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?
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
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.
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?"
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?"
Sunday, November 18, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
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?
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?
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