The Best Laid Plans

It's become something of a family tradition--every Mother's Day, my husband offers to buy me all the annual flowers I want. And, each year I go a little crazy. OK--make that a lot crazy. I have added and added and added pots until there is neither room around the house, nor energy in my bones to plant them all.

This weekend, we had a sudden dose of summer after an abnormally cool spring. The temperature jumped into the low 90s. So, naturally, I kicked into high gear where plants are concerned. So when my husband suggested getting the annual plants a weekend earlier than usual, I was set.

We ended up with six flats of various types of plants, and carefully unloaded them. My plan was to have them carried out to the area behind the house, inside the pool fence. I have all my empty pots lined up and waiting there. We also have an old decrepit picnic table that serves as a perfect potting table.

Just as we began carrying flats into the pool area, a startled bird flew past us. I didn't think much of it, until I saw it.

A nest.

In one of my waiting pots.

Oh, dear--the mourning doves are procreating again.

So, I quickly abandoned my planting location, and moved it to the other side of the house. Mama (or Papa) Dove soon returned, and resumed nesting. As soon as the chicks hatch and fledge, I will make sure the pot is moved. The nest is nothing to speak of at all--just a smattering of twigs placed on top of the soil in the pot. Sorry, doves, no more using empty pots as nests.

Thanks to Robert Burns for the post title--somehow the title seems most apt in that Burns wrote his poem that contain that line upon having plowed up a mouse's nest. He rues having disturbed her nest--"I'm truly sorry man's dominion,/ Has broken nature's social union" and he then concludes:

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Nature intrudes into human designs time and again. So, for today--I did just a bit of planting. I leave the nesting mourning dove undisturbed. And contemplate Robert Burns' wisdom--"The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/Gang aft agley." Ain't it the truth.

The Old (New) Swimming Hole

Unlike some of the bloggers who I read, we do not live along side a stream or a river. So, our summer swimming pleasure comes through the very suburban site of a swimming pool.

I recall fondly swimming in a genuine swimming hole in my teen years. Many such swimming holes in this part of Pennsylvania were created when creeks were dammed. The dams served a purpose in their time--they powered mills. But now, they no longer do. So a bit at a time, the dams are being disassembled, as they block the healthy flow of water.

In place of a swimming hole, suburban backyards have been dotted with swimming pools. There are some parts of the country where you can see pool after pool after pool if you view neighborhoods from the air. The neighborhood we live in has some 40 homes. We moved here almost 30 years ago in the fall, and there were NO swimming pools here. The next spring, we had a swimming pool installed. It seemed like a luxury at the time. But over the years, it has provided much entertainment, first for our son, and his friends (one of whom showed up with an inflatable row boat!), then for our daughter, who held her high school graduation party around the pool.

The pool has been the site of other parties--one celebrating a good friend's 60th birthday, one celebrating my husband's 60th birthday, and one celebrating the anticipation of my father's 90th birthday.

With our children grown and gone, I have turned the pool into a sometime summer fun site for neighborhood children.

One thing the pool does require is MAINTENANCE. And, occasionally, parts need to be replaced. We noticed several summers ago that the liner of the pool was beginning to wear out. Normally, the liner should last about 15 years. The first liner lasted about 11, and was replaced. This one had lasted 17 years--so I guess the average turned out to be what it should--a liner SHOULD last 15 years.

So, it was time to get a new liner.

Herewith, the process.

First, you drain the pool--all the way to the bottom (and hope it doesn't rain--it did!).

Then the people from the pool company come and do the rest. The old liner is cut up, and taken out--I was not there to see (or photograph) that step.

The new liner is then placed in the pool, and a pump is attached to suck out the air, which causes the liner to adhere to the sides.

Then you make sure the water truck comes to fill the pool. Yes, you COULD do it with a garden hose but it . . .takes . . . a . . . long . . . time.

Then you put all the fixtures in place--ladders, diving board, and all the chemicals to balance Ph and keep the water clean.

Almost ready--make sure the warning signs are in place.

What is there left to do? Hmmm--hope for warmer weather (we have had a very cold spring) and on a sunny Saturday, invite the neighbor children over!

Spam!

As a user of go*gle mail, I daily go into my spam folder and clean it out, deleting all the ridiculous messages there.

I know, I know--if I just leave them there, after 30 days, go*gle will clean them out. But, frankly, I am so offended by the thought of people abusing the internet this way, that I just can't help but clean out that folder. It's a bit like the feeling I get when I see trash thrown down in a public place--along a sidewalk, or at a store entrance. I just have to pick it up--it's my nest that's being fouled also.

Anyway, I must confess that I am amused at the putative subjects of some of the spam messages. From today's batch:

• booster for your manhood


• lift your darling sexuality with help of blue pill. salubrious effect assured


• get matched with quality on line schools


• ybyzef click here


• easy process & fast decision on a new MasterCard
  
  My response to all of the above--yeah, right! Although, I am impressed that a spammer would use the word "salubrious."
  
  

I am most amused that go*gle uses its tracking software to insert ads along with these somewhat salacious titles. The Hormel Meat company has a permanent ad at the top of all the spam mail, so that I can always click on a link to a Spam recipe! Like savory spam crescents. Hmm--while I look to see what ridiculous spam mail I get, and then delete said mail--am I really thinking about BAKING with Spam?

Spam as a meat is a product that seems to making a comeback. In a BBC story, there is the suggestion that Spam sales can be seen as a barometer of current economic status. The economy goes down, Spam sales go up.

It's been ages since I ate Spam. My husband recalls it being served in his home when he was growing up.

We have a friend--now deceased--who was born in the Netherlands, and was about 10 years old when the Nazis occupied the country. As the war dragged on, the situation grew dire in occupied countries. People were quite literally starving. Then weather compounded the situation with a hard winter. The people called it the hunger winter. When the Allies liberated the Netherlands, and the rest of Europe, food distribution could begin. Spam was one of the products; it was also distributed in quantity to U.S. soldiers. Whether our friend got Spam from a soldier or from food distribution, it was an unspeakably welcome gift.

Our friend remembered with great fondness receiving Spam. For the rest of his life, he relished the taste of this life-saving food.

If only the current purveyors of spam to our computers had such good intentions.

The Woman Makes the Clothes

You know that expression--clothes make the man? Well, I believe where Michelle Obama is concerned, the expression should be--the woman makes the clothes.

It is so incredibly refreshing to see a wonderfully self-possessed common sense intelligent woman in the White House.

Recently, Essence magazine released their latest magazine with Michelle Obama, and her mother, gracing the cover. As she has before, Michelle is wearing an off-the-rack dress--in fact, a T*lbot's dress. Here is our nation's First Lady, wearing this store's clothing, presumably of her own volition. She is not wearing high-end designer labels that are loaned for a one-time use; she is wearing the kind of clothing many of us wear. T*lbot's--a store where I have been known to shop--should be thrilled.

So, when I was in T*lbot's the other day, I spied the dress. I had no intention of buying it (not my kind of dress), but it was fun to see it in the store. I mentioned something to the sales clerk about the Essence magazine cover photo. Well, she said, here it is--as she handed the magazine to me. Then, she continued, but I don't like the sweaters Michelle Obama chose to wear with the dress. The colors are off.

WHA. . .? You are kidding me. The First Lady wears your dress. She is on the cover of a national magazine. And you don't like her color choice for the accompanying sweaters? Puh-lease.

Anyway.

It has been fun catching the various news stories about the Obama family settling into a living routine in the nation's home. Michelle's incredible sense of the right thing to do--inviting members of a cooking class into the White House kitchen to watch the chefs at work; planting a garden with children; praising a group of young girls at a school in London--makes me catch my breath.

Add to these stories of the obvious fun President Obama seems to be having in the lighter moments of being president--helping children roll eggs on the White House lawn, running with the new first dog, Bo--and I am left with nothing but gratitude that at this moment, Obama is our president, and Michelle is his wife.

And They're Off !

No sooner had I spied the baby mourning doves, in the process scaring the parents out of the nest, when I discovered they are now gone. Fledged (I hope). I peeked in the nest yesterday, only to find this.

An empty nest. Note, the one forlorn feather left behind--baby fluff. I looked all around to see if there were any abandoned babies, but they appear to be gone. Just like our own children--they grow up so fast!

After a very cold spring, we have had a bit of rain, and today, lovely sunshine. Flowers have seemingly burst into bloom in a split second.

Almost 30 years ago, when we moved into our house, I spent one fall (while being 8 months pregnant) planting about 100 bulbs. The tulips and daffodils have long exhausted themselves. But the grape hyacinth bloom ferociously every spring, dividing as they go. So I dig them up, and plop them into the ground in new places.

My Easter flowers also end up gracing the grounds. Herewith some hyacinths and daffodils.

I have some indoors right now, that will be planted any day now.


And one more big spring project is underway--subject of a future post.

What's going on in your spring clean-up, blooming world?

They're Ba-a-c-c-k

Remember last year when I found a mourning dove nest in the arbor vitae tree next to our front door?

Well, the nesting pair is back. Having read that mourning doves, while they build incredibly flimsy nests, will sometimes return, I did not take down the nest over the winter. I just allowed it to sit on its precarious perch--in all its twiggy glory.

We have had several pair of mourning doves hanging around this late winter and early spring. They have patrolled the ground under our bird feeders, pecking away garnering whatever seeds may have fallen.

Even though they are rather common birds, I enjoy watching them. Their lovely pastel grey feathers that occasionally flash a spot of pink fascinate me.

A week ago, we had some workers here cleaning up the yard in readiness for spring. I was sort of patrolling the yard, watching the crew of men raking, edging, cutting grass--when I spotted a white blob in the middle of our street. It looked like a child's stuffed toy. I walked out to investigate only to discover it was a now-deceased mourning dove.

A neighbor was close by, and he said he had seen a red-tail hawk fly over about ten minutes earlier. Perhaps he startled the hawk, but for whatever reason, the hawk dropped the dove right smack in the middle of the street. Whether the hawk snatching, or the precipitous drop, the dove was most certainly dead.

All this occurred before I spotted the nesting dove in the arbor vitae. I have seen another dove nearby the nest, so I assume the dead dove was not part of the nesting pair.

I kept monitoring the nest, from a respectful distance, all week. I decided to postpone trimming the arbor vitae until the babies hatch and depart. And I sneaked my camera in from time to time to grab a quick photo.

On Easter Sunday morning, I took another peek into the nest--suddenly a startled parent dove flew out, and then the other! (Well, the red-tail didn't get half of this pair.) And, then I saw them--the chicks, two balls of grey fluff with tightly shut eyes. I grabbed a quick portrait then retreated. By the time we returned from church, a dove parent was back nesting on them.

Completely unrelated to the doves, here's the Easter present my daughter-in-law brought along. I will have to rush over to Julie Z's blog and read all about caring for orchids.

The Power of One

Several years ago, I read Bryce Courtenay’s novel The Power of One. I was drawn to the book, and enjoyed it a fair bit, for its descriptions of growing up in southern Africa. I can’t say that I think the book is great literature, but it was an enjoyable read at the time.

What I especially liked about the book is its title: The Power of One. The movie version of the book played up that element a bit more than the book itself does.

I have just finished reading a non-fiction work that illustrates a true meaning of the expression “the power of one.” David Relin’s account of Greg Mortenson’s remarkable effort to build a school in rural Pakistan is the subject of the work Three Cups of Tea. If ever there were an example today of “the power of one” it would be Greg Mortenson. If you have not read Three Cups of Tea, I recommend it—I venture that he may have done more to “win hearts and minds” in the Muslim world than all the U.S. military action in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Simply—Greg Mortenson builds schools in small villages in Pakistan first, and then in Afghanistan.

Did you see the movie Charlie Wilson’s War? The movie ends with Congressman Charlie Wilson, who helped arm Afghans in their struggle against Soviet soldiers, pleading to have U.S. funds sent to Afghanistan and Pakistan to build schools. Had Congressman Wilson’s plea been heard and granted, we might not be facing the seemingly intractable problem of religious radicalization in that part of the world.

The power of one!

There are other stirring examples. Having grown up nearby South Africa, I watched that country for years, convinced that apartheid would only end badly—possibly in a civil war. Of course, we all know it didn’t. It ended bloodlessly, for the most part. Much of the peaceful end to that awful codified separation of white and black people came about because of one man: Nelson Mandela.

I have never met Nelson Mandela, but those who have say they are immediately struck by the moral force of the man. Whether that moral force grew out of his years of imprisonment—he spent 27 years in prison—or out of the righteousness of his position, or even out of an innate sense is hard to say. But it is clear that he has a great of morality that surpassed most of the whites in South Africa who would have seen him, by virtue of being a black man, as their lesser.

The power of one!

One more example. I just got the latest newsletter from Hawk Mountain. This is one of the organizations we proudly support. This year is the 75th anniversary of the Sanctuary at Hawk Mountain—and it is all because of the efforts of one woman that this place exists. In 1934, Rosalie Barrow Edge leased the top of Hawk Mountain to protect raptors from hunters who gathered each fall to shoot them for sport. In so doing, she created “the world’s first refuge for birds of prey” (Hawk Mountain News, Spring 2009, p. 1). September 11-13, 2009 will be the 75th Anniversary observance of Hawk Mountain. Part of the celebration includes the release this summer of a biography by Dyana Furmansky of this remarkable one woman nature activist. Rosalie Edge’s efforts, which began when she was a girl observing birds in Central Park, New York, have helped create a true raptor and other birds treasure in Pennsylvania. Each fall the Hawk Mountain Sanctuary conducts bird migration counts in part of the Appalachian Flyway. The Sanctuary has hundreds of volunteers and many young scientists who train in internship capacities.

All because of the power of one!

(Photo of Rosalie Barrow Edge from http://www.depweb.state.pa.us/heritage/cwp/view.asp?a=3&Q=443908)

One Hit Wonders

My blogging friend Philip, knowing my love of literature, shared this interesting story with me.

It's about authors that never made it "big" as they only wrote one novel. I admit--I editorialize when I say "never made it big." The writer actually simply points out who these one hit wonders were.

Here they are, author and book:

1. Harper Lee - To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Margaret Mitchell - Gone With the Wind
3. Emily Bronte - Wuthering Heights
4. J.D.Salinger - Catcher in the Rye
5. Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Gray
6. John Kennedy Toole - A Confederacy of Dunces
7. Sylvia Plath - The Bell Jar
8. Anna Sewell - Black Beauty
9. Boris Pasternak - Dr Zhivago
10. Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things

Of the books above, I have read all but A Confederacy of Dunces, so I suppose I shall have to put it on my list to read.

I find this list curiously puzzling. In many instances, the reason the second novel was not written is not for lack of inspiration. Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell had opportunity to write another novel, although Margaret Mitchell was killed when she was struck by a car, ending any possibility of a literary come-back.

Some never had a chance to write another work. Emily Bronte died one year after her masterpiece was published, and Sylvia Plath committed suicide the year The Bell Jar was published. Anna Sewell died soon after her book came out. In each of these instances, the premature death cut short any literary career or any subsequent novel.


Of course, some of the writers moved on to other forms of expression. I would never call Oscar Wilde a novelist. He is far more famous for his wit, and his having flaunted Victorian morals, famously losing his libel trial. His literary reputation stands on several successful dramas that he wrote.

Sylvia Plath, albeit short-lived, is far more famous for her stunning poetry than her auto-biographical novel.

Perhaps the most famous writing procrastinator is J.D. Salinger who has a small body of work, some longer stories collected into novella form. So, I would hardly call him a one hit wonder. In fact, I think he is as famous for his renowned reclusiveness.

Salinger and Arundhati Roy are the only two on the list still living, so there's always time for them to write another "hit."


One novelist not on the list is Ralph Ellison whose Invisible Man made his reputation. There are stories of Ellison working and working and working on his second novel. During his life, it was never published. When he died, a manuscript was found and eventually assembled for publishing--a rambling work--it never reached the proportion of acclaim Invisible Man garnered. Another one hit wonder?

I suspect there are other novelists out there whose reputation was made on the strength of one stunning work.

After reviewing the list, I can only say--if I can fail the way these writers have failed, I will be in very good company indeed.

Generations Redux

Though the previous post did not generate as many comments as some of my posts have, we have a thoughtful conversation going on.

Climenheise commented: "As some of your post-ers have noted, there are still young people who defy this image. They go to New Orleans and help out. They spend years in the Middle East living in a conflict situation for the sake of conscience. But as a society we have spent generations creating what you describe in your classroom. I would be interested in your own further analysis of what's going on."

For the uninitiated, Climenheise is the nom-de-plume of my brother. He and I have had pieces of this conversation on generations before. He, too, is a professor--in fact, he teaches students at an advanced level in a seminary in Manitoba.

In a prior post, some time back, I wrote about making a reference (to Wayne Newton) in class and getting blank stares from my students. Always a humbling experience--that. It makes one feel. . .old. After writing that post, my brother sent me a link for the Beloit College Mindset list. For eleven years, Beloit College has been assembling a list of things the new class entering college would have as a common frame of reference. You can go here to read more about this list, and even see prior years.

This list helps me know what I can expect in terms of student reactions to events or people I may refer to in class discussion. Here's what Beloit observes about the current freshmen class--the class of 2012:

The class of 2012 has grown up in an era where computers and rapid communication are the norm, and colleges no longer trumpet the fact that residence halls are “wired” and equipped with the latest hardware. These students will hardly recognize the availability of telephones in their rooms since they have seldom utilized landlines during their adolescence. They will continue to live on their cell phones and communicate via texting. Roommates, few of whom have ever shared a bedroom, have already checked out each other on Facebook where they have shared their most personal thoughts with the whole world.

It is a multicultural, politically correct and “green” generation that has hardly noticed the threats to their privacy and has never feared the Russians and the Warsaw Pact.

Maybe that description helps to form an answer my "what generation is this" question.

I also recall reading that a generation is shaped by the events when people were coming of age--also a topic of a previous post for me. So, take the birth years, then add about 20 years and examine the events of that time span. Those are the events that will shape that generation.

That doesn't really give me an answer to "what generation is this" but it's a beginning. I agree--the selfishness that the response my students gave in class is NOT a universal trait of this generation. For example, students use their spring break weeks to work in place like the Gulf Coast striken with multiple hurricanes.

Well, for now, I will leave the rumination of generational identity aside. You all can keep answering, and giving me suggestions. Every little bit helps.

What Generation is this?

I was reading Newsweek last evening, and came upon a most disturbing article: Generation Divas it was called. The gist of the article is that we are so external beauty obsessed that a whole generation of young girls (especially) is being groomed to the hilt. The sub-title of the article says it all: how obsession with beauty is changing our kids. The article refers to a show I had never heard of—“Toddlers and Tiaras” on TLC. It is called “a reality show.” Some reality.

This article got me to thinking—what generation is this?

In my husband’s work capacity, he has participated in discussions on how to attract and retain members. One of the approaches his work place has used is to consider what appeals to the various generations, and the characteristics that typify each generation. We all know the Boomer generation (of which I am sort of a member—I was born just a tad before the official beginning in 1946). This generation followed the Greatest Generation—enshrined in Tom Brokaw’s eponymous book.


Does this symbol register with you?


If these events and names strike a familiar note with you—Vietnam, Woodstock, assassinations of JFK, Malcolm X, Martin, and Bobby, sexual revolution and drugs—chances are you are part of the Boomer generation.

After the Boomers, we had Generation X—this grouping includes those born between the years 1964-1980. This generation saw the Berlin wall come down, and the beginnings of computers. (Note—the events might not occur during the inclusive years, which are birth years, but rather occur as the generation comes of age.)

In keeping with the alphabetical appellation, Gen X was followed by Gen Y–birth years of 1981 to 1995. Tracking these cycles is the work of sociologists and observers of popular culture. Here’s a piece on the 20th and 21st century cycles.

So, why my rather lengthy journey into the characteristics of generations? Because those who study these generational cycles tend to assign behavioral attributes to the people born during the bracket years. So, I am wondering—what generation is this one? The given designation of Generation Z is not really helpful.

A discussion in class yesterday brought me up short—and did nothing to answer my wondering “what generation is this?” The final assignment that I have for students is for them to work in collaborative groups. They are to do research on a “third world” country and a problem that country has. Then, they are to propose a solution to that problem, focusing particularly on whether or not “first world” countries have an ethical obligation to help. To prime the students for this project, we had a discussion on several essays they were assigned to read. One of the discussion questions I posed was: do rich countries have an obligation to help poor countries. From my students I received an unequivocal NO. We have NO obligation to help any other country.

I confess—I shuddered. And I could not help but conjure up images of French peasants storming the Bastille, and marching on Versailles.




What generation is this, indeed?
-----------------
Image of illustration on Storming the Bastille--from Encyclopedia Britannica online

It's Not Much. . .

. . .but it's the least I can do.

What, you might ask.

I have pondered what I can do in this uncertain economy. And I have lit upon a not very original strategy--I can buy locally as much as possible. And, the emphasis here is on BUY and LOCAL.

With money tight, and jobs shaky, it is natural to pull back, to stop spending completely. But that may be just the wrong thing to do.


I think of all the people whose services I use who will suffer if I stop buying. So, we still go out to eat--the servers need our tips.


I still get my occasional pedicure--the women who perform this wonderful service have small children and need to earn their modest incomes.

NOT MY FEET!

I get my haircut with the same regularity as always--the hairstylist still has her mortgage to pay.


And I am even trying to expand my support of local businesses. Tomorrow, our dog--who is sadly in need of some grooming--has a fur cut appointment. I have always bathed her, popping her in the tub, and then drying her with fur flying everywhere. This time, I contacted a locally owned small pet store that does dog grooming, and got Tipper a "beauty appointment." The dog washers have to live, too.



And when a local business man and his son walked around with paper flyers advertising help with yard work and home maintenance, I called. They will come later this week, and help gather up last fall's leaves, and trim dead branches from fir trees in the backyard.

These are small efforts, I realize, but each of the people I patronize in turn will have a bit more money with which to make their normal purchases. And bit by bit, we may all have an impact!
----------------
Anyone else have ideas how we can take incremental steps in this economic crisis? Anyone doing anything that makes you feel you are helping just a bit?

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

UPDATE: behold, the clean dog!



Note the suspicious look in Tipper's eyes. She hates it when I get the camera out. I don't know what she thinks I will do with the photos of her, but she is clearly on her guard.



The scarf around her neck, featuring Easter eggs, was temporary. It is now discarded.

Heroines

Were I not a subscriber to the Daily Almanac, that Garrison Keillor brings, I would not have known of the convergence of birthdays today.

A more unlikely pair you cannot find, I think. Yet Flannery O'Connor and Gloria Steinem share a birthday today. And each has been a heroine to me.

I suspect many people who know me well would say I am a feminist. Yes, I am. But I am not a strident one. I never burned my bra, for example. If pressed to define what kind of feminist I am, I may just offer my life--upon graduating from college, and getting married, and starting a family--I never stopped working. I worked the year my son was born--he was born at the end of January, I took February off and then resumed teaching. When my daughter was born, I worked the day before she was born, took three months off and then returned to working.

So I guess I would say that I am a feminist in terms of life choices--not marching, not philosophizing, just being.

Gloria Steinem was/is a feminist heroine for me. She is a very attractive woman--belying the old myth that all feminists must be ugly (take that, Rush!). In fact, early in her career she was a Playboy bunny. That particular detail always horrified and amused me. She was/is whip smart. As the founder of Ms Magazine, she may have had as much influence on current populist feminism as any one person.

On the other end of the spectrum of this shared birthday is Flannery O'Connor. As a lit major in college, I came upon her darkly grim and humorous stories. I knew little of her life then, but in graduate school I did a lengthy paper on her and learned a bit. Flannery was painfully unattractive. And she suffered from lupus that would eventually rob her of mobility, and cause her premature death. She lived a somewhat solitary life, staying on the family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia. After her father's death, it was just Flannery and her mother plus a menagerie that included peacocks.

With all of her writing done in the first half of the 20th century, her stories anticipated the kind of disassociation that characterizes literature of the 20th century. One of the most famous of her short stories "A Good Man is Hard to Find" has the kind of grim ending that we have almost come to expect with current movies--example No Country for Old Men.

Yet through all this dark view of humanity, Flannery was a fiercely devout Catholic, and you can find glimpses of the possibility of redemption everywhere in her fiction. Her body of writings is not extensive, since she died in 1964 at age 39. Yet she influenced many of today's writers.

Two of my heroines--born on the same day.

In A Wooded Glen

For the past several days, I have been away from home attending a national advisory committee meeting. This is the same group for which I traveled to California last fall, and to New Orleans a year plus ago.

Since we meet twice a year, we try to meet once in a location where we have helped with disaster response and recovery, and once in a location near our national church headquarters. This meeting was in a wooded glen, actually at Wooded Glen, a lovely retreat facility near Louisville, Kentucky where the PCUSA headquarters are located.

The winding road that you drive along to reach the lodge is still there. This is the road that I carefully inched my way down last year in the fog.



Since I remembered this time to bring a camera along, I can show you what the place looks like.

Herewith:

The view from my room window in the early morning.

The beginning of a lovely spring sunset.

A line-up of rocking chairs, just waiting for those meetings to end.

A pair of Canada geese on a small lake.

The checkerboard sets at the lodge!

The fireplace at the lodge.

I tend not to sleep particularly well when I am away from home. So I awoke one morning at 5 a.m., and listened to the marvelous sounds of the woods around me. I watched a quarter moon and its reflection dance off a small lake, and gazed at stars I rarely see with all the light pollution in central PA.

Another view of the small lake.

I also heard an early morning bird that sounded like a poor-will's widow--but not quite. I am not adept on bird calls, so it may have to remain a mystery.

As I drove away from the wooded glen, there was a glorious sunrise--the sky all washed with peachy pink glow, and a line of clouds around the perimeter of the sky made the entire sky glow. No fog to drive through this time. As lovely as the place is, I am now (gratefully) safely home.

Hamlet Has Gone to the Dogs

Since I promised (did I?) a review of The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, here goes.

Take Shakespeare's play Hamlet, add a hefty dose of dog breeding and dog training and what do you have? The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.

No kidding.

I wasn't that far into the book when I thought to myself--wait a minute, I know this story. Except for the main character's name being Edgar, instead of Hamlet, the parallels between this novel and Shakespeare's play are practically endless.

Let's do character names first. There is Edgar, the protagonist, his father Gar (presumably short for EdGAR) and his mother Trudy. In Hamlet, there is Hamlet, his father the Ghost (who you are told was old King Hamlet) and his mother Gertrude. There is Gar's brother Claude who has been away from the family homestead--the dog breeding place. In the play, there is the king's brother Claudius.


Of course, you remember Ophelia, the faithful long-suffering young woman who loved Hamlet beyond all reason. In the novel, that character is an extraordinary dog named Almondine. Two final characters linking are Dr. Papineau from the novel. He is a kindly, somewhat loquacious doctor. The mirror character from Hamlet is Polonius, a garrulous wind-bag of an old man who happens to be Ophelia's father. And there is also a mirror character in Papineau's son, Glen, who--like Polonius' son Laertes, tries to avenge his father's death.

With a tumbling host of dogs in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle there are plenty enough bit characters to fill up linkages to the various characters in Hamlet. One particular dog stands out--Forte. Forte is a legendary dog, mostly out of the time frame of the story. It just dawned on me, as I was doing these comparisons, that Forte is the mirror for Fortinbras, an important off-stage character for most of the play Hamlet.

Now to some plot elements. Where Hamlet begins with the father already dead, and haunting the castle at Elsinore, the novel begins with the story of Edgar's birth. Early on, the reader is informed that Edgar is born mute. I saw this detail as a wonderful twist on Hamlet's loquaciousness. Hamlet has more soliloquy lines than ANY other Shakespeare character.

When Edgar's father dies suddenly, Edgar and his mother naturally grieve. Edgar prefers to sleep in the barn close to the dogs, and one evening in a pouring rain, he sees a shape in the rain. The figure is of his father, who signs to him "remember me" and indicates that he may not have died a natural death. Oh, so like Hamlet. There, Hamlet encounters the ghost of his father, learns from the ghost that he was poisoned by his brother Claudius.

In Hamlet, Claudius is motivated by desire to take over the kingdom, and the queen. So too in Edgar Sawtelle. Claude eventually moves in, taking over the dog breeding business, and proposing to Trudy.

Hamlet tries to get Claudius to confess his guilt by presenting a play that features the recreation of the poison scene. He enlists the aid of a troupe of players who are visiting the castle. When they enact the death scene, Claudius rises, pale, and flees the room. The parallel scene in the novel involves the dogs that Edgar has been training. In a rather elaborate scene, he sets up to have one dog carry a glass syringe, the presumed mechanism for Claude delivering the poison to Gar, and present it to another dog. Eventually, Edgar has one dog trot over to Claude to tag him with the syringe. Claude gets very angry, his reaction setting off a pivotal scene.

A pivotal scene in Hamlet is when he confronts his mother in her bedroom, accusing her for taking up with Claudius. When Hamlet sees movement in a curtain, he rushes at it, stabbing with his sword. Out falls Polonius. The parallel scene in Edgar Sawtelle is when Edgar is with his mother in the barn, and thinks he sees a figure--perhaps thinking it his father--he lunges at it, while holding a bailing hook. He inadvertently hits Dr. Papineau, who suddenly appears, killing him.

Edgar flees, taking 3 of the dogs with him. He eventually encounters Forte, who is a kind of stray dog. I will skip the details of this escape interlude, so as not to spoil the plot, for those of you who plan to read the novel, and also to keep this post from getting much longer than it already is. One final word on Forte--just as in Hamlet, when Fortinbras appears to mop up the stage littered with bodies, so also Forte appears at the end of the novel. Enough said.

After writing this review of sorts, I did a quick Internet search and note that I am not the only one to have noted the similarities to Hamlet. I do want to aver, however, that I did NOT read them before I wrote my comparison.

What I found frustrating about Edgar Sawtelle is NOT that it is a reworking of a Shakespeare play--after all there have been many reworking of his plays. For example, West Side Story is Romeo and Julie, and A Thousand Acres is King Lear. My objection is that this reworking is somewhat inartful (is that a word?). If you want a good reworking of a Shakespearean theme, you will do far better reading A Thousand Acres.

My other primary criticism is that Edgar Sawtelle is a plot-driven, rather than a character driven novel. It is as though the author puts his characters in difficult situations, and says--OK, now what? A character driven novel, on the other hand, allows the events to grow out of who the character is.

When an author writes a plot driven novel, I get to the point, as a reader, where I feel like saying--LEAVE HIM ALONE. And that's eventually where I got to with The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.

Would I recommend the book? (You can't see it, but my hand, held out flat, is wavering back and forth.)
------------
The two illustrations:
German shepherd dog--the dogs in Edgar Sawtelle are their own breed, but there are references to the dogs having some markings similar to German shepherds.

The painting is by Eugene Delacroix, and it features the famous graveyard scene where the skull of Yorick is unearthed which allows Hamlet to say "Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him well." This is not a scene that is repeated in the novel.

In the Pink

Have you ever contemplated how colors can mean different things? The same colors--depending on context or culture--can have radically different meanings. Someone in a black mood is clearly not happy, whereas a business in the black is. If a person has a red letter day, that's good, but a business in the red is in trouble.

In the west, brides wear white; in some eastern cultures, they wear red. Eastern cultures reserve white for mourning, where western cultures use black for mourning.

Well, Friday March 13 is PINK FRIDAY. In solidarity with teachers in California, who will receive preliminary pink slips on Friday, my husband's employer--the PA State Education Association (which I belong to as a teacher) is urging people to wear pink.

So when we have our Friday night "date," my husband and I will both be wearing pink.

Think pink--remember all the wonderful teachers in California who will be saddened by a slip of pink paper.

Reading Miss Oprah

It's safe to say that reading is one of the passions of my life. I love to read. Make that--I LOVE TO READ. I am ALWAYS in the middle of at least one book. And I love to find and read "terrific reads"--I've even written about a few of those on this blog.

As an English lit major, I had better love reading. Out of curiosity, I began recording all the books I have read--as well as I can recall them. I try to write them down as I read them. Going back to my English lit days, I have read about 450 books. That means I have been averaging about 10 books a year. Hmmmm--I must have missed some on that list, as I know I read more than 10 books a year.

Painting: Young Girl Reading by Fragonard

Now that I have a Kindle (which I got as a Christmas present), I can read several books at once without making the book pile next to my bed too high. I have downloaded 6 books on my Kindle, and have finished one of those.

I haven't recommended a book as a terrific read for quite some time. The last book that I did recommend was Water for Elephants, which I finished in September, 2007. A few books that I read since then came close: Purple Hibiscus by the young Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, was very good. I also enjoyed Monica Ali's Brick Lane--but each of these fell short of "terrific read" because of a few flaws--example Brick Lane's fizzled ending.

So, what do I mean--Reading Miss Oprah. When it comes to picking books, I tend to eschew someone else's list: The NY Times bestseller list, or Oprah's list. Pfffftttt--if I am not inclined, I won't read the book. But, this time, I did buy one that has the big OPRAH sticker on the front: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. I am still midway in the book, so I won't know if I like this one or not for a bit.

Right before starting into Edgar, I read This Republic of Suffering. I found that work to be a marvelous piece of careful research. Written by Drew Faust Gilpin who is president of Harvard, the book details how the Civil War changed our view of death. Prior to the Civil War, death was a family affair--people died at home, surrounded by loving family. They were prepared for burial by family, and were lovingly laid in graves near their homes. The Civil War changed all that. Soldiers died under horrific circumstance, far from home, in absolute anonymity. Sometimes families did not even know if their sons, fathers, lovers, or brothers had died. The men died in battle, and lay on the abandoned fields of fighting for weeks and months after combat had ceased. Their corpses were left to the elements, and to scavengers--both human and animal. Rarely was a body shipped home. As a result of these radical changes in the manner of death, we never recovered that idyllic view of death that dominated pre-Civil War.

While the book is a terrific read (in my "book"), I recommend it only if the subject matter appeals to you.

So, now you can see why I needed to read Miss Oprah--after This Republic of Suffering, The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, about a mute boy whose father dies under mysterious circumstances, seems like a light read!

Teach Your Children Well

A number of years ago, Crosby, Stills & Nash came to town for a concert. My husband and I got tickets, and headed off to hear them. While I still love the close harmony of this vintage group, the concert was a bit of a disappointment for me. Why, you might ask? Because they didn't sing one number that I just love: Teach Your Children Well. (I did, however, manage to buy a T-shirt with that logo and words on it at the concert.)

My daughter knows how much I love this song--a kind of anthem for someone who is both a parent, and a teacher! She made a gift for me for some occasion--birthday, I think--in which she rounded up various photos of me with her and her brother, and then she typed the words to Teach Your Children Well, and framed the whole combination. It still hangs on the wall in my office where I can look at it daily.

Teach your children well. . .

And feed them on your dreams
The ones they pick
The ones you’ll know by.

Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.

Two recent news stories got me thinking about these words. In a prior post a while back, I wrote how my husband and I taught youth Sunday School quite a few years ago. While our favorite means of engaging the kids was food, we did teach about other topics. One topic that came up was illness--and how Christ responded to people who are sick. Perhaps as a natural segue we began talking about AIDS, and sex education. After that lesson, one of the parents called us up absolutely irate that we would dare to broach that topic in church.

If I recall correctly, my husband got the call. He patiently, for a time, listened and queried the parent. The parent insisted schools should not touch the topic of sex education nor should the church. (Huh?) Besides, she said--her son was too young to learn about such things. Mind--he was in 6th grade at the time and had an older sister. I suspect he was already hearing a great deal about the topic. It came as no surprise to my husband and me that this young man and his girlfriend ended up getting pregnant just as their high school years were ending.

So, why am I writing about him. Well, a local news story of a day ago brought this news:

"Two ---- County men pleaded guilty to killing four whitetail deer out of season and firing in a safety zone too close to homes. Each paid fines of $2,340 and will have their hunting licenses suspended. . .The men were accused of shooting a pair of bucks on two separate occasions. Game Commission officers said the shots were fired as close as 75 feet from homes.

The illegal nighttime hunting, known as jacklighting, involves shining a spotlight at a deer so it freezes, making it a target. The game commission officer said dealing with jacklighting incidents takes up the bulk of law enforcement by wildlife officers. 'It's thrill killing,' he said. "

By now you are wondering the connection--well, this is the same young man. The one whose mother thought he was too young to learn about sex education, the one who got his high school girlfriend pregnant, is now the one who is a kind of scofflaw. Does it all fit together? Maybe I am being too harsh--but methinks someone did NOT teach this child well.

Second story--from the New York Times: entitled When Grandma Can't Be Bothered, this story broke my heart. First, let me say that I have not yet had the opportunity to be a volunteering grandparent, but I will most certainly volunteer, should the opportunity arise. Second, what I found heartbreaking about this story is that children need all the love they can get, and grandparents are a wonderful source of that love.

A study some time ago pointed out the benefits to children of available caring grandparents. These children thrive. They are taught well.

Well, I am done with this little reverie--now humming "Teach Your Children Well."

Calling the Names

A brief editorial note (though when I teach literature, I always say--never trust the poet to explain what she means)--I too frequently have conversations where I am saying something and--poof--just like that, the specific reference I wanted to make LEAVES my brain. It slips past my tongue without being said, and my brain refuses to re-supply it to my tongue. Until hours later--when I blurt it out.

Herewith such a conversation--of sort--in poetic form. An original poem for you, dear readers.

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

CALLING THE NAMES

I call out the names in random fashion
Black & Decker
Truman Capote
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. . .
They have no connection to present reality
But short hours ago, they did.

We were strolling past some stores
Noting now vacant store fronts
And murmured--that's where. . .was--
But in that moment the name fled.

And then I wanted to remark
About an actor who had done a marvelous job
Portraying that writer
You know, the one who wrote
In Cold Blood
But the name refused to surface.

I read a recent article
That caught my attention
An explanation of Alzheimers
Prions are implicated
As in Jakob-Creutzfeldt
And you said--oh, that's like mad cow disease
But I knew that wasn't it.
But what? No name.

Then at midnight
The names arrive
And I call them out
Black & Decker
Truman Capote
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. . .

But you are asleep
So tomorrow I will
Call the names
Without repeating the conversations
And you will understand.

© KGMom 2009