getting around

International travel continues to surprise me. Not only are the differences from my routines so astonishing, but so too are the unexpected similarities. The recent trip to Colombia reminded me how nicely I've insulated myself within my native language. What startled me was how varied the voices were among those who grew up speaking Colombian Spanish. There was husky voices and grating voices, some were high and a few were low. Also the homes we visited had subtle architectural features. Our friends' condo had open transoms over every door and tiled floors left uncovered. The combined effect was a happy home as laughter bounced off the walls, up and down the stairs, and into every room. Another house was openly framed with huge sections of local bamboo, a response to environmental issues by using local materials.

Despite the contrasts, one similarity between cities in Colombia, China and South Africa in the varieties of transportation found on the roads. All three have a higher proportion of buses and taxis than I typically see in the USA. But there are also two-wheeled wooden carts pulled by hand, large luxury SUVs, and a range of motor scooters. Unique to Colombia was that there were at least three tiers of motorcycles. While cars tended to remain in their designated lanes, cycles and scooters would fill any and all interstitial spaces. When the traffic signals turn green, vehicles sort and segregate according to horsepower: mopeds watch as they lose pole position to motorcycles and sports cars. Finally, I can report that domestic airports in Colombia are as casual as very nice American train stations. Stroll in the door, throw down a few thousand pesos and you can be in the air to another gorgeous location with very little hassle.

So many other images and so much additional information fills my head that I can't imagine how to organize and present it. We saw giant bronze sculptures of chubby people, rode a tramway over two mountains under which were tin shacks, and ate a meal that consisted of 20 "moments" several of which relied upon liquid nitrogen as part of the effect. But most stunning of all was a tiny town in the lush valleys of central Colombia. I hesitate to write about it for fear of disclosing its existence. There are inexpensive rooms to be rented and wondrous coffees to be consumed. I took pictures but they don't do justice to the glories it holds. It's best left to direct experience. Make your way past the shops and eateries, ascend the stairs, and its just over the hill past the guy offering cervezas from a cooler at the crest. Coffee bushes, palm trees, bubbling brooks and inviting trails. Since the weather is so consistent just 4°N it doesn't matter what time of year to go. Not a matter of if but simply when.

warm snowy memory

During the last presidential campaign, Sue and I were invited up to New Hampshire to meet a candidate. It's a longer story than I will tell here but Sue actually shook Barack's hand while the closest I could get was to watch him make his way to and from the house on a snowy morning. This snowfall was very heavy and wet but it wasn't especially cold. In truth, the weather was accurately forecasted; at the time, I would barely allow myself to dare believe this guy would become President.

All of this came back to me today when Sue reserved a birthday gift of a framed picture of that day. Our host is also a photographer and when Sue unwrapped the gift, I realized I probably need to take more pictures. Seeing this image was as if someone had scanned a cluster of my neurons and downloaded the image. I can feel the moisture in the air and remember happily trudging through the thick snow. In addition, I recall Beyonce's performance of At Last where she became so overwhelmed by the moment that she hurried away from the spotlight before the tears really flowed.

I googled Barack Obama New Hampshire and quickly found the text of a speech he gave shortly after we saw him. It includes lots of "yes we can." Even after nearly two years, despite the economic downturn, the legislative battles, and even the difficulties of managing wars, I confess to feeling a lump form in my throat as I read his words. While he never wanted to be a savior, he was evidently prophetic:

We know the battle ahead will be long. But always remember that, no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.

We have been told we cannot do this by a chorus of cynics. And they will only grow louder and more dissonant in the weeks and months to come.

We've been asked to pause for a reality check. We've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope. But in the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

Sometimes it feels brash to plan too far into the future. Although Sue had heard the line before when uttered by the Car Talk guys, the physician's diagnosis that "you shouldn't buy any green bananas" struck me as funny ... but also uncomfortably reminiscent of cautions about getting our hopes up. Clearly it is important to recognize the dangers of promises about forever. And yet, there is value in living with an awareness of finiteness. Poet Sharon Bryan has been very helpful to me by expressing a middle age view of life in this way in her poem Foreseeing:

so you know without a doubt
that it has an end—
not that it will have,

but that it does have,
if only in outline—
so for the first time

you can see your life whole,
beginning and end not far
from where you stand,

the horizon in the distance—
the view makes you weep,
but it also has the beauty

of symmetry, like the earth
seen from space: you can't help
but admire it from afar

Here in Connecticut, we just had our first hard frost. Otherwise, it's been very mild, light-jacket weather. But winter is on its way. I am eager for the first true snowfall, where the flakes are so heavy they pull eyelids down and where one thinks that if there was no traffic, the collisions of flakes with branches and pavement would be audible. And in that moments, I'll have a fleeting recollection of Barack Obama making his way, late from a previous appointment, up the walk which the Secret Service had so thoughtfully sprinkled with sand. And I won't be ashamed to hope some more.

pieces and puzzles

In response to Zero's suggestion, I have been making my way through Ted Kooser's Poetry Home Repair Manual. I was curious at first, then intrigued by the fresh set of ideas and techniques about writing in general. The chapters on Working with Detail and Fine Tuning Metaphors and Similies took root in my mind without my knowing it. There was also an article describing metropoems, so named because they are to be written between stations while riding the Paris subway. Combined, these lessons prompted me to pull out a cheap pad and a substantial pen while waiting for the bus.

Truly, I was not looking for a chance or reason to write a poem. But it was a bright November morning and because I was planning to be indoors on campus all day, I chose to look around rather than read something. Up the hill is the Board of Education building that was previously the town middle school and before that, the high school. At my feet, was a jigsaw puzzle piece. It was dry and firm but had sustained enough moisture to have lost its image while also hosting some fuzzy mold. For some reason, this made me wonder about opportunities I might miss that would leave a hole in my life. It also made me contemplate the dangers of moving too fast without thinking of consequences. And what could be lost in the process.

So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.

The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.

Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.

No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.

exact measure

Not much in my world relies upon exactitude. On those occasions where exact amounts arise, such as having just the right amount of change for a coffee, it surprises me. I'm not burdened by being inexact. I don't believe knowing, for example, what kind of gas mileage my car gets really would make my life any more full. Instead, general numbers about how many breaths a person takes in a day or average lifespan suits me just fine.

Over time, it has become harder to tally. For the longest time, I could remember the seating chart from my fourth grade class. And I could count how many times I had taught a lesson on electricity or enumerate the students who'd survived my science methods courses. Alas, too many circuits and too many sections have gone by for me to give an accurate count. However, I can give an exact number (actually a volume) for an experience even though I anticipate that will be flooded and washed away before too long. Here it is: in my life, I have consumed exactly a half-glass plus one full bottle of Connemara. And the only reason that I finished the bottle was that I bought a new one during our recent trip to Washington, DC. The new recruit has replaced the empty, fallen soldier.

This is not simply a beverage that displaced my previous admiration for Jameson and Tullamore Dew. This Irish whiskey has a mystical quality. For one, it has a very interesting and distinctive flavor. Another blogger fascinated by whiskeys ended his review of Connemara in this way:

Very drinkable, even quaff-able, with sweetness, and an interesting summer weeds type of presence. And plenty of peat, but don't expect a peat beast; this is driving-through-the-country window-seat-peat.

How about that! Makes me want to drive through the countryside with the windows down. Before the winter is over, because I'm the lone local consumer, the tally may reach 2 bottles plus half a glass. But in May, I expect to lose track because the other mystical aspect of Connemara is with whom it was first tasted. Already, I'm making luggage choices based upon whether I need to bring this beverage with me (which would require checked bags) or if we could locate it in the Denver area (not an easy thing to determine online). Even then, I'd still be able to maintain a fairly exact measure of my consumption. Should a semester in Ireland come to pass -- well, then my accounting would go to hell.

Key to the Connemara mystique is that the two of imbibed just a few hours before the start of our last Crossroads. The distinct, brief exposure of both produced sensations carrying forward into the future. Just a half-glass opened up a whole new world of sipping; only a half-hour of talk about a possible project similarly offered a host of possible ventures. I've made gains on my research project, which includes forging some formal and helpful alliances. Also, there's a still-corked full bottle of peaty elixir that will carry me over until my compadre is in his proper spot in an adjacent chair. Such evenings (or noontimes) are the exact measures that create mileposts by which I can evaluate the delight-full qualities of my life.

notes to myself

Just before rushing out the door to attend a national conference a couple of years ago, I printed out a personalized schedule without reading it carefully. In the weeks leading up to the conference, whenever I came across an interesting author, I'd search for his or her name on the conference program. If they were presenting and it sounded intriguing, I would mark it. But the hurriedly printed version only gave times, dates and locations. Dutifully, I followed the itinerary and showed up at various ballrooms and salons not knowing what was in store. It worked out better than anyone could have imagined. My pre-conference self did a fantastic job with selecting sessions that would have escaped my notice during the unsystematic searches on-site (e.g., "okay, what's available this afternoon?"). What I needed to know was provided for, just when I needed it, through a note I'd generated for myself.

Sometimes the notes to myself have been generated by another person ... but I had left them in an odd place to discover at some unanticipated moment. The poet Naomi Shihab Nye has been doing this for me lately. When I thought I had only first discovered her, I realized I'd actually heard someone else read one of her poems long ago. Yesterday, I found myself reading another of her poems in a compilation I'm certain I had been through before. One of her poems is one I've printed a couple of times and jammed into my bookbag with the expectation I'll pull it out of a mass of papers, re-read it, and remember what matters. In particular, The Art of Disappearing ends with a reminder that strikes me as bold and clear -- and memorable:

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second
Then decide what to do with your time.

Occasionally, I leave notes to myself that I can't quite decipher. For example, I was double-checking the travel time required for Sue and me to reach our favorite restaurant*. I typed the town's name into the mapping search engine and then used the "search nearby" feature. This place is called Still River Cafe and it is a culinary gem in the middle of nowhere. But as I typed, the search engine suggested I was looking for rivera nocturnal landscape — which brought nothing to mind. It was as if a ghost was writing for me, just like in a Harry Potter scene where a deceased boy writes replies into the book where Harry quills in his questions. Later, I pieced together that this was a Diego Rivera painting (adjacent) that reminded me of a photo Zeroeth took during a teacher trip. Even though this was not an example of a note to myself (at least not that I can yet pinpoint) it is evidence I leave scraps here and there.

The final note to myself to report upon arose during breakfast when I was lucky enough to reconnect with the guy who hosted me during a trip to Cape Town a few years ago. He travels here to interview applicants for the spring honors program as well as student nurses for their fall expeditions to his country. He inquired (as I feared and hoped he would) about prospects for education students. I shared with him my pessimism. Somehow, because he was quietly chewing or I needed to continue, i explained my ambition had been to help students see diversity and poverty in a dramatically different setting such that they could return home to see those conditions here with fresh eyes. The words came so easily that upon hearing them, I recognized them as something I had expressed before when a South Africa trip was still a possibility. Now those ideas have come to the surface again and I'm looking for an angle to pursue such an opportunity. A verbal note to myself that I was carrying in my skull but had been forgotten until I shared it with myself.

- - - - - - - - -

* The sky was very overcast but there was a break in the clouds to the west at 6:30. It was not a lightness that illuminated nor a glow that gave warmth. Instead, it created the ache that comes from knowing that it will become much darker and colder — and these times will be of sufficient duration it might be that warmth and light won't return until after life has departed from the body. It seemed the perfect conditions to see deer along the country road. I announced this sensation and less than fifteen minutes later we passed, untouched, through a herd of whitetail as they ambled across the blacktop. Another message from and to myself.

just might work out

Most teachers know about the great fun of preparing for a new group of students. Everybody is new, anything is possibility, and every thing is beautiful ... in its own way (see pop culture reference in a this unique video). Later we discover how foolish it was to plan for students in two separate courses to do the same assignment and have it due the same week. In this case, despite the workload it's a good idea. In brief, they are to find a cute or clever or classic hands-on activity and upgrade it so it incorporates effective teaching practices (e.g., learning cycle, process skills, standards-based, inquiry, differentiation, etc.). I'm sure once I finally open the pile of papers and associated email messages that it will work out.

What this is competing against are my efforts to generate two complementary NSF proposals. I have not had the best of luck winning sizable grants but on this occasion, I am emboldened. For one, the idea has stirred great enthusiasm and interest among those who may be involved, including colleagues in the Ed Leadership department and someone else at another university down the road. In addition, I'm getting some badly needed advice from people I've never met. To one in particular I sent a bold email asking for a copy of his recently funded project. Not surprisingly, he declined but we've since arranged for a consultation phone call later this week. Also, we have a great budget guy at our institution and he sent back a revised spreadsheet that corrects some of my mistakes. Having this means I can see for myself the financial implications of dropping from 3 to 2 graduate assistants. That change allows me to increase travel funds for fieldworkers and still bring us in under budget.

If there's anything unfortunate in all of this is that the two tasks are competing with each other. There's less than a month left to align all the pieces, obtaining all the necessary supporting documents and finalize a compelling description about what we'll accomplish in the NSF project. Even though I'd rather do some wordsmithing, this late in the day is not a good time to undertake such a creative intellectual task. What makes it so fun is that the proposed project is similar to writing a syllabus: it's all possibilities and exciting ones at that. The additional encouragement from friends and strangers, far and near, only makes it more grinnable.

gone crazy

Earlier this year, there was discussion about whether it might not be best to envision colleagues as mental patients. In a very pragmatic sense, this construct held true due to its verifiability in multiple sites. Turns out this may be more than idle speculation in light of empirical evidence.
According to a recent article, mental disorders by people may reach a 60% incident rate by age 32. And even higher values as one ages. Here's a quote from the researcher as reported in Science News:

Life flu, if you follow a cohort of people born in the same year, as they age almost all of them will sooner or later have a serious bout of depression, anxiety or substance abuse problem.

What should be comforting to me is that I already suspected as much, which suggests I may have greater interpersonal sensitivity than I might have believed. What is subsequently discomforting is the seeming inevitability of this for me. I suppose if I am to continue my contrarian ways, I should avoid anxiety and depression by opting for cannabis dependence. On such a sunny autumn afternoon, perhaps I should perform a google image search to see whether I can begin a leaf collection that will place me on the normal path to mental disorders.

indulgences

First weekend in October and there are many indulgences. Two days of intermittent rain extended the period of nightfall such that I have slept all night and past 8 am for two nights in row. While the clouds prevented us from gazing at the full moon, there is still a Chinese mooncake waiting to be eaten. Dense, glutinous, sweet — it almost certainly transport billions to their childhoods upon the first bite. Me: I learned how lotus paste tastes and am not surprised the hard-boiled egg yolks are not common within most past pastries I have encountered.

We drove across the border in search of an orchard recommended by a local friend. Along the way, the steering wheel all but jumped out of my grip as we approached a sign indicating it was New England’s largest liquor store. The parking lot was full and inside we were greeted by a costumed scarecrow (note: purchased costumes such as lobsters are far superior) and clots of people. Turns out it was Octoberfest and the locals were swarming around tables for beer tasting. On the periphery, others hovered with their bratwurst. We made our way around one soggy swarm to an aisle of whiskey and a section from the isles of the United Kingdom. Four different styles of Tullamore Dew varying in supposed age and by bottle design. Nearby, distinguished and aloof, was my choice of a tall cardboard sleeve or a regularly corked bottle with the hazy landscape of Connemara in western County Galway.

Further, weaving on narrow damp roads toward the orchard, my co-pilot asked what I might want to eat at this place. Bratwurst was on my mind and her response indicated that was a feeble hope. We parked in a meadow and walked toward the store and apples. We heard music. Turned out there was a live band doing a very decent job generating southern rock from beneath a shelter that held a dozen or so picnic tables. A trailer was selling onion rings, french fries and other greasy foods. And so I had my bratwurst with kraut. There were goats and llamas to survey. A weedy pen held a sign explaining the world distribution of the emu but none was to be seen. Sue tossed a piece of my brat bun to a chicken who then fell head over claws in love. We ambled back toward the music, selected a peck of Galas, and headed down the road.

Breakfast on Sunday was a caramel apple we bought at another orchard the same day. The whiskey sits next to the coffee maker (temporarily) and I resist the indulgence of a snort or a sniff. It ought to be enough to enjoy the lightening sky where I am instead of attempting a mental escape. A reverse recollection would accompany the odor of peat-smoked malt, perhaps a vous jàdé experience where I know in the future I’m going to remember this moment. Quite sadly, I discover there are no cheap flights later this month between Hartford or Providence and Salt Lake City. The whiskey find then is a somewhat hollow victory. Somehow or another there has to be a way to indulge this increasing desire long before May 1 in Denver. Wheels begin to turn.

first day discoveries

I am reminded that the routines of preparing for a first day of a new semester should not be completely crowded out by preparations for something more exciting.

1. Copying a syllabus a week in advance, putting it on color paper, and stapling the two pages together is all wasted effort if you fail to move it from your home-office floor into your book bag for the first day of class.
2. Emailing your syllabi to your department's administrative assistant, even before it is requested, means you have copies in your email outbox -- even if you wrote the syllabi on a different computer.
3. Baking soda dissolves and mixes with water much more readily that does corn starch. While green and semi-solid, unless oobleck is made from a box that say CORN STARCH instead of BAKING SODA (even though they look like the same box) then it's just as well to dump the slurry down the drain.
4. Recycling an old powerpoint slide show can, with just a little bit of Q&A, fill the time during which students would have been investigating oobleck.
5. Except for the corn starch, I have all the equipment needed to make oobleck for the next time class meets. Since Labor Day is next Monday, that means there are two weeks to remember to buy the right box.
   

geography lesson

According to my traffic widget, I has a visitor to this blog from Kuala Lumpur. No, I didn't know where this was but now know it is in Malaysia. Halfway between Australia and India. I wondered whether I might have a new science education colleague reaching out from southeast Asia. Too late for him or her to come to Crossroads in 3 weeks. Pity.

Actually the link that brought this web surfer to my blog was also included: it was a Yahoo search of Statistical Projection of Kentucky Fried Chicken Company. Really? This has to be some scam. Could someone legitimately stumble across my blog using those words? Maybe they were writing a report for an economics class or doing some work for the government about whether to let KFC into the country.

The hit was due to excerpts from my rant about having a hick heritage along with my ramblings about mental illness among faculty:

Kuala Lumpur, Wilayah Persekutuan arrived from search.yahoo.com on "Brewing Trouble"
... suits (except for on the Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets rolling around in pickup ... Because of criticisms that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Disorders ...

Sure enough, when I ran that search this blog was the tenth on the list of sites. I couldn't replicate this result with a Google search. I feel bad for my Malaysian pal and wish there was a way to discourage him from using Yahoo anymore. Otherwise, he's going to develop an even more bizarre impression of America -- or crash and burn on that Econ assignmet.

bus to school

A concern raised about the proposed magnet school site is that the country road is dangerous. One citizen recommended that we travel that road when buses are on it. So Wednesday, first day of school in town, I did. First time was from 7 to 7:30 a.m. and then later around 4 o'clock. While somewhat narrow, I didn't find the road to be any more hazardous than most two-lane roads. No drop-offs, no suspension bridges, no firing range. But in that calim, I realized I had forgotten the significance of this annual rite, waiting for the first bus ride of the new school year. I suppose because two or three buses stop twice a day at the building across the street from us, the symbolism of boarding a bus to school has faded. I also saw moms and dads waiting with children at the bus stops in town -- some had cameras to presumably capture the moment. All the hope and possibilities in the minds of the family along with the uncertainty and optimism of/for the children.

Without any office on campus, I decided it made no sense to buy a parking pass. This decision was partly economic but the situation also makes it a minuscule amount less easy to drive to campus because I have to make sure I have enough cash to exit the garage. Plus, there is a local bus from our town to campus that is free with a university identification card. I took a couple test runs this week to see how dependable it was. Unlike with a car where being late to an appointment is almost entirely under my control, when someone else drives I trade the time to daydream or read in exchange for a sacrifice over my schedule. So far, so good. Yesterday, I became so comfortable on the bus (my 4th trip: heading home on the second day) that I fell asleep a couple of times.

I never thought about who would ride the bus. Yesterday morning, I was the only white person among 2 dozen passengers. The rest were Asian and live in apartments on the north end of town. They seem familiar to the bus drivers and it's fascinating for me to be in the minority on a country bus in New England. While waiting for the trip home, I had 3 different guys asked for help with the schedule: an eastern European, a Chinese guy (trying to get to Wal-Mart), and a Bangladeshi doc student in economics who is just starting this fall. Students also use the bus to visit a large grocery store since there is not one within walking distance of campus -- beer is available nearby but not bread loaves. One of my international grad students has suggested that I keep a journal of all the people I meet -- she's bitten by the "every person is a potential data point" bug. I'm not sure if there's a connection, but last night was the first in a week where I didn't suffer from sleeplessness. Don't know if it's being around the interesting mix of people, the calm that comes from knowing I can now plan trips to campus without fear of being late, or the healthful benefits of a brief doze as the diesel rumbles beneath my seat.

to be so happy

Ever since I first saw the apprenticeship video that Zero included in his keynote address back in 2007, I find myself emotionally overwhelmed when I see examples of pure joy. This is not usually wistful thinking because I'm not longing for times when I was as joyful. As far as I'm concerned, those aren't events that live in my past:I expect it to happen a few times during our time in Portland. Rather, I am so drawn to the purity of such moments: rare, crystal clear and brilliant.

Evidence of this type of happiness leapt from the computer screen the other day. I'd heard an interview with the 3 kids you make up the Homemade Jamz Blues Band. Their name comes from the fact that their father built the lead and bass guitars himself. Actually, he assembled them using old guitars and new auto parts, especially mail-order exhaust systems. There's evidence of joy when hearing them perform. But when I watched a clip from the Tavis Smiley show, that's when I saw genuine happiness. And of all places, it comes from a young girl during her musical performance. There are many places to witness this but a good place to jump in is when at 14:10 and again at 13:08 (time left in the video). I tried to capture a good still shot but it's the happiness in motion that is part of the magic.

In a similar fashion, Naomi Shihab Nye (a future poet for our conference -- she lives in San Antonio) uses her poem So Much Happiness to capture the surprise and delight that happiness provides:

Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,
you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known.

This runs somewhat counter to the adage that we're each responsible for our own happiness. But what makes most sense to me is that when happiness arrives, it's best to just let it flow -- and become known for doing so.

lake and mountains, men and mortal

A colleague who was with me for one year in Ohio and with whom I've now reunited in New England introduced me to the essay "The Student, The Fish and Agassiz." I don't know whether that first exposure stuck with me or whether that was the first of many encounters with it. Somewhere over the years, I became sufficiently impressed with it to include in within our book chapter about observing. Here is an excerpt as a reminder:

On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum, but had gone and would not return for several hours. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my fingers down its throat to see how sharp its teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish; and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the professor returned.

“That is right,” said he, “a pencil is one of the best eyes.” (Scudder, 1879, p. 450)

It turns out that my guide was correct in speculating that two significant features of our recent expedition were obviously connected to this fish tale. First, Mount Agassiz was the dominating peak that we looked up to throughout our expedition. The other was Lake Scudder, the calm lake next to our final campsite. According to the Utah Geologic Survey, these two features are named after these two scientists. Our worry that the calm water boasting of so many large dragonflies was named after a different Scudder can now be dispelled. The Scudder of insect paleontology fame is that same guy who was made to stare at a fish.

Turns out that a Google search to find the burial site of a paleontologist produces LOTS of links, none of which reveal his gravesite. Instead, lots of older fossils are described.

new chapters

There is a niche of "movements" out there that appeals to the more privileged and experienced among us. For example, one Marc Freedman has written books such as Prime Time: How Baby Boomers Will Reinvent Retirement and Revolutionize America which is part of his Civic Ventures program. In a nutshell, he focuses upon directing baby boomers toward post-career lives that are personally fulfilling and civicly minded. One of my favorite parts of this initiative is the logo they use for their Encore Careers website. This site purports to connect "retired" professionals with new work that fills the void presumably left by lucrative yet hollow careers. The use of a semi-colon designates as work-life separating then from now. For some writers, a comma signifies one beat, a semi-colon two beats, and a period represents four beats. The appropriate use of a semi-colon indicates that the idea is continuing but their is a slight pause along with a possible change in direction. Thus, the semi-colon is a perfect little squiggle to represent transitions and also a sly wink to those whose college education trained them on the use of this form of punctuation.

I made my weekly trek to campus today including a stop at the library to return one book and check out 9 others, most of which were poetry. And once I'm home again, I received notice that another Interlibrary loan book I requested was in. I'd forgotten the title and when it appeared in an email, it was cryptic enough to startle me: "The third chapter : passion, risk, and adventure in the 25 years after 50." It refers to a book by Sarah Lawrence-Lightfoot and I'd watched part of an interview of her by Bill Moyers. The book she wrote was based upon interviews of people in the later part of their lives who were trying to find meaning to what they do. She mentions developmental psychologist Erik Erikson who in the 1950s divided life into chapters and stages.

Each one of these stages is characterized by a crisis, a crisis of whether we're going to move forward, progress, or whether we're going to move back, regress. So, it is this tension always, at each of our developmental stages, between progression and regression. And this third stage is a crisis between what he calls "generativity" and stagnation. Sounds very dramatic. Generativity, having to do with using your energies to serve, to teach, to mentor, to express through art, to innovate, to give something to society, right? To leave a legacy. And stagnation, meaning, "I'm going to stay right here, and make my mark, continue to make my mark, in an individual pursuit."

What I understand is her belief that many people reach a certain age and then decide they ought to be making a difference in the lives of others. What I would respectfully dispute is whether this is necessarily restricted to those in the penultimate chapter of their lives. I suspect that this may be a common message for many people but there are a lot who, because they are caught up in careers or other distraction, may not hear until their worries have subsided. The reasons I requested this book (as a prelude to an actual purchase) is to see whether she uncover phenomena similar to what many seem to acquire from Crossroads.

There's a tale about another developmental psychologist titled "the American question." As Piaget described childhood stages of development and the ages at which changes occurred, there were often Americans who wanted to know how to accelerate that process. Of course, this amused him because he believed his sequence and timing was perfect. I recognize the humorous parallels to my question, but I'll pose it anyway: is the generativity vs. stagnation tension restricted to those in the final third of their lives — or is it possible to encourage and provoke individuals to listen to their internal passions and desires to leave a legacy, to make a lasting mark, to serve others' needs through one's exceptional efforts? I already know the answer to this question given what I witness among those audacious to take on new challenges even though they've earned the leather recliner of tenure. I suppose I'll be looking for evidence to support my beliefs by reading Lawrence-LIghtfoot's book. I do not expect to disagree with what she reports. However, I plan to appropriate her discoveries for my own purposes.

forms of hunger and gluttony

After two weeks of contrasting vacation experiences, I'm struggling to get back into a productive groove. I believe the core problem is my gluttony. When on trails in the Uintas, I was constantly shoving mountain scenery and trail food into my face. At the beach, I was continually ingesting seawater, sugar-cereal, and time with the most enjoyable segment of my biological family. Now that I'm home and freed of distractions from nephew/nieces or alpine meadows, I'm shoving information into my mind. I already have a few books requested online via inter-library loan, I have spent time looking for poetic references to "zero" for a pending proposal, and am listenining to music from an odd array of online sources.

I confess to having insufficient discipline. There are plenty of important and pressing tasks that need my attention, the most important of which is catching up on a backlog of emails from my secondary science methods students. There is also the matter of reviewing conference proposals, providing feedback and formatting resubmissions. And yet, I'm checking a recent email announcing the pictorial evidence of backpacking and then listening for the third time to a tune by the Rural Alberta Advantage and wondering whether to download some tracks. I've not been deprived: the coffee was good and strong over the past two weeks and I have ingested too many cups this morning along with a heaping bowl of Frosted Flakes that were leftover. Can't quite understand why the letters on my monitor keep jumping around.

desire to press top left button on keyboard

Driving home from campus this afternoon, I was finally able to get around a slow van when the road expanded to two lanes on my side. I pulled alongside mister law-abiding, right-at-the-speed-limit. His was a contractor's vehicle with a phone number on the back, metal racks on the roof … and this interesting symbol on the side.

I knew it was Greek but I wasn't sure which letter. Theta? No, that has a horizontal bar. Iota? No, that sounded too small which probably wouldn't be blue collar enough. Then I wondered if the electrician was playing some clever game. I know it's pretty rural where we live and I'd almost expect sly intellectual references if I was in Cambridge (notwithstanding being within a horseback ride to the best public university in New England). So I puzzled and puzzled. How do you pronounce phi?

The owner also had his last name on the side. In fact McPhee turns out to kind of a big deal within the electricity industry. Plus, their offices are far from Storrs. Phi was the mystery symbol and some purists argue it is pronounced as a long e sound. To rhyme with McPhee. Wikipedia informs me that this letter represents electrical potential which is an amazing advertising gimmick. I was very impressed and somewhat envious about the confluence of names and professions and symbols.

And I was about to end this entry when I followed a couple links and found that phi also is used to represent fugacity…

Fugacity reflects the tendency of a substance to prefer one phase (liquid, solid, or gas) over another, and can be literally defined as “the tendency to flee or escape.”

The fugacity coefficient is useful as a measure of the escaping tendency of a substance from a heterogeneous system.

fugacious |fyoōˈgā sh əs|
adjective (esp. poetic/literary)
tending to disappear; fleeting : she was acutely conscious of her fugacious youth.

Last random thought. A friend from Cleveland once told me of a sailing competition among various modest sailing clubs. All the competitors taught sailing during the summer and presumably were ski bums or college students in cooler weather. One team claimed they were descendants of an Indian tribe: the Fugawee. It sounded odd but its significance became clear as they shouted to other boats at each turn "We're the Fugawee?!" I can attest that when scented with beer, the voice that shouts that line sounds as if there is some uncertainty about one's location.

Turns out if you want footwear authentic to Paul Revere's time, you could obtain them from the Fugawee corporation. Further, there is a type of soil classified as Fugawee

Fugawee soils are on gently sloping plateaus and moderately steep mountains. Elevations are 6,000 to 8,000 feet. Slopes are 2 to 50 percent, but are mainly less than 30 percent. Fugawee soils formed in material weathered from basic volcanic flows, breccias and agglomerates. The average annual precipitation ranges from 35 to 60 inches. Mean annual temperature ranges from 37 degrees to 44 degrees F., mean January temperature is 24 degrees F. and mean July temperature is 59 degrees F. The average frost-free season is 30 to 80 days.

Time to flee and disappear. Fugaciously escaping.

teaching without a net or web

First day of a very intensive (6 weeks x 6 hours each) of secondary science methods. I have enjoyed the challenges of thinking about what this group really needs. I suspect they want really practical information: how can I make kids behave, where can I find cool labs, how will I find a job? I know that making it appear I'm giving students what they want is a great way to gain their loyalty. And their tolerance. But I am also responsible for looking out for their well-being in that part of their life that takes place after student teaching. Fortunately, I was able to ask advice of students who just completed the program so I was making course decisions on more than just my hunches. One suggestion/confession: learning to reflect upon one's practice is not as dopey as it seemed at the beginning. My response? I ask for a blog entry each week about something in the course that has made them think or re-think.

Since it has been two months since my last teaching episode, I have had a lot of space to contemplate And since I also teach the undergraduate version this fall, I feel as if I'm doubling my investment because I will get two courses planned at once. It's not an especially stunningly innovative course and there's obviously a lot that had to be left out. But on the other hand, I'm operating under the belief that I will have more than one shot with both groups. There are electives they will likely take with me after their student teaching that will help me help them. It's not exactly that I've conceded that the course is just good enough. But it is sufficient for the time available and for what is most pressing for them.

I was prepared enough for today' that I had an unusually sound night's sleep. That rarely happens prior to a first class meeting. A bag of handouts, a spare projector in case my classroom was without, a spare marker in case the others were uncapped and dry. I even ironed my shirt and put a water bottle of sweetened coffee in the freezer to give me a boost for all 6 hours plus the 45 minute drive home. I loaded a milk crate of popular science books (Natalie Angier, Stephen Jay Gould, etc.) and hoisted my bookbag full of handouts into the vehicle. I left home without rushing and early enough that under even the worst traffic conditions I'd be on time.

At about the two-thirds point of the drive, I was wondering in what order to carry stuff in since it would take more than one trip to get everything into the building. Kind of like that old puzzle about a boat that can only carry two things at a time across the river: a fox, a goose, a bag of corn. [A little freaky that googling four words (boat fox goose corn) takes you right to the puzzle.] Since we had an instructor's laptop swiped from an unintended classroom two summers ago, I decided that my bookbag should be in the second run. The bookbag full of handouts. And so heavy it didn't register that the laptop was at home on a table. With a nice Keynote that would help provide structure for the whole day. To turn around could make me late and would certainly make me visibly flustered from the get-go. So I kept going.

We made it just fine. The Keynote was more of a planning document to organize my thoughts and when I was later able to pull it up (albeit as pdfs on the iPod) I was close to what I had planned. Instead of making them watch the Ott Planetarium NOS show, I gave them the link and suggested they watch it on their own time. Some other slides will fit into next week's schedule just fine. It was more than a little exhilirating to have to reinvent my plans going 70 mph. But it also meant it only took one trip to haul stuff because the projector had lost its purpose. I did read two poems: Like Lily Like Wilson just before lunch and To Be of Use to close the day. We were in a too-small room for 12 students and it was a little stuffy so letting them out at 2:40 instead of 3:00 was okay. Next time I'll remember the laptop AND the program secretary has secured a larger, carpeted and very air conditioned room. Still I'll probably improvise at some point, maybe shuffling like Thelonious (the Blue Monk). Or wonder whether I'm going crazy like old Bud Powell … who I just discovered c/o Lawson Inada. Not a bad day for creating conditions in which I had to teach without the Web to catch me.

sheep dispenser

There is little that compares to witnessing a three year old having a complete meltdown as evidence that not becoming a parent was a wise choice. Luckily for everyone within earshot, I didn't pretend or imagine that there was anything I might do. Knowing my limits allowed me to almost completely detach from the screaming, hyperventilating, and throwing. Mother Kathy managed very well and brought the storm to a successful calm and with greater patience than I could ever muster. I supposed decades teaching middle school science is good preparation.

This same middle schoolteacher, ex-clown disposition toward the world also explains why she carries in her car a toy sheep that dispense jelly beans. While I sometimes wish I could inflict such off-color projects upon children, at least in this situation I was an admirer and not an instigator. On the other hand, perhaps such tendencies on my part explain why few nieces and nephews ever visit and those that do so make trek only rarely.

Picture 1 shows the key objects: (A) an enthused child, (B) a sheep dispenser (head tilted to reveal the cavity) and (C) a supply of Jelly Bellies. Only a few people in this world know that the confection is this superhero's Kryptonite. An open container is just a few hours from being an empty one. Fortuitously, I also am forgetful and hid this container in my own office after receiving it for Christmas. So out it comes and now Molly and I are debating which beans are the right color. She gets the joke because white ones and red ones are wrong. For you should know that the sheep will dispense beans from an opening just below its tail. Browns and blacks would be ideal -- and the little squirt knows it!

Very little training was required to prompt Molly to begin dispensing beans. Pressing down on the sheep's bag forced the legs into the body, the tail to lift, and the bean to pop out. Bean after multi-colored bean. And since it was a gift to me, there was no struggle about whether it would remain in Connecticut. I am somewhat disturbed to discover that there are many varieties of such toys available for sale. But I am grateful for an unusual stocking stuffer idea for my distant nieces and nephews.

hick vs. southern

I may need to reconsider the possibilities associated with southern-ishness. Without southern gentility and graciousness, I suspect that I may have overreached. In my hometown, there were not any cotillions. There were no southern belles or men dressed in white suits (except for on the Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets rolling around in pickup truck beds). Yes, there were biscuits aplenty. But those were at all-you-can-eat buffets -- which were available as breakfast, lunch and supper at the same joint. Labeling state routes with letters may have more to do with the an effort to avoid confusing the locals with numbers (or ciphers). In actuality, there appears to be a legacy of hillbilly and hick-ishness. Instead of the endeariig drawl that can rival an Irish maiden's accent, we were blessed with Foghorn Leghorn as the voice that penetrated our skulls.

There were live bluegrass music performances to accompany the Sunday morning church programs on the teevee. Anything contained within our skins was touching our innards. At the mini-mart, there were 6 varieties of leaf chewing tobacco for sale. They sold gum to kids in containers the same shape and dimensions as a Skoal can. Many men buy their clothes at the hardware store ... perhaps because that is where wide and rugged suspenders are sold. The list goes on but after a bit, it seems downright silly. For a visitor, it all could seem quaint. For a local, it all seems just fine and dandy. But for escapees, it all seems a little too familiar and frightening at the same time. I would have to think twice before mentioninng Obama in mixed company. But I could hear the prices for hog bellies and corn futures during the noon radio news, something that is not as easy to obtain in New England.

my southern-ishness

It started with new reports about a tornado that hit our hometown in mid-May. A local feller was interviewed and his twang made us look at each other with the question about whether that is how we sounded. It didn't seem like it was possible. But the recent trip back to Missouri revealed some southern inside of us. To a certain extent, it's similar to learning that I descended from an exotic race from a previous generation. As startling as such a discovery was for us (admitting that it is a geographic inheritance and not biological) it helped clear things up a bit and pull together some odd pieces.

There were lots of signs, literal and figurative. One example is the hydrological feature that others would call a stream is what our kin refer to as a crick. Another was the somehow familiar yet odd realization that state roads in Missouri are identified by letters: Route P ran northeast out of town and Route K was a major north-south road west of Kirskville. Culinarily, I was struck by how often biscuits were available and that coffee cups held hot brown water that had very little taste. Religion, as in fundamental Christian religiosity, was everywhere (someone tried witnessing to me at a reception) and most everyone was polite and cheerful. I was startled by how quickly we fell into conversation in the car about the scenery: Is that a pasture or are they not farming that plot? That has to be wheat -- and over there, the corn won't be knee high by July Fourth.

Now I won't go so far as to suggest that we are "pure" southern. There are many distinguishing features of the Old South that don't apply. We don't have a rich literature base with the likes of Faulkner (Twain: maybe but he did all his writing after moving away). Nor are we as steeped in history. We can lay claim to some artists. Paintings such as this one really capture the agricultural richness and the angry storms that sweep the countryside. This image of yellowed corn indicates that this was an autumn scene. And our arrival in St Louis airport was closely followed by a vicious thunderstorm that drove the rain sideways, lightning that tricked the streetlights into turning off, and the amazingly dense air the next morning. It was so reminiscent of our youth but simultaneously strange. I noticed for the first time how dark green the roadside oaks were compared to the maples that dominate the New England landscape. Distinct and special -- a perspective made possible only by an extended absence.

slim jims and nitro-glycerine

Not wanting to make fun of the death and destruction, but this news item really makes me wonder what they put in these things. I think I tried one once but much prefer the flattened jerky-style "meat products" over these mysterious cylinders. Don't ask me why I take comfort in something that looks like it was stripped from the outside of a tree as opposed to a slim and glistening think stick of protein dynamite.

An explosion at the factory in Garner, North Carolina, which makes Slim Jim meat snacks, caused extensive damage to the roof, Garner Police Sergeant Joe Binns said today in an interview. Deaths have been reported and hazardous-material teams were on the scene, Binns said. … The company makes brands like Chef Boyardee, Hunt's tomato sauce, ACT II popcorn and Hebrew National hot dogs.

I guess I suspected there was some ingredient that induced ... um ... gastronomic explosions. But I never suspected that the detonations might be an attendant risk of the manufacturing process. Do you suppose the price of Slim Jims is going to spike, at least in this part of the country that relies upon the North Carolina factory? Or perhaps the shelf-life is so long that it may be decades before the culinary and economic impact of this incident influences our daily lives.

the DSM & the U

PRESS RELEASE (10-June-09) — In collaboration with the American Psychiatric Association, the University has reach an agreement to serve as a content validating site for document mental incapacities. Because of criticisms that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Disorders (DSM) lacks empirical support in certain areas, the APA has been seeking to substantiate their classification system with field-based evidence. "We felt your university would be a rich opportunity for investigation," stated Darrell Kupfer, co-chair of the DSM-V Task Force. Dr Kupfer's group is responsible for updating the current document that serves a seminal reference document for psychiatrists worldwide.

Said Community Outreach Director Angela Sazerac, "A soon as we were approached as a potential study site, I knew we'd be crazy to turn them away." Trained participant-observers from the APA will surreptitiously visit the target facilities in the role of students and non-tenured faculty to record their interactions with university staff. As most members of the university family recall, the southside campus (now used for graduate dorms) was once the site of a residential care center. Once asylums in the region were discontinued, this valuable piece of property was acquired by the University. Thus, our connections to the mentally incompetence is a cherished part of our heritage.

Specific departments and offices at the University will be observed for the following mental disorders:

• Malingering: fabricating or exaggerating the symptoms of mental or physical disorders for a variety of motives, including getting financial compensation. (Public Relations Office and the Grant Procurement Center).
• Generalized anxiety disorder (GAD): excessive, uncontrollable and irrational worry about events disproportionate to the actual source of concern. This excessive worry often interferes with daily functioning, as individuals suffering GAD typically catastrophize, anticipate disaster, and become overly concerned about everyday matters such as health issues, money, death, family, friend, digestive and/or work difficulties. (Promotion and Tenure Committees).
• Hypersomnia: recurring episodes of excessive daytime sleepiness with compulsion to nap repeatedly during the day, often at inappropriate times such as at work, during a meal, or in conversation. (Library Services and all Administrative Offices).

"I knew we'd be crazy to turn them away" ~ A.Sazerac

• Narcissistic personality disorder (NPD): a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration, and inability to empathize; turning inward for gratification rather than depending on others, and excessive preoccupation with issues of personal adequacy and prestige (Tenured Faculty & Emerti Club).
• Paraphilia: powerful and persistent sexual interests in other than copulatory behavior with phenotypically normal, consenting adult human partners (Agricultural School and Division of Intramural Athletics).
  
• Dissociative Fugue: disorder characterized by reversible amnesia for personal identity, including full or partial loss of memory, personality or other key aspects of individuality. The state is usually short-lived (hours to days), but can last months or longer. Dissociative fugue usually involves travel or wandering, and is sometimes accompanied by the establishment of a new identity (Study Abroad Office and Sabbatical Coordination Center).

Due to stipulations associated with Human Subjects Research, actual dates for the start and conclusion of the site visits will not be announced.

policeman pedagogy

Sunday morning, drunk guy is trying to parallel park in front of our house. He kills the engine and gets up on the curb several times. If he'd stop, get out and stagger away there'd be no story. Instead, he back and backs into and up onto another car in the street. And then he peels away. A 911 call. They catch him (almost up onto sidewalks along Main Street) on an otherwise peaceful Sunday morning. A cop comes buy to document the damage to the hit car. And since it's a nice day, he stays to chat.

First he wants to assure me that the guy is in custody and will go to jail. Then he says this beats his earliest DUI arrest by a half hour. And he shakes my hand to tell me I did a good thing. Otherwise, the driver might have killed somebody. None of this really matters … except that he took the time. On one level he was maybe just working me, trying to get me to be that citizen who is quick to call in when there's trouble. But then I realized maybe I was being schooled in a good way.

Part of what the policeman was doing was trying to build rapport and relationships with the community. I never much thought about that before and I never really understood why "beat cops" were such a nice part of cities. But when the shit comes down and the police must act, their efforts are probably successful to the degree they are assisted and supported by citizens. In the end, it really didn't matter that he was unable to offer an easy solution to my spouse's query about how to stop cars from honking instead of bothering to ring a doorbell. What did become apparent is that this policeman was teaching us how to help him do his job and make us happy citizens at the same time.

In another context, Zero was dismayed that he was being treated as an educational expert as if he knew the answers. I now wonder whether just taking the time to talk about the situation might not be good pedagogy. Having conversations, and dare I suggest this could be social capital investing, might just be a reasonable way to spread expertise and educate others.

uncertain origin ... perhaps obsolete

Two are three times over the past few days, I've been addressed as "sir." Once was when one of three high school-aged boys on a street corner almost bumped into me as I tried to walk around them: "Sorry, sir. My fault." I assured him it wasn't a big deal that we almost bumped. But the term stung. It happened again as one of the Trainers at the gym was trolling around looking for clients: "How's it going, sir." I told him I was good. Truth was, since I was finishing my last set of exercises, I was already wondering if this was going to be a two or three ibuprofen night. I made it clear he wasn't going to pry dollars from me just to yell: "one more push -- you can do it."

I don't know whether I am showing my age somehow as of late. Gray beard stubble? A deepening groove from my eye to my chin? Walking unsteadily (beer one time, over-exertion during the second)? I wondered if I was coming across as a "codger" and tried to look up that term. Several online dictionaries were unsure and it wasn't until I went to Wikipedia that I found this:

"an amusingly eccentric or grumpy and usually elderly man"

Given my more senior colleagues, basically that describes most non-females over age 50 -- a benchmark I have not yet reached. But "to codge"? There is not good explanation. Apparently, "to cadge" is to carry the little platform that falcons rest on. Can't say I even imagined doing that nor believing that such an activity required its own label. But still, such a duty is not specific to the grumpy or the eccentric.

Regardless, we can envision what an old codger looks like even though we may not know the etymology. What I do belive/understand is that codgers drink martinis and I am out of gin. Time to slip on my non-lace sneakers, hitch up my droopy pants, and shuffle down the block to get a cheap bottle from that whipper-snapper on the corrner. He calls me sir and I'll throw someting. Unless I can't catch my breath from the walk.

craft in training

An unexpected delight during vacation was a tour of the Culinary Institution of America in Hyde Park, New York. The individual giving the tour was in the bakery program which requires a total of 21 months, broken up into 3 week classes that meet for 6 or 7 hours a day. They have 16 or so cohorts moving through the training with a graduation held every 3 weeks. There is a banquet each time, prepared and served by students earlier in their program. But our first exposure was at a fine French meal.

The CIA has multiple restaurants at which these aspiring chefs and bakers learn the "front of the house." Our trip coincided with the start of a fresh rotation so almost everyone was new to their jobs. For example, the bottle of champagne I ordered was the first our waitress had ever opened table side. What I found so fascinating and delightful as an educator was that an expert was literally at the student's elbow to work her through the process. This guy wasn't simply the maitre d' or the most experienced: he was the lecturing instructor in table service. We also saw him instructing uncertain waitresses as they sliced and served Châteaubriand. And Bananes Flambées. But beyond the drama of the performance, I wa caught up in the gentle presence of instructors.

Back to the tour. We were able to look into maybe 4 to 6 classrooms in which young cooks were learning to make pastries, decorate cookies, etc. There was no joking around as everyone was very intent upon their work. They didn't cower from the instructor but they obviously had great regard for the Chef. Our tour guide pointed to one older gentleman ... who she credited with bringing creme brulee to America. Wow! I'm still trying to sort out the possible parallels to teacher preparation and/or educational researcher development. The meal was fantastic on the palate and in the belly. The environment continues to tantalize my mind.

small state university

The following song parody was performed at the last FARSE in San Francisco. The reason it is being posted now is that I just stumbled across the lyrics. I can still hear Juanita Jo laughing at the new lines.

Small State University (to the tune "Me and Bobby McGee")
Getting fat and sleeping good, I hardly use my brain.
All I wear to work are comfy jeans.
Most my ambition’s gone, it’s swirling down the drain.
My life’s someone else’s jealous dream.

My colleagues are real friendly and our students all are sweet
I’m set cause I’m not at a Research One
Teaching’s all I have to do and keep my desktop neat
A tenured prof’s life certainly is fun

Tenure’s just another word for nothin’ left to do.
Nothin’ means nothin’ now that I’m free
Getting tenure feels so great, Lord, yes I’ve paid my dues.
Where I’m at is good enough for me
At a small state university.

La-da-da La-da-da-da La-da-da da-da da-da
La-da-da da-la-da la-da, State University
La-da-la-da-la-da La-da-la-da-da
Small State University
La-da-da La-da-da La da-da La da-da
La-da-da La da-da La da-da

like riding a bike

In order for this summer to be a success, it will be necessary for me to engage in activities for which metaphors and similes are useless — like riding a bike. It is its own action and there really is no need to compare it to anything else. To not create metaphors will be difficult, were it not for the fact that I am relearning that I truly like riding a bike. In so much of what I do professionally, having metaphors to rely upon is helpful: diving into the wreck, serving as a day laborer, striving to create a craftsmen's workshop. But gloriously plain tasks don't require further explanation. Creating time with the day to do non-metaphorical activities is a noble goal.

This morning's ride was another out-and-back trip along a segment of a rails-to-trails project. I am setting no records and might be totaling 15 miles on each trek. There were lots of things to notice today:

• The refreshing coolness when the trail cut through rock outcroppings covered in moss and ferns.
• An abandoned ball cap perched on a trailside fencepost.
• The remnants of old railroad ties, also under vegetation, that seemed to pass by as I huffed my way up a gentle slope.
• A guy in black, wearing sunglasses, walking on an overcast day, in the woods, smoking a cigarette.
• Noticing the change in grade, not by the incline, but by shifts in the amount of leg muscle exertion and the pace of my heartbeats.
  

I was tempted to think about what else I do that is like riding a bike or how the things I saw reminded me of other things. Instead, I kept reminding myself that it was just the riding of the bike that was enough on its own. I don't need to compare it to anything else. In the same way, I don't need to extract deeper meaning out of making a damn good batch of sangria with red wine from a box. Nothing inspiring must come from spreading cedar mulch around bushed and perennials. My goal is not to avoid metaphors because there are times where they can be really helpful, such as when I'm inspired to contemplate my surroundings as if I'm inside a whale. I know I should exhibit restraint. When I go backpacking, it is not important that I find ways to use that experience to represent anything else. In the future, more abstract experiences may refer back to such fundamental and unmediated endeavors.
I appreciate the benefits of being in the moment and not trying to read something profound into activities that are important because of their simplicity — like riding a bike.