At last...

I have finished reading Jeff Sharlet's book The Family. I always list "The Top of the Pile" book--that is the book I am currently reading--along the sidebar of this page.

Sometimes, a book stays up for a good long time, until I either finish it or set it aside for another day. For a while, I had the biography of Andrew Jackson--American Lion--gracing my sidebar. That one I gave up on, at least for now. I will no doubt return to it. I gave up on it, partly because the contentious interaction in Washington while Jackson was president sounded too much like...today!

I then went off and read a bunch of easier reads--such as Marilynne Robinson's Home. Then, I tackled Jeff Sharlet's The Family. The subtitle tips the content--The Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power.

I first heard about the subject of Sharlet's book while watching MSNBC's coverage of the Governor Sanford story. You remember Governor Sanford? He went missing around Father's Day last year to . . .hike the Appalachian Trail. Um, no. To fly to Argentina to spend time with his mistress. He had an affair with an Argentinian woman. Following his return to the U.S., and his rambling tearful admission that he really wasn't hiking, Sanford sought spiritual guidance and counsel from fellow political folk at the C Street house in Washington, DC.

What's the C street house? Well, so glad you asked. Here's where The Family enters the picture. The C street house is owned by a secretive group called alternatively the Family or the Fellowship. The house is listed as a church, and thus is tax exempt property. It is also the place where, in addition to Governor Sanford, Senator Ensign was counselled about his on-going affair with the wife of his chief of staff. As if that wasn't bad enough, Senator Ensign then tried to buy off the woman and her husband. It is indeed a sordid story.

As if that twosome weren't enough, it is also where Representative Chip Pickering lived, while he had an affair. Interestingly enough, all three of these politicians thought it proper that President Bill Clinton should be impeached for his affair.

The story of the Family (or the Fellowship) is the subject of Jeff Sharlet's book. He did the kind of research that is almost unduplicatable--he lived in one of the Family's houses where they sort of indoctrinate people into their tenets. They do not advance a specific church theology, but they advance a specific Christian point of view--they hold Bible studies and prayer sessions. They seek to influence American, and for that matter international, politics.

That doesn't seem too bad, does it? Or does it. This is the group that is behind the recent bill introduced in Uganda that has made international news. Basically, the bill called for the death penalty for people who are found out to be gay. After the news began to emerge about this draconian bill, U.S. legislators affiliated with the Fellowship began to fall all over themselves disavowing any connection to the Ugandan bill.

It might to tempting to think--what's the problem with a group, even if it is secretive, that wants to infuse Christian concepts into our legislative process. I have thought long and hard about this question. And here's what I have come up with--first, I put forward the notion that a democracy and a theocracy cannot co-exist. If we were to be guided in all our legislative dealings with strictly Christian ideals, we would no longer have room for the portion of our population which is not Christian, or guided by Christian ideals.

Second, whose definition of Christian ideals would be used? Not all Christians agree, even on some essential tenets of faith. So who would decide? The current leaders of the Fellowship that Jeff Sharlet writes of eschew traditional organized religion. Instead, they call for Jesus + nothing. What does that mean?

Yes, it took me a long time to finish this book. Part of the reason, in addition to somewhat confusing content, was the dense writing style that Sharlet has. But, I made myself read through to the end. After all, a secretive group that has as its goal to change the fundamental way that we govern ourselves in this country is not something to be taken lightly. And it certainly isn't something that my wandering inattention should deter me from knowing about.

For the record, I am now reading Karen Armstrong's The Case for God. Much lighter reading, I assure you.

Memory, the Warder of the Brain*

Yesterday, my husband and I spent a fruitless hour searching for my glasses. I try to be very methodical about stowing my bifocals, with their attachable sunglasses. Yet, earlier in the day, we went to the grocery store, and when I went to extract my glasses, they weren't there--not to be found in my eyeglass case.

So, I began replaying the events of the previous day--where had I been when I last had my glasses. When we returned home, we both began looking for my glasses: in the car, on the floor of the garage, in my purse (turned completely inside out--remember the lost camera?), in every other glasses case in the house, under beds, down inside couches...get the picture? EVERYWHERE. Nothing. . .until, suddenly, my husband appeared in the garage. I was out there once more. Here they are, he said. Where, I asked sheepishly. Next to the laundry hamper. OF COURSE, I had taken them off to remove my sweater, laid them down, then left the room.

Memory.

An episode such as my lost eyeglasses is what I call the coffee cup syndrome. No doubt, you are familiar with it--you pour yourself a cup of coffee (or tea), walk into another room, get distracted by something, put the cup down, walk away, and then...Then you can't remember where you put that cup. So you walk around, trying to recreate your last series of activities to figure out where the coffee cup is.

I don't know if my short term memory is becoming less efficient as I get older. Whatever the reason, it's frustrating.

A friend of mine recently invited me to accompany her to a live performance by Garrison Keillor. He opened his two hour monologue referencing sonnets--he went on to reminisce about memorizing sonnets in school. And promptly began reeling off strings of poetry.

The requirement to memorize poetry has pretty much fallen out of favor. In some ways, that's sad. I know just a few poems entirely by heart, but wish I knew more. My grandfather had committed many poems to memory--and when he was blind, he could recall them at great length, even trading lines of poetry back and forth with a friend of his.

Oh, I can't really claim that if I had more poems committed to memory that I would not misplace my glasses, or even that I could track down my coffee cup immediately.

I just want memory to be that warder of the brain. Or, maybe for the brain to be the warder of memory!
--------------------
* Macbeth, act 1, sc. 7, l. 65.

R-I-G-H-T ! !

Remember the old Bill Cosby routine on "Noah"?

Watch the routine, if you have never seen it.

At one point, Bill Cosby, as Noah, receives a directive--his response: R-I-G-H-T ! !

Well, if you go to the previous post in this blog, and look at comments 8 and 9 (the really long ones; you'll know which ones I mean), you will see why I say R-I-G-H-T!!!

Not convinced, folks. NOT convinced at all.

Don't Get My Irish Up

I won't claim credit for this one--all the credit goes to my husband and his eagle eye--but it's the type of thing that gets my Irish up.

Our monthly telephone bill came today. Since my husband handles the bill paying in this house, he checked it over carefully. What he noted was something strange--there on the Veriz*n bill was an additional $43 charge from something called ILD Teleservices. It was for services provided by Id Lifeguards and for other services provided by 1-800-321-CONTACT, all under the ILD Teleservices name. I don't mind including these two entities by name and telephone number because what they are doing seems patently illegal to me.

They informed our telephone carrier, Veriz*n, that they had rendered services to us. Since Veriz*n is our carrier, they are obligated to pass along the bill for these services.

Here's the hitch. We neither approved nor requested these services. Ever.

So, my husband called ILD Teleservices. With something of a nonchalant attitude, the service rep said--oh, you didn't request these services. OK, we'll take off that charge.

Huh?

Then my husband called Veriz*n to verify the reduced charge AND to complain. Our hands are tied, said Veriz*n. We have to pass the charge (even if it's bogus--my words) along.

Alrighty. You see why my Irish would be up? When folks pull stunts like that, I call that a scam.

What really concerned my husband--and I agree--is the possibility that some people glance over their bills, see inexplicable charges but assume they are legitimate and pay. NO NO NO--never pay something that looks bogus. Challenge it.

Can you guess which bill is going to get a very thorough review from now until forever? Yup.

There's a name for what ILD Teleservices is doing--it's called cramming. Oh, just for the record, it looks like we aren't the only folks who have had this happen: check out here and here.

So, join me--let's all get "our Irish up" and defeat these bast*rds.

The Big One

I mean...the really big one.

We count our lives in decades, mostly. So, 15 years ago when I turned 50, my husband (with conspiratorial assistance from a friend and our daughter) rounded up a group of friends and surprised me. We celebrated, complete with a lute player. Nice touch.

Then 5 years ago, my husband again arranged, but opted not to surprise me (can't be too careful with older folk, you know) a party. And once again we celebrated. I do love a good celebration.

But neither of these decadal celebrations was really THE BIG ONE. Today is. Yes, folks, I turn 65 today. This is the age when people are supposed to retire. Well, I did retire from full time work, but some years earlier, and not at a time of my choosing.

Sixty-five was set as retirement age in the mid-1930s. The reason 65 was picked had to do with that being one of two prevailing ages in use--the other was 70. You can read more of the Social Security history at their website. Of course, as we American live longer and longer, the age at which one can collect full retirement benefits has been pushed back a bit. So, I don't actually begin SS payments until next year.

I have received many well-wishes from friends, and have a lovely round of gifts to celebrate. From my husband, a new computer and a rebuilt computer center. We had wires leading to and from... nothing. Now, all the wires have been cleaned up and the desk looks GREAT.


From my son and his wife, I received a lovely HUGE bouquet of spring flowers--makes the winter day so much brighter.

From our daughter and her husband, an early present when we visited London. They had gotten tickets for all of us to go see a revival of the play Le Misanthrope, Moliere's comedy of manners making fun of high society. The play had been updated to the present, set in modern London. The play was also the stage debut for Keira Knightley.

From Uncle Sam, I got a Medicare card. Yes, it's true--I now qualify for the government run universal health care program that is untouchable in U.S. politics, but yet which too many politicians are falling over themselves these days to say--WE DON'T WANT A GOVERNMENT RUN HEALTH CARE SYSTEM...what hypocritical fools.

Would anyone in their right minds REALLY say that what we in this country had the courage and foresight to provide for senior citizens--universal coverage for health care--we should NOT provide for all citizens? For children? unemployed? for ... well, everyone? Really?

(Oops, sorry--I was celebrating a birthday. Step down carefully from soap box.)

Well, the big one has been a pleasant day, thus far.

Sorry to repeat myself, but I will use again the story (whether apocryphal or not) of Ingrid Bergman: They say that when asked how she felt now that she had reached the "advanced" age of 60, Ingrid Bergman replied: "I like it just fine, considering the alternative."

So, I have reached the big one...and I like it just fine.

There'll Always Be an England

As someone who grew up in a country that was still under the active colonial influence of England, I confess to being something of an Anglophile. I have visited England more than any other country (excepting Canada) and I continue to enjoy the opportunities to visit. I could spend a year in London and not see all that I am interested in seeing.

My Anglophilia cranked up a couple of extra notches when I chose to major in English literature which meant that I had to learn a fair bit of English history.

The expression "there'll always be an England" rings true for me. With surprise, I learn that this expression has not always been around--it was written in 1939 as England on the verge of war. It was England's dogged determination to survive, and even triumph, in World War II that really exhibits something special about the English character--whatever that is. I have to caution myself that the English spirit I admire had/has its dark side. For example, the effects of colonialism in the various countries that made up the far-flung British Empire were not always beneficent. But this post is not about what England has done wrong.

It is about a Christmas present I received from my daughter on our recent trip to visit her and our son-in-law. I received a wonderful coffee mug displaying a single image--

This simple message--Keep Calm and Carry On--was what was printed on millions of posters prepared during World War II. Like the song "There'll Always be an England" the posters were also prepared in 1939. But--they were never used. Copies of the posters were discovered in 2000 in a second-hand bookshop, and they became an instant rage.

Now, there are posters, shirts, coffee cups, bags, and even cuff links with the sentiment printed on them.

In this time where we too face a seemingly interminable enemy, where we are engaged in a battle that defies reason and mystifies me, the words "Keep Calm and Carry On" strike exactly the right note. I refuse to alter my life out of fear of what could happen. Of course something untoward could happen. But that is true anywhere I go, anytime.

I think you get the drift of my thinking without my having to go on and on.

I will leave you with just five words--KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.

Pilgrims All

Our reason for going to Canterbury was not only to see the cathedral. Rather like Chaucer's pilgrims, we too wanted to see the sights. I am not one to adulate a person, or ascribe deep feeling to standing on the spot of one's martyrdom. If I felt anything, it was a sense of history, not of religious reverence.

I did enjoy the journey and the destination. Chaucer would have approved.

I have referenced Chaucer's Canterbury Tales several times. This work is one of the most important in all English literature--it was to English literature what Dante's Divine Comedy is to Italian literature. In writing Canterbury Tales, Chaucer struck the first modern note in literature to that time. He wrote it in the vernacular--the language of the common folk-- where up to that time literature had been written in the scholarly language of Latin. His subject was also wholly approachable by the common reader. His characters are drawn from every day life--a mixture of society of the day complete with a chivalrous knight, church folk, and a bawdy wife from Bath. As one analyst points out, these characters represent the three dominant classes in society of the day: those who fight, those who pray and those who work.

So off we too go to Canterbury. We traveled from London by train--where Chaucer's pilgrims would have walked--and stayed at inns along the way, where the various tales were told.

To enter old Canterbury, you go through a gate--even though the gate constricts traffic, I did see a large bus go through that gate. If you look closely, you can see it coming through.

The center of old Canterbury is all only for pedestrians--wonderful. We could stroll along, shopping, gawking, taking in the sights. The doorway above led to an old hostel type place, old enough to have housed pilgrims over the centuries.

A small canal cut through the city, offering a delightful view.

I regretted the boat with its inopportune blue tarp--I even considered "Photo-Shopping" it out, but decided not to. Note above the boat--is that a dunking chair?

I love the mixture of the old and the new. The lovely old windows--in two different styles no less--combined with a sign for an expresso bar below.


We went looking for a pub to eat in--and considered the one pictured above. But we weren't quite hungry, so we kept walking. Eventually, we came to this one. It, however, turned out NOT to be a pub, but a regular restaurant. We ate there anyway, and only saw the sign afterwards announcing how old the actual place is. Had I known that date, I might have gone looking for pilgrims long gone and missing.


The interior windows were yet another treat, offering a view of the aforementioned canal.


Finally, one photo of our fellow pilgrims--we were pilgrims all, and just as with Chaucer's travelers, we too were in good company.


I have one or two more tales from our London trip--saved for another day.

Wenden on a Pilgrymage

The guide books will tell you that Canterbury is the second most visited city in England. Since it is really quite a small place, that statistic--if accurate--is astounding. But then, Chaucer would have understood the draw.

When Geoffrey Chaucer wrote The Canterbury Tales he did something quite remarkable. He wrote them in English. Now maybe, it is not English as you would recognize it--here, have a go at it. These are the opening lines of the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales.

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote
The drought of March hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seeke.
Bifil that in that seson, on a day,
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,
At nyght was come into that hostelrye
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle,
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

How did you do? Not very well? Too many words that aren't easily recognizable? You are reading Middle English--which at times seems closer to German than modern English, especially in pronunciation, where you articulate all the consonants. So, "pilgrymage" (which we say as a three syllable word) becomes PIL GRIM MAH JA. Quite fun, reading and speaking in Middle English.

OK--what Chaucer was writing about was a group of twenty-nine pilgrims who are making a trip in April to Canterbury to visit the grave of Thomas Becket, who had been murdered in the cathedral. The remains of his body had been gathered up by faithful followers. Soon, miracles began to happen--and by the time Chaucer writes, two hundred years after Becket's death, pilgrims were traveling in droves to this site.

And they still go today--only, now they are called tourists. Maybe they don't expect miracles, but they can be awed. Tourists first go through a gate (not sure if pilgrims did likewise or not)--pictured below.

The cathedral that stands today would not have been what Chaucer's pilgrims saw. The soaring Gothic style of the cathedral (pictured below) was rebuilt in the 14th century, so it was not the cathedral standing there in Becket's day.

For 3 centuries after Becket's death, a shrine in Trinity Chapel was dedicated to Thomas Becket, who had been made a saint in 1173. But, with Henry VIII's break with the Catholic Church, and his establishment of the Church of England, Henry ordered thousands of Catholic sites destroyed. Among them was the shrine of Thomas Becket. Today, a simple candle marks the spot of the Becket Shrine.

The actual spot where Becket was slain still exists, but is today marked by a modern memorial. This site is simply called The Martyrdom, with the jagged steel swords on either side of the broken sword hanging over a simple altar. Thomas was praying at the altar when Henry II's knights stormed in and killed him.

One part of the cathedral that would have been standing in Becket's day is the crypt. Below the quire of the cathedral, the crypt shows Romanesque architecture. The low arches are dramatically lit by small lights.

The window placements are wonderful, catching the afternoon light. This entire area is marked by signs calling for SILENCE (and no cameras--but I put mine on silent and no flash, and took a few discrete photos).

This small chapel in the crypt is called the Jesus Chapel--the ceiling is marvelously decorated.

Outside the cathedral, few old buildings stand.

There is a lovely small healing garden, with walls on three sides. It is easy to imagine people seeking solace here.

So, that is the pilgrim report. In re-reading the opening lines of the Prologue, I am amused to find those pilgrims started out in Southwerk (part of London). Why? Because we too began our pilgrimage in Southwark (the current spelling) as that is where our hotel was. Not the Tabard, but something a bit more contemporary.

With a next post, I promise to be more secular.

Of Cathedrals and Martyrs

In five days, I hope to be standing in a spot I have thought about for 40 plus years. We are visiting England soon, and among other places we will visit is Canterbury.

Pilgrims all! We will make a day trip to this site that was once one of the most visited places in all Christendom. (Remember Chaucer's Canterbury Tales? Yup, about pilgrims visiting that famous site.)

When I was a young master's student, I selected as my thesis topic the contrast between the historical Thomas Becket and the dramatic presentation of him in two plays: Jean Anouilh's play Becket and T.S. Eliot's play Murder in the Cathedral. In an absolute gift for research, I had a newly published biography of Becket which helped me to sort out man from myth.

Becket was a larger than life character. Educated as a priest, one of the few options available for advancement for a young man without means, he and Henry II, king of England, were grand friends, bar-hopping and whoring together. Then, Becket was named Archbishop of Canterbury, found God, and turned on his friend, the king. In a radical turnabout, he began to block Henry's wishes at every opportunity. Henry was one of those fantastic monarchs who coalesced the power of the monarchy, at that time. But Becket stood in his way, insisting on the ancient powers of sanctuary and the ecclesiastical law.

In a fit of rage, Henry is reputed to have screamed "Will no one rid me of this priest" which four of his nobleman in Normandy (where the English kings resided) overheard. They promptly crossed the English Channel, stormed into Canterbury Cathedral, where they encountered Becket, who had sought sanctuary at the high altar. Perhaps taking their clue from their king, the knights ignored the high holy altar, and with swords raised, hacked Becket to pieces, scattering his brains on the stones. Faithful servants finding the devastated remains of their beloved archbishop gathered up the remnants of his body.

Becket was fast-tracked for sainthood. He was martyred in 1170 and was named a saint in 1173--almost unheard of (then). It was his elevation to sainthood that got all those pilgrims tromping off to Canterbury in the first place.

I too shall soon be standing there, contemplating Thomas the man and the myth. I do not know what I will feel when I stand there, but perhaps in a week or so, I shall be able to give a report.
---------------

Image of Canterbury Cathedral from Wikipedia Commons

Image of Becket at the altar from http://www.nndb.com/people/838/000086580/

Dust to Dust

Watching the news about the horrific consequences of the tragic earthquake in Haiti has got me thinking about dust.

With the first images coming out of this natural disaster, I have been struck with the way most people are covered in dust. Now, almost a week later, there are a few heart-warming stories of more survivors who are being pulled from the wreckage--and always, there is the dust.

The instant impulse is to cringe at the sight of so much dust--but then I got to thinking. There is an immortality to dust. One of my favorite church services in the cycle of the Christian calendar is Ash Wednesday. I grew up in a church tradition that did not emphasize the liturgical church calendar, so I came to Ash Wednesday services later in my worship experience. My personal faith tradition is solidly Protestant, but the current pastor of our church has a fine sense of the symbolism that a more liturgical approach affords.

He led us in our first Ash Wednesday service about a decade ago. Part of the service included the imposition of ashes--where we all go forward, and receive the sign of the cross on our foreheads. The ashes are derived from the burning of palms from the prior year's Palm Sunday service. For someone who loves and values poetic symbolism, I thrill to this cycle of meaning.

As each worshipper approaches the pastor, he asks our given name, and then says "Donna, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."* Now, you might think that smack of mortality would be depressing--but it's not. In fact, I find it reassuring. I am dust.

I find myself thinking about the endless cycle of life that dust encompasses. Even after we perish and return to dust, from that dust new life emerges. Some people hear that statement--you are dust and to dust you shall return--and despair. Not me. I hear that and think--how wonderful: Dust from the beginning of time still encompassing cells from the beginning of time, and continuing on into the forever.

There are two wonderful poems that capture this sentiment so much more artfully than I can express. X. J. Kennedy is a contemporary poet, and Walter Raleigh is--yes, that Walter Raleigh. His poem was written in 1618, the year he was executed by order of King James I--yes, that King James.


IN FAITH OF RISING
by X. J. Kennedy

When all my dust lies strewn
Over the roundbrinked ramparts of the world
I can be gathered, sinew and bone
Out of the past hurled
Delaylessly as I
Flick thoughts back that replace
Lash to dropped lid, lid to eye,
Eye to disbanded face
No task to His strength, for He
Is my Head—Him I trust
To stray the presence of His mind to me
Then cast down again
Or recollect my dust.


EVEN SUCH IS TIME
by Sir Walter Raleigh

EVEN such is time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

-----------
*Genesis 3:19

Portrait of Walter Raleigh and son from the National Portrait Gallery, London

It's Big...Really BIG!

Every January, our state holds its annual state fair--the PA Farm Show. I know, I know--middle of winter, what's with that? Well, since 1917, Pennsylvania has held its annual state fair in the middle of winter. And indoors, at that. It is billed as the largest indoor agricultural event in the United States. (The Farm Show complex has some 615,637 square feet of display, exposition hall, and arena space--so, it's big...really big!)

We went to the Farm Show quite frequently when our children were little. What kid can resist all the farm animals--cows, pigs, goats, chickens, rabbits? And with no admission fee (although there is a parking fee) it is cheap entertainment.

As our children grew, we did not attend the show as much. So, this year, we decided to go again. Some things have changed, and some things have not.

People still like the machines--this year, there were a series of antique farm machines. Here is an old threshing machine.






This is a shingle splitter. I love the brilliant colors of the machine.



And, of course, there are the NEW machines--although there were far fewer of these than my husband and I recalled seeing in past years. Maybe the economy has made purchasing such machines more dear.

Children still love to play. Here, they had a sandbox full of corn to push around, and load. They loved it.

We wandered into the one arena to find a woman on a mustang--she was miked and as she rode around she extolled the virtues of these wild horses, and told how she bid on and got the horse she rode.

Another arena had ponies pulling weight--you can see the strain of the ponies in the blur of the photo.

And here is the weight they were pulling--we left as the announcer said "MORE WEIGHT."

People always go to the farm show for the animals. Last time we were there, there were no alpacas--now there are.

Not all animals are real--this entire scene is sculpted from butter (I am not kidding) and is the signature symbol of the Farm Show.

Here's the proof.

There were at least a half dozen cooking demonstration stands--all very popular, though I suspect it was really because they had chairs people could sit on. And they did. I don't know if they bought the cookware.

The more traditional animals--pigs even though there were many swine flu posters among the FFA entries.

And lots of lovely cows. Our local television news tells us these cows get bathed daily AND blow-dried while at the farm show.

We lasted less than 3 hours--tired out, we returned home. I think the Farm Show is a lot more fun if you have an awe-struck child in tow!

Reflections on a Teaching Career

Classes at my community college start up again next week. But, for the first time in the last 8 years, I won't be in the classroom. I am taking a break this semester--with my husband's recent retirement, we are both trying out being fully retired.

I have the option to return to teaching next fall. While I certainly have not made that decision yet, it is possible that I have spent my last hours in the classroom. That prospect has me reflecting on a teaching career.

I first began teaching fresh out of graduate school. I headed off to graduate school immediately after college. While working on my master's degree, I wrote a note of appreciation to one of my favorite professors at my alma mater. I said--if there is anything I can do to repay you, let me know. His quick response--how would you like to come and teach for a year. As it happened, one of the English professors was going on sabbatical, and the English department needed someone to fill in for a year. That one year turned into my first teaching career of 8 years.

When I initially went into teaching, I was a young, green English instructor--all of 22 years old to my students' 18, 19, or 20 years old. Some of them had been just two years behind me in schooling. I had that wonderful combination of youth: audacity and blissful ignorance. It never occurred to me that I didn't know as much as I thought I knew. The first few months in the classroom, reading student papers, taught me more about grammar than anything else I had learned to that point. Nothing like reading papers that you have to correct to teach you proper writing.

Since the college where I was teaching had a small English department, I had the opportunity to teach a wide array of courses. In addition to composition, I taught American literature survey, the development of the English novel, Shakespeare, creative writing, and literary criticism. I was the first instructor to teach the latter two courses. You can see I had lots of room for academic creativity.

One of the high points of my first teaching career was participation in a grand educational experiment. The college faculty had decided to try to do integrated studies to meet the general education requirements. The resulting course was an amalgamation of literature, history, art, religion and culture. To prepare for the course, a faculty team worked during the summer to select content, plan the lecture sequence, determine who would deliver which lectures, and generally attend to the details for making the general education course work.

I loved this course. As faculty, we decided to focus on several key cultural periods in human history, and gather around those points the various emphases we wanted to convey. So, for example, we selected the Indus Valley civilization or the Tang dynasty, and then used those focal points to cover the history of the particular time, introduce students to elements of religion, as well as select some representative art and literature.

Variously referred to as Gen Ed, or Integrated Studies, the course lasted for about a decade. While the professors loved teaching the course, many students hated it. For a variety of reasons, the Gen Ed course was eventually terminated, and the traditional approach to teaching the basic course was reinstated.

Thus, my first reflection on a teaching career: I love learning and teaching afforded me a front seat opportunity to learn continually.

More reflections to come.

Naming the Year

When the movie "2001: A Space Odyssey" came out, the title rolled off the tongue so easily. TWO THOUSAND and ONE. It sounded right. It never occurred to me that perhaps that naming was not consistent with other year naming practices, if not downright incorrect.

So, as the millennium approached, and we all began to get caught up in the excitement--or dread--of not only the year changing, but also the decade, and also the century, we all named the year TWO THOUSAND. When the next year rolled around, I was saying TWO THOUSAND and ONE--like the movie title.

But there was one recalcitrant and obstinate soul who insisted on saying--TWENTY O ONE. Charles Osgood. Now, I dearly love CBS Sunday Morning. And Charles Osgood is such a wonderfully quirky host--what with his bow ties, his penchant for composing doggerel and his ability to sit down at the piano and play quite skillfully.

But somehow saying 2001 as twenty o one just sounded wrong. So I persisted with two thousand and one. The next year was two thousand and two. . .and so on until this new year. Charles Osgood pronounced it--TWENTY TEN.

Then I heard other announcers and commentators all saying twenty ten. My insistence on two thousand and ten seemed. . .outnumbered. So I began this reflection--how does one say certain dates.

The Norman invasion of Britain--1066? Ten sixty six. Not ONE THOUSAND and sixty-six. OK.

The last new century--1900? Not ONE THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED.


OK. I am now persuaded. But, still, it just sounds. . .weird.


So, what is it? 2010--two thousand and ten? 2010--twenty ten? Anyone?

The Year in Review

I love watching the news--actually, all the time. But at this time of year, I particularly enjoy the bitter sweet quality of news. Assuming there are no really big stories--other than snow storms causing havoc hither and thither in the U.S. and Canada, or errant misguided radicalized youth donning various articles of clothing rigged to blow up planes--most news channels begin the year in review process.

As the year draws to a close, the news focuses on what happened in the past year, who died during the past year, etc. These stories always give me the chance to say--oh yeah, I remember that. Or, oh, she just died? I thought she died years ago.

Well, this approach to news gave me the inspiration to do a "year in review" post from KGMom's life.

(Hmmm--tapping finger lightly on lips. Should I do the biggest story first? Or should I go chronologically?) Chronologically, I think.

We began the year full of hope and expectation as we watched a new President sworn into office.

Mid-2009, we celebrated my father's 90th birthday. Amazing, isn't it. And the best part of his reaching 90 is that, other than being 90, he is in good health--sound in mind and body. He notes that his mind no longer pulls words out at lightening speed, and of course his muscles are more frail, but that's about it. We held a celebratory party for him at the retirement village where he and my step-mother live. At least 90 people came--fittingly, one for every year of his life.

In July, my nephew got married. Family weddings are always the best way for families to gather. We had a great time--although I didn't get as many photos as I wanted.

Several times through 2009, our daughter visited. We were working on a project.

Oh, yes--in October, our daughter got married. My brother had wondered why we were so busy with all the planning, as he allowed how when his son got married (see two paragraphs above), he--my brother--didn't have all that much to do. Harrumph.

Our daughter got married--everything was perfect. The wedding was lovely. The reception was a grand party in complete grand party style.

Then, just to show we weren't totally tired out by the wedding, we had our kitchen redone. In fact, we packed up the kitchen one day after the wedding, and two days later, the workers came in and began demolishing.

October was a full month, as in addition to our daughter's wedding, and the kitchen project, my husband retired. Completely, fully retired.

As we look ahead to 2010, I think we'll try to take things a bit easy.

Here's to a happy prosperous New Year for all.