pitiable

There has been a stretch of unsupportive feedback over the past few weeks. First, I lost a modest grant proposal – and it received a low rating. Second, a piece being revised for a major journal did not meet with their expectations — the final disposition is in and it is a clear rejection. Third, I thought I was just one correction away from IRB approval — but just days before the summer session begins, they want a complete and un-exempted proposal. Each of these negative decisions directly targets the quality of my writing. By extension, these also bring into doubt the strengths of my thought processes.

The little distance created by the passage of time reveals the germ of truth under these three instances of thumbs-down judgments. I had told myself the grant application was a long-shot and that persistence and pugnaciousness appeared to be the formula for success. There was only so much I could provide to the journal editor and reviewers and it was fundamentally impossible to demonstrate that the five young women who provided such compelling stories were not special. Maybe I do have to concede, as indicated by one reviewer, that this was simply an exploratory study. And the IRB review was accurate but badly timed. Their care was appreciated but not at the eleventh hour.

One after the other, the erosion of ego accumulated. Not taking any of personally is the logical approach. To be fair, the rejections were kindly worded and all acknowledged the effort expended on all of the tasks. But in the final calculations, no matter how admirable my exertions, the work products were not sufficient. No funding this time, no publication in the targeted journal, and a scramble to re-cast the IRB application onto a new form. All manageable and none of it dire. More than just annoying though because I stumbled on three hurdles in quick succession.

Then I received a most conscientious message that has helped immeasurably with the healing process. It spoke admirably of my constitution. But it also offered sage and cautious advice about what lies ahead on our path. Exertion, altitude, and equipment in considerable quantities offer challenges that cannot be avoided. The key: proper preparation. Truth is, I had purchased a replacement pair of trail shoes. Like their predecessors, they are low, light and dependable. But against high-altitude, rocky passes and a long haul, I realized that my new treads might be better as my post-hiking footwear each day. In my closet are two pair of decent hiking boots. Both sets are broken in but not in the least bit old. The dilemma is that one pair is clunky and best for heavy wet snow — and trudges from a parking garage to an office. The other pair is preferred because it is less like wearing bricks. The question is not whether the selected, Sol Fun endorsed trail runners will suffice — because they won't. The question, is which of the existing footwear options is as supportive of the ankles as my buddy is of my well-being. Right now, the ego is intact and there is no need to continue with my personal pity party.

first, Third Thursday of 2010

The monthly street festival in our mill town is held on the third Thursday of each summer month. It is probably one of the very best things about living in this oddball town. We were eager to visit the Puerto Rican church ladies tent. We bought a plate of 4 empanadas and another combo plate: pork, taco and rice with pigeon peas. Rather than sit on the curb, or try to manage standing up and eating, we went to the nearby beer garden.

I bought a wooden nickel, showed my identification, got a wrist band, and finally secured a cold beer. We sat listening to a local, three-piece mariachi band. The weather was spectacular: the sky was blue (although the buzzards always seem to be circling) and the air had suddenly lost the cold damp chill of the previous few days. Three amigos resplendent in black suits and somberos facing off against a pasty swarm of stiff New Englanders. At first there were only few of us listening but the crowd grew to about a hundred by the time our food and drink were gone.

The musicians were really good and for a moment I contemplated how to organize a conference such that the evening artist would expand beyond our tradition of poetry (indigenous music as craft?). I was pulled out of my reverie by the four little white girls, maybe 3 to 4 years old, dancing with abandon. They were dressed in combinations of pink, light green and baby blue outfits. The mostly hopped as individuals or held hands in pairs and spun about. Javier showed up and did his best to recruit a partner. He was not especially lucky and we saw him throw his hands up at one point as if to say, "Hey, chicas! Don't you have heard about the Latin man?!" When one girl did begin to spin with him, it was too fast for his taste so he returned to bouncing on his own.

A dad arrived with pizza slices and the dancing took a new twist. The girls would run a couple of laps around the concrete pad and then peel off to take a bite from an upside-down pepperoni slice. Then, back into the circuit. It was an imaginative blend of interpretive dance and auto racing: moving to music interrupted with refueling stops. When my partner demonstrated that she could sing along to "Ring of Fire" then it all just became too weird. I stood up and proposed we begin a search for ice cream. And now our summer has unofficially begun.

sunglasses

Yes, this is the "oh my he just realized he's getting old" entry. During an otherwise exhilarating bike ride around the rock and sand of south/west Utah, our guide commented upon my sunglasses. Having worn prescription eyeglasses since I was three years old, I never really get into the groove of buying sunglasses. The clip-on type, even with the strong magnets, were about as satisfying as clip-on ties. When a national fishing and hunting store advertised sportsman sunglasses that fit around eyeglasses, I was intrigued. Once I learned they could be outfitted with polarized lenses, I was ready to buy.

The Cocoons have to be larger than the cool sunglasses most people wear. Quite obviously, they must accommodate the size of the eyeglasses that remain underneath (see picture). My brother (only 5 years my junior but refusing to believe he is aging, loves to mock these frames. But dammit, they do a great job of both shielding my sensitive eyes from painful glare AND letting me focus upon my surroundings.

Back to our guide: she was trying to be sweet and complementary by remarking upon my sunglasses. But then she bumbled and said it might be worth telling her father about them. I caught her: "Why, because he's old, too?" Before she could repair her comment, the young couple stepped in — actually stepping into it — by suggesting that they've seen lots of people on in Florida wearing such sunglasses.

Doctor Zero would have been a complete gentleman had he kept his opinion to himself. The old guy was already wheezing from the altitude and exertion. And yet, even though he let this moment pass, he couldn't resist patting himself on the back a couple of days later. He recounted the whole incident and proudly explained that he avoided the obvious opportunity to pile more insult onto the humiliation. So in the end, he couldn't completely let it go. We'll see who gets the last laugh when senior discounts are offered at the local brewhouse. I just hitched up my long pants and pedaled away.