Anticipation

Over the past few weeks, DW and I have been attending the Episcopal church that is within a block of our house. Neither of us is Episcopalian, but it's a reasonable compromise between her Catholicism and my Baptist upbringing. I also attended services at St. Paul's every Sunday while I was on study abroad in London, so I'm fairly comfortable with the rites. But most importantly, it's just really close to our house.

So anyway, as you may be aware, this is the season of Advent. Every Sunday, the preacher reminds us of the Hope, Peace, and Joy that come with waiting for the birth of the Saviour. He reminds us of the pleasure to be attained in anticipation. It's a message I enjoy hearing. I think it's one we should all hear more of in our disposable, instant-gratification culture.

But just a few minutes ago, the doorbell rang and one of those guys in the funny brown trucks dropped off an enormous package from my father. Dad called last week to tell me to expect it, and unlike his usual admonitions about not opening gifts until Christmas, he insisted that we open this one as soon as we received it. I am riddled with curiosity to see what is inside this cardboard missive from the far reaches of the Confederacy. But I have promised not touch it until DW gets home, and I keep my promises.

Why do I have to be so d***ned honorable?

A Wing and Prayer

It really is the little things -and an active imagination- that get me through most days. For instance, I pass through a city park on the way to my morning crossing guard shift. The park is usually shrouded in mist, still and quite in the early post-dawn hours . That is, until I get to the soccer field at its center. The field is usually covered in sea gulls. We live pretty far inland, but there are waterways all around, and I presume the sea gulls come from these. I seldom see them elsewhere, but unaccountably, they flit across the grass of the field, running or wheeling about in huge numbers in the dim gray light.

Instantly the idea pops into my head that they are involved in a match, a secret match between the gulls and the ravens I notice as I draw closer, representatives of sea and land, locked in sportsmen-like battle. Initially, the dark plumage of the ravens made them invisible in the low light of the field, but as I see them, I realize I've been hearing their cries from the moment I entered the park. Perhaps they aren't doing well in the game, or perhaps their cawing is a diversionary tactic, intended to intimidate their opponents. The gulls, larger and more graceful on the wing, utter an occasional squawk in reply, but they seem steadier, more confident in their maneuvering. Birds from both groups sit or stand in silence on the edges of the field like feathered spectators, their attention bent on the activities in the center. As I look more closely, I see that there are a few smaller birds in the throng, referees, perhaps. They dart about, making sure everyone plays by the rules.

I roll past on my bike with this image in my head and a slight smile on my face. I think the gulls are winning. Today will be a good day.

Having an Effect

For some weeks, I've been immersed in my new admin job at the university. It has perks, to be sure. The pay is good, and the benefits are unbelievably generous. The center I work for has funds earmarked solely for office supplies and equipment, so I've been encouraged to spend, spend, spend before we lose the funds. Accordingly, I've bought new computer equipment and a very expensive, ergonomically advanced desk chair. In addition, the new director has never had an assistant before. He was full of glee when he asked me to order him new business cards and I came back to him minutes later with three options for approval. He seems amazed that he can ask for something and I will respond promptly and efficiently. It's kinda fun.

But on the whole, my work is dull. I am crammed into the corner of an office with one retired professor and two department tech support guys - I don't even know their names. My desk is a metal dinosaur in a hideous shade of green, and I spend most of my time staring at the computer, editing research funding reports. It's easy work, but tedious and mind-numbing. And whenever the director asks me for something, I have to reinvent the wheel because the previous assistant was one of these old-school secretaries who knew everything and everybody at the university. Consequently, she kept minimal records to tell me how to do things. With a university this large, finding out who to contact about invoices or how to order supplies is far from an intuitive process, and there are no other staffers on my floor to ask. So, I have to go at things the long and hard way, following one lead after another until I hit on the right method. And nearly everything is done through online systems now. I submit my timesheet online; I order furniture and supplies online; I request computer assistance through an e-mail process; and even if I want to make a change to the center's webpage, I have to submit an online request to some web-support person I will never see or hear. It's all so impersonal and isolating. And finally, the university bureaucracy means that mountains have to be moved and months have to pass to make even the tiniest thing happen. I think half of the staff (the university's number 1 expense, by the way, a huge investment when you consider the uni's operating budget is over $2 billion) exist just to keep the other half busy filling out paperwork. I often think the staff could be cut down by 2/3 if 1/3 of the people could just do things directly instead of the massively convoluted systems that are in place.

I know that my work is important in some remote, intangible ways, but like many office workers, it seems so pointless. There are very few direct, visible rewards.

Contrast this with my crossing guard duties. Some people laugh when I tell them I work as a crossing guard. It seems like something little children and old women do. But it's serious work. Anytime you put a half-dozen speeding vehicles up against a flesh-and-blood person with nothing but a stop sign and a whistle, it's serious... and dangerous. Not to mention that it involves an incredible amount of responsibility. Large numbers of children depend on the crossing guard each day to be able to get safely to school. It may seem easy, but people are always in a hurry these days; drivers and cyclists have to get to class, or work, or dinner, or a ball game, or any one of thousands of places. They don't want to stop. But I don that orange vest and hat and take on that responsibility several times a week, and it feels good. I have a direct effect when I step out into the street and cars stop, and I am immediately rewarded when a child or parent gives me a heart-felt "thank you," which a surprising number of them do, even the middle and high school students at my current location. (I really didn't expect this from teenagers.) And that's why I keep doing it, even though I really don't have the time for it anymore. People appreciate my work, and I feel like I am accomplishing things. I wish everything I do could be this rewarding.

You've Got the Look

When Darling Wife's parents were here for Thanksgiving, they took us out for dinner one night to a wonderful restaurant that is a hot spot in our small, university city. The night was a little chilly but nothing compared to the frigid temps where the in-laws live, so we decided to eat on the establishment's outdoor patio. They had gas-powered patio heaters and an enormous fire that was lovely and warm. The food was tasty and moderately priced, and the service was excellent.

Our waiter, a young man named Neil, was both attentive and personable. At first, we were the only customers on the patio, so he gladly lingered at our table to chat, not intrusively, but easily. In answer to a question posed by DW's mother, he mentioned that he was leaving after his shift to drive home for Thanksgiving. Since he didn't consider our city his home, this indicated that he was more than likely a student at the university. Consequently, we talked companionably for a bit about his major and imminent graduation, and then he asked us if we were affiliated with the university. When DW said that she and I were, he looked at me and asked, "Professor?"
"Used to be... sort of," I responded.
Neil nodded sagely and said, "I thought so. You have the look."

Now, we all know that look, don't we? Anyone who has been at an institution of higher education for any length of time learns to recognize an academic on sight, whether she's in t-shirt and jeans or he's in khakis and a sports jacket. It something that is partly made up of clothing choice and hair styles, but there is an indescribable something that is deeper than that. It's a way of expressing oneself in language, both body and verbal, and a look in the eye that somehow equates to knowledge comfortably held. An academic might almost be said to wear his or her knowledge like an old sweater; it is familiar, casual, and integral to his or her being in some intangible way. I've never really tried to sum it up before, but I knew what Neil meant.

Still, I have given up that profession... or rather the pursuit of it. And I wonder, will I always "have the look," or will it fade in time? And how exactly should I feel about it either way?

Just Say No!

Some of you (all two of my readers) may remember how desperate I was for a job a few months back. Well, as with most things in my life, jobs are often a "feast or famine" issue for me. I go months and months with nothing to do; I get nearly to the point of starvation and eviction; and then BAM! I've got more work than I can handle. The current situation is no different.

For several months I spent hours every day looking at help-wanted ads and job sites and sending out applications, and very, very slowly, it began to pay off... in a manner of speaking. First, I got hired as a tutor with a start-up company in my city. The owners were great, and the business sounded promising. But months drug by with no work for me. So, I started working as a crossing guard. The job was fun, and the pay was excellent for only two hours of work a day. Still, it just wasn't enough. I was working as a crossing guard for nearly a month before I got my first tutoring gig, and as no more were immediately forthcoming, and even with both jobs, I wasn't making enough money to survive, I took a third job as a part-time admin assistant at the local university.

This new job conflicted with the morning crossing guard shift, so reluctantly, I tried to quit. But the supervisor begged me to consider staying on the payroll as an alternate for the afternoon shift, and I agreed. I couldn't see the harm. However, it was less than a week before she called me up and asked me if I would work an early morning shift. It only meant moving my university shift back by about half an hour, and it paid double what a normal crossing guard shift paid. And it was only once, so I agreed. The supervisor has called back for this same shift four times now, and four times I have taken it. I just can't say no.

In addition, the tutoring service has finally thrown me several clients. Mostly they are in junior high school, which is not my strong suit, but their coursework at that level is not difficult, so I've managed. As a result, I often have to tutor for an hour or two after I leave the university.

AND my boss at the university came to me and told me that one of the projects he oversees has its reports due at the end of December. He said that there were funds available in that project to increase my work hours if I would consider editing the reports. This is simply too much money for me to refuse... and it's fairly easy work, if somewhat tedious. So I agreed.

Now I am working all the time. I go from one job to the next to the next. And the worst part of it is that none of these jobs are dependable, stable income. They are either temporary or one-shot deals. I accept them because I know that as soon as I don't, I'll be back in the land of poverty and lethargy. But right now... I just might like that.

Are You Gonna Eat That?

I'm sorry that I haven't been writing much lately. I actually have several posts in the works, but I haven't had time finish them. I'm hoping to get to them this week. But I have to get this one off my chest right now.

So, it's Christmas time (or Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever your particular faith/ethnic group celebrates). And we're all supposed to remember our fellow human beings with kindness, forgiveness, and charity, right? I really love this season, and I firmly believe this is true. I wish it were true all the year long, but at least it's culturally sanctioned to be considerate during the holiday season. As imperfect as it is, sometime is better than never, I think. Anyway, the city I live in is fairly affluent and extremely liberal, so there are literally dozens of charitable societies and events reminding us of the less fortunate during this festive time of year. They beg for everything from money to food to clothing. And I can honestly say that the citizens of the city respond with enthusiasm, which makes me proud to be one of them.

But there is also a horrific paradox here that I just do not understand. Many of you, not living in citrus states, may not realize that it's also the time of year that many fruits come into season. Everywhere I look, there are pomegranates, persimmons, lemons, grapefruits, and lots and lots of oranges hanging luscious and ripe in trees all over the city. They are splendorously beautiful for a few weeks... and then, they are shoved into the gutter, ruined and squished beyond all recognition.

This happens because people here plant these fruit trees as ornamental trees. And not just individuals. There are entire orange groves surrounding city-owned buildings. But no one actually eats the fruit. It's just decoration... until it rots and putrefies on people's front lawns and city sidewalks. Then, lawncare workers pile it up on the side of the road to be carried off by the city's waste disposal service. Yeah, that's right; it's considered waste. Waste! It makes me want to scream, "That's food, you @$$!"

I am not a wealthy man. In fact, Darling Wife and I are just now getting over an extremely tight fiscal period. So I can tell you with some authority that fresh fruits and vegetables are one of the first things to go when you are economizing at the grocery store. They are just too expensive. Pasta, hotdogs, and most processed foods are much cheaper, if less tasty and nutritious. And here are these people with literally hundreds of dollars worth of citrusy goodness rotting in their front yards. Do you have any idea what these "wastes" would mean to the poor and starving... or to anyone who recognizes their value as more than ornamental?

I ask myself, "Why don't these people donate those wonderful, cheery orange globes of joy to the many, many agencies that gather food for the area's homeless? Or even just put them in a box marked "free" at the curb?" I'd certainly grab one or two. But I'm not about to go into someone's yard and pull one off a tree, even though I know that failing to do so means a truly magnificent blessing of God, nature, and California will end up wasted and unappreciated. (They can't even be composted because of the seeds and acidity.)

Am I the only one who sees the irony of spending $50 at a charity dinner that is really worth about $10 in order to provide money to feed others while squandering something that would cost no one anything and would provide tremendously better nutrition and enjoyment than the $0.50 can of cream of mushroom soup that you donated to "Feed the Families"? I think I will write a letter to the editor of my city newspaper and ask, "Hey, are you gonna eat that?"

All by Myself

Darling Wife's parents and older brother arrived last night from the east coast, and today they all piled into our car and headed north to visit DW's sister, about five hours away. They will be gone until Tuesday evening.

My new job precluded me from joining them. This was unfortunate because I really would have liked to see my sister-in-law's new digs and spend some time in her new hometown. It is a small city on the north coast in the heart of redwood country, and I truly love it there. But I could hardly ask for two days off after only starting my job last week. They all offered to postpone the trip until I could go, but I didn't want to cause everyone else to alter their plans on my account, and it was not even really possible to do so. Besides, my sister-in-law may very well return with them to spend Thanksgiving here, and DW and I can easily go up to her place some other time. I had reconciled myself to the loss of the experience.

However, there is another aspect to this event that I had not fully considered. It may sound silly to you, but DW and I have not spent three days apart since we were married. Last Christmas, she went to visit this same sister overnight. That was the first time we had slept apart in over a year. But it was just one night, a small part of one day and half of another. I was also busy with school work at the time, so the seperation passed by quickly. This time, it is different. I will spend two nights alone, and I am not preoccupied with exams or teaching. As I have commented several times in this blog, we live largely isolated lives here. We rely almost entirely on each other for companionship. How curious it feels to be here without her. What is more, before we married, I lived with a roommate for three years. I was seldom if ever home alone, and almost never over night. I haven't spent this much time completely and totally alone in over five years. I have never been an incredibly needy person. I am quite comfortable spending large amounts of time by myself. I even require it on occasion. But I was not prepared for the fact that the next few days seem like an oddly unpleasant experience now that I am faced with them.

By the Minute

The past few weeks have been. . . well, I'm not sure what they've been. I want to say that they've been busy, but that's not exactly right. There have been entire blocks of time where I have done little more than read, for leisure now instead of work. There have also been long walks with Darling Wife, sightseeing with friends, and even a camping trip. All of these things have been at a relaxed pace.

I suppose that this feeling of busyness has come from the fact that I am engaged in a large number of activities at present. Most of these activities are of a very short duration, and often there may be a considerable length of time between one activity and the next. But there is seldom a moment when I am not aware that I need to begin another activity at some point later in the day or week. This has resulted in a constant need to watch the clock, making me more aware of the passage of time than I usually am. I monitor every click of the second hand, every change of the numbers to the right of the colon.

You know how it is when you sit down to compose an e-mail or make a telephone call and you look up when the action is complete to discover that hours have passed without you realizing it? This can cause momentary panic or a feeling of loss, but it also means that you were able to detach yourself from your cares and worries, if only for a bit. Lately, I haven't had that luxury. To be sure, I've had the satisfaction of checking off many, many things from my "to do" list, gotten to know my sofa rather well, and enjoyed a great deal of outdoor recreation, but I am beginning to feel a little run down.

I suppose most of us feel this way. Perhaps the best symbol of our age isn't the computer, iPod, or cell phone. Perhaps it's the centuries-old clock. We measure our lives out, not by years or hours, but by minutes.

Suffer the Little Children

"I play the trumpet," declared a small voice from somewhere in front of me.

It was a beautiful day, perhaps a bit too warm for November, but it would take a true malcontent to complain of sun and 77 degrees. Though I was attentive to my duty, I admit my mind had wandered with the breeze that tickled the hair around my ears and shook the acorns hanging precariously from the branches along the sidewalk. But the clear indication that this short statement was meant for me pulled me back to the center of the road where I stood, holding aloft a stop sign while a half dozen, waist-high figures toddled before me.

I looked down and met the bright blue eyes of Everett. Everett is a brown-haired boy of about eight who traverses my crosswalk twice a day in the company of his sister, Sophie, and brother, Graham. Last week, Everett's mother asked my name and dutifully passed it along to her progeny when I had given it. Though none of the children has ever spoken to me before, they have often stared familiarly since they discovered I have a name, and I have heard them query their mother about me on numerous points of interest. Everett was clearly proud of his pronouncement, and I could tell he was anticipating a response. Joy exuded from each tiny line as he squinted into the sun to look up at me.

"I play the saxophone," I responded. A huge grin appeared on his face as Everett's elfin features nearly burst with excitement. He turned abruptly to his mother and shouted, "He plays the saxophone, Mama! Chris says he plays the saxophone." And just like that, our "conversation" was over.

Earlier in the day, I had escorted my small-scale friend Shane across the street and watched as he happily waved goodbye from the sidewalk before continuing on his way. Shane, who is perhaps nine or ten, and I became friends a few weeks ago over our mutual support of the Boston Red Sox. He now chats energetically with me each day before and after school.

And shortly after I confessed my somewhat lapsed muscial abilities, I would be stumped -for the third time this week I might add- by seven-year-old Josh, who lisped at me, "Why didn't the schkeleton cwoss the woad?" When I assured him of my woeful ignorance of skeletal psychology, he giggled so wildly that I could barely hear him utter, "Because he didn't hab the guts."

Within moments, a cheerful blonde girl would push her bicycle through the crosswalk, donn a plastic firemen's hat, and announce to me, "Well, I'm off to a fire" with an expression of absolute seriousness that I could not help but smile at. Apparently, some of the classes had been visited by a member of my fair city's fire department that day because I noticed for the first time that nearly half of the miniscule scholars sported or carried similiar headgear.

I have never considered myself a "kid person." They are small, messy, and noisy, and they have an extremely limited vocabulary. The most obvious things escape their attention while completely rediculous things entertain them for hours. To be honest, I've just never known what to do with them. It's been a long time since I was able to "play" as they seem to always expect me to do.

But last week I was offered a part-time administrative assistant position at the university. This position means work indoors, which is appealing now that winter is approaching, however slowly. It also carries quite a bit more money, which is frankly needed. So, I accepted the position and gave notice to the crossing guard supervisor. Consequently, this is my last week with my diminutive friends, and now I fear I shall miss them immensely.

Into the Mist

There was a fog today, the first of the season. And by this, I do not mean that we had some fog. I mean there was a fog. The difference is subtle when written, but significant when experienced. We occasionally have heavy, incredibly dense, visually impairing fogs in the CA central valley during the winter. Last winter we didn't have any, but usually we get four or five a season. They occur when the air temperature drops quickly while the ground temperature does not. The cool air is dry, so it leaches moisture out of the ground. But once the moisture makes contact with the coolness, it condenses instantly to be come an opaque vapor that hovers impenetrably above the surface. Sometimes even the sun and wind cannot disspell it.

I quite enjoy a good fog. Not the brown, industrial kind that Dickens describes in A Christmas Carol, but the swirling white kind that envelopes the world in a special feeling. Fog provokes an odd sort of reversal; solid objects take on an insubstantial, barely-seen quality while the ephemeral air mutates into something solid and tangible. It turns the landscape into a water-color painting, muting the colors and blurring them together into something softer, less intense, less real. It also muffles sounds so that even the roar of a car's engine and hum of it's tires become distant, almost imagined. Essentially, fog acts like a veil over the world, fashioning mystery out of everyday things. In literary terms, fog is poetry.

And how fitting that it should come on Halloween day, don't you think?

On the Rail Again

What is it about trains? I can't say exactly. Children's eyes light up and adults wax nostalgic whenever they see one. Maybe it's that they offer some sort of connection to a past era, both personal and historical. Maybe it's the disembodied concept of "Travel." Maybe it's the comfort and ease of train travel as opposed to plane or automobile. Or maybe it's the landscape that trains typically traverse, usually more scenic and isolated than that of highways and airports. I just don't know, but I know I love them.

This past weekend, Darling Wife and I went with our two houseguests to visit some of the tourist attractions in the Bay Area. To save money and make the trip more companionable, we took one vehicle. We spent a day and night in San Francisco, hitting several sights that DW and I were very familiar with, but also taking in one or two that we had not managed to experience on previous sojourns in the city. The next day, we all travelled south to San Jose, where we paid a call on Mrs. Winchester, and then our guests continued down the coast to San Simeon, the isolated mansion of famed newspaper publisher William Randolph Hurst, while DW and I caught the train back home. How odd it was to be on a train again. . . and how wonderful.

The southern city where I grew up didn't have trains. Well, that's not exactly true. We had freight trains. I could hear them whistle as they passed by the suburb where I lived, haunting and thrilling to a small boy lying awake in his bed at night dreaming of distant lands and even more distant days. They were romantic, carrying with them an echo of Europe and Victorian industry.

Later when I was studying in the UK, I took my first train trip. I had a British Rail pass that openned the island to me, and I made frequent use of it, so much so that I was an old hand at train travel by the time I hopped back across the pond. Everything seemed so easy on the train. I'd just show up at the station, check the schedule, and go to the right platform at the right time. It required very little thought or effort. I didn't have to carry maps or directions, arrive hours ahead of time, purchase tickets days in advance - I didn't even have to check luggage. Once on board the train, the seats were usually much roomier and more comfortable than airplane seats, and there was almost always a dining car with decent, if overly priced, food, so I was never required to plan ahead or go hungry. I could read or sleep or stare out the window as sheep and stone fences sped past until the conductor notified me that we had reached my stop or I heard the announcement over the loud speakers. Then I'd jump off and start a new adventure in a new place where people spoke with different accents and dwelt beside enormous cathedrals. What could be more fun?

Later, when I'd moved to Boston, I again renewed my friendship with the train. My sister lived on Long Island at the time, and I would take Amtrak down to Manhattan and board the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station. The fast pace of the crowds and smell of pizza-by-the-slice always excited me. Sometimes I would stay in The City for an hour or a day. There was no rush. There would always be another train if I missed one. And if I didn't have time to buy my ticket at the station, I could get one from the conductor on the train, for a slightly increased price. I also regularly took the MBTA commuter rail from Boston to Salem, Gloucester, or Maine. These quick and convenient trains made getting out of the city without a car part of the fun of the escape rather than an additional hassle. I could imagine that I was Sherlock Holmes, steaming my way toward another case, or David Copperfield, about to embark on a new phase of my education.

Now that I live on the west coast, my train excursions are limited to the occasional trip from Washington, D.C. to DW's parent's house in Maryland. They are infrequent, perhaps once a year, but they are delightful. The rolling hills of the mid-atlantic region glide by the windows like a permanent green sea, and rivers with names forever connected in my mind with Civil War campaigns flow gently alongside us. And these trips carry with them the additional promise of family and home.

So as we sat there on this western train, returning to our Central Valley town, I felt the familiar rocking and listened to the perpetual rattle and chug, and a sense of pleasure and relaxation swept over me. There is just something about a train.

Room To Let to friends and family

Darling Wife and I have more houseguests arriving this evening and staying through next week. This means another bout of sightseeing and entertaining. But we are not as weary of this as you might think. Quite the contrary.

You see, DW and I have no family and very few friends out here at the end of the world. That means that 95% of the time it's just the two of us. Of course, we're still newlyweds, and we enjoy this time alone together. Besides, even though I suffer from chronic wanderlust now and again, we're mostly kind of quiet homebodies, so it's nice to have no social commitments generally. But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Despite the wonders of telephones and the internet, we have few options other than quiet, alone time. Everyone we know is just too far for easy face-to-face contact. (There are reasons I won't go into right now for why we haven't made many real friends here.) Consequently, we often feel isolated and homesick. As a result, every visitor gives us a little taste of home and friendly companionship, reminds us that we are part of a larger circle. They also give us the impetus to get out of the house and enjoy a little of this wonderous place we live in.

It's true that we are being overly blessed with visitors at the moment, but we won't complain. We are enjoying it.

But this means that I will, once again, be writing very little next week.

Cheers!

Feel the Burn!

So, Southern California (SoCal) is in flames, as everyone must know because it is in all the papers and ABC pre-empted my favorite television show last night to do a special report on it. It is truly terrible how many people have been evacuated, homes destroyed, landscape devastated, all to the tune of millions -if not billions- of dollars in damage. I know that I should feel bad for these people. I know that I should sympathize with their very real human suffering.

But I can't. Call me cold; call me cruel. But I just can't feel anything for these mostly extremely wealthy people who have lost their million-dollar Malibu and and San Diego homes and now reside in a football stadium all because they refuse to leave "paradise." Oh, I know that it's hit some average Joes and Janes too. But mostly it's been the filthy rich.

My lack of sympathy is not directly related to my opinions about the victims' wealth. Certainly the fact that most of them probably have more than enough insurance to allow them to rebuild with very little inconvenience does factor into the equation, but it is not the bottom line. No. The real reason for my response would be apparent if you actually watch or read the news reports in which these victims make statements. Almost all of them say something along the lines of "We've been through this before, but not this bad." And "We're just hoping it's over soon so that we can start to put our lives back together again as soon as possible."

These statements tell me two things:
First, this DOES happen in SoCal... a lot. To be sure, it is seldom, if ever, this bad, but it is always happening. Southern California is desert, but unlike deserts in the southwest, which get little if any rain and consequently have almost no vegetation other than cacti, SoCal gets some rain in the winter, which means that it grows grass and stuff that dies when the winter rains stop so that by summer and fall, there is a lot of dried up, extremely combustible vegetation covering the landscape. SoCal also has dry, hot winds every single year, many, many times a year. The conditions couldn't be better for wildfires. So, unlike a Hurricane Katrina-type disaster that happens occasionally when a thousand factors play out just right, these SoCal fires happen every single year, several times a year. And everyone knows this.

As a result, I have a hard time feeling sorry for these people. They chose to build very expensive homes in the heart of a fire-prone area. Where's the surprise that those homes are now burning, burnt, or threatened by fire? Duh!

Furthermore, the second statement indicates something very detrimental to any sympathy on my part. Most of these people have the money to go elsewhere, but they are choosing to stay in that stadium for one reason and one reason only. They didn't just build their homes in a dangerous area in the first place, they are staying as close as they can, hoping that the fires are contained soon so that they can go right back to them! Did they learn a lesson? Are they fleeing? Will they use a little common sense and make a life in a more hospitable environment? Nope. They are living off of taxpayer dollars so that they can quickly repeat what was a stupid and costly decision in the first place. And they are putting thousands of firefighters' lives on the line as a result.

There are real tragedies, unavoidable ones, happening all over the world. I cannot feel that these people deserve my sympathy.

Is It a Positive Virture, Though?

My horoscope today reads:

"Develop the patience of a saint. The pressing need to rush to meet a deadline could be working at cross purposes with accuracy. Start nothing new of great importance right now."

Patience, eh? Patience is a curious concept, especially in American culture. We have all sorts of platitudes that advocate it, like the one alluded to in the horoscope and the title of today's post, and we generally accept patience as a desireable quality. And yet, everything in our society pushes us to strive for more, to actively seek greater things, to be decisive and sure, to be anything but patient. Being patient can be seen as being weak, inert, insignificant. Patience is one of those words, like "complacent" or "condescending," that technically denotes something positive while connoting something slightly negative to most people. The patient person appears to us simultaneously wise and enervated.

Now, I don't put any stock in astrology. I read horoscopes out of curiousity and entertainment more than anything else, and if one does accurately reflect a certain present or future reality for me, I see this as an interesting coincidence or the result of creative perspective rather than fact.

However, it is. . . well . . . interesting in light of today's horoscope that I just discovered that our scottie breeder's "bitch" has not come into season yet. She is more than a month overdue. After some research, I discovered that this is not really abnormal since a female dog's reproductive cycle is hardly regular. There are four distinct phases, each of which can vary in length by several days. As a result, the entire cycle tends to last about six months, but this is no where near an exact figure for each and every cycle even in the same bitch. In addition, there is no real way to know when she began a particular phase of the cycle, so the breeder's calculations could easily be off by as much as a month. But the consequence of this delay is that Darling Wife and I have had to decide to either find another breeder who will have puppies available at the late-January/early-February date that we wanted, or stick with our current breeder, meaning we won't be able to bring a puppy home until April at the earliest.

On the one hand, we've already been very patient on this issue, and I do have another breeder waiting to help us get a puppy around the time we want, which we believe to be an advantageous one for us. But on the other hand, there are several incentives for getting the pup in April, and we have already made a significant investment of time, research, and emotion into this breeder and her dogs.

So, we have chosen the route of patience. But I can't help but wonder if our decision indicates a positive, saintly virture, or simply inertia and irresolution.

I still Believe

GO SOX!

-

Still

"Dense." That's the word I would give it if I were limited to one word. Dense with history, people, cars, buildings. Even the trees cling to every curb, determined to crush out any sense of space. I grew up with fields and pastures, and I need to see sky sometimes. There is no sky in that New England metropolis, just age and culture. Consequently, I found myself wanting to strike out at people on the subways and sidewalks in panic for a little elbow-room, some air to breathe. From buying groceries to having a drink with friends, everything is hard there, dense and hard. There are just too many people in too small a space - all of them scurrying to secure for themselves what you want for yourself. They are your unwelcome competitors for materials, attention, and space, and you are theirs. Certainly they can be nice, if you can slide beneath their hard exterior, their instantaneous "No!" But if you want to survive, you have to push them before they push you. It is a constant struggle in which even the weather beats at you, a cold that seeps into your bones until you think you will never be warm again.

I cannot live there anymore.

And yet…I miss. I miss tea at a café on Newbury Street on a spring afternoon when the snowmelt puddles on street corners and drips from the awnings of Armani and Prada. The air so heavy it dampens the sounds of cars rushing past and sidewalk conversations carried out in Mandarin and French. I miss brick townhouses that remember the Revolution, plain and solid on the outside with glimpses of marble fireplaces and crystal chandeliers through rippled, centuries-old glass. Things were built to last there. I miss narrow, winding streets that never quite come out where one thinks. Every journey is one of confusion, followed by discovery. I miss the river that freezes so hard in winter people drive on it, and in spring, breaks out with Ivy League crew teams that glide over its surface like maroon-clad swans. I miss used-music stores in Harvard Square where millionaires' sons in second-hand clothes haggle with sales clerks over $10 CDs. I miss the Museum of Fine Arts where blue-collar workers from Southie spend a Saturday admiring Van Goghs and Renoirs with no more self-consciousness than they would feel at a construction site near Fenway. I miss Robert Frost, Hawthorne, and Thoreau. I miss fresh lobster in summer and flame-colored trees in Autumn. And most of all, I miss the pubs, places where my friends and I listened to Irish bands and talked about our classes while drinking Guinness served by people who know how it should taste, the feel of warm camaraderie on cold, winter nights.

I miss Boston.

Crossing the Line

The rainy season is beginning here in California's central valley. That means our months of cloudless blue skies, blazing sun, and scorched earth are finally at an end, and the plants and people breathe a sigh of relief. But it has also had an unexpected side effect for me in my new occupation, so I thought I would take this moment to elaborate on the negative aspects of my job that I hinted at before. There are only three, which means that on the whole I still enjoy what I do, but they are seriously annoying. So here goes.

The first one, as I indicated, relates to the weather. Being a crossing guard involves standing outside on the sidewalk for an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon. I'm a rather outdoorsy kinda guy, so this really doesn't bother me. In fact, I quite like it. And unlike most people here, who seem to think that God ordained that their lives be filled with only sunny and beautiful days and who feel betrayed and horribly put out when this imagined promise isn't kept, I enjoy a little variety in my weather. I love a sunny day, but I also like a little rain and the occasional bluster. Heck, even a spot of cold and snow would be welcome to me. Besides, I'm only outside for an hour. If I get hot, I always know that I'll be back indoors before it gets intolerable. And if I get wet and cold, I know I will shortly be able to go home and change clothes. It really, really isn't a big deal. But any time there is a speck of dark cloud in the sky, every parent crossing my intersection feels the need to threaten me with being soaked to the skin. For some of them, it is a casual observation, but for some, there is a slight note of belligerence in their prognostications that I cannot for the life of me understand. Perhaps they are so used to ordering people, ie their children, around that they cannot comprehend that I do not instantly obey their directions and donn a rain coat in fear and trepidation of the terrible outpouring from the heavens; therefore, they feel the need to repeat their dire warnings at every possible instance. Or perhaps they are just trying to make conversation with me. But either way, I think I'm aware enough to notice that it is raining, and I further think I am old enough to decide for myself whether or not this rain warrants any extra measures on my part. I don't need to be told, let alone harrassed, about this. And in all honesty, I swear to you that this happens when the "rain" is no more than a slight mist that I find pleasant instead of alarming. I sometimes wish that people would just cross the street and be done with it.

The second issue is a less personal one, and it relates to my city's standing as the number one bike friendly city in the US. I, myself, am a cyclist. I prefer to walk or ride my bike rather than drive if at all possible. I would love to claim I do this for the environment, but the truth is that I just think it's easier. I don't like all of the hassle that comes with a car. Being able to just go out the door and get to my destination without the extra thought about gas, directions, parking, etc. is one of the best reasons for living in a major city; it is just so much more freeing. And though my town is a small one, it has this in common with a much larger metropolis. You can get anywhere in town quickly and efficiently on a bike. Every street has bike lanes; there are additional bike roads in many areas; and bike racks abound. The university even has entire bike parking lots. However, many cyclists seem to forget that a bike is, in fact, a vehicle. That means that one cannot, or should not, ride a bike on sidewalks or crosswalks. The word "WALK" in these compounds is there to indicate that these areas are for pedestrians. If one wishes to move within them, he or she must push the bike while. . . WALKING. And when one is in an area designated for vehicles, such as the public street, one must obey the rules of the road, even if one's vehicle is pedal powered rather than mechanically powered. That means that cyclists are required, just like cars and trucks, to stop at all traffic lights and stop signs, including the one held in the hand of a crossing guard. And one must remained stopped until the crossing guard lowers his or her stop sign and steps onto the curb. Most cyclists think they are exempt from traffic laws. They speed right through the intersection, sometimes even weaving in and out of tiny children toddling across the street. This is not only dangerous; it's illegal. And even when it appears that the kids have gotten safely into the opposite lane, that doesn't mean the cyclists (or motorists for that matter) can decide for themselves that it's time to go. Little kids are not to be trusted when it comes to crossing the street. That is why there is the need for crossing guards. They can turn around and run back across the lane at any moment, or a child that you didn't even see on the curb behind a line of cars may see a friend on the other side and decide to make a dash for it. And though a bike might not directly hurt a child much if it struck one, it can knock the child onto the pavement, leading to potentially serious or life-threatening injuries. Cyclists really need to learn that the decision is not theirs. They must stop as long as the crossing guard is in the crosswalk with his or her stop sign held aloft. Period.

And the last thing is a regular pet peeve of mine: cell phones, Blackberries, iPhones, iPods, etc. I cannot tell you how many times someone has blown through the crosswalk without even seeing me or the four small children traversing the intersection because they were talking on the phone or fiddling with a Blackberry. And often parents begin to cross the street with their precious loved ones following obediently behind them without making certain that I have stopped traffic or motioned them to proceed because they were preoccupied typing in a text message. And even if I blow my whistle or shout, most cyclists do not hear me because of the iPod permanently implanted in their ears. I don't care what anyone says, the primary convenience of these devices is that they allow people to do one thing while they are actively engaged in another, and this is dangerous! The human brain is not capable of doing two things at once. It's just not. You may think you are multitasking, but you are not really doing either task well. Diverting attention to an electronic device removes you from your surroundings so that you are not completely aware of what is going on. As long as everything goes smoothly, you can handle this. But what about when a car pulls out in front of you or a child darts across the street or a crossing guard waves a big red "STOP" sign before you. You will likely not notice it. And once you do see it, your brain will take a moment to refocus and realize what is happening. Then you will have to consider how to respond, drop the device you are holding, and move you hands/feet into position to halt your movement or alter your course. The delay it takes to perform these steps is longer than you think, and a child or children could be killed. Is having a meaningless conversation with you BFF or maintaining constant background music to your life really worth that? This isn't hypothetical. It almost happens every single day, multiple times a day, at my one crosswalk alone. Just wake up to reality and turn the damn machines off. Not down. Not on vibrate. OFF!

Dulce Domum

Every dictionary I check has at least six definitions for "home" -one had more than twenty- but none of them captures my sense of the word. To me, home is not exactly a place but a feeling. It must be a place I feel I know well, a place where I am familiar with the people and the landscape; it's where I am in sync with the rythms and comfortable in the surroundings; it's where even the atmosphere feels right. It is where I belong.

Listen to the word. h-OOO-MMM-e. It even sounds like strength and comfort, doesn't it? Yet, I'm not exactly sure where or what home is for me. I knew once, or thought I did. But now. . .

I grew up in a suburb of Nashville, TN. It was an odd sort of in-between place, too rural to be the city and too developed to be the country. It was houses, houses, houses all around without a single store and only one small horse pasture. Certainly, I had friends who lived close by; my school was pretty good; and our house was roomy enough. But the place was totally lacking in any sense of atmosphere. I never considered it home.

"Home" in my youth meant our family farm in Mississippi. No one remembers exactly how long the land has been in the family. My great-great-grandparents lived on part of it when my great-grandmother met and married my great-grandfather. The latter bought and added most of the rest of the 80 acres before he died when my grandfather was 8. There is a small cemetery on this "new" portion, containing mostly unmarked graves and two tombstones with the name "Scott" on them, but my grandmother has no idea who these Scotts were. I always loved the farm and spent as much time there as I could. The barn, fields, pastures, and ponds all seemed a part of me. But after my grandfather died, a tornado blew away the barn and other farm buildings, and my great uncle sold off the cattle herd, the place just didn't feel like it used to. In addition, everything is poverty and ruin in the deep South, and a radical conservative faction has such a strangle hold on the economy and politics that I no longer feel like I belong there and haven't for some time.

As a young twenty-something, I moved from the suburbs into Nashville. I had a good job downtown, good friends, and I walked the streets like I was born to them. I knew all of the best cafes, and each tree and statue was like an old friend. At night, I would go out on the town. I always knew where the best bands were playing and when, and I was a regular at several clubs and pubs. But then I moved away to start college. When I go back to Nashville to visit family, I feel like a stranger in the city. There are new buildings and new venues, and I am out of touch with the spirit of the place.

The small town my university was in was never really home to me. It was always a temporary stopping place, and it quickly felt alien once my friends and I graduated. I've been back there too, and it is comfortably familiar, but I cannot imagine living there now.

While in college, I participated in a summer abroad program and lived in London for a time. There again I found home. The cosey blend of cutting-edge city and centuries-old tradition suited my personality perfectly, and my long love of British literature made me intimate with the people, spaces, and culture like no place I'd ever been. I would gladly have remained there forever, but it was not meant to be. I had to return home at the close of the program. I have since paid it an all-too-short visit, and the old sense of returning home was with me just as strongly. But it is not practical to consider living there. It's too expensive, and immigration to the UK is difficult for non-europeans. I will have to be satisfied with occasional visits and a name of expatriot.

Then came Boston. My affiliation with "Beantown" began when my sister's family moved to western Massachusetts in 1992 or '93. They lived there for 5 years, and whenever I would travel north to visit them, we would go into Boston. It reminded me very much of an American London, and I knew that someday I would live there. And I did, for three years. At first, it required a lot of acclimation. I came from a world of Walmarts, suburban malls, and sprawling ranch houses. Boston is a dense city of boutiques and townhouses. I adapted to many things quickly, but much of the everyday took a little more effort. Still, I felt like I belonged there as I walked the streets, rode the "T", hung out in the pubs, or had lunch on the Common. How I miss it.

But I could not stay there. Again, it is too expensive, and no matter how comfortable I was in this bustling old city, I longed for a sense of space that it seems hostile to. Eventually it wore me down until I was tired and angry like most northeasterners, and that just didn't feel like me. So, DW and I moved to California.

If I lived here until the day I died, I would never feel at home here. Everything from the food to the trees makes me aware at every moment that I am an outsider. A lot of people, thousands each year, move to this sunny state, desiring exactly the things that alienate me. And to be sure, there is nothing innately wrong with these things. They just aren't for me.

But by this point, I have forgotten what is. I have lived and loved in so many places, each with it's good and bad, each feeling a little like home for a day or a season. . . but none of them, ultimately, filling the bill. I know all of the platitudes: "Home is where the heart is." "Home is where you hang your hat." "Home is where DW is at." "Home is..." "Home is..." Perhaps it is, in the final analysis, not that which is known, but that which is unknowable.

Crossing Expectations

I am a people watcher. Like most things, people tend to annoy me when I am focused on a specific activity and they are in my way. Even their very breathing seems to interfere with my ability to complete my task. However, if I take the time to stop and pay attention to them as living, sentient beings rather than obstacles, I often find myself entertained, amused, or even sympathetic toward them. I see their humanity. And even if I still notice them perpetrating incorrigible acts, I am often more tolerant or, at the very least, less agitated by their behavior. This may have no direct affect on them, but I feel certain that it encourages me to be less hostile toward them, which must indirectly make things better for them in some small way.

My new job as a crossing guard has given me a superb opportunity to observe people. In fact, one might say that this is my primary function. I watch people trying to cross the road, and I watch people driving cars/riding bikes down that same road. I always have to be alert and watching. And I admit that I was shocked by people's behavior during my first week on the job. But not in the way you might imagine.

You see, I tend to think of people, Americans especially, as self-centered automatons that will do anything to make their own lives better or more convenient while ignoring everything and everybody who will not further that end. Oh sure, people pay superficial lip-service to caring about others. We watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," we donate money to Habitat for Humanity, and we experience moments of sadness when we see some tragedy on the news. This makes us feel better about ourselves. And if a life-threatening situation arose, I truly believe that many of us actually would sacrifice ourselves to save someone else. Nonetheless, these general truths do not change the fact that on a day-to-day basis in a thousand little ways, we slight and belittle our fellow human beings while we strive to build lives of increasing isolation and personal luxury.

But perhaps I might have to revise this estimate somewhat. As a crossing guard, I am a public servant. I expected people to take me for granted, some seeing me merely as a necessary machine that enables them to get where they have to go but possessing no life of its own, and some as an annoying impediment in their progress down the road, something to be put up with for a few seconds before pressing down violently on the gas pedal with an irritated glare. On the contrary, most people are polite and respectful. They acknowledge me as a person and express their gratitude at my assistance, although sometimes this takes the form of trying to engage me in conversation, thereby inhibiting my ability to be as watchful as I need to be. Still, they mean well. Even the drivers usually show far more respect and patience than I anticipated. To be sure, some of them are motivated solely by a personal desire to be a good role model to their children - not because they actually care about me - but that desire in and of itself is a positive thing. It shows that they possess the right instincts, even if they do not always practice or consciously recognize them.

And the children are even better. They wait patiently at the curb, look me in the face as they pass, and almost always say, "Thank you." I had really not expected such courtesy and politeness. I suppose they are young enough that they still obediently follow their parents' orders and utter these words out of habit. And I suppose my orange vest and association with "School" makes me an unquestionable authority figure in their minds. Not to mention that my height of 6'4" must make me appear awesome to individuals who seldom exceed 3' themselves. Nevertheless, this has been a pleasant surprise.

That is not to say that some people have not reacted exactly as I expected, or worse. But for the moment, I'd prefer to allow my faith in humanity to expand a bit, so I will address these exceptions at a later date.

On a Mission

Continuing our sightseeing with my mother last weekend, we drove down to Monterey. We've been there several times before, but it really is an incredibly beautiful place. After hanging out on Cannery Row for a bit, we had lunch at one of the many beaches.

I could have stayed there all day. The sun is warm, and the breezes are pleasantly refreshing. True, the water is too cold to swim in, but the colors make a feast for the eyes. And with sea otters, comorants, brown pelicans, hermit crabs, etc., the wildlife is an endless source of delight.

But we didn't stay. We pushed on to see another of the CA missions, San Carlos de Borromeo de Carmelo. Carmel, actually named Carmel-by-the-sea, has a vibrant downtown and a great beach of its own, but we spent most of our afternoon at the mission. This one, one of the most attractive of the remaining missions, contains a minor basilica that is still a functioning Catholic church.

And a sizeable courtyard overflowing with brightly colored flowers.

I was glad we dropped by for awhile. But I still want to go back to the sea. Maybe Darling wife and I will have to hang out on the coast for a bit after we drop mother off at the airport in SF tomorrow morning.

Bad blogger!

I know that my posts have been few and far between of late. This is because my mother is still visiting, and I have very little time to sit at the computer.

There have been only minor developments lately, anyway First, I got another job. (The tutoring company hasn't provided me even one tutoring session yet. I hope their new business takes off soon, for their sake as well as mine, but I had to seek something additional for the time being.) I will be a school crossing guard. Yes, that's right. I will take my place amongst the ranks of little old men and soccer moms making sure the children of my fair city get safely across the street before and after school. It's a little humiliating, but the pay is good and the hours are great.

Darling Wife and I took mother for a visit up to Apple Hill for harvest time this past weekend. DW says she's getting a little tired of going up there every year, but I love apples and I love fall. So I had a nice time, and I'm sure DW won't complain when I bake her an apple cake this week.

There has been no news from the scottie breeder, but I still have high hopes. If she breeds her dog soon, we can still get the little tyke sometime in February. If she doesn't breed soon, I have had some promising leads from another breeder. We'll see.

Our holiday travel plans are beginning to shape up nicely, and we are hoping to go down to Monterey this weekend. I'll let you know how it goes... if I have the time. But I should be back up to writing more regularly in October.

The Other Valley

My mother has been visiting for a little over a week. She's been here before and seen most of the major tourist attractions, so we have been choosing some of the more engaging B-level sites to explore during this visit. Last week that took us up to Lake Tahoe and Reno. We also toured the home of Leland Stanford, one-time governor of California, president of the Union Pacific Railroad, and founder of Stanford University. All of this was fairly familiar to me and interesting to her.

But over the weekend we embarked upon the unknown. We ventured into the Sonoma valley wine country.

Of course, Sonoma is pretty well-known amongst wine drinkers, but it has always been overshadowed by its more famous neighbor, Napa. Darling Wife and I have toured Napa on numerous occasions with just about every houseguest we've had. They all want to go to Napa. And it is a short freeway ride from our house, so of course we indulge them. Certainly Napa is set up for tourism. It has wine snobs, wine trains, wine buses, wine limos, and vineyards that are more like amusement parks than wineries, some of them even charging $20-$30 just to let you through the gates.

Sonoma has its fair share of elaborate wineries too, but it is a little less popular, therefore, less crowded and less flashy. It also has much more than just wineries. It has some pretty cool history. The town itself has a plaza/square packed with buildings from the 1800's, including the last and northernmost mission on the Mission Trail, aka El Camino Real.
These missions, constructed by a joint-venture of the Catholic church and the Spanish government over a period of about 150 years, cover eleven of the southwestern states. They have always fascinated me, but I've never actually been to one until now.

Then we toured the adjacent Spanish fort and the nearby home of General Mariano Vallejo, who once owned most of northern California and was instrumental in the "Bear Flag Incident" that made California a US state.

Finally, we dropped in to visit Jack London and the ruins of his "Wolf House."

There was definitely a "call of the wild" about the place, and I can understand why the location appealed to London. It was also a little eerie, but perhaps that had to do with the approaching night. We had to leave without sifting through the manuscripts in the museum or seeing the small house where he wrote most of his famous works.

Perhaps we will return to this "other" valley on some future excursion to drink in the beauty of the land and its famed liquid and to commune with the spirits of the dead.

We have reached the End

Native Americans believed that California was the end of the world. They believed that the world literally stopped at the California coast. Travelling beyond the land of one's people meant leaving the physical world and entering the spirit realm. Western Europeans and early US citizens had a somewhat similar view. For centuries, they had travelled west, but California was as far as they could go, if you don't count the Hawaiian Islands, which they didn't. It represented the end of exploration and expansion, the final destination, which gave it a larger-than-life status. And even today, California has a mystical quality. Just say the name and visions of palm trees, orange groves, white sandy beaches, lean and tanned bodies, Hollywood glamour, and a wealth of gold dance in one's mind. People imagine that it is paradise. And in truth, much of it is magnificent beyond words. Isolated on the west by the ocean and on the east by the mighty Sierra Nevada mountain range, California is a strange and exotic place.

I never dreamed of living here. I wanted to go to the Pacific Northwest, but after failing to gain admission to my preferred universities, I accepted northern CA as close enough. But once we moved here, I was intoxicated with the place. There is so much to see and do, and everywhere nature's bounty seems to drop freely from the vines and trees. I could easily understand why people told me, "You'll never want to leave."

All of this changed after living here awhile. I came to realize that the bounty is not free. Hardly free. California's great central valley is farmed by means of elaborate irrigation systems and hard-working immigrant labor. Left alone, little if anything would grow here. The valley has what is known as a "mediterranean climate." We get a lot of rain in the winter, almost three solid months of it. And everything floods. Storm drains become overloaded, and fears of New Orleans-like levee breeches dominate the media and people's minds. Then after March, the rain stops like a dammed river, and things begin to die. What was once green and beautiful quickly takes on the golds and browns of dryness and death. The ground becomes rock hard, and the harsh winds rip the moisture from the leaves, hurling them crunchily to the ground, often still emerald in their brittleness.

And the insects! Ants invade our house several times a year. We never know when, where, and in what numbers they will strike. We awake in the morning to find ants in the kitchen cabinets or stumble to the bathroom during the night to find the countertop crawling with tiny black scavengers. Spiders envelope every bush, every home in webs, and these webs catch the dust that the farms and the wind stir up. Everything takes on an air of decay. One cannot even step outside without a coating of Deet or risk getting West Nile Virus.

And all of those wonders, those magnificant landscapes that you hear about, you must drive for hours and hours to reach them, and in between... nothing. Poor farms and empty desert. True, CA is the most populous state, but the people cluster in large cities on the coasts where houses are small and expensive and the seasons never change. In the south, it's always dry and hot, and in the north, neither warm nor cold, but chilly and damp all year round. Or they fashion modest towns in the valley, like the one we live in, where people struggle against nature with sprinklers and immigrant gardeners to create artificial oases where God never intended, ever vigilant against the barrenness and the bugs. And eventually, even those far-flung places of grandness begin to annoy. They are too far to be convenient and too sublime to be lived in. One longs for modest or normal in a land that does not understand the concept.

Yesterday, I did something I have avoided for months. I went out into my garden. Oh, I'd made brief forays into it, but then I'd turned away in disgust. But my mother is coming for a visit, so I had to brave the elements and survey the damage. And what do you think I found? You may recall that I spent much of last year entirely relandscaping our home. I cleared overgrown ivy, observed light patterns, carefully developed a garden plan, installed irrigation hoses, and planted, and planted. There were some deaths in the beginning, but nothing beyond acceptable losses. Even after the heat of July and being away for over a month, we returned to find most of our shrubbery in decent, if not perfect shape. But the months of continued nastiness have eventually taken their toll. Whether from too little or too much watering I do not know, but nearly everything I had planted with care, attention, and much expense last fall, winter, and spring has succumbed. Little remains of my wonderful garden except a few vines (homes for the ubiquitous spiders), dry sticks, and a collapsing privacy fence.

I was very frustrated at first to say the least, but now I am starting to find relief. It is apparent to me that I have travelled outside the land of my people, and this is the end, this California. The wanderlust I have had all of my life is beginning to abate. Contrary to what people said, I do want to leave.

Of course, we'll have to live here for awhile, but I'll just imagine that it is a spirit world where reality does not exist. There is little need or use in expending money or time trying to make a home here. We don't belong here, we mortals. But as in the Native American legends, it is possible to return from the spirit world after a time, and in many ways, it feels good just to realize one's true place. Yes, I will go home. Just not today.

Great Scot!

I have mentioned before that Darling Wife and I would like to have a dog. Specifically, we have wanted a Scottish Terrier puppy for many years. ...or rather, I have.

My parents had one when I was a child, and I adored him. I've wanted one of my own for decades, but my life has been too unsettled to make a good home for a dog. Besides, Scotties are expensive and relatively uncommon. Oh, one frequently sees Scottie merchandise. You know, the necktie or scarf with the Scottie print or the christmas tree ornament depicting a tartan-covered scottie peering into an unwrapped gift box. That stuff is everywhere. And West Highland White Terriers, which many people mistakenly believe are white Scotties, are somewhat common, too. But one seldom sees a real, live Scottish Terrier. In addition, pure-bred Scotties are prone to certain genetic diseases, so one has to be careful to buy from a reputable breeder who is knowledgeable about Scotties and breeds for the best health of the puppies. That means a lot of painstaking research into a breeder's background, etc. before buying.

I know that there are millions of perfectly good dogs in shelters around the country, so I do not need to be lectured about that. I'm not a dog snob. Some day DW and I would like to adopt a rescue pet. But dogs inherit a considerable part of their temperment from their parents; different breeds generally exhibit personality traits specific to their breed. Certainly, nurture can diminish the effects of nature, but it is never 100% sure. Dogs can and often do revert to type. One cannot completely eradicate hundreds of years of instinctual behavior just by how one treats the animal. Rescue dogs are usually mixed breeds, which makes it difficult to know what one is getting. And even if a rescue dog is pure-bred, they often come with psychological or physical baggage from their previous owner or the shelter. This will be our first dog, and we don't have much space. I don't think we can deal with special needs right now. We want to be pretty sure of the dog's health and probable temperment beforehand, and we want a puppy that will develop habits in keeping with our own.

I think Scottish Terriers are perfect for us. They have short legs, so they are smallish, which is perfect for the size of our home.

It's also much easier to get friends to look after a small dog when one goes out of town, which is important because we have no family nearby, and we go back east for weeks at a time once or twice a year. But despite their small stature, Scotties are fairly stocky, so they are hale and hearty, unlike the yappy, rat dogs that are so popular with the Paris Hilton types today. I can't stand those tiny, nervous things with their trembling, delicate natures. Plus, Scotties are not lap dogs that jump up on visitors and must be carried around in obnoxious little bags. They are independent, dignified animals that are fiercely loyal, playful, and friendly companions to those who respect them, but they are usually reserved with strangers, and they will tolerate no coddling.

With all of this in mind, I have been contacting breeders for the last few years, but I've never found just the right situation.... until now. About two weeks ago, I e-mailed a show breeder in a suburb of Reno, NV, about two hours across the Sierra Nevada mountains from where we live. Everything in our e-mail correspondence was very promising, but DW was still not convinced. Despite all of the internet research and all of the things I have told her, she just wasn't sure about Scotties. She's never known one.

The breeder invited us to visit her facility and meet her and her dogs, which we did this past weekend. It was fabulous. We talked for hours, and the breeder's philosophies and practices satisfied me entirely, and her dogs were wonderful! Darling Wife played with them the entire time, and she smiles from ear to ear anytime you mention them. She doesn't understand how I have been so patient for all these years. She is convinced that our home is missing a Scottie and wants one now.

The breeder is expecting her "bitch" to come into season at any time, and she will, with luck, have puppies in late October or early November. Once they are four weeks old, we can visit them as often as we like, and we will be able to bring one home in late January or early February. We will be travelling and have houseguests through January, so this is perfect timing for us. We are terribly excited!

An Honorable Profession

Well, I got a job.
Yesterday afternoon I received a call from a tutoring agency that I had interviewed with, and they offered me a position as a writing and reading tutor. They are a start-up company, and work won't begin for a few weeks. I am also unlikely to get many hours. But my hourly rate is excellent, and now I have something to look forward to, which makes the days seem a little less endless. I'm still hoping for something more, but it's a good start, a very good start.

A day in the life

I awake at 7:00 AM because Darling Wife leaves for work at about a quarter past, and I like to see her before she goes. Besides, I used to be a morning person before late night studies, city life, and a night-owl roommate altered my sleeping habits. I still feel best if I get an early start, so I rise at 7:00, though I have nowhere particular to go.

After spending several minutes uncovering the birdcages and tending to seed trays, I read the local paper cover-to-cover as I eat breakfast. This is something I have longed to do for years. I enjoy staying abreast of national and world events, and I feel closer to my community when I read the local news and advertisements. DW used to read the paper on her bus-ride to work when we lived in Boston, but I walked the few blocks to school and work. I was seldom well-informed. When we moved to CA, I began to take the daily paper, but I hadn't time to read it. It piled up until it was all horribly out of date, then I would purge and start the pile again. I thought it would be wonderful to actually read them now that I have made my escape from the tower. But alas, as with so many things in life, it was better to want it than to have it. I am usually aware of any major news before I read the paper, and small news doesn't change much in a day. Furthermore, reading about something every day makes me lose interest in it. But I read it nevertheless.

I finish breakfast and the paper at around 8:30 AM and move into "the study" to check my e-mail accounts. It is a matter of minutes to delete the spam. I have few if any substantive messages, but if I received one, I answer it immediately. Having finished with e-mail, I read the blogs of a few friends and check the job listings on the university, the city, and the county websites. This used to occupy some time, but no longer. It only takes five or ten minutes to scan for a listing I haven't already seen. On the rare occasion that I find something promising, I shoot off a resume and wonder if I will ever hear anything back. Then I wander onto random websites, anything I can think of, really. I just want to pass some time. I try to remember things I have wanted to look up or places I might like to research. Somehow, this manages to vaporize more time than I ever expect, but I never feel like it was time well spent.

At around 10:30 AM, I make up the bed and clean up last night's dishes from the kitchen counter. I contemplate sweeping the floor or undertaking other tasks but usually decide to hold them over another day. Why not?

11:00 AM is usually when I get around to my daily work out. Sometimes I do yoga, others low-impact aerobics. And some days I ride my bike to the library instead. Despite my desire to be healthier, I am at the point where it is a struggle to convince myself to go through with the workout. It has not yet reached the point of habit or need, and it has been long enough that the newness and excitement has worn off. Usually I go through with it, if only to stave off boredom.

11:30 AM takes me into the shower. (Must remember to use the pumice stone and foot scrub.) Do I need to shave today? Probably. Do I have to? Not really. Most of the time I skip it.

Noon, check e-mail again. Then, aimlessly kill more time on Youtube or some other pointless website. Or make a blog post. Think about lunch. Perhaps I will eat. Or maybe I'll just grab a peach or something in a bit.

At 1:30 PM, I move back into the living room, check on the birds, and continue my project to recopy and reorganize the recipe-card box. Sometimes the mail has come, and I can waste a little time going over it.

DW should come home at around 3:30 or 4:00 PM, so I begin to think about dinner. I wonder whether I should start cooking, but I usually continue with my project until she walks in at about 4:30 PM. We each discuss the day we've had and decide what to have for dinner.

At 5:15 PM, I cook dinner; we eat; and then we lounge at the table reminiscing about something or simply unable to work up the energy to rise.

By 7:30 PM I'm tired of sitting with dirty plates in front of me, so I clear the table. DW wanders into the study and slowly circles work that she needs to complete. Eventually she may land on some bit and do a little while I put in a video (primetime shows are still in reruns) and resume my project.

At 8:30 or 9:00 PM, I turn the lights off over the birdcages and try to get the little ones to quiet down for the night. (It's easier to cover them up later if they have already begun to roost.)

DW goes to bed at 10:00 or 10:30 PM, so I check my e-mail one last time before covering the birdcages and joining her. I read until about 11:30 PM, and then I settle into sleep myself.

Can you imagine spending months or years full of such trivial sh**? I can't. Well, I just heard the sound of the mailman dropping off today's junk mail. It's one of the highlights of my day. Time to go sort and discard.

Let me outta here!

OK, so I'm really starting to get tired of being home alone all day. I don't know how "stay at home moms" or "out of work dads" do it. I guess it's different if one has children at home. And I suppose there are some people who just enjoy being home all the time. But I am not one of them. Never have been. And I knew that this day would come; I just didn't know when. It's actually taken longer than I thought.

It's not that I don't have anything to do. There's plenty to do. I could mow the lawn, try to fix the irrigation system, patch and paint some nail holes in the livingroom wall, etc., etc. And I have shelves full of books I haven't had time to read. I am not a person who cannot imagine enough to keep myself occupied. It's just that after weeks of doing those things, I'm tired of them. I want out of this house. But I can't just go for walks or hang out at the library either because I know there are things at home I should be doing. I'd be happy to ignore those things for the sake of a useful activity, but I can't skive off for no good reason.

So, I need a good reason. :)

Still hoping to get a job soon, I am not in a position to undertake a commitment to anything, like volunteer work, but I'm open to other suggestions if anyone has any.

Birds of a Feather

If you've been following my recent posts, you may be expecting something about a church visit yesterday, but I am afraid I must disappoint you. For one thing, it turns out that summer is not a good time to scout churches in a college town. Every one we've visited has had a guest speaker because the pastor has been out of town. In addition, many of the church's normal activities and services have been suspended until school starts back next month. Who knew God was on an academic calendar?

Regardless, we would have gone had not we had an"incident" on Saturday. You see, some months ago, a friend asked me to look after her finches while she was out of town. Darling Wife accompanied me to care for the wee beasties on several occasions and fell in love with their adorable appearance and lively chatter. We've wanted a pet for sometime, but we aren't "cat people." Aquariums are nice, but they are mostly decorative; fish are not exactly interactive pets. And while we would both like a dog, we are not currently in a position to acquire or care for one. We'd never considered fowl. But DW thought about them while we were on our mountain adventure and declared she wanted some when we returned. We researched varieties, lifespans, needs, costs, and obligations and purchased cage, supplies, and four Orange-Cheeked Waxbill finches.

They are the cutest little critters.










Their names are Sal, Ro, Goddy, and Helga. They paired up immediately: Sal with Goddy and Helga with Ro. Sal and Helga didn't get along well, but they stayed clear of each other, so all was peaceful and happy. We observed them awhile and adjusted the perches and food to accomodate their preferences, and they began to look healthier and prettier every day.

Then, Sal and Helga began to bicker. It was occasional at first and seemed to occur when Sal would sing or exhibit signs of courtship behavior. As the weeks passed, Sal became more expressive, and Helga became more agitated. They began to quarrel, flying wildly about the cage, knocking each other down, and scaring the guano out of the other two. Our little flock was divided.

The manager of the local pet store told me this was a mating conflict. He assured me that it was temporary as mating season is almost over, and they will probably be permanently bonded by the time it comes around again. However, we would need to separate the agitators for the next month or so.

We bought a new cage and prepared to segregate the flock. This is not an easy task. They are fast and do not like to be touched. Plus with the exception of Helga, the other three finches look almost exactly alike. We tell them apart by personality and behavior. When they are madly flying around the cage trying to escape a grasping hand, there is no way to determine who is who.

We decided to try to remove Helga and Ro because Sal was the one trying to mate, and we thought it would be best to leave him and Goddy in the cage they know. We also determined to aim for Ro first because we could both keep our eyes on him from the beginning, and if we successfully caught him, we could get Helga afterwards.

After much frantic chasing, I managed to capture one of the tiny birds and put him in the other cage. Bad luck, it was Goddy. This was not surprising as Goddy is the worst flyer of the four and tends to become shocked and still when scared. So now we had to try to nab Sal, which would be difficult; he's the best flyer of the bunch. And sure enough, I ended up with Ro. Goddy was still stunned, so we thought we'd grab him, put him back in the main cage, and then try for Helga.

But it turns out that the space between the bars of the new cage was too wide, and as I attempted to secure Goddy, Ro squeezed through the bars and flew down the hallway. This would never do! We had to exchange the new cage. But first, we must get them all back into the old cage.

A search of the rooms located Ro in the window of our bedroom. Despite our worst fears, he proved easy to catch, and we returned him to a much relieved Helga. But as we were trying to recapture Goddy, he made a bid for freedom as well, this time pushing past my arm and out the cage door. But as I said, he's a poor flyer and didn't make it far. We caught him at the glass door in the living room.

You can imagine how upset DW and I are at this point. Birds are flying everywhere, and our nerves are shot. We exchanged the cage for a finch flight cage that is not as attractive as the last one but is better designed for our feathered friends. We also bought a net. Returning home, we went at it again, and this time we got Helga first. And then by pure accident, we managed to get Ro as well. Success!

Sal is put out that his friends and enemies have been removed. He calls to them across the room and sticks his head out of the bars nearest their cage. He also grows quiet and still if they sing or call back in any way. But beyond that, everything seems to be fine. Helga and Ro are more active in their new cage than they were in the community cage. We think that Sal's actions were an attempt to steal Ro from Helga, and the pair seem more confident without this fluttering threat.

So, what we thought were cheap, low-maintenance, unobtrusive pets have now multiplied into two cages, twice as much work, twice as much money, and chattering birds from both sides of our living room. And our entire Saturday disappeared with nothing accomplished but the restoration of peace within our bird community.

Given all of this, we were simply not up for church yesterday. We hope to be able to explore a new church experience this weekend.

Rolling Stone

The old saying is not really true. I've moved a lot over the past decade, but I've gathered plenty of moss as I've rolled along. Each place I've lived has given me memorable experiences, good friends, and new possessions. I don't regret any of the moves I've made. But I am reaching the point at which I think it would be nice to stay still awhile, perhaps for more than awhile. I long for more than just moss; I'd like a nice garden with trees and flowers.

These thoughts played through my mind as I read of a friend's preparations for moving this week in her blog. It is so nice not to need to pack up my things, empty out the place I've called home for the past year, struggle to re-personalize another space. Heck, I'm not even finished with this one yet.

But there is another thought swirling around in the recess of my brain...

When you live in a college town, 50% of the population consists of student renters, and August 31st/September 1st is "Moving Day." For weeks before and after this date, moving trucks and moving pods appear all over town as people pack up to leave or arrive at their new homes. So many are going to begin new lives, and so many more are coming to begin new lives. There is a spirit of excitement and freshness in the air that is almost palpable as undergraduates and their parents swarm all over town and campus, buying supplies and finding their way around. And somehow, I feel left out.

Shall We Gather at the...er... Electronic Display Device

As an INTJ, I usually find myself measuring an issue by its practical ability to accomplish a goal and its efficiency in doing so, not its abstract potential or popularity. Now of course, defining the goal is not necessarily an easy task; therefore, I often advocate something that other people might deem inefficient or backward-looking, but that is because many people don't think about all consequences. People can often be bamboozled by what seems good in some respects but causes major difficulties in others. And frequently people become engrossed in something because it is popular or fresh, regardless of whether it is a real and complete improvement. So, while I have little patience for those who insist on maintaining a system that does not work for the sake of tradition*, you can surely see that I have no tolerance for change for change's sake. Just because something is new and exciting makes it no better than being old and familiar. The important thing is will it work.

Case in point, this weekend Darling Wife and I attended a Presbyterian church. It was a new and interesting experience for both of us. The church was an old one downtown with an established congregation and a historic building complete with vaulted ceilings, pews, and a fantastic organ. In the rack on the back of each pew, there were "pew Bibles" and handsome hymnals. But these were not used during the service. Instead, a projector screen was pulled down in front of their lovely stained glass window of Jesus knocking at the door, and the lyics to the songs for the service were displayed on it using PowerPoint.

This was not the first time we had witnessed this practice. In fact, it is a common sight these days. Frankly, I do not understand it. I looked over the hymnals; they were not old, worn, or out of date. At some time in the fairly recent past, the church no doubt spent thousands of dollars on them. But now it apparently feels a pressing need to come up to the times and embrace new technology. So, it undoubtedly spent thousands more on a laptop, projector, screen, and PowerPoint program, and they made an announcement during the service that they were looking to hire someone to create the slides for each service in the future.

Why, I ask you? Why make this change? Is there some reason that I am overlooking that makes the projections better or more efficient than the hymnals. Sure, it saves time because people don't have to shuffle through the book during the service to find "Hymn #450", but surely this is a minor improvement that does not justify the effort and expense. Do the PowerPoint slides somehow bring one closer to God? I can't imagine how. (Truth be told, I had not brought my glasses, so I couldn't read the $!&% slide. So, I was not feeling particularly godly at the moment.)

Now, I am not a Luddite. I am not against technology, per se. Indeed, I think that PowerPoint is a wonderful tool, especially when one already has the material one wants to display in a digital format or when one will need to create the material using a digital format. It is often the easiest method, and provides the opportunity for some sophisticated visual effects. But that does not mean that I believe it should be used indiscriminately in every case. In this case, the church already had the material in print form; they didn't have the skills to successfully utilize the digital form; and the digital devices do not adequately integrate into the fabric of their early 20th-century building and decor.

Consequently, I can only conclude that the church, and many others, felt compelled to adopt this method because they feel pressured to seem relevant and contemporary to today's society. And I guess that's a good enough reason.... maybe. Unless, that is, the effort causes them to compromise other, important goals, like caring for the needy or keeping their focus on spiritual, rather than a physical, treasure. Or unless the desire to seem relevant supercedes the need to be relevant, which I find is more and more often the case.

*There are some traditions that I like and enjoy, but my reasons extend beyond "because it's tradition."