

And I think I am exhausted?

True Confessions...Again*

All the photos above are ones I took!
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OK, so in the last post I announced my dismay at having lost the small camera I carried to the wedding, and reception. For days, it stayed missing.

Things are a little hectic around our house right now...the wedding and attendant festivities on Saturday. A lovely brunch on Sunday hosted by our daughter and son-in-law (yes, I get to write that well and truly for the FIRST time). Then Sunday afternoon, daughter and SIL packed up to depart for the airport, via SIL's home in New Jersey. Also son and DIL packed up to depart.

Monday, my husband and I went into high gear. Bedrooms cleaned up, order restored. And then order promptly undone, as we packed up the kitchen. On Tuesday, workers came to tear out our 30 year old kitchen, and they immediately set about building a new kitchen.

With the week leading up to the wedding, I had mostly concentrated on that happy event. I put aside any class preparation--so in addition to the house clean-up, packing up goings-on, I managed to grade one set of papers to return to the students on Tuesday. I also whipped up a smashing lesson on literary analysis (OK--that was easy, as I love teaching literature).

Meanwhile, poor little camera is still missing. I emailed the church to inquire. I called the hotel where the Sunday brunch had been. I called the caterers who ran the reception. Still no camera. I asked my son--did an errant camera sneak into your luggage? I even sent a message to my honey-mooning daughter. No camera.

On Tuesday afternoon, I went off to class. And, as I set up for class, I opened my purse. What's this? Uh? A camera? Neatly tucked in its little black case? All soundly nestled in the deep reaches of my most commodious purse? Huh!

So, there you have it. Yes, I had looked in my purse--in fact several times. I had opened all four zipped parts of the purse. I had looked in the two snap parts (it's a big purse, OK?). And each time I missed the little black case. When I saw it, I assumed that it was my make-up kit. The one thing I didn't do was turn the purse inside-out. I should have.

When we thought the camera was lost, my husband began a little sequence of missing camera jokes. I think he was up to number 10. When I got home from class, I sheepishly told him I had FOUND the camera.

And that, dear blogging friends, began a whole new round of camera jokes, only this time they are found camera jokes. Sigh!

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* I wrote True Confessions...Again as my blog title. I used that title once before, here.

Things We Can't Live Without

Here in the eastern U.S., it promises to be a hot muggy day. The kind of day that really makes you think--it's summertime. And, I confess, the kind of day that makes me grateful for centralized air-conditioning.

You guessed it...that got me to thinking about things we can't live without. Now. At one time, of course, we lived without these things. With the advent of centralized air conditioning in almost every new home, many features that were once characteristic of house construction are gone. Gone are the wonderful wide sweeping porches that wrapped around the entire house. Gone too are porch swings. Gone are the deep set windows on all sides of a house. When we bought the house we now live in--nearly 30 years ago--one of the features I really liked was windows on all sides. Many of the houses in this neighborhood have windows only on the front and back of a house.

Other things we can't live without? Well, here I sit at a keyboard. The thought of beginning my day without checking email makes me blanch. Yet, if you think back to when you first began using email, you are not thinking too far back in time. Along with computers, we have the whole explosion of electronic communication.

Can any of you live without your cell phones for an extended time?

Things that were once luxuries are now virtual necessities. I remember fondly the first radio I owned--a pink plastic radio that looked very much like this. I would scrunch up near the headboard of my bed, where the radio sat, and listen at night to rock 'n' roll. That radio could not be carried anywhere, nor played without access to electricity. And it was an absolute luxury to possess one. Today's red I-Pod is now a necessity.

Not all the things we can't live without depend on electricity. I recognize this next item dates me--so what? I can recall working in an office where I had a boss who was always sniffing out the newest do-dads. One day, he came in with this little stack of paper. He proceeded to peel off the sheets, and slap them on documents. With 3-M's sticky notes, office practice was forever changed. I can't imagine working in any setting without having Post-its or some such item.

To be sure, I am simply reflecting the fact that the passage of time always brings new ways of doing things.

You probably have things you can't live without. Care to name them?