Only God Can Make a Tree

When my husband and I moved to the house we now live in, the neighborhood was brand new. In fact, my son and I had discovered the house for sale. Our son was eight, at the time, and the two of us had gone out for an afternoon bike ride. We rode from where we lived to a newly developing neighborhood very close by. In fact, our old house and our now house are less than a mile apart.

As we rode into the developing neighborhood, it showed all the signs of being brand new. About a dozen houses had been built, all on speculation. Since it was during a housing slow-down, very few had sold. And there were NO trees anywhere.

Once we had bought the house, and moved in, one of the first things on the list of things to do was to plant trees. The wind came whistling out of the north-west, and smacked our new house, especially in the winter. So, trees to help break that whistling wind were a MUST.

We got about a dozen small evergreens--all bare root stock and each eighteen inches high. And I walked along the back of our lot, with my husband digging holes, as I planted the small trees. Each tree seemed to be pitifully small. The result was that we planted them entirely too close together. As it happened, about every other tree was a Japanese pine. When they got too big, we took them out, leaving the Douglas firs, the Scotch pine, and the Colorado blue spruce, and one lone Austrian pine. Eventually, we added two Engelmann spruce (that had been live trees in front of our church).

This year, we had the Austrian pine taken down. It still had some green at the top, but most of the rest of it was dead. A neighbor thought it might come down in his yard, so we had it removed.

When Hurricane Irene began to blow up the East Coast, it did not even cross my mind that we might have storm damage. This week began with an earthquake in the east--a rare occurrence. So, a hurricane seemed like a fitting second act. But we have had hurricanes blow through central Pennsylvania before. Some do significant damage--mostly from high water. Hurricane Agnes in 1972 was just such a storm.

But the forecasts showed our town to be just enough to the west of Hurricane Irene that it seemed we might get a dose of rain, some wind, but not much else.

I awakened around 4:30 a.m. to hear the rain and the wind. Things sounded restless enough outside that I did not go back to sleep--more from curiosity than concern. As it began to get more light outside, I could see the trees being whipped around by the wind.

When I looked outside again--I got the first shock. TREE DOWN. This Douglas fir was one that our son had brought home from grade school, which we planted near our pool. And now it was down--just heaved over from the too much rain softened soil, and finished off by the wind.

Then, a bit later--there seemed to be far more light to the north side of our house than usual. Tree 2 down.

And, it continued then when Tree 3 leaned, on its way down, only to be stopped by a neighbor's black cherry tree.

So, now we wait for a tree service to come, clear away, clean up and haul off our lovely 30 plus year old trees.

And, then, we will have to decide--what to plant there next.

Joyce Kilmer's oft-cited poem came to mind:

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree. . .

YOU ROCK!

After the event this afternoon, my husband remarked with incredible irony that he had thought of the possibility of experiencing an earthquake, but assumed that we'd be in California, if that happened.

With our son and daughter-in-law now living in southern California, we know we will be visiting there more frequently. So that raised the possibility of experiencing an earthquake--not a huge likelihood, true. But we certainly didn't think we'd feel the earth moving here in central Pennsylvania.

Yet, that is precisely what we felt today. Just before 2 p.m. EST, we each felt something a bit unusual--my husband thought the dog had bumped his office chair. I saw the walls seem to move slightly--a disorienting sensation.

I confess, the first place I turned to figure out what had happened was Facebook. It lit up like a switchboard (what a funny comparison). And immediately the USGS confirmed that it was indeed a 5.8 magnitude earthquake centered in Mineral, Virginia, some 90 miles south of Washington, DC.

Here's a USGS map of the places where the earthquake was felt--based on reports people have made.

I can't say that experiencing an earthquake was on any personal experience list that I had--but if this is the only earthquake I experience, I am just fine with that. I recall hearing from an aunt of mine who lived through the great Alaska earthquake of 1964. That event seemed like the end of the world to her.

I am fine with a 5.8 magnitude earthquake almost 200 miles from where I live. I would NOT want to experience a 9.2 magnitude earthquake.

The Writing on the Wall

Well, the local news has done it again.

I know I have railed before, in this venue, about the sad state of news coverage in general in the U.S., and on the woeful approach to news coverage in local news. I guess I shouldn't be surprised when a local television news station leads off its nightly news with an absurd story.

So, here's what the local CBS affiliate led with last night: "3 deaths reported from brain-eating water amoeba." (As a side note, when they promo'd the news earlier in the evening, with that headline, they showed a graphic of a euglena! So, big deal, you say--amoeba, euglena, what's the diff?)

Never mind the wrong graphic, I have so many OTHER problems with this story. First, the deaths that were reported occurred in Louisiana, Virginia and Florida. Huh? Three places that are MILES (make that states) away from our city. Second, our city is located along a river--the Susquehanna--and people do use it as an entertainment source--a place to swim if there isn't a community pool nearby...i.e. much of the inner city. And yet, one visual point after another featured our river. In fact, the local reporter was STANDING in the river (wearing waders). I am certain there are some viewers who thought--YIKES, can't swim in the river anymore. Third, the reporter went on to say--the one victim even contracted his amoeba from TAP WATER. Oh, no. Not even tap water is safe.

Fourth, when the local reporter talked to someone knowledgeable in the area--a physician--the physician stated point blank--such a condition is EXTREMELY rare. (Something like 1 chance in 10 million!) Got that--extremely. Yet, the local news led with this story.

Sadly, science knowledge and comprehension continues to decline in the U.S. I suspect too many viewers won't exercise their healthy skepticism. Instead, they will go--oh dear, there's a flesh eating amoeba in our river, and we're all going to die! And even if you do an Internet search on the topic, you don't find much help out there. The first story that popped up in my search was from an NPR blog. NPR? Really!

SIGH.

What to do? It certainly doesn't help that we have, among the dominant forces in our country, destructive pressures on the reason to have any science knowledge. Of course, it's too simple to blame television, but I can't help but wonder what all the exposure to "reality" shows is doing to our thinking powers. There are many reasons why people might like reality shows: the chance to root for the underdog; the "at least it's not me" syndrome; the freak show appeal. But advancing knowledge is not one of those reasons. And yet, these shows dominate television, driving out quality drama, and killing informative shows in general.

Another culprit to this decline in scientific knowledge, in my opinion, is the disdain that is heaped on long-held scientific views. Take Rick Perry, for example. Seriously, take him. OK-sorry, old joke (thank you, Henny Youngman). Anyway, Perry made news recently when he opined that evolution is "a theory that's out there...and it has some gaps in it." He went on to say that in Texas (Lord, deliver us from another Texan) they teach both evolution and creationism*, and he guesses the students are smart enough to figure it out.

When I was most recently teaching, I encountered students who had been schooled in a such a way. One earnest young man even brought his science text books in from a private religious school (complete with artistic renderings of Adam and Eve). This dismissive tendency--to say evolution is a theory (implying that as such it is not reliable, much less proven)--in part draws on a common misunderstanding of how science uses the term "theory." Wikipedia does a nice job of explaining the word's meaning in a scientific context: "A common distinction sometimes made in science is between theories and hypotheses, with the former being considered as satisfactorily tested or proven and the latter used to denote conjectures or proposed descriptions or models which have not yet been tested or proven to the same standard." So, where the average person in public hears "theory," thinks "unproven," the scientist says "theory," and means "demonstrates by data over time."

So, saying something is a theory does not mean it is unproven. It means that it has been satisfactorily tested and proven.

I shudder when I think how the dismissive approach to science is affecting our country. I read a recent New York Times article that put things into stunning context. Herewith the gist: Grinell College in Iowa markets itself to students in China, which has resulted in 1 in 10 applicants to Grinell come from China (about 200 students). Of those 200 Chinese applicants, half have perfect scores in the math SAT. HALF. Perfect scores.

GULP.

So, while Rick Perry disparages evolution, while local news scares people to death with stories of flesh eating amoebae, while U.S. citizens wile away the hours watching reality shows on TV, the students in China are studying math. I don't know about you--folks--but I see the writing on the wall, and it doesn't say USA.

-----------------
*The Texas Tribune notes the following:
In 1987, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that teaching creationism in public schools was unconstitutional. In the case Edwards v. Aguillard, the court ruled that teaching creationism in Louisiana public schools was the equivalent of teaching religion — and violated the Constitution because it advanced a particular religion.

A Tale of Two Cities

We have recently returned from visiting our son and daughter-in-law, who recently moved from Pittsburgh to San Diego. We had not seen them since they left the east coast. And now they are living on the west coast.

As ever, the ocean is a marvelous thing to behold. Two things can bear endless watching: a camp fire or fireplace, and the ocean.

We had spectacular weather while we were there--it was wondrous to leave the heat and humidity of a typical Pennsylvania summer, and experience the cool days with breezes blowing.

While we were there, we used Skype to have a sort of family reunion--talking with our daughter and son-in-law who live in London. Yes, that London.

Not long after we returned home, the news began breaking about a sudden up-swell of riots in Tottenham, a section of London. As if someone splashed gasoline on smoldering embers, the riots bloomed and spread through various parts of London. Then it morphed again, and spread to other cities in the UK.

View Initial London riots / UK riots in a larger map

The map above gives some sense of the extent of these riots.

It is always hard to be a parent when your children live at a distance from you. But, it is even harder to have them literally a continent apart and away.

It really struck me that there's a sense of revisiting, in contemporary terms, what Dickens was writing about in his classic A Tale of Two Cities. Of course, then London was the stable city, while Paris was the city on fire.

I am hoping that calm is restored soon. And even though we are thousands of miles from our children, we too can regain our calm. But, as we wait for calm, I also recall the moral of another English novel--The Lord of the Flies: the veneer of civilization is very thin indeed.

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.

That Sinking Feeling

Once again, the Writer's Almanac has inspired the subject of a blog for me. It was on this day that the Italian ocean liner Andrea Doria was struck, off the coast of Nantucket, and eventually sank.

Now, why, you might wonder, is that event of particular note. Well, several reasons. On the larger scale of human events, certainly there were bigger more costly ship sinkings. Obviously, the Titanic is the most famous, at least in terms of lives lost, with 1,517 people perishing. The Andrea Doria had only 46 people die.

Strangely, the Andrea Doria benefited from the lessons learned on the Titanic--to a point. The Andrea Doria was struck by another ship, the Stockholm, in a heavy fog. The impact of the collision resulted in the Andrea Doria listing hard to starboard which rendered the lifeboats on that side unusable. With only half the lifeboats usable, the numbers of passengers who could be rescued using them was greatly diminished. Shamefully, some of the crew fled on the first 3 lifeboats.

However, and here's where the Titanic lessons came into play, there were other ships in the area that immediately set course to assist the crippled ship. These ships included the Ile de France which had passed the site hours earlier. This ship had sufficient capacity to take on the passengers from the stricken ship. The call to abandon ship came 30 minutes into the accident, and the ship sank eleven hours after being struck.

As Wikipedia notes, the sinking of the Andrea Doria was "the last major transatlantic passenger vessel to sink before aircraft became the preferred method of travel."

So what? you might be thinking. When this story was first in the news, I was riveted with the details. Our family was one of those ocean-traveling families. With my parents doing mission work in southern Africa, which they first went to in 1946, we had to get across the Atlantic Ocean, somehow. The very first time, we went by plane which is standard now, but very unusual then. After that trip, we crossed the Atlantic in 1954 to return to the U.S., then again in 1955 to return to Africa.

So, crossing the Atlantic was something with which I had familiarity, when I first learned of the Andrea Doria sinking. It did not instill great confidence in me. The only thing I really feared crossing the ocean was the prospect that the ship could sink. It didn't help matters when on one ocean crossing the ship we were on showed a movie "Run Silent, Run Deep" about submarines preying on ships.

Sure, it was great fun to cross the Atlantic in a huge ship, such as the Queen Elizabeth I (as we did). And the time spent on shipboard was a wonderful way for missionaries heading home to decompress. But, the prospect of another ocean liner striking the ship we were on did not thrill me.

When I returned* to the U.S. for the final time in 1959, we once again crossed by ship--a ship called the African Enterprise. I even found photos of it on the Internet--shown below--which completely matched my memory of the ship. The photo of the ship's main lounge really brought back memories for there was a piano there (seen on the left in the photo) on which the ship's doctor--an Italian opera lover--played the Triumphal March from Aida JUST as we steamed past the Statue of Liberty into New York harbor.

Ah, the days of passengers crossing the Atlantic are long gone--at least in the commercial sense. There are, of course, luxury tour which do take passengers around the world. But, mostly now, people go on short jaunt cruises which are nothing like an ocean crossing.

What has not changed, of course, is the prospect of a ship sinking. Sadly, such catastrophes are still happening (as this summer's news attests), and lives are lost.
--------------
*My parents returned to southern Africa in 1960, while I stayed in the U.S. to continue my high school education.

Revisiting the Classics

Someone recently wrote a comment on my Facebook about recalling the days when I was teaching (in my first college job) and she was a student there. What she indicated was that as she and her fellow classmates reminisce they all recall having to read “the dreaded Young Goodman Brown.” She said she remembered nothing of the story or its meaning, only the dread of having to read the story. And she wondered—should she read the story again, perhaps with the maturity of some life experiences that would make “the dreaded” story more meaningful.

That got me to thinking—there are many classics that we could revisit and appreciate now with some life experience informing us of deeper meaning.

And then I thought—why not help you revisit the classics. Starting with “Young Goodman Brown.” If you still think this story might fall into the dreaded category—go ahead, skip the rest of this post.

“Young Goodman Brown” is one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short stories. Written in 1835, it is widely regarded as his best-known short story. The primary characters are Young Goodman Brown himself, his wife Faith, and sundry characters who appear during the course of the story.
A quick interjected comment about the character’s name—Young Goodman Brown. Obviously, young is an adjective describing his youth. The family name of Brown is somewhat universal. And Goodman—well, that’s an honorific title that would have been used during Puritan times, one step below “gentleman.”

The story begins with young Goodman Brown taking leave of his wife to set out on an unspecified errand as night falls. They are newly weds, having only been married three months, and she somewhat petulantly begs him not to go. He tells her he must go—and so he leaves his sweet wife Faith, who is the picture of innocence with pink ribbons in her hair.

Ah—foreshadowing. The wife’s name is Faith.

Not long after setting out, young Goodman Brown encounters an unnamed character who upbraids him for being late. Goodman Brown replies “Faith kept me back a while.” The two begin to walk along, deeper into a darkening woods, and Goodman Brown begins to hang back complaining that his father never went so far into the woods. But, he is urged on by his traveling companion, who tells him:

``Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip's war. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake.''

The traveling companion is now identified as “he of the serpent.” So, clearly young Goodman Brown is on a dodgy errand and has met up with the devil, or at least the devil’s emissary. The quoted speech (above) clearly links historical events within the Puritan community with the forces of evil: the Salem witch trials, and the so-called King Philip’s war, where wholesale slaughter of American Indians was carried out by the settlers.

Young Goodman Brown is astonished to learn that his traveling companion is well acquainted with church leaders, the governor, and members of the council. As he digests this information, he sees a woman ahead of them on the path. She is Goody* Cloyse, who taught him catechism. Not wanting to be seen by her, Goodman Brown ducks into the woods, while his traveling companion stays on the path. When he encounters Goody Cloyse, she screams “the Devil” but they soon fall into friendly banter so it is clear they too are well acquainted. When she disappears, and young Goodman Brown is once again walking with his traveling companion, Brown demurs:

``Friend,'' said he, stubbornly, ``my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she was going to heaven: is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?''

His traveling companion suddenly disappears, leaving Goodman Brown sitting puzzled and contemplating what to do next. He then hears voices of two approaching travelers, who turn out to be the other people who instructed Brown in catechism—the minister and Deacon Gookin. They too are on their way to the same gathering as the devil, and Goody Cloyse. Goodman Brown cries out: ``With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!''

As he cries out this plaintive declaration, he hears a young woman’s voice. And looking up to the sky, he sees something fluttering down, which catches on a branch—a pink ribbon.

``My Faith is gone!'' cried he, after one stupefied moment. ``There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.''

He finally gives himself over to the forces of evil, and joins the gathered worshippers. Someone calls for the converts to be brought forward, and Goodman Brown steps forth. He hears the words of welcome:

``Welcome, my children,'' said the dark figure, ``to the communion of your race. Ye have found thus young your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you!''

Goodman Brown beholds Faith in the gathering, and in a final desperate plea tries to save her: ``Faith! Faith!'' cried the husband, ``look up to heaven, and resist the wicked one.'' The story solemnly informs the reader “whether Faith obeyed he knew not.”

The next morning, young Goodman Brown returns to his village, a changed man. He sees all the familiar loved figures—the minister, Deacon Gookin, Goody Cloyse, and finally his wife Faith who greets him happily.

The story wonders whether or not Brown had fallen asleep and only dreamed the witch-meeting.

Sorry, no answer to that question.
The ending informs us:

“And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom.”

After that summary, do you really need an interpretation? For myself, I like the thought that what Goodman Brown discovers in the darkened woods is that we are all mortal—we are not perfect, we are flawed. And the knowledge—the coming of age, if you will—overwhelms him. He cannot live a carefree satisfied life with that knowledge.

What do YOU think the story is telling the reader?

Now, I am taking requests. What classic would you like to see revisited? If I have read it, and can remember it, I will “teach” a class on it.

-------------------------------
*Goody—a shortened version of Goodwife, corollary to Goodman

Rebooting

Several weeks ago, I began to notice that my heartbeat was not all it should be--you know, not nice and regular and steady. Instead, it felt thready and at times weak.

Since I pay attention to little messages from my body, I made an appointment with my family doctor. She too felt my pulse, listened to my heart--and to me as I described what I had been feeling--and then promptly called on the office intercom for an EKG. Once I was hooked up with various little leads, and a read-out of my heartbeat was made, she announced: yes, as I thought, you have atrial fibrillation.

Now, I don't like to hear little words (or actually some long words) such as atrial fibrillation. But not liking to hear something does not make it go away. My doctor referred me to a cardiologist with these words--I don't think you need to go immediately to an emergency department. Well, such a statement focuses the attention when your doctor allows as how you DON'T need to go to the emergency department. I couldn't help but hear an unspoken YET.

A few days later, I did see that cardiologist, and he in turn had another EKG performed--yup, still in atrial fibrillation. He started me on a new blood thinning medicine and recommended scheduling a cardioversion.

Now, cardioversion is the little cousin of that dramatic medical procedure on TV shows, when a patient is in cardiac arrest, and someone grabs two paddles, yells CLEAR--and then zaps the patient. In cardioversion, the paddles are smaller, and the electric charge toned down some, but it still is zapping the heart. (And, I learned the nickname for the doctor who does the cardioversion is Sparky...)

Or, as my cardiologist (who I did like a lot) said--rebooting. HA. Immediately my husband took to referring to the procedure as my rebooting, and that the result would be KGMom 2.0.

Hmmm.

So, I am now at the end of the week which began with my rebooting. Since cardioversion is done under general anesthesia, I felt nothing, and have no negative residuals from the procedure.

What I am hoping is that rebooting is not prelude to more such procedures. And I hope that KGMom 2.0 had all the bugs worked out first. You know, I don't want a constant stream of updates being rolled out, requiring installation etc.

As usual, Shakespeare provides words of wisdom: all's well that ends well.

Here's hoping...

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.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

The other day I was suddenly seized with the urge to clean out my office--not the one in our home, but the one at the community college where I had taught for the last several years. I have not taught a course for three semesters, and I have no thoughts of asking for a course. With my husband retired, my not having a course frees us up to travel. So perhaps my teaching days have drawn to a close.

But, the office that I shared with two full time faculty and one other adjunct still held some of my personal items as well as student information and text books.

I loaded books into boxes, and then went through several file drawers where I had accumulated worksheets, quizzes, exams, and even student papers. With abandon, I tossed the papers into recycle bins. I wondered what to do with some of the textbooks--composition books which I had no use for if I weren't teaching.

As if by design, a man appeared at the door. He was one of those textbook buyers who circulate at the end of each semester, looking for used textbooks for which they pay money. Well--sure, go right ahead, look through my books. And he did, and found a fair number for which he offered me $17 total. Done and done. The first time such a buyer appeared at my door, I agonized over what to do. Many of the books that I had collected had been sent unsolicited as tryout texts. So, I was in a quandary. When I asked a colleague, she was frankly puzzled at my ethical pause.

The task of cleaning out the office was a necessity, but it also set me to musing--and thus the real inspiration for this post. I have loved teaching. Nothing I have done in my varied work career has been so rewarding as teaching. And I am grateful to all the links along the way that led me into teaching.

Fresh out of college, with my degree in English literature in hand, I had no clue what I might do. So, off to grad school for me. I realized that I had been privileged to have excellent professors at my alma mater, so I wrote a note of thanks to one of my favorite profs. He promptly wrote back and asked--did I want to return to my alma mater, after my master's degree program was concluded? It was for a one-year fill in for someone on sabbatical. Did I?

Well, I surely did. So, after one year away for grad school, I returned as a very young newly minted instructor in English. I was all of two or three years older than my students. I had no trouble asserting my classroom authority with students, but some of my former professors, now colleagues, didn't exactly help me. Some students told me that one prof was reminding students that they had to read their assignments if they wanted to discuss intelligently the issues. Only one person that he knew could discuss intelligently without having read the assignment--that was me.

So, I asked my former prof, now colleague--please, don't tell students such stories about me! (I think I might have been secretly pleased at being identified as discussing intelligently.) That was then--now I realize that I no doubt short-changed myself but not reading thoroughly the assignments.

After eight years of teaching, I moved on to other work. Make that three other jobs. The last full time job came to an abrupt end when the company I was with merged with another, and I was "made redundant" (that wonderful British term). Facing the prospect of sudden and unplanned retirement, I wondered what to do. Well, there was teaching. So I applied to our local community college for adjunct status teaching English composition. Thus I returned to teaching to conclude my working career.

As with anyone involved in teaching, I have my cache of student stories. There was one student who was furious at me for "giving" him an F. I calmly informed him that he had earned that F. There was another student who gleefully told me, when I returned a paper to her on which she had earned a B, that she only began writing the paper the night before it was due. My comment to her--imagine if you had done more preparation; you might have gotten an A.

Encountering students after a 20 plus year absence from teaching had a completely different dynamic. Add to the time factor the difference between students attending a four-year residential college and students attending a two year non-residential community college. Students at community colleges frequently carry full class loads and work full-time. That leaves little time for engaging enthusiastically in the academic riches of college education.

At the community college some students' stories nearly broke my heart. I would always give students an initial assignment in class--write a diagnostic essay in response to a prompt. That way, I could see how they wrote and have a base-line sample of their writing skills. Sometimes I used the prompt--what was a problem you had, and a way that you solved it. I had quite a few young women who wrote about getting pregnant while in high school, and their decision to keep and raise the baby as a single mom.

In one class, I had a young woman named Brooke. She sat in the back, and never talked. I could tell she was friends with one of the young men. One day, she missed class. I had a fairly strict attendance policy, so I noted the absence. Then she missed again, and again. I finally asked the young man--and he said he thought she was dropping out. It turns out that she had quarreled with her mother, who turned her out. Brooke, at age 18, was living in her car. She never did return to class, and I often wondered what happened to her.

So, as I cleaned out drawers and files, packed up books and personal items, I thought. I thought back on a career in teaching, and again silently thanked the professor who tossed me a one-year teaching position. Of course, it lasted more than one year. The professor on sabbatical who I replaced never returned.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (terza parte)

Well, it is time to finish the southern Italian tour series. I admit to a bit of cheating--the ugly in some instances was really ugly, but in other instances it is an effect that ends up being ugly--not so much the sight.

Take for example, Pompeii, pictured below. Probably one of the most famous volcanic eruptions in human history--Vesuvius erupting in AD 79. Three small towns were buried then, of which Pompeii is the most well-known. It is almost an obligatory tourist stop--and a most interesting place to see.



Visiting there solved a puzzlement for me. Why did so many people die in Pompeii? Why hadn't they left? When Vesuvius began erupting, the residents in the area thought it simply a normal occurrence. Frequent eruptions had lulled them into a kind of complacency. But the mountain continued erupting, for two days. When the wealthier residents became concerned, and left Pompeii, they instructed servants and slaves to remain behind to guard things. These, then, were the people who died. A few of these poor souls can still be seen, in varying poses of death rictus. Ugly.

What is really mystifying is that Vesuvius could erupt again as it has through the centuries--and in its shadow live some 2 million people. The town of Naples is very near Vesuvius. Speaking of ugly--Naples set a new standard. Not that Naples is ugly, but everywhere we encountered mountains, yes mountains, of trash. Trash bags and refuse piled high--going uncollected week in and week out. A host of issues have converged to cause this on-going trash crisis: incompetency, work stoppages, organized crime. The result is an eye-sore and a nose assault. Just ugly.

Near Pompeii, we visited another place I had not heard of before this trip--Matera with its Sassi. Now a picturesque location, with the tangle of pristine white houses you see below, this place was once a site of unimaginable misery. You can read more here--but the nub of the crisis that what began as houses hewn out of the rocks in pre-historic times continued to be homes into the mid-1900s. Families of 12 or more people would be crowded into two cave rooms, along with farm animals. When the situation came to light, the Italian government eventually solved it by forceably removing all the residents. Today, the authentic cave houses are tourist attractions. And the whole town has become a place where upscale living quarters are being built. Any such building must conform to original appearance to help the place maintain its historic status. It is the sad history of the place that is ugly.

We visited the town of Syracuse, where there is an extensive ruin of what was once a quarry. Now, it appears to be an open pit (see below), but at one time it was really tunnels in the rocks. At the height of its being used, some 30,000 slaves were forced to quarry stone all their lives.

In its heyday, Syracuse was a thriving city-state, dominating the southern end of Sicily. It was allied with Sparta and Corinth. Among the name of great people born there is Archimedes who died during a siege of the city.

There is still a Greek theater which continues to be used, and evidence of a Roman amphitheater. So many places on Sicily experienced multiple waves of invasion--so you see Greek ruins, Roman ruins, as well as other conquering nations.

Almost everywhere we went, along the eastern coast of Sicily, we saw the gentle rise of Mt. Etna. Etna is still a very active volcano--you can see the smoke that is visible almost every day. The sight of it is beautiful--until you consider that Etna regularly spits out lava flows that run down the mountainside. The next photo shows the different colors of the lava--as it ages, it darkens.

So while the view is very pretty, living in the shadow of a mountain that can send down hot lava was potentially ugly--except everyone who lives near Etna is entranced by the physical beauty that results from incredibly fertile soil, made so because of the lava.

The last city we visited was Palermo, Sicily. Now, my advice to tour planners is never end a tour in the least attractive place. Palermo was dirty, dingy, run-down. Scenes such as the one below were fairly common--nothing inherently ugly about seeing street vendors offering their wares--but a large tuna being sliced up, and then left to sit there in the heat, all day--well, that did not appeal to me.

One of the most quixotic things to me was the reaction of many of the people on the tour. My husband and I were among the very few people who had NO Italian, specifically Sicilian, heritage. Everywhere we went, our tour group folks kept warbling--oh, isn't it just so beautiful. Why did our grandparents leave this lovely place. I felt like saying--because they were unemployed, they had no hope in this place. They came to America for opportunity. One of the fellow tour members very tellingly noted: in America, I'm Italian; in Italy, I'm American. Ah, yes.

So, I will leave you with two scenes that did merit that "oh, isn't it lovely" response--the first photo is from Agrigento, the second from Selinunte. While we saw many places with ruins, one of the most unusual was Selinunte. It was a place utterly without tourist crowds. No tour guides. Just a few folk wandering around, soaking up the stunning skies and massive ruins of a temple. This scene was enough to compensate for any ugly, and utterly remove it.

Waterloo

Author's Note: A brief interruption in the southern Italy tour series--that gives me time to finish processing photos.

---------------------------------

Today is the 196th anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, which was fought on June 18, 1815. Because it had rained the day before, and the area where Napoleon's army had gathered was soggy, he delayed the start of the battle until noon. Unfortunately, for him at least, that delay gave the opposing forces time to rally and position themselves. And, we all know how the battle ended...(don't we?). Napoleon met his Waterloo.

We visited the battlefield several years ago, when we toured Netherlands and Belgium. At the time of the battle, the village of Waterloo was part of the United Kingdom of Netherlands; today Waterloo is in Belgium. The visit was listed on the tour description--and I was quite excited to see this famous battlefield. Between Waterloo and Trafalgar, the two places where Napoleon met defeat, I figured seeing the site of the land battle was more promising than seeing the site of a sea battle.

Was I ever wrong. The location is an utterly unremarkable, mostly flat crossroads. Oh, sure, there are some buildings standing that were there when the battle was fought, but nothing in the entire site gave you the sense that here a great battle had been fought.

Perhaps I was spoiled, having visited the Gettysburg battlefield near where I live in Pennsylvania. There has been a concerted effort to try to preserve as much of this battlefield as possible. Plus, the topography of the area dovetails nicely with the accounts of how the battle unfolded there. I think I expected Waterloo to be a similar scene. But no.

The battle of Waterloo was a long hard fought battle. You can read an account here.

But there's another little story that fascinated me more than the great battle. The English hero of the battle was the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley. So lauded was he with various titles, statues and monuments that when we visited England a tour guide pointed out one of the monuments--a monolithic column--and simply said: there's an Arthur. An Arthur? The proliferation of honorific monuments was so common they had earned a simple first name.

Ah--but did he deserve the credit that he got? That's the little story. I picked up a book somewhere called Wellington's Smallest Victory. It recounts the story of an admirer of Wellington, Captain William Siborne. To commemorate the great victory, he decided to construct a miniature scale model of the battle of Waterloo. They did such things in the days before television, movies, and other electronic imagination robbers. To get the most accurate picture of the battle, he began interviewing veterans. He picked a particular moment of the battle--the presumed turning point at 7 p.m. The Duke of Wellington with 68,000 soldiers, was turning back an attack by Napoleon.

With painstaking care to show that accurately, Siborne displayed Wellington's battle strength. He also displayed the 48,000 Prussian (who were allied with the English) soldiers who were attacking Napoleon's right rear guard. That Prussian charge likely turned the battle.

Now the rising conflict. When Siborne had completed his miniature, he hoped to sell tickets--such displays were routinely carted around the country and people came to see them. To drum up a big opening, he invited the Duke of Wellington--the hero of the battle--to come and see it.

The Duke was stunned. He had written his own account, and had greatly downplayed the role of the Prussians. In fact, he insisted there were only 8,000 Prussian soldiers. He absolutely refused to endorse Siborne's representation, and refused any correction of his view. Poor Siborne. He reworked the miniature, taking out 40,000 Prussians. But the Duke was not assuaged. He began a vicious campaign against Siborne.

Siborne lost his backers who were going to help fund the miniature and its tour. He died a beaten broken and penniless man. The little book has helped restore his reputation. However, the Duke of Wellington won his smallest victory by defeating an alternative view of the battle of Waterloo which would have somewhat lessened his great victory.

Thus endeth the lesson.

---------------------

The painting is William Sadler's The Battle of Waterloo

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (parte seconda)

Capri harbor

Iconic rocks just off Capri coast

Eisenhower's headquarters on Capri

Primavera

Positano cafe

Naples castle

Mosaic showing Vesuvius, before the top blew

OK--the bad. No, the photos above do not give you a sense of the bad, although they relate in some ways.

The second major place we visited after Rome was Capri. This lovely little island is off the coast of Italy in the Tyrrhenian Sea. It is a gorgeous place, but it has a somewhat troubled history (...almost bad, one might say). It was a place of exile and isolation. Tiberius took himself there from the daily responsibilities of being Caesar in Rome and lived on Capri for the last 10 years of his reign. I still have seared in my memory the scenes in I, Claudius where Caligula (who would later become Caesar) plied Tiberius with what we would call pornography. As a result of Tiberius' self-imposed exile, Sejanus who was the military might in Rome, made his encroachment into a power grab which would flower after Tiberius' death.

But, I digress. Capri today is a high priced very posh tourist destination and home to many stars. It was also a place where the Allies set up a headquarters during their final push into Italy--note the salmon colored house in the photos--that's where Eisenhower set up his command.

After docking in the harbor--first photo--we rode a funicular up the mountainside to the village of Capri on top. Of course, that ride prompted the second "bad" thing about the trip--an outbreak of singing "Funiculi, Funicula"--oh, come, you sang it in high school. I know I did.

That song in turn gave rise to singing all the other sappy quasi-Italian songs (complete with our bus tour group having an old Dean Martin CD being played). It is simply impossible to convince American tourist that the song "Volare" has no meaning at all. When they ask for a translation, and learn "volare" means "flying" they say--what? Yeah, what? Why get all goofy about a song that says
Volare oh oh
Cantare oh oh
Nel blu dipinto di blu
felice di stare lassu

Translation
To fly oh oh
To sing oh oh
In the blue painted blue
happy to be up there

Sappy, huh?

The first painting in the photos--the woman's back--is called "Primavera"...at least that's what our guide called it. It is in the Archeologica Museum in Naples. To get to the museum, in fact to get to Naples, we drove on wondrous curving very scary (bad) roads. In a tour bus. Not looking down. The Amalfi coast. Along the way, we visited Positano--a hugely expensive (even more than Capri) place, with a lovely little cafe (photo of the lantern).

There are many mosaics in the Naples museum which were taken from the villages destroyed by Vesuvius (talk about bad). In fact, the one mosaic showing Vesuvius is also in the photos above. Speaking of bad--the museum also has an entire section of adults only mosaics that were featured in the various residences in Pompeii...shall we say, x-rated mosaics. Who ever would have thought to put those two words together?

While the painting of Primavera is lovely, it was the last thing the guide showed us because it was for him the pièce de résistance. He had dragged us all over the museum, in and out of various rooms, explaining many more things than our brains could hold, and then showed us that painting. The peak experience...except that by then we were too tired to appreciate it. A word to guides--keep your charges fresh; they will enjoy the art more.

You may have noted the photo of a castle--that is in Naples, which really deserves its own account, which I think you will get when I get to the ugly.

End of tour for today.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

What better title for an initial post on our recent vacation trip to Italy--a spaghetti Western title!

It has taken me a bit of time to get to viewing and paring down my photos from our trip to Rome and southern Italy. We began in Rome, and these photos are from that eternal city.

These brief remarks summarize our trip. Some ten plus years ago, we had done a trip to Italy that began in Rome and took us to places north--Venice, Florence, Assisi, Verona, Sienna, Bologna, and Pisa. We loved our views of Italy from that trip, so we anticipated this trip.

Rome was...well, Rome. It is such a wondrous mix of antiquity and modernity. The colors of Rome that we remembered from our first trip--that deep sun-washed mustardy yellow--were still there. And, that monstrosity that no Roman guide will speak well of that ruins the color scheme--the Victor Emanuel monument, a white confection of a tomb plopped within sight of the Flavian Amphitheater--was still there. On our first trip to Rome, our local guide was named Vera (pronounced Vay-ra). And she was most precise. She practically spat when she pointed out the Victor Emanuel Monument.

Of course, we took in the usual ancient sights--the Flavian Amphitheater, maybe you know it as the Coliseum or the Colosseum; the place where the Forum once stood; the place where Julius Caesar was cremated; the gardens of the Vestal Virgins. We also went to St. Peters, all of one week after John Paul II's beatification. So, posters hung everywhere with his smiling face. Almost made me feel bad for Benedict. We also visited the Pantheon, and Piazza Navone.

One real bonus in visiting St. Peters on this trip was the more leisurely time there. When we had previously been in the Sistine Chapel, it was high summer and the whole place was being restored so scaffolding hid part of those amazing Michelangelo paintings. This time, all scenes were completely in view, and no one hurried us through. So we stood, craned our necks, turned in circles and took it all in. I still think Michelangelo paints like a sculptor. He really needed to work on his anatomy of women, but...oh well.

I think all the things in Rome definitely fit under the rubric of "the good."

Fear not, dear reader. I will get to the bad and the ugly soon enough, in a future post.

The fabled pines of Rome.

Around the site of the ancient Forum.

Outside the Coliseum.

Remnants of the Vestal Virgins gardens.

I liked the sunburst view of the Coliseum.

Original Roman road paving stones--these are big...would have made for a rough chariot ride.

Now to St. Peters--the Papal balcony from which blessings are dispensed.

And of course the dome seen in the distance from many points in Rome.