S. called me up Saturday night; this is the S. of "Free Veggies" fame. "My neighbor is selling haggis," she said.
So yesterday afternoon I wandered down a few blocks, purse in hand, and knocked on her neighbor's door. "Word on the street is that you are selling haggis," I said. No, I didn't. I gave her a bit more context for my actions than that; I told her I knew S.
I bought $5 worth, which means I may have to conduct some haggis-tastings, because $5 buys you an awful lot of haggis. S.'s neighbor told me stories of the Cincinnati Caledonian Pipes and Drums Band and their Tartan Day Ceilidh, which had been the night before. The festivities included a haggis-eating contest. (I had to ask--just how much haggis would one have to eat to win a haggis-eating contest? Answer--one cup haggis, half-cup of neeps, half-cup of tatties. [Neeps and tatties are turnips--or in this case rutabagas--and potatoes.] The premium was speed, not quantity.)
I'm planning on letting the boys in the house try the haggis. I'll just tell 'em it's a type of sausage.
Showing posts with label day in the life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label day in the life. Show all posts
Monday, April 11, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Work.
Last Saturday the Formed group had its monthly gathering to discuss the month's topic. (Follow this link if you're asking any of these questions at this point: "What is Formed?" Why do they gather monthly? Where can I find out more?") This month's topic was "work." Happily, one of the members of Formed is the man to whom I've referred in this blog as Our Glorious Leader, Kevin Rains, who owns a body shop, Center City Collision. Where better to discuss the concept of "work" than a place set aside for the fixing of cars, yes?
Kevin started us out with a short but meaty reflection on the place of work in Scripture. He pointed out that in the beginning God worked--the first passages of Scripture record God's six days of Creation. Because we believe in three Persons in one God, and that wherever one member of the Trinity is, the others are as well, we know Creation was the work of a community of artists.
Kevin also talked about order and chaos. He mentioned that in the Message, Peterson calls chaos "a soup of nothingness." The Spirit of God broods like a bird over this abyss--note this, Kevin said; God is not mired in the muck. He asked (he meant to ask rhetorically, but most of us raised our hands!), "How many of you sometimes feel mired in chaos when you work?"
The God who spoke light into existence can and will strengthen us if we ask. We should not forget work is hard, though. Our task as creatures made in the image and likeness of God, Kevin said, is to help bring order out of chaos. And good golly there's a lot of chaos out there. But discouragement and despair won't help. Kevin said he tried to frame work in this way, and it sounded to me like a useful prod to keep on keepin' on: "If you didn't do the work you do--if no one did the work you do--what would happen?"
The actual talk on Saturday was a discussion with Chuck Proudfit, Greg York and Robert Lockridge, who each first spoke on their own and then did a roundtable with questions. But if I do all the talking here, I wouldn't be engaged in creative work with a community of artists, so if someone else who was there wants to chime in about the rest of the day, this would be welcomed.
Kevin started us out with a short but meaty reflection on the place of work in Scripture. He pointed out that in the beginning God worked--the first passages of Scripture record God's six days of Creation. Because we believe in three Persons in one God, and that wherever one member of the Trinity is, the others are as well, we know Creation was the work of a community of artists.
Kevin also talked about order and chaos. He mentioned that in the Message, Peterson calls chaos "a soup of nothingness." The Spirit of God broods like a bird over this abyss--note this, Kevin said; God is not mired in the muck. He asked (he meant to ask rhetorically, but most of us raised our hands!), "How many of you sometimes feel mired in chaos when you work?"
The God who spoke light into existence can and will strengthen us if we ask. We should not forget work is hard, though. Our task as creatures made in the image and likeness of God, Kevin said, is to help bring order out of chaos. And good golly there's a lot of chaos out there. But discouragement and despair won't help. Kevin said he tried to frame work in this way, and it sounded to me like a useful prod to keep on keepin' on: "If you didn't do the work you do--if no one did the work you do--what would happen?"
The actual talk on Saturday was a discussion with Chuck Proudfit, Greg York and Robert Lockridge, who each first spoke on their own and then did a roundtable with questions. But if I do all the talking here, I wouldn't be engaged in creative work with a community of artists, so if someone else who was there wants to chime in about the rest of the day, this would be welcomed.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
On Prayer, with Mary Laymon
Just got back (literally, like seconds ago) from a gathering downstairs at the Speckled Bird. It was a Formed gathering. (By the way, I love living in a hyperlinked world. Cuts down on the amount of space I take up explaining things. Go find out what Formed is and then come back.)
Mary Laymon spoke on the month's focus, prayer. She loves talking about prayer, and I love listening to people talking about what they love. Some thoughts, random but may give a taste of the experience of being there:
--Prayer can, and has, saved lives. "Save"--we talked about how "save" can mean "To heal and make whole."
--The voice of God is within all of us.
--It takes time and practice to learn to hear God's voice. He's quiet. But He is also willing to wait until you are willing to listen.
--If you're an extrovert, and you have a chatty sort of personality, God may chat with you right back, but there are other "languages" in which God may speak to you--it may not just be the classic sort of Inner Voice model. God can speak through songs, through images, through relationships, through dreams, through nature.
--How do we distinguish God's voice from our own voice, or the voices of darkness and destruction? a) God's voice will be congruent with Scripture, so it will direct us toward love of neighbor, love of the poor; following it will also produce the fruits of the Spirit: kindness, gentleness, peace. b) There will be an "echo"--God will be persistent, so we may hear the same message, see the same image, experience the same circumstances, over and over again until we stop and pay attention. c) A key way to check--ALWAYS take what you think you're hearing from God and check it out with a trusted "soul friend" who has some practice discerning God's voice. d) Sometimes you'll only know it's God's voice through hindsight--"oh! That's what God was saying! I should have listened!" or "Gosh, I'm glad I listened!"
--We practiced different prayer methods. We prayed using a picture, asking God to use the image to reveal something to us. Then we had a choice of activities: praying by molding clay without having a preconceived notion of what the clay should look like, praying while walking, praying while studying nature, lectio divina (praying using Scripture), etc. etc.
--To pray, you have to be brave. It's scary to be intimate with God--He wants to transform us. We'll see things in ourselves that aren't so lovely.
--God wants to heal us not just for our own sake but so that we can be a blessing to others.
--If you go are willing to trust God enough to go into a scary place, God can take you back out of it.
Mary Laymon spoke on the month's focus, prayer. She loves talking about prayer, and I love listening to people talking about what they love. Some thoughts, random but may give a taste of the experience of being there:
--Prayer can, and has, saved lives. "Save"--we talked about how "save" can mean "To heal and make whole."
--The voice of God is within all of us.
--It takes time and practice to learn to hear God's voice. He's quiet. But He is also willing to wait until you are willing to listen.
--If you're an extrovert, and you have a chatty sort of personality, God may chat with you right back, but there are other "languages" in which God may speak to you--it may not just be the classic sort of Inner Voice model. God can speak through songs, through images, through relationships, through dreams, through nature.
--How do we distinguish God's voice from our own voice, or the voices of darkness and destruction? a) God's voice will be congruent with Scripture, so it will direct us toward love of neighbor, love of the poor; following it will also produce the fruits of the Spirit: kindness, gentleness, peace. b) There will be an "echo"--God will be persistent, so we may hear the same message, see the same image, experience the same circumstances, over and over again until we stop and pay attention. c) A key way to check--ALWAYS take what you think you're hearing from God and check it out with a trusted "soul friend" who has some practice discerning God's voice. d) Sometimes you'll only know it's God's voice through hindsight--"oh! That's what God was saying! I should have listened!" or "Gosh, I'm glad I listened!"
--We practiced different prayer methods. We prayed using a picture, asking God to use the image to reveal something to us. Then we had a choice of activities: praying by molding clay without having a preconceived notion of what the clay should look like, praying while walking, praying while studying nature, lectio divina (praying using Scripture), etc. etc.
--To pray, you have to be brave. It's scary to be intimate with God--He wants to transform us. We'll see things in ourselves that aren't so lovely.
--God wants to heal us not just for our own sake but so that we can be a blessing to others.
--If you go are willing to trust God enough to go into a scary place, God can take you back out of it.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
First Sunday of Advent
Thanks to Angie F., who invited various writerly folk to do reflections for the Vineyard Central Advent gatherings this year. This is what I contributed for today.
My family’s Advent wreath has a wire base, four metal candleholders, plastic holly leaves and berries. The greenery is splotched with purple and pink wax from, oh, probably forty years’ worth of candles. The candleholders likewise are well and truly blackened. We could get two years out of Advent candles, since we only lit them at suppertime; in the second year, on Christmas Eve, Mom liked to keep the candles burning until they melted to nothing. So the flames charred the sides of the candleholders which are four-petalled, like flowers.
The Advent wreath had to be fetched today, the first Sunday of Advent, from the basement, from wherever it had been stashed—someplace we’d put it with the thought that of course we’d remember where we put it, and of course we never did.
The Christmas decorations also live in the basement. The tree, the lights, the ornaments, the crèche would all be brought forth three Sundays from now and would not return to their homes until Epiphany or, if we were feeling particularly liturgically correct, the Sunday after that—the feast of the Baptism of Our Lord. From January until the fourth week of Advent, I could visit them down in the basement.
Go there with me now. We’re in the basement of the house I grew up in. I’m a little kid, seven, eight, nine, ten. I’m wearing roller skates, and I’ve been skating for hours—goodness knows how the rumbling of the metal wheels on the concrete floor has been reverberating through the house. But I’ve taken a break from racing a circuit around the main room. I’ve gone back toward the washer and dryer, turned left at the wooden drying rack with its spokes like a turnstile, past Dad’s workbench with its ancient tools that none of us, Dad included, have the handyman wherewithal to use well. Back here is the water heater, the furnace, and a shelf of Christmas decorations—also a tiny squeeze space granting secret-passage access to the main room.
I’ve turned on the bare bulb above the workbench and I’ve dug out the crèche. I don’t unwrap any decorations or fiddle with the box of lights. I don’t get out Mary or Joseph or a shepherd or sheep, Wise Men or their camel or the angel Gabriel. I leave the stable empty of everyone, but I turn a key on its side, feeling the resistance of the gears, and when I let go, a tiny metal spool unwinds, and even tinier metal teeth on a metal comb catch on the bits of spool that are raised like Braille letters. The music box in the crèche plays “Silent Night.”
I listen a while, and then I return to skating, stopping or slowing at times to listen for the chime of the song. I go back upstairs and wonder through the day if I am really hearing it still or just imagining it. A music box, as it slows, sounds out its chimes at longer and longer intervals. When you think it has run out of faith, as if an Advent candle could melt to nothing before its vigil is complete, another note will ring, sweet as any that came before.
My family’s Advent wreath has a wire base, four metal candleholders, plastic holly leaves and berries. The greenery is splotched with purple and pink wax from, oh, probably forty years’ worth of candles. The candleholders likewise are well and truly blackened. We could get two years out of Advent candles, since we only lit them at suppertime; in the second year, on Christmas Eve, Mom liked to keep the candles burning until they melted to nothing. So the flames charred the sides of the candleholders which are four-petalled, like flowers.
The Advent wreath had to be fetched today, the first Sunday of Advent, from the basement, from wherever it had been stashed—someplace we’d put it with the thought that of course we’d remember where we put it, and of course we never did.
The Christmas decorations also live in the basement. The tree, the lights, the ornaments, the crèche would all be brought forth three Sundays from now and would not return to their homes until Epiphany or, if we were feeling particularly liturgically correct, the Sunday after that—the feast of the Baptism of Our Lord. From January until the fourth week of Advent, I could visit them down in the basement.
Go there with me now. We’re in the basement of the house I grew up in. I’m a little kid, seven, eight, nine, ten. I’m wearing roller skates, and I’ve been skating for hours—goodness knows how the rumbling of the metal wheels on the concrete floor has been reverberating through the house. But I’ve taken a break from racing a circuit around the main room. I’ve gone back toward the washer and dryer, turned left at the wooden drying rack with its spokes like a turnstile, past Dad’s workbench with its ancient tools that none of us, Dad included, have the handyman wherewithal to use well. Back here is the water heater, the furnace, and a shelf of Christmas decorations—also a tiny squeeze space granting secret-passage access to the main room.
I’ve turned on the bare bulb above the workbench and I’ve dug out the crèche. I don’t unwrap any decorations or fiddle with the box of lights. I don’t get out Mary or Joseph or a shepherd or sheep, Wise Men or their camel or the angel Gabriel. I leave the stable empty of everyone, but I turn a key on its side, feeling the resistance of the gears, and when I let go, a tiny metal spool unwinds, and even tinier metal teeth on a metal comb catch on the bits of spool that are raised like Braille letters. The music box in the crèche plays “Silent Night.”
I listen a while, and then I return to skating, stopping or slowing at times to listen for the chime of the song. I go back upstairs and wonder through the day if I am really hearing it still or just imagining it. A music box, as it slows, sounds out its chimes at longer and longer intervals. When you think it has run out of faith, as if an Advent candle could melt to nothing before its vigil is complete, another note will ring, sweet as any that came before.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Free Veggies
M. parked the box truck on the sidewalk next to St. E's at one o'clock in the afternoon. S. drove up in her car moments later. I could see it all from my window--the produce boxes stacked five high or more in the back of the truck, S. chatting with curious local folk.
S. works for an outreach at a church in the Cincinnati suburbs. They'd gotten a huge donation of veggies, way more than they could distribute, so she'd offered to take it here to Norwood where she knew the need was also great. Plus, she knew she could recruit people to do drive-by veggie drop-offs to friends and strangers.
All told, she'd brought half a pallet of potatoes, cucumbers and yellow squash--enough to justify the use of a moving van.
I came down from my apartment in time to see most of the potatoes go. There had only been a few sacks of those--nothing like the boxes upon boxes of squash and cucumbers. Local Vineyard folk showed up on bike, in cars, on foot, to take what they could carry and share it round. S. called or texted others she knew who hadn't shown up just so they wouldn't miss out.
When cars would pass, she'd shout like a carnival barker: "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" Many cars slowed and parked in response, and many a box disappeared from the truck via this method. Other cars' windows were rolled up, the drivers protected by a/c from the scorcher of a Saturday. I amused myself wondering what they made of the scene--a woman yelling something unheard, surrounded on all sides by produce. S. got me to put a notice on the chalkboard outside of church: "FREE VEGGIES." That ought to have cleared up some confusion.
I brought out some grocery bags I had stockpiled so people wouldn't have to take a whole box if they couldn't use veggies in bulk. After a few folk had made use of this option, S. said to me, "We're running out of bags." I played Elijah and assured her, "The bags aren't going to run out." Sure enough, M., another Vineyard bud from down the street, soon offered to bring bags from her house's stockpile.
S. works with a Hispanic ministry; she was occasionally switching off yelling "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" to its Spanish equivalent. Doing this caught the attention of a fella who was headed to a church in Northern Kentucky, a Hispanic outreach one hundred members strong. We sent him on his way with eight boxes or so. "God provides!" S. told him cheerfully in Spanish.
We were never overwhelmed with a horde of people all at once, but folks came in a steady stream. We heard the word was spreading through the neighborhood--squash-and-cucumber recipients passing the news on to people on their front stoops. My friend D. and I went knocking on doors to see if a delivery might be welcome.
By three o'clock the box truck was empty, and S. was beaming.
At Mass the next day, when the priest came to Jesus' words, "Take this, all of you, and eat it," I heard S.'s voice ringing loud and clear, "FREE...!"
S. works for an outreach at a church in the Cincinnati suburbs. They'd gotten a huge donation of veggies, way more than they could distribute, so she'd offered to take it here to Norwood where she knew the need was also great. Plus, she knew she could recruit people to do drive-by veggie drop-offs to friends and strangers.
All told, she'd brought half a pallet of potatoes, cucumbers and yellow squash--enough to justify the use of a moving van.
I came down from my apartment in time to see most of the potatoes go. There had only been a few sacks of those--nothing like the boxes upon boxes of squash and cucumbers. Local Vineyard folk showed up on bike, in cars, on foot, to take what they could carry and share it round. S. called or texted others she knew who hadn't shown up just so they wouldn't miss out.
When cars would pass, she'd shout like a carnival barker: "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" Many cars slowed and parked in response, and many a box disappeared from the truck via this method. Other cars' windows were rolled up, the drivers protected by a/c from the scorcher of a Saturday. I amused myself wondering what they made of the scene--a woman yelling something unheard, surrounded on all sides by produce. S. got me to put a notice on the chalkboard outside of church: "FREE VEGGIES." That ought to have cleared up some confusion.
I brought out some grocery bags I had stockpiled so people wouldn't have to take a whole box if they couldn't use veggies in bulk. After a few folk had made use of this option, S. said to me, "We're running out of bags." I played Elijah and assured her, "The bags aren't going to run out." Sure enough, M., another Vineyard bud from down the street, soon offered to bring bags from her house's stockpile.
S. works with a Hispanic ministry; she was occasionally switching off yelling "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" to its Spanish equivalent. Doing this caught the attention of a fella who was headed to a church in Northern Kentucky, a Hispanic outreach one hundred members strong. We sent him on his way with eight boxes or so. "God provides!" S. told him cheerfully in Spanish.
We were never overwhelmed with a horde of people all at once, but folks came in a steady stream. We heard the word was spreading through the neighborhood--squash-and-cucumber recipients passing the news on to people on their front stoops. My friend D. and I went knocking on doors to see if a delivery might be welcome.
By three o'clock the box truck was empty, and S. was beaming.
At Mass the next day, when the priest came to Jesus' words, "Take this, all of you, and eat it," I heard S.'s voice ringing loud and clear, "FREE...!"
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
How my name became unpronounceable.
This week I asked Hive Mind to assist me in my teaching. It will not be the last time. Honestly, I don't know what teachers did before the Internet. Stuck for ideas, how did they face the challenge of designing a spelling activity for second graders in the days when one couldn't just do a Google search on "spelling activities for second graders"?
I feel like the woman in that old commercial who pats flour on herself to fool dinner guests into thinking she slaved over the making of baked goods. My painstaking spelling-activities quest, all three minutes of it, took me to a site that creates word searches. First step: come up with a title for your puzzle. This part of the process was the hardest for me, I think; I finally opted for "Spelling!" I then typed in all twenty of this week's spelling words and noted with amusement (and gratitude) that the puzzle generator promised to use a randomly-created-offensive-word filter as it merrily sprinkled letters around. And here was a nice touch: I could put in a hidden message that would be revealed as the spelling words were found. I chose the propaganda route and hid the phrase "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pancella."
I gave the students the word search today. When I passed out the papers, I explained about the hidden message, showing them how there were dashes at the bottom of the page--"_ ___ __ _____ ________ ____ ____ ________"--for the phrase they were looking for.
The next fifteen minutes were a bit of a free-for-all. Some second graders seem to have something of a word search instinct; others need more prodding. There was much collaborating at tables and some wandering around the room. I didn't mind how they worked on the puzzle so long as they were looking closely at what letters made up the words. The point wasn't to complete a puzzle; the point was to get more familiar with the topography of English.
I did take note of who first found all of the words. I went over to walk him through the finding of the hidden message, since "Use, in order, the letters that are not circled" is an abstract concept. He got pretty far before I was called away to help another student. When I got back, I discovered he was doing fine before he skipped a row; he had written "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pfhrzlbc."
I feel like the woman in that old commercial who pats flour on herself to fool dinner guests into thinking she slaved over the making of baked goods. My painstaking spelling-activities quest, all three minutes of it, took me to a site that creates word searches. First step: come up with a title for your puzzle. This part of the process was the hardest for me, I think; I finally opted for "Spelling!" I then typed in all twenty of this week's spelling words and noted with amusement (and gratitude) that the puzzle generator promised to use a randomly-created-offensive-word filter as it merrily sprinkled letters around. And here was a nice touch: I could put in a hidden message that would be revealed as the spelling words were found. I chose the propaganda route and hid the phrase "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pancella."
I gave the students the word search today. When I passed out the papers, I explained about the hidden message, showing them how there were dashes at the bottom of the page--"_ ___ __ _____ ________ ____ ____ ________"--for the phrase they were looking for.
The next fifteen minutes were a bit of a free-for-all. Some second graders seem to have something of a word search instinct; others need more prodding. There was much collaborating at tables and some wandering around the room. I didn't mind how they worked on the puzzle so long as they were looking closely at what letters made up the words. The point wasn't to complete a puzzle; the point was to get more familiar with the topography of English.
I did take note of who first found all of the words. I went over to walk him through the finding of the hidden message, since "Use, in order, the letters that are not circled" is an abstract concept. He got pretty far before I was called away to help another student. When I got back, I discovered he was doing fine before he skipped a row; he had written "I love to learn spelling with Miss Pfhrzlbc."
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Ninety-seven, coal car, boxcar, caboose!
I'm working with a small group of second graders doing reading work for a half-hour. This week was my first week.
I have six second-graders in my group, two boys, four girls. One boy shows definite signs of wanting to be the small group clown. On Wednesday, I tried channeling his energy into more positive areas; I had him lead the group in some exercises in reading expressively. We also talked a bit about enunciation and pacing (one girl tends to rush). With all that in mind, I decided to bring in something special on Thursday.
I'd hinted about doing something cool, so when everybody saw the sheets of paper I passed out, they said, "Is that the fun thing?" But I instructed them to keep the pages turned to the back until we finished other activities.
Our small group clown dallied. I let everyone else who had finished turn the pages over while he continued to work. "If we don't get to the fun stuff because of you, the group's gonna be mad at you!" I warned. He picked up the pace.
At last he was done. I explained to the group that when I was just a little older than they are, I had discovered this poem and committed it to memory. I told them to pay attention to what happened as I recited it. They all had copies; I didn't, but our small group clown still thought I was cheating and looking at a page until I looked him dead in the eye as I rattled off my lines.
The poem was Crossing, by Philip Booth, and it goes like this:
"Stop Look Listen/as gate stripes swing down/count the cars hauling distance/upgrade through town:/warning whistle, bellclang,/engine eating steam/engineer waving/a fast freight dream:/B&M boxcar/boxcar again,/Frisco gondola/eight-nine-ten/Erie and Wabash,/Seabord, U.P.,/Pennsy tankcar,/twenty-two,three,/Phoebe Snow, B&O,/thirty-four,five,/Santa Fe cattle/ shipped alive/red cars yellow cars,/orange cars, black,/Youngstown steel/down to Mobile/on Rock Island track,/fifty-nine,sixty,/hoppers of coke,/Anaconda copper,/hotbox smoke,/eighty-eight,/red-ball freight,/Rio Grande,/Nickel Plate,/Hiawatha,/Lackawanna,/rolling fast/and loose,/ninety-seven,/coal car,/boxcar,/caboose!"
What happened, of course, was the poem sped up as the train sped up. "Do that again!" they said. This time I suggested they try reading along with me as I recited it. I asked them to guess how many cars were on the train; what was the last number and how many cars came after that?
They all took their copies with them. One little girl said, her eyes shining, "I'm going to take it home and memorize it this weekend and then I'll say it to you on Monday!"
I have six second-graders in my group, two boys, four girls. One boy shows definite signs of wanting to be the small group clown. On Wednesday, I tried channeling his energy into more positive areas; I had him lead the group in some exercises in reading expressively. We also talked a bit about enunciation and pacing (one girl tends to rush). With all that in mind, I decided to bring in something special on Thursday.
I'd hinted about doing something cool, so when everybody saw the sheets of paper I passed out, they said, "Is that the fun thing?" But I instructed them to keep the pages turned to the back until we finished other activities.
Our small group clown dallied. I let everyone else who had finished turn the pages over while he continued to work. "If we don't get to the fun stuff because of you, the group's gonna be mad at you!" I warned. He picked up the pace.
At last he was done. I explained to the group that when I was just a little older than they are, I had discovered this poem and committed it to memory. I told them to pay attention to what happened as I recited it. They all had copies; I didn't, but our small group clown still thought I was cheating and looking at a page until I looked him dead in the eye as I rattled off my lines.
The poem was Crossing, by Philip Booth, and it goes like this:
"Stop Look Listen/as gate stripes swing down/count the cars hauling distance/upgrade through town:/warning whistle, bellclang,/engine eating steam/engineer waving/a fast freight dream:/B&M boxcar/boxcar again,/Frisco gondola/eight-nine-ten/Erie and Wabash,/Seabord, U.P.,/Pennsy tankcar,/twenty-two,three,/Phoebe Snow, B&O,/thirty-four,five,/Santa Fe cattle/ shipped alive/red cars yellow cars,/orange cars, black,/Youngstown steel/down to Mobile/on Rock Island track,/fifty-nine,sixty,/hoppers of coke,/Anaconda copper,/hotbox smoke,/eighty-eight,/red-ball freight,/Rio Grande,/Nickel Plate,/Hiawatha,/Lackawanna,/rolling fast/and loose,/ninety-seven,/coal car,/boxcar,/caboose!"
What happened, of course, was the poem sped up as the train sped up. "Do that again!" they said. This time I suggested they try reading along with me as I recited it. I asked them to guess how many cars were on the train; what was the last number and how many cars came after that?
They all took their copies with them. One little girl said, her eyes shining, "I'm going to take it home and memorize it this weekend and then I'll say it to you on Monday!"
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Giant's Causeway
I am visiting my friends Cat (whom I know from high school) and Christy (her husband) at their home not far from Belfast. Generally I'm an easygoing traveller, happy to go along with other people's plans, but there was one sight I insisted on seeing on this trip: the Giant's Causeway on the Antrim Coast. I'd been to Northern Ireland once before--ten years ago this year!--on a backpacking trip, and had planned to visit this peculiar rock formation then, but I'd gotten ill and scotched the idea. There'd be none of that this time!
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Really? My last post was in Advent? Huh. Well, it's Lent, so I guess it's time I post again...
Friday I was not well. I was the sort of "not well" that wakes one up at 3 am and lets one know that despite all previous plans, one is not going to go to work, one is not going to the awesome Hartzell United Methodist All You Can Eat Fish Fry and one is not going to the CD release party for the spectacular new release by the amazing Pomegranates, Everybody Come Outside!
Twelve hours after this realization, I decided to risk a walk around the neighborhood in the interest of a change of scenery. I was feeling a bit better, so I stepped out of the apartment with my long black leather jacket over a red ribbed sweater and my favorite gray pants and started out on the forty-minute circuit I like to walk.
I was almost finished--I'd turned my third corner--when a cop car pulled up and two cops came out of it and they said, "Put your hands behind your back! We have a warrant!"
Um?
I put my hands behind my back. They handcuffed me. All I could think was, "I hope wherever you plan to take me has a bathroom."
"What are you doing out here?" they asked.
"I'm on a walk," I said. "I have a forty-minute circuit I like to walk."
"Have you been arguing with anybody?"
"No."
"Do you have any identification on you?"
"No. But if you take me back to my house, we can get it."
"We had a call on a domestic dispute involving a woman with a red sweater and a black leather jacket."
As the cop was saying this, I could see "maybe this isn't the right chick" cross his face and the face of his partner. One kept looking up the street, muttering things like, "She should be coming round the corner any second."
They asked for my name, social security number and birthdate. I gave all of this information, and one got on his walkie-talkie and relayed it. They both sighed in exasperation as the woman on the other end got the numbers wrong, they repeated them, and then we waited. While we waited, one cop decided I didn't pose enough of a security risk to warrant the metal, so he released me from the handcuffs. I put my hands in my pockets and then remembered policemen want to see your hands at all times, so I took them back out again.
We waited, the one cop continuing to look up the street. I stared off into the middle distance.
The cop who kept looking up the street looked at the red lion emblazoned on my necklace and said, alluding to the birth date I'd given him, "I wondered if that necklace meant you were a Leo."
"No, it's actually from Chronicles of Narnia," I said.
Trying to find me in their system was taking too long for their tastes, so finally they said, "Let's just go. Sorry, ma'am." And they got back in their cop car and drove off.
The whole thing probably took no more than ten minutes. I've been having some interesting "Yeah, I've been handcuffed by the police" conversations with random folks because of it.
Friday I was not well. I was the sort of "not well" that wakes one up at 3 am and lets one know that despite all previous plans, one is not going to go to work, one is not going to the awesome Hartzell United Methodist All You Can Eat Fish Fry and one is not going to the CD release party for the spectacular new release by the amazing Pomegranates, Everybody Come Outside!
Twelve hours after this realization, I decided to risk a walk around the neighborhood in the interest of a change of scenery. I was feeling a bit better, so I stepped out of the apartment with my long black leather jacket over a red ribbed sweater and my favorite gray pants and started out on the forty-minute circuit I like to walk.
I was almost finished--I'd turned my third corner--when a cop car pulled up and two cops came out of it and they said, "Put your hands behind your back! We have a warrant!"
Um?
I put my hands behind my back. They handcuffed me. All I could think was, "I hope wherever you plan to take me has a bathroom."
"What are you doing out here?" they asked.
"I'm on a walk," I said. "I have a forty-minute circuit I like to walk."
"Have you been arguing with anybody?"
"No."
"Do you have any identification on you?"
"No. But if you take me back to my house, we can get it."
"We had a call on a domestic dispute involving a woman with a red sweater and a black leather jacket."
As the cop was saying this, I could see "maybe this isn't the right chick" cross his face and the face of his partner. One kept looking up the street, muttering things like, "She should be coming round the corner any second."
They asked for my name, social security number and birthdate. I gave all of this information, and one got on his walkie-talkie and relayed it. They both sighed in exasperation as the woman on the other end got the numbers wrong, they repeated them, and then we waited. While we waited, one cop decided I didn't pose enough of a security risk to warrant the metal, so he released me from the handcuffs. I put my hands in my pockets and then remembered policemen want to see your hands at all times, so I took them back out again.
We waited, the one cop continuing to look up the street. I stared off into the middle distance.
The cop who kept looking up the street looked at the red lion emblazoned on my necklace and said, alluding to the birth date I'd given him, "I wondered if that necklace meant you were a Leo."
"No, it's actually from Chronicles of Narnia," I said.
Trying to find me in their system was taking too long for their tastes, so finally they said, "Let's just go. Sorry, ma'am." And they got back in their cop car and drove off.
The whole thing probably took no more than ten minutes. I've been having some interesting "Yeah, I've been handcuffed by the police" conversations with random folks because of it.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
U2 3D
Isn't it clever? They came up with a movie name that matched their whole "one letter, one number" pattern in reverse. Maybe the technology was developed solely so that one day U2 might utilize it...
I attended the Cincinnati premiere of U2 3D with Bocce Bill last night (not to be confused with Pente Bill, though Bocce Bill plays Pente with Pente Bill). At first it was somewhat frustrating--there was what appeared to be a crack running down the frame. When the lighting was just right you could see it was actually a bit of film strip. Wha? Various members of the crowd made noises, and Bocce Bill went out to talk to someone in charge. At first the only result was that one could see a hand wiping at the obstruction, which was of course even more annoying and not the least bit effective, though the hand made its attempt several times. Finally, about halfway through the second song, the film was stopped, someone came out to inform us that a piece of film was stuck to the lens, and that they were taking care of it. They turned the movie back on (not starting from the beginning, as we requested) with the volume up higher (as we requested).
Then we could all relax and enjoy ourselves.
And how enjoyable it was. Things I particularly enjoyed:
* The song selection. One reviewer had a minor gripe (and so far all the gripes have been minor; the lavish critical praise has been something to behold) that it's mostly a collection of greatest hits. Yes, well, it's rather hard for it not to be, at this point in U2's history. And it would be one thing if it was just a collection of nostalgic hits; quite another for it to be their hits of 1983, 1987, 1991, 2000 etc.
* The sound. Unbelievable separation of the instruments. I was hearing things in these songs I'd never heard before, and given how many times I've heard these songs...! Also, props to whoever did the sound mixing, given that the audio (and visuals) was taken from several different shows. I could tell the difference when they'd cut to the sound from a stadium show, but it was done in such a smooth way, it seemed more a part of the narrative than anything else (the narrative being "Here's where we're sharing something intimate, and here is where we are opening up this intimacy to 100,000 people.")
* Adam.
* Edge. The worshipful tone of Variety's review (sample: "The Edge is a still presence, a cornerstone, a man who quietly revels while a wild celebration unfolds around him.") makes a lot of sense when you watch this. I'm on the record as saying I don't think Edge is very interesting to watch live--what he does is all interior, he's not playing to the crowd at all--but this was different.
* Larry, particularly during "Love and Peace or Else," when Bono starts stalking him.
Which leads us to:
* Bono. Everything you need to know about how to give a great performance can be learned by watching this movie. That's all I'm saying.
* My free movie ticket. Because of the technical difficulties at the beginning, we all got free tix at the end. Yay!
I attended the Cincinnati premiere of U2 3D with Bocce Bill last night (not to be confused with Pente Bill, though Bocce Bill plays Pente with Pente Bill). At first it was somewhat frustrating--there was what appeared to be a crack running down the frame. When the lighting was just right you could see it was actually a bit of film strip. Wha? Various members of the crowd made noises, and Bocce Bill went out to talk to someone in charge. At first the only result was that one could see a hand wiping at the obstruction, which was of course even more annoying and not the least bit effective, though the hand made its attempt several times. Finally, about halfway through the second song, the film was stopped, someone came out to inform us that a piece of film was stuck to the lens, and that they were taking care of it. They turned the movie back on (not starting from the beginning, as we requested) with the volume up higher (as we requested).
Then we could all relax and enjoy ourselves.
And how enjoyable it was. Things I particularly enjoyed:
* The song selection. One reviewer had a minor gripe (and so far all the gripes have been minor; the lavish critical praise has been something to behold) that it's mostly a collection of greatest hits. Yes, well, it's rather hard for it not to be, at this point in U2's history. And it would be one thing if it was just a collection of nostalgic hits; quite another for it to be their hits of 1983, 1987, 1991, 2000 etc.
* The sound. Unbelievable separation of the instruments. I was hearing things in these songs I'd never heard before, and given how many times I've heard these songs...! Also, props to whoever did the sound mixing, given that the audio (and visuals) was taken from several different shows. I could tell the difference when they'd cut to the sound from a stadium show, but it was done in such a smooth way, it seemed more a part of the narrative than anything else (the narrative being "Here's where we're sharing something intimate, and here is where we are opening up this intimacy to 100,000 people.")
* Adam.
* Edge. The worshipful tone of Variety's review (sample: "The Edge is a still presence, a cornerstone, a man who quietly revels while a wild celebration unfolds around him.") makes a lot of sense when you watch this. I'm on the record as saying I don't think Edge is very interesting to watch live--what he does is all interior, he's not playing to the crowd at all--but this was different.
* Larry, particularly during "Love and Peace or Else," when Bono starts stalking him.
Which leads us to:
* Bono. Everything you need to know about how to give a great performance can be learned by watching this movie. That's all I'm saying.
* My free movie ticket. Because of the technical difficulties at the beginning, we all got free tix at the end. Yay!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Continuing Adventures Of This Week
Lured by the promise of an ArtsyFartsyJesusFreak Woodstock, I went camping this weekend to an event known as "GratisFest." It featured bands like Jake Speed and the Freddies and The Pomegranates and The Psalters; primary-color-themed art projects; and a half-pipe for young skater dudes and chicks. I haven't been on a camping trip since I was, oh, one. But I had a supremely easy time of it--all I had to do was buy a sleeping bag and a cooler and borrow D.'s flashlight. My friends G. and T. let me sleep in their tent and eat their food; I didn't even have to drive, I just bummed rides to and from rural Indiana.
The first evening I helped serve ale in the makeshift pub (Price: "a penance a pint"). I stepped outside when the dusk was all gone and only night was left. There were STARS. There was even a MILKY WAY. Jake Speed and the Freddies paid tribute to the sight with a lovely rendition of the Woody Guthrie/Wilco classic "California Stars." I had brought along an H.A. Rey starbook borrowed from the library (growing up I had a copy of his Know Your Stars); I used it to make exceptionally futile attempts at identifying constellations. Over the course of the weekend, I managed to find Scorpio--that was all I gained in constellation knowledge.
The first night, Friday to Saturday, I did not sleep well, so my Saturday passed as follows:
Got up
Sat in a chair
Ate tasty food (eggs and cheese in a bagel)
Napped in the tent
Sat in a chair some more
Ate tasty food (pasta salad with tomatoes and green olives)
Napped some more
...You get the idea. I also went for a couple of walks in the fantastically picturesque woods, trying to identify elm and black walnut trees.
Saturday night The Pomegranates staged a triumph. They made me miss Pants terribly though, because she was the one that introduced the band to me, plus there was a redheaded girl dancing in front of the stage and for a fleeting moment I thought Pants had come to town to surprise us all. Alas, it was not so. But The Poms were simply incredible, particularly considering the audience was probably 75% musicians, so it would have been rather an intimidating show to play, I'd think. I expect great things from this band.
Walking back to the campsite (which by the way consisted of most of my friends and neighbors) after the concert I happened to look up as I wandered through the corn fields and saw some shooting stars. I thought--not for the first time--that I've been given a great life.
The first evening I helped serve ale in the makeshift pub (Price: "a penance a pint"). I stepped outside when the dusk was all gone and only night was left. There were STARS. There was even a MILKY WAY. Jake Speed and the Freddies paid tribute to the sight with a lovely rendition of the Woody Guthrie/Wilco classic "California Stars." I had brought along an H.A. Rey starbook borrowed from the library (growing up I had a copy of his Know Your Stars); I used it to make exceptionally futile attempts at identifying constellations. Over the course of the weekend, I managed to find Scorpio--that was all I gained in constellation knowledge.
The first night, Friday to Saturday, I did not sleep well, so my Saturday passed as follows:
Got up
Sat in a chair
Ate tasty food (eggs and cheese in a bagel)
Napped in the tent
Sat in a chair some more
Ate tasty food (pasta salad with tomatoes and green olives)
Napped some more
...You get the idea. I also went for a couple of walks in the fantastically picturesque woods, trying to identify elm and black walnut trees.
Saturday night The Pomegranates staged a triumph. They made me miss Pants terribly though, because she was the one that introduced the band to me, plus there was a redheaded girl dancing in front of the stage and for a fleeting moment I thought Pants had come to town to surprise us all. Alas, it was not so. But The Poms were simply incredible, particularly considering the audience was probably 75% musicians, so it would have been rather an intimidating show to play, I'd think. I expect great things from this band.
Walking back to the campsite (which by the way consisted of most of my friends and neighbors) after the concert I happened to look up as I wandered through the corn fields and saw some shooting stars. I thought--not for the first time--that I've been given a great life.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
When The Stars Fall From The Sky And The Moon Has Turned Red
I've been waiting to post until I have time to write a full account, but it doesn't seem like I have the luxury of time, so I'll just have to do this in snippets.
Last week I watched the moon cease to exist. The lunar eclipse was very odd, here in Ohio. Unsettling. My friend K and I wandered through Norwood, camping out on one neighbor's porch after another, trying to keep it in sight as it sunk in the sky. When I left the house at 4:50 am, there was already a tiny bite out of the top, like out of a glowing chocolate chip cookie; the bite grew larger and larger as we watched but not very quickly (the earth it moves fast, but not all that fast) so mostly we paid it little attention, we just chatted amongst ourselves. But when there was only a tiny sliver of light left at the bottom, we kept our eyes trained on the moon, even as we had to keep finding higher ground since it was sinking fast into the trees. Then it was red, like a coal after a fire--streaked with red like that. We watched and waited for the sliver of light to return at the top but the earth it is very very large. The sky meanwhile grew lighter, the moon sank lower, and it grew more non-descript. Think of seeing the moon out in daytime, and then imagine the light cast on it by the sun is gone, and you'll get a sense of how not-bright it was. There came a point where we weren't sure we were looking at the moon at all, and so we went home without seeing it return. We wondered if it would ever come back.
Last week I watched the moon cease to exist. The lunar eclipse was very odd, here in Ohio. Unsettling. My friend K and I wandered through Norwood, camping out on one neighbor's porch after another, trying to keep it in sight as it sunk in the sky. When I left the house at 4:50 am, there was already a tiny bite out of the top, like out of a glowing chocolate chip cookie; the bite grew larger and larger as we watched but not very quickly (the earth it moves fast, but not all that fast) so mostly we paid it little attention, we just chatted amongst ourselves. But when there was only a tiny sliver of light left at the bottom, we kept our eyes trained on the moon, even as we had to keep finding higher ground since it was sinking fast into the trees. Then it was red, like a coal after a fire--streaked with red like that. We watched and waited for the sliver of light to return at the top but the earth it is very very large. The sky meanwhile grew lighter, the moon sank lower, and it grew more non-descript. Think of seeing the moon out in daytime, and then imagine the light cast on it by the sun is gone, and you'll get a sense of how not-bright it was. There came a point where we weren't sure we were looking at the moon at all, and so we went home without seeing it return. We wondered if it would ever come back.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Phone Conversation
Me: So what's your brother teaching?
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: What?
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: Oh! The phone reception was bad; I thought you said "Art Theory and Weapons"...but that's the same thing actually, isn't it?
Confidential to S.B.: Welcome back to the States, Sotha!
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: What?
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: Oh! The phone reception was bad; I thought you said "Art Theory and Weapons"...but that's the same thing actually, isn't it?
Confidential to S.B.: Welcome back to the States, Sotha!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Easily the winner in the "Most Inappropriate Comment To Make To A Child" contest
I was sitting in a cafe the other day when a mother with two young sons came in. The younger, who was maybe 1 1/2 or 2, was at that stage where running around and making random loud sounds is what a good time is all about. His mother tried shushing him once or twice, but not in any way that proved effective. Then he went over to her and presumably tried to get something out of her pocket (I didn't see exactly what happened), because she said to him, "Stay out of my pants, unless you have dollar bills."
...
I just...I can't even count the number of levels where that's so wrong.
...
I just...I can't even count the number of levels where that's so wrong.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Ice Cream Truck.
Hot day, walking up to the store.
Little boy up the street, maybe 9 or 10. He's standing by the trash can at the curb wearing that little boy expression that says, "Mom asked me to do something a minute ago, but I can't remember what it is, and...oh, look! There's a bug!"
As I approach, we both hear chimes in the distance. Tinny music, bells, whistles. His expression changes--he is the wanderer in the desert catching sight of an oasis. He looks at me, but he whispers the secret to himself, as though he can barely believe it.
"Ice cream truck," he whispers.
"Ice cream truck," I confirm.
He tears up the steps to his front door. You never know when the tinny music will fade. "ICE CREAM TRUCK!"
Little boy up the street, maybe 9 or 10. He's standing by the trash can at the curb wearing that little boy expression that says, "Mom asked me to do something a minute ago, but I can't remember what it is, and...oh, look! There's a bug!"
As I approach, we both hear chimes in the distance. Tinny music, bells, whistles. His expression changes--he is the wanderer in the desert catching sight of an oasis. He looks at me, but he whispers the secret to himself, as though he can barely believe it.
"Ice cream truck," he whispers.
"Ice cream truck," I confirm.
He tears up the steps to his front door. You never know when the tinny music will fade. "ICE CREAM TRUCK!"
Friday, June 1, 2007
Overheard
As I walked to the Speckled Bird last night, two little boys were walking in front of me.
Boy #1: Man, I can't wait until I get my next corn snake.
Boy #2: (no reaction; has heard it all before)
Boy #1: I think I'm gonna name him Sly.
Boy #1: Man, I can't wait until I get my next corn snake.
Boy #2: (no reaction; has heard it all before)
Boy #1: I think I'm gonna name him Sly.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Today
A conversation I had at work today with a fella in the dining room:
Him: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Him: If Jesus were to ask you to marry Him, would you say yes?
Me: How about if I cross that bridge when I come to it?
Him: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Him: If Jesus were to ask you to marry Him, would you say yes?
Me: How about if I cross that bridge when I come to it?
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Of Bananas and Balloons
For the Ice Cream Social (next Wednesday from 1-3 pm, if you're in the area of Our Daily Bread) we asked for, and got, a case of bananas donated. This means my first successful grant request at this job was paid out in bananas. (Those of you who know what I was paid the first time I was ever paid for a story will especially appreciate this. Those who don't know--it would take far too long to explain.) One case=40 pounds of bananas, enough for one hundred people. That's a lot of banana splits. We've also gotten free ice cream and money to buy syrups, nuts, whipped cream, maraschino cherries, etc. etc.
I love my job.
On Easter Monday my existentialist mentor gave the 'Bread sandwiches left over from her parish's post-Easter Vigil feast and some balloons that had decorated the tables. They were the standard helium balloons, the kind that deflate in a day, but after a week they were still holding up. All but one--one dropped to the floor.
There's this little boy who comes in the office every once in a while looking for Mary Beth, or, as he puts it, "maay BEHHH" (he's like three years old). Actually he calls all of us "maay BEHHH" but it's clear that it's the original maay BEHHH he's looking for. He came in one day last week. It took me a while to realize he was in the office because I could just barely see the top of his head bobbing along on the far side of my desk.
"maay BEHHH?"
"No," I told him. "She's not in right now. Shall we go look for her?"
"K."
So we wandered out into the main dining room.
"maay BEHHH?"
"I don't see her...oh, but look, want a balloon?"
I pulled out the one that had fallen and gave it to him. Then we played a quick game where I would kick it out of his hands and he'd chase after it. This made him squeal with glee. It was the first time I'd heard him really happy.
A couple of days after that we let one of our guests take the whole bunch of remaining balloons--which, yes, were still inflated. You couldn't see his face as he left, just all these pastel teardrop shapes bobbing their way out the door.
I love my job.
On Easter Monday my existentialist mentor gave the 'Bread sandwiches left over from her parish's post-Easter Vigil feast and some balloons that had decorated the tables. They were the standard helium balloons, the kind that deflate in a day, but after a week they were still holding up. All but one--one dropped to the floor.
There's this little boy who comes in the office every once in a while looking for Mary Beth, or, as he puts it, "maay BEHHH" (he's like three years old). Actually he calls all of us "maay BEHHH" but it's clear that it's the original maay BEHHH he's looking for. He came in one day last week. It took me a while to realize he was in the office because I could just barely see the top of his head bobbing along on the far side of my desk.
"maay BEHHH?"
"No," I told him. "She's not in right now. Shall we go look for her?"
"K."
So we wandered out into the main dining room.
"maay BEHHH?"
"I don't see her...oh, but look, want a balloon?"
I pulled out the one that had fallen and gave it to him. Then we played a quick game where I would kick it out of his hands and he'd chase after it. This made him squeal with glee. It was the first time I'd heard him really happy.
A couple of days after that we let one of our guests take the whole bunch of remaining balloons--which, yes, were still inflated. You couldn't see his face as he left, just all these pastel teardrop shapes bobbing their way out the door.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Cooie
Here's how my day went yesterday.
Just after 8 in the morning I hopped in my car to go to a workshop on grantwriting I'd registered for last week. When I sent in the payment for the workshop, I'd torn out the whole page in the brochure with the registration form. What I tore out included the "Save the Date" info with the directions to the workshop, but I didn't worry about this. I just figured the workshop would be held at the headquarters of the organization that sent out the brochure. So I went from Norwood, where I live, out 71 to 275 (on a rainy day, this trip took about 25 minutes). I got there a little late, thought it was odd there were no cars in the parking lot, went in to the office and apologized for being late for the workshop.
"But that workshop isn't being held here--it's in Norwood."
"!...I just came from Norwood!"
So back in the car I went. Luckily not much had happened before I got in the conference room at the real location; they hadn't even started the PowerPoint slides yet.
During the workshop one of my co-workers at my old job left a message on my phone. When the presentation was over at 11:30 I listened to the message.
(Background: last week I'd tried to arrange a lunch for sometime this week with my old boss and our regular lunch crew. We'd originally planned for Tuesday, but it was silly for me to plan for Tuesday because I had also planned for my friend Beth, who was in from out of town, to come in to work with me that day. So I'd emailed my old boss back to ask if another day of the week would be better.)
My co-worker's phone message said that my boss had gotten my email, had decided Wednesday would be the day we'd go to lunch, had sent invites to the whole crew--but had forgotten to tell me. By the time I'd listened to the message and called my old co-worker back, they were all at the restaurant already. Luckily the real location of the workshop was fairly close to the restaurant, so I placed my order through my co-worker's cell phone and got there in time to see her starting in on my crab rangoon.
After that I got in to work. We're planning an Ice Cream Social at Our Daily Bread as part of the continuing festivities surrounding Cookie's retirement. It's going to be during the time our regular guests are around; we're inviting donors and friends from all over, so it should be an interesting mix of people. Yesterday we were on the "design a postcard to send out" stage. The Wednesday Craft Lady had recommended the Chiller font because it looks cool in both senses of the word, so I used that to write:
Join us for an
Ice Cream Social!
Wednesday, May 2nd, 1-3 pm
Come help us celebrate and thank
Our Cookie V.!
Then I copied it and pasted it four times so we could cut up the cardstock we were using to postcard size. I used a clip art image of a sundae (I love clip art), enlarged it, brightened it and took away a lot of its contrast so it could hide behind the words and become sort of a subliminal sundae. Deeply pleased with myself, I ran off the master copy, stuck it in our mondo copier in the back room and printed 200 postcards. Then I ran the cardsstock through a second time to print the return address on the back.
First problem: I hadn't waited long enough for the ink to dry. My pretty Chiller script got all streaky. Oh, well, I thought--maybe it'd help people to feel sorry for us if our mailings are a bit imperfect.
Next problem: As I cut the sheets down to postcard size, I saw that the return address didn't line up very well. Sometimes it was right at the corner, sometimes it was a quarter of the way down the card. My postcards were starting to look pretty sad.
And then: I happened to notice as I was cutting that I must have deleted something by accident after I had done the copying and pasting of the invite. One-quarter of the cards now said
Join us for an
Ice Cream Social!
Wednesday, May 2nd, 1-3 pm
Come help us celebrate and thank
Our Cooie V.!
I left these on Cooie's desk. I hope she notices.
Just after 8 in the morning I hopped in my car to go to a workshop on grantwriting I'd registered for last week. When I sent in the payment for the workshop, I'd torn out the whole page in the brochure with the registration form. What I tore out included the "Save the Date" info with the directions to the workshop, but I didn't worry about this. I just figured the workshop would be held at the headquarters of the organization that sent out the brochure. So I went from Norwood, where I live, out 71 to 275 (on a rainy day, this trip took about 25 minutes). I got there a little late, thought it was odd there were no cars in the parking lot, went in to the office and apologized for being late for the workshop.
"But that workshop isn't being held here--it's in Norwood."
"!...I just came from Norwood!"
So back in the car I went. Luckily not much had happened before I got in the conference room at the real location; they hadn't even started the PowerPoint slides yet.
During the workshop one of my co-workers at my old job left a message on my phone. When the presentation was over at 11:30 I listened to the message.
(Background: last week I'd tried to arrange a lunch for sometime this week with my old boss and our regular lunch crew. We'd originally planned for Tuesday, but it was silly for me to plan for Tuesday because I had also planned for my friend Beth, who was in from out of town, to come in to work with me that day. So I'd emailed my old boss back to ask if another day of the week would be better.)
My co-worker's phone message said that my boss had gotten my email, had decided Wednesday would be the day we'd go to lunch, had sent invites to the whole crew--but had forgotten to tell me. By the time I'd listened to the message and called my old co-worker back, they were all at the restaurant already. Luckily the real location of the workshop was fairly close to the restaurant, so I placed my order through my co-worker's cell phone and got there in time to see her starting in on my crab rangoon.
After that I got in to work. We're planning an Ice Cream Social at Our Daily Bread as part of the continuing festivities surrounding Cookie's retirement. It's going to be during the time our regular guests are around; we're inviting donors and friends from all over, so it should be an interesting mix of people. Yesterday we were on the "design a postcard to send out" stage. The Wednesday Craft Lady had recommended the Chiller font because it looks cool in both senses of the word, so I used that to write:
Join us for an
Ice Cream Social!
Wednesday, May 2nd, 1-3 pm
Come help us celebrate and thank
Our Cookie V.!
Then I copied it and pasted it four times so we could cut up the cardstock we were using to postcard size. I used a clip art image of a sundae (I love clip art), enlarged it, brightened it and took away a lot of its contrast so it could hide behind the words and become sort of a subliminal sundae. Deeply pleased with myself, I ran off the master copy, stuck it in our mondo copier in the back room and printed 200 postcards. Then I ran the cardsstock through a second time to print the return address on the back.
First problem: I hadn't waited long enough for the ink to dry. My pretty Chiller script got all streaky. Oh, well, I thought--maybe it'd help people to feel sorry for us if our mailings are a bit imperfect.
Next problem: As I cut the sheets down to postcard size, I saw that the return address didn't line up very well. Sometimes it was right at the corner, sometimes it was a quarter of the way down the card. My postcards were starting to look pretty sad.
And then: I happened to notice as I was cutting that I must have deleted something by accident after I had done the copying and pasting of the invite. One-quarter of the cards now said
Join us for an
Ice Cream Social!
Wednesday, May 2nd, 1-3 pm
Come help us celebrate and thank
Our Cooie V.!
I left these on Cooie's desk. I hope she notices.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
About Dentists, Among Other Things
Mr. And Mrs. Our Glorious Leader helped me get to and from work today, for which I am very grateful. It rained yesterday, the rain turned to ice overnight, and then about an inch of snow fell on top of that this morning. Yeah. Our Daily Bread closed up shop at about 1 pm yesterday. I went on traffic.com at 4:30 yesterday afternoon, which is when I'm usually heading home, to see what the conditions were like. "Road hazard: downed power lines blocking all lanes," it said for the route I would have taken.
Things I enjoyed about today:
--Being greeted with a cheerful "Happy Valentine's day!" as I walked in to work this morning
--The little noise of glee made by the Coffee Lady when she saw the amount of her paycheck--she had come in to work a special event we had on Saturday, so she got paid extra
--How pretty all the ice-encased trees looked
Now then--about those dentists. A preacherman came in the other day and we got talking about what he sees as the top issues for the homeless/poverty-stricken in our area. He says one of the biggest problems is dental care--our people can't afford to go to the dentist, and there are no programs in place that he knew of that could help.
We've got a podiatrist that comes in to help people with foot issues--this man is a real saint, he goes to places all over and does this for free. Maybe that's what it would take--some dentist to decide to make assisting the homeless part of his mission. So, if there are any dentists reading this--here's a chance to do something great. This isn't just a Cincinnati issue, this type of help is needed all over.
Someone sent us this article recently. The article includes this quote: “Feeding the homeless only encourages more homelessness." I'm not even gonna begin to tell you what I think about that, because anyone using foul language will be asked to leave.
Things I enjoyed about today:
--Being greeted with a cheerful "Happy Valentine's day!" as I walked in to work this morning
--The little noise of glee made by the Coffee Lady when she saw the amount of her paycheck--she had come in to work a special event we had on Saturday, so she got paid extra
--How pretty all the ice-encased trees looked
Now then--about those dentists. A preacherman came in the other day and we got talking about what he sees as the top issues for the homeless/poverty-stricken in our area. He says one of the biggest problems is dental care--our people can't afford to go to the dentist, and there are no programs in place that he knew of that could help.
We've got a podiatrist that comes in to help people with foot issues--this man is a real saint, he goes to places all over and does this for free. Maybe that's what it would take--some dentist to decide to make assisting the homeless part of his mission. So, if there are any dentists reading this--here's a chance to do something great. This isn't just a Cincinnati issue, this type of help is needed all over.
Someone sent us this article recently. The article includes this quote: “Feeding the homeless only encourages more homelessness." I'm not even gonna begin to tell you what I think about that, because anyone using foul language will be asked to leave.
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