It’s raining today for the fifth day in a row. It’s an Oregon rain. Non-stop. No sunrise. No sunset. The sky will lighten to show it is day, but otherwise remains an evenly spread wet concrete grey. No heavily saturated clouds powering down on us, threatening, then jostling into their positions to rain. Pouring dumping buckets of basement flooding rain. That’s what we’re used to in Michigan. Not this. Not this static, every-waking-moment-with-no-break-in-the-sky-for-the-sun-to-beam-through-momentarily-giving-us-hope-and-a-sense-of-humanity-again rain.
Michigan people walk with umbrellas to shield themselves from this, if they go out to walk at all. In Oregon, umbrellas were rare. Rain was just a part of daily life for six months. People adapted. Why give up your left or right hand, or both on a windy day, for six months every time you step outside? But in Michigan, we haven’t adapted to that yet. We still give up a hand to our umbrellas, to walk beneath our own roofing with no gutter system, which would only clog with leaf debris and fail anyway. More than this, we have not yet learned to commune with the rain in the same way as Oregonians who live in the damp sweatshirts and jeans and call it cozy all the same.
No, in Michigan we still try to separate ourselves from the rain at every opportunity, the umbrella our remaining stronghold. Keep it off of me. It’s not enough to wear a rain coat, but keep it at least twelve inches away from touching me. And we like this view from inside our umbrella space. Perhaps it has something more to do with our living where it snows for as many months as it rains in Oregon. We sit inside our cozy warm homes and look out onto the snow. We do not commune with it. We shovel it, plow it, salt and sand it, pack and shape it for entertainment, and some of us wear devices and fuel up motorized technology that allows us to control it, to command it as we ride over it (and sometimes snow refuses to be commanded, as my first high school sweetheart must have realized at a final moment when he was buried and died in an avalanche while skiing in Utah).
Rain is only unfrozen snow, yet we cannot figure out how to command and control it (note earlier comments on failing gutters and wet basement), so we remain separated from it. We refuse to commune with it, and instead stay indoors, or when we go out, refuse to embrace it by filling our hands with umbrellas.
There is a lull in the water slapping against the windows. A break in the waterfall that formed at the place where the gutter is clogged. I hear birds chirping, singing their instinctive morning calls as they no doubt flutter and shake the moisture from their feathers and attempt to fluff themselves dry in the 100% humidity. A lull where, though drops do not fall from the sky, they continue to drip from roofs and eaves and leaves on trees. Where puddles driven through splash onto sidewalks. And the air can do nothing but hang thick with moisture. No rain from the sky, but to walk in it now feels like swimming, and where my hair sucks in the damp and tightens into ringlets at my neck, I feel I should grow gills. Soon, if this rain will not cease. Soon, if the sun should not shine. Soon, if it wasn’t for Oregon where the people have no gills.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
Young Authors
Today my husband and I volunteered to help staff book sale tables for Young Authors day at the college. This is an annual event that brings in about 20 children's and young adult authors, and hundreds of young kids, from adolescent to pre-teen, who have been selected by their teachers to come for the day. It might be a whole class of kids, or just a select group. The commonality among them is that they are all young readers and writers, all interested in reading and many of them knowing the authors that were brought in to speak that day.
I was utterly amazed as I stood in the college gymnasium as a seemingly endless stream of young people came filing in and made their way around the book-table-lined edge of the room. Each of them was gaze bound to the books stacked on the tables, excitedly running up to certain sections and grabbing up copies of the books, ooohhing and aaahhing at the hardcover editions of the paperbacks they either owned or could only afford. I listened in fascination as they turned to one another and launched into explaining why they loved this book or that book, how many times they had read it, and how many of that same author's books they had already read.
It was the simple move of one child that momentarily stunned me. It was a young girl, maybe 10 years old, who picked up a book, looked at the cover, then turned it over and stood, reading the entire back cover of the book before slowly flipping the pages and looking at the text on the pages. How utterly not worth even noticing such a gesture may seem, but what struck me was it was the sequence of an accomplished reader. How did this child learn to look at that cover, become interested, and know to turn it over and read the back to learn more? How did she then know to flip through the pages, and what, really, was she even looking for? Nothing in particular, as any reader who has done the same a thousand times can tell you, except that we look for a kind of "feel" to the book as we do so. How could she, at such a young age, have already become so discretionary about her reading? Was I like that at that age? I can't remember, but I'd like to think, given all the time I spent at the public library, all the books ordered from Scholastic, and all the summer reading clubs, that I would have been something like that.
And maybe that's why I was so struck by the image. Perhaps it was me I saw standing there; a me I have been so long removed from I had forgotten that's where I'd come from. But to see her there, I found a connection so deep in my memory that I was momentarily stilled by the impact of its having risen to the surface.
Later that morning, a young boy came up to me, paperback in hand, and asked me how he could tell if it was a first edition. Already a young collector. I opened the first pages and showed him the imprint page, then found a hardcover of the same book and showed him the difference, explaining how hardcover come out first and are the official first edition, then the paperbacks come out, but that those also go through editions, and he was holding the first edition paperback. Knowing, like most of the kids there, that he wasn't going to be able to afford the hardcover, he seemed pleased to have a first edition paperback.
The morning buzzed on, the gym filled with little bodies, occasional big bodies interacting with them, keeping them orderly, sharing in their excitement for books. I realized that these were a "select" group of kids, no doubt on their best behavior to be there at all, but still, there was such an incredible difference between that gym packed with hundreds of young people and how it feels when it is filled with adult bodies. These kids were such much nicer and quieter and more polite than any such large group of adults I had ever been around at a book event. They were there, not boasting about their own writing, their own accomplishments in publishing, or pushing something they wanted published, but they were there to see and to share in the secret, imaginative world their favorite authors had created for them. They were gentle with the books, kind to one another as they moved in hoards from table to table, waiting politely to be able to get in and pick up a copy of a book, and excitedly talking about wanting to chip in together to buy a copy for their teacher. They just took up a lot less space than adults, in so many ways, and in that moment, I felt such gratitude for this time in their lives. This smaller time.
I was utterly amazed as I stood in the college gymnasium as a seemingly endless stream of young people came filing in and made their way around the book-table-lined edge of the room. Each of them was gaze bound to the books stacked on the tables, excitedly running up to certain sections and grabbing up copies of the books, ooohhing and aaahhing at the hardcover editions of the paperbacks they either owned or could only afford. I listened in fascination as they turned to one another and launched into explaining why they loved this book or that book, how many times they had read it, and how many of that same author's books they had already read.
It was the simple move of one child that momentarily stunned me. It was a young girl, maybe 10 years old, who picked up a book, looked at the cover, then turned it over and stood, reading the entire back cover of the book before slowly flipping the pages and looking at the text on the pages. How utterly not worth even noticing such a gesture may seem, but what struck me was it was the sequence of an accomplished reader. How did this child learn to look at that cover, become interested, and know to turn it over and read the back to learn more? How did she then know to flip through the pages, and what, really, was she even looking for? Nothing in particular, as any reader who has done the same a thousand times can tell you, except that we look for a kind of "feel" to the book as we do so. How could she, at such a young age, have already become so discretionary about her reading? Was I like that at that age? I can't remember, but I'd like to think, given all the time I spent at the public library, all the books ordered from Scholastic, and all the summer reading clubs, that I would have been something like that.
And maybe that's why I was so struck by the image. Perhaps it was me I saw standing there; a me I have been so long removed from I had forgotten that's where I'd come from. But to see her there, I found a connection so deep in my memory that I was momentarily stilled by the impact of its having risen to the surface.
Later that morning, a young boy came up to me, paperback in hand, and asked me how he could tell if it was a first edition. Already a young collector. I opened the first pages and showed him the imprint page, then found a hardcover of the same book and showed him the difference, explaining how hardcover come out first and are the official first edition, then the paperbacks come out, but that those also go through editions, and he was holding the first edition paperback. Knowing, like most of the kids there, that he wasn't going to be able to afford the hardcover, he seemed pleased to have a first edition paperback.
The morning buzzed on, the gym filled with little bodies, occasional big bodies interacting with them, keeping them orderly, sharing in their excitement for books. I realized that these were a "select" group of kids, no doubt on their best behavior to be there at all, but still, there was such an incredible difference between that gym packed with hundreds of young people and how it feels when it is filled with adult bodies. These kids were such much nicer and quieter and more polite than any such large group of adults I had ever been around at a book event. They were there, not boasting about their own writing, their own accomplishments in publishing, or pushing something they wanted published, but they were there to see and to share in the secret, imaginative world their favorite authors had created for them. They were gentle with the books, kind to one another as they moved in hoards from table to table, waiting politely to be able to get in and pick up a copy of a book, and excitedly talking about wanting to chip in together to buy a copy for their teacher. They just took up a lot less space than adults, in so many ways, and in that moment, I felt such gratitude for this time in their lives. This smaller time.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Awww, Squirrel
Over the weekend, I had the misfortune to come face to face with a common city occurance - a squirrel that had been hit by a car, not dead yet! (Monty Python style), but still able to crawl around and attempt to climb a tree. Clearly, its back was busted up, but it was still able to "hump" around (literally, that's the movement), its back feet splayed out behind its chubby midsection.
This was on Friday. I called the vet, and they gave me a number to call, a woman who helps hurt wild animals. She called a while later, told me to catch it and take it to animal control and they would either try to save it or put it out of its misery.
After I got her call, I tried to find Squirrel, but it was gone. Casey found it across the street, and we went after it, me with a towel and thick leather gloves, and him with a box and lid. The damn squirrel had enough gumption to get up a spruce where we couldn't get in to grab it. I considered it well enough to stay away on its own and left it for the time being. Throughout they day, I kept an eye out for it, but it never reappeared.
Saturday went by with no Squirrel. Saturday night, I went to walk the dog, and there was Squirrel, hanging out by our house again, near a tree, but not able to run up it. I turned around and went back home. Casey helped me capture him, and I called the woman again about what to do with him. Animal control was closed, and all I got was her answering machine. I gave Squirrel some almonds and pumpkin seeds and water and left him in the box.
Sunday came, and Squirrel was still alive. It'd eaten some of the nuts, and the water was all gone (spilled, no doubt), and it was chucking up a storm at me when I opened the box, so it seemed alright, though not moving much. I left it in the box, in the garage where it would be quiet and not disturbed.
Sunday night, the wildlife lady called. I told her about the squirrel, and she said to take it to animal control in the morning. I said I would, saying it was better off in the box, even if it was going to die, than out on the street where kids and cats and cars might bother it. Still, I worried about it as I fell asleep.
The next morning, it was dead. No chucking. No shifting around in the box. The nuts that were there were still there. The water, untouched. I drove it out to animal control anyway, not able to bear just tossing it in the garbage. Just seemed like it was the better thing to do, even if animal control just tossed it in their garbage. At least I felt like I had done what I could, and should.
This was on Friday. I called the vet, and they gave me a number to call, a woman who helps hurt wild animals. She called a while later, told me to catch it and take it to animal control and they would either try to save it or put it out of its misery.
After I got her call, I tried to find Squirrel, but it was gone. Casey found it across the street, and we went after it, me with a towel and thick leather gloves, and him with a box and lid. The damn squirrel had enough gumption to get up a spruce where we couldn't get in to grab it. I considered it well enough to stay away on its own and left it for the time being. Throughout they day, I kept an eye out for it, but it never reappeared.
Saturday went by with no Squirrel. Saturday night, I went to walk the dog, and there was Squirrel, hanging out by our house again, near a tree, but not able to run up it. I turned around and went back home. Casey helped me capture him, and I called the woman again about what to do with him. Animal control was closed, and all I got was her answering machine. I gave Squirrel some almonds and pumpkin seeds and water and left him in the box.
Sunday came, and Squirrel was still alive. It'd eaten some of the nuts, and the water was all gone (spilled, no doubt), and it was chucking up a storm at me when I opened the box, so it seemed alright, though not moving much. I left it in the box, in the garage where it would be quiet and not disturbed.
Sunday night, the wildlife lady called. I told her about the squirrel, and she said to take it to animal control in the morning. I said I would, saying it was better off in the box, even if it was going to die, than out on the street where kids and cats and cars might bother it. Still, I worried about it as I fell asleep.
The next morning, it was dead. No chucking. No shifting around in the box. The nuts that were there were still there. The water, untouched. I drove it out to animal control anyway, not able to bear just tossing it in the garbage. Just seemed like it was the better thing to do, even if animal control just tossed it in their garbage. At least I felt like I had done what I could, and should.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Summers Off - Yeah, Right
I finished reading papers and figuring grades on Friday. By noon. Grades aren't due until Tuesday at 2:00, and I'm waiting until the last minute to submit them just in case one of my students doesn't like what they see on the online grade posting. That and one last paper just came in yesterday, so I'll have to sit and read it and figure one more grade. That was an okay late paper. One of my students starting having seizures during the semester and couldn't drive to classes anymore. What can you do? I figured out a way to have him complete the class via e-mail. It's the only class he'll be able to finish. Not to complain about colleagues, but I'm disheartened that more of his instructors couldn't have worked something out with him. He's a brilliant young man and has been responsible about doing everything I asked of him. Maybe online will be the way he needs to go from now on.
Since Friday, what have I done?
Cleaned the house bottom to top.
Laundry.
Went running every morning.
Went for a walk every night.
Yoga every day.
Read the paper front to back.
Completed two crossword puzzles.
Went grocery shopping for 2 hours.
Went to the Goodwill 75% off sale and got a huge bag of clothes for $7.
Went to burger day at the River Rock and played Yatzee with my husband.
Slept in (until 7:30!) and took naps two days in a row.
Cooked. No, I mean actually put more than three ingredients together, not including spices, which account for at least another three, and came up with something that did not look like anything I started with and with no picture on a box it could match. That kind of cooking.
Sat and watched a movie start to finish.
Two hours of yardwork.
Blogged.
I know this might all seem a bit mundane, but it really is everything I can't do during the regular school year, and why people who say teachers have it easy will never truly understand just how much we don't get done in our own lives so that we can focus on others. I love my job, but I love my own life too, and I love having summers "off" just so I can have my life for a little while, even if it's all just crammed into three months out of each year. And not even, as I look at my schedule and see this school likes us to attend meetings after the semester, so this week and next week and the week after, I have meetings to attend. And I did sign on for a seven-week spring class. All the same, I know there will be at least one solid month in there where I won't have any scheduled commitments to school. And that's when I begin to prepare for next year!
Since Friday, what have I done?
Cleaned the house bottom to top.
Laundry.
Went running every morning.
Went for a walk every night.
Yoga every day.
Read the paper front to back.
Completed two crossword puzzles.
Went grocery shopping for 2 hours.
Went to the Goodwill 75% off sale and got a huge bag of clothes for $7.
Went to burger day at the River Rock and played Yatzee with my husband.
Slept in (until 7:30!) and took naps two days in a row.
Cooked. No, I mean actually put more than three ingredients together, not including spices, which account for at least another three, and came up with something that did not look like anything I started with and with no picture on a box it could match. That kind of cooking.
Sat and watched a movie start to finish.
Two hours of yardwork.
Blogged.
I know this might all seem a bit mundane, but it really is everything I can't do during the regular school year, and why people who say teachers have it easy will never truly understand just how much we don't get done in our own lives so that we can focus on others. I love my job, but I love my own life too, and I love having summers "off" just so I can have my life for a little while, even if it's all just crammed into three months out of each year. And not even, as I look at my schedule and see this school likes us to attend meetings after the semester, so this week and next week and the week after, I have meetings to attend. And I did sign on for a seven-week spring class. All the same, I know there will be at least one solid month in there where I won't have any scheduled commitments to school. And that's when I begin to prepare for next year!
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