snooze

out of phase

Sunday night and there was no home-cooked dinner forthcoming. Instead, we jumped in the Mini Cooper and headed to a nearby picnic table drive-in burger joint — with killer chocolate malts. Typically, it’s crowed with motorcycles transporting large women tough enough to make me quake but also enchant me. But that evening, it was threatening to rain. We walked right to the window and placed our orders. Without much delay, they called “Sue” and I received the quizzical look I also get when I claim to be the intended customer. As is often the case, we were ahead of the trend. Not long after we started munching, a considerable line had formed. In Europe this happens because our bodies long for an evening meal several hours before the sun sets. But in general, we seem to have our stomachs calibrated to signal the need to seek nutrition before the rest of America lumbers up to the counter.

That’s how things have been lately. For example, my 11 aspiring STEM teachers are approaching peak anxiety levels. I felt they’d been overly mellow and happy during their summer courses. Meanwhile, I was worried they were entirely unconcerned about the immensity of the challenges they were going to face. But at the last class meeting, I was ready to let them go because I was convinced we had nothing more to teach them. They had tried stuff out in the real world. A former advisee came that last day to share advice and I thought it was a delightful way to show them it was possible to survive and prevail. Looking around the room, most of their tanned faces had become ashen. I’m ready to buy rounds of drinks for my lovely instructors but we can barely pry the student teachers out of their chairs, down the steps, and out into the gritty world. Tomorrow evening I’ll see them after they have spent a few days in school. I am eager to be in their delightful company. Truthfully I anticipate they’ll be trembling with a school-onset version of PTSD: nails and hair chewed to a frayed condition, eyes wide and twitchy. Me: I’m proud as an uncle who after teaching my siblings' kids to make fart noises from their armpits. I am up and my students will probably be down.

For several months, I am experienced this odd sensation that my emotions are completely unsynchronized with the rest of the world. Here’s an example: my new post-doc is eagerly hiring “minions” to help collect qualitative data in schools next month. AND she wrote the IRB application plus is coordinating the protocols with other members of the project. Similarly, even though our participation rates on our survey were less than half of what I wanted, we STILL hit some important milestones in terms of statistical significance and adequate effect sizes. All of this is frosting on top of the delicious cake that is my preservice STEM program. When I hear about others who aren’t have the same time of their lives as me, I worry and wonder whether there might be something to the notion of karma. My brother’s depressed because his “baby” graduated from college, a former doc student just buried his father-in-law, a local outdoors buddy just told me his wife* is leaving him, and someone I remotely know just spent two weeks sleeping on a hospital bench next to her daughter who was recovering from a scary ailment. I don’t really believe the universe cares enough to make sure the happiness quotient is zeroed out. I feel nothing resembling guilt because others are talking to divorce lawyers or funeral directors or pediatric residents. I suppose what I wish is that others could be as tickled by their work and lives as I am right now.

But that’s not going to happen soon. My teacher friends are frantic because their classrooms aren’t fully stocked and set-up for the invasion of knowledge seekers. My professor friends are realizing they must tuck shirts into long pants and shuffle off to lecture halls and office hours. Me? After assuring my underlings that even though the work is demanding and that they will eventually find moments of delight (or at least decent stories to tell others), I walk out the door and prepare for a European expedition. Yes, while you’re worrying whether the Find/Replace feature caught all the dates on your slides so nobody knows you are recycling old presentations, I’m struggling with whether it will be dry enough in Cyprus that I can depend on hand-washing undies so I can get by on half the number of briefs relative to the number of days of travel. Department meeting next week? Sorry, I’m away at a conference. Paperwork for accreditation? It’ll have to wait until mid-September. Paid trip to Athens, Georgia? Oh sure, I’ll be back in time for that! And I will happily buy drinks for my compadres!

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* Note: Use google translator to see how to say "bitch" in Spanish.

rueful admissions told across a stone wall

Mr Collins spoke at length Wednesday night and I listened intently to almost every word. It might come as a surprise that listening requires so much energy, but it does. The reason it was so draining was because I was inspecting and harvesting the words ideas that drifted my way. My ambition was to etch the better phrases in my mind, both the words themselves but also the rhythm, tone and pace with which they were delivered. Standing outside the crowded sunken garden, peering over the wall as if seeing his head made it easier to make out what he was saying, I probably appeared calm even though my mind was frantically spinning the information around in my hands, looking for blemishes where there were none and then having to quickly decide which to try and preserve even as a fresh volley was launched over the rugged rock barrier.

Neither he nor the phalanx of introducers cautioned us against recording or memorizing what was spoken that evening. And yet somehow, even if I had been able to preserve exactly what was said, I'm not sure I have the authority to repeat anything. My inability to perfectly repeat what I just said, let alone the utterances of somebody else, helps preserve the unspoken covenant with poet. What I can recall are mere snatches – haikus about eel in a sushi house, a dog driven to madness by the sound of his tags, losing track of the names of rivers and book characters, an unhinged moth above the lovers' bed, and imaging a musician handing over a saxophone to an audience member.

What Mr Collins didn't share was this. One path for solving a problem is by walking is by turning away. Diogenes the Cynic is reputed to have avoided an annoying individual and situation by leaving it behind. Rather than ponder and wander, abandoning a person or problem does in fact serve as another way to enact the "make our way by walking" maxim.

the PROPER boots

As those who follow the blogosphere already know, the topic of boots has been the cause of recent lamentation and philosophizing. Certainly there are worse offenses against family and humanity then buying brand-new footwear far in advance of actually need it. But more than raising a defense against such purchases, I wish to take the time to highlight the wisdom by which boots are being bought.

 A couple weeks ago, I had the good fortune of making a trek to the White Mountains of New Hampshire for a weekend of winter recreation. The simplest thing I accomplished was downing two, twenty-ounce glasses of a wonderful IPA. The came on the heels (quite literally at it will turn out) on an extensive x-country ski tour. I'd estimate we were out moving for close to four hours. The land was flat and groomed, the air was just below freezing, and there was almost no wind. Even though it was quite overcast, the landscape was subtile yet satisfying. The day before, we put on the snoeshows that have seen little action since they were moved from the Wasatch Range. And in the morning, after a monstrous breakfast, we did more hiking up to a serene peak along a trail that began at an Applachian Mountain Club lodge.

 

The only issue were the boots. There are multiple outfitters so we went with a larger business thinking they'd have the best variety. The price was superb — something like $25 for a full day of rental. The boots were cleverly designed with a zipper shield to conceal the laces. The fit was snug but not tight. I did feel some hot spots but slapped on moleskin and that did the trick. I was tender afterward but the ales eased the pain. My intermittent forays to the local gym gave a sense of satisfication since the exertion from the skiing was not too much. It felt good to be out there. Except for what the boots did to my feet.

I realize I have been a little too cavalier on longer expeditions. Aside from a half-dozen band-aids, some moleskin, sunscreen and ibuprofen, I have not been adhering to the scout motto of preparedness. The conditions during the cross-country skiing were mild and I had some spare layers. But if the weather had turned, I would have been screwed. The biggest problem was what the boots did to my feet — not a big deal for a halfday within shouting distance of houses. But it all reminded me that I need to be careful. My feet ached and throbbed which made putting on dress shoes on Monday morning before heading out to teach class an unpleasant process.

In addition to wearing away a considerable disk of flesh from each heel, the iimproper boots damaged my toes. My sense that my toes had been squeezed was confirmed when I checked them the next morning. My longest toes at first looked elongated from being compressed. But on closer look, I saw they each had sizable blisters on the tips when made them almost pointed. Even after the skin healed (thanks to antibiotic cream and band-aids) my heels were still tender and even though the bruising isn't visible, I am pretty confident that the improper boots had done some deep tissue damage. Now I have faintlly purple nail on my big toe because the bad boots squeezed so much that there is a bruise there.

And all of this is not to complain about rental ski boots. Nobody should be surprise, especially for as much as we used them that day. What this is intended to affirm is that proper equipment is not always a matter of vanity. A perfectly fitted, well-constructed boot is a wise investment, especially for long excursions in the wilderness. I have re-learned the painful lessons of my youth about the dangerous costs of buying cheap boots. That my new pair look  awesome is a  by-product of reason trumping the foolish effort to save money — especially when the risks loom too large.

 

boots and friends

A year ago, I was on the hunt for hiking boots and I finally bought the pair I wanted on sale. This past week, I discovered a rip in the sidewall that was big and low enough to allow snow to reach my sock. While it ought to be fun to search for replacements, I was not eager.

Last time I scoured online reviews for boots that wouldn’t be too heavy, hot, or ugly.  Back as Boy Scouts, the “best” boots had the opposite characteristic. We put a premium on blocky, brown and brawny footwear. The goal was to clomp along trails in leather boots shiny from layers of waterproofing wax. The tradeoff for blister avoidance was wearing multiple layers of socks, ideally with the outer wool pair rolled over like a collar over the tops of the boots. 

When I was able to find relatively lightweight, Gore-texed Merrells at a discount, I felt I had scored. This cold morning, they serve as slippers. I check the condition of the shoelaces that I may scavenge before trashing the rest.

Off I go again to read boot reviews. The pair I settled on is not locally available so I printed out the picture for future reference. This was perhaps my favorite endorsement by the owner/publisher of Snowshoe magazine:

 "While many pairs of shoes and boots will fade in and out of my gear arsenal, I think my Firebrands will stick around for the long-haul.  Come December 2012 when the world is expected to end … I’ll be wearing my Firebrands to help me dodge falling rocks and leap over ground fractures."

None of this should suggest that I am going around shoeless. In truth, I rediscovered an old pair of Nike boots in our garage. They are super-snug which I like because they won’t slop around if I wear only one pair of socks. One loop for the shoestrings has failed. Otherwise, they are more than serviceable. They are lightweight and have stood the test of time. And that is why looking for a replacement is so laden with anxiety. If I lose my hat while hiking or the elastic in my underwear gives out, the trip isn’t ruined. I probably could finish out a backpacking trip if these Merrells had failed in the mountains rather than in a campus parking lot. But that’s risky. If a tire fails, there’s a spare in the back or I could call AAA or I could find a garage to patch the hole. In the backcountry, boot problems are not a joking matter. A big worry is that if my gear failed, I’d be even more of a burden to my fitter companions. Although comfort is a relative term, boots that give out while in the wilderness create major problems. Perhaps it’s that fear that accompanies my boot shopping.

Yesterday, I attended a presentation given by a state official about the teacher certification process. Most of the audience consisted of soon-to-be graduates because this was a mandatory meeting. They fidgeted about every ambiguous answer. When we heard that the legislature may someday shift its Masters degree requirement after five years of teaching to become a subject area degree, the lamentations rose. All I could think was that our students believe that entering our program was their biggest hurdle and that the pressures and demands would eventually fade to nothing. It seems they hold onto their pampered illusions about privilege. Or to be less political, they have yet to realize that life will always throw new challenges before them. What a relief to receive an email from a former student to distract me from the whining.

Joe was writing for advice. He earned is chemistry and physics teaching certificates two years ago and landed a job shortly after he graduated. I can report that he was an energetic, smart, creative and dedicated individual and his school is highly rated. That doesn’t mean Joe had an easy time of it:

I think the hardest thing about that particular position was trying to balance myself inside and outside of the classroom.  I've always been an avid outdoors person and I've always wanted to try and incorporate that in the chemistry/physics classroom, but for one reason or another I wasn't able to achieve this goal there.

Joe resigned his position and is looking to start afresh. He mentioned plans to do outdoor conservation work and then look for teaching options “out West” to contrast with his northeastern experiences. I wrote and told him I had connections and offered to help him explore options.

Beyond the contrasts between the sniveling pre-service group and this embattled young teacher, I saw connections between Joe-teacher and those older boots. At the store, those Merrells felt great when on tiptoes I tested them on the artificial boulder poking out of the carpeting. A year later, with only moderate demands, they are no longer suitable for their intended use. Meanwhile, the steadfast Nikes (embarrassed by the paint spatters from my sloppy technique) have proven their reliability. As much as I enjoy being an instructor, advisor and mentor to future teachers, that barely compares with those relationships with former students who are now teachers. Plus, there is the bonus when they sometimes rise above the shame of their struggles to reconnect with me.

As messages bounce around about who will be at what conferences, I am reminded that the best things in my life are not the new adventures or the new acquaintances — even as I relish those. The comfort, delight and satisfaction of an established network of reliable friends is what truly makes life worthwhile. Replacing boots is a challenge but far easier than establishing genuine friendships. My iTunes playlist contains 20 songs with “friend” in the title and only 6 contain “boot” and the boot songs are not all that good.

cf. and e.g.

Here is how to project an image of academic idiocy: use the wrong version of a fancy label. For example, people will laugh if you propose the “tenants” of a program, rather than the “tenets.” Another way to appear foolish is by mispronouncing words. Once upon a time a doc student was explaining to me her lack of experience and confided about her NAY-uh-VET (rhyming with Corvette) when she was thinking about her naiveté (audio clip). Sure, we all make mistakes in our rush to send messages and automatic spellcheckers are not always helpful. For example, here is my mother’s email (not from a famous writer) sent to all her children the day after Thanksgiving: “Today I cooked a turkey breast, had cranberries, graveyard, and dressing.” There are many examples I could give but I wanted to share interesting contrasts instead.

Reviewing manuscripts for research journals is a responsibility of professors. A challenge with this type of activity is not simply to decide whether a given manuscript is good or not. Instead, the decision pivots on the potential of the manuscript to perhaps be improved to be acceptable. Every manuscript can be improved but not all authors exhibit the capacity to make their manuscript salvageable. The type of feedback that I give depends on my perception of the author’s talents. If their research has promise, then I will suggest ways of restructuring the material, offer ideas about how to present the ideas, or encourage the inclusion of more front and/or back matter to build coherence. Oftentimes, the type of input I supply hinges on whether I think my efforts to explain will translate into genuine refinements in a subsequent version of the manuscript. I am typically optimistic about every new manuscript I am asked to review. Beyond the quality of the writing, the qualities of the writer often end up tipping the scales.

So here I am, reviewing a manuscript that is just okay. The research question is interesting but not compelling, the methodology is adequate but not skillfully deployed, and the interpretations are accurate but not ambitious. I’m frustrated because I can envision what could be done – but I am unsure whether the time I would spend pointing out the flaws, suggesting alternatives, and indicating good role models is worthwhile. And then I notice the author attempted a flourish that breaks my confidence in his or her sincerity. Just as when somebody name drops or flashes arrogance in conversation, I realize the person is less concerned about clarity and more invested in showing off. The offense: using “cf.” is a clumsy and inaccurate manner. Why does this little abbreviation induce aggravation? Because it discloses an underlying lack of thoughtfulness and suggests that the sparkle will distract from the lack of substance. The parallel is putting glitter on a science fair project board to compensates for the absence of care with the process. I’d rather check Facebook for the twentieth time today rather than waste energy offering edits that the recipient is unlikely to navigate. Because this misuse of “cf.” is increasingly common, I am attempting to dissuade its perpetuation. For those who might actually take the time to wonder about whether their use of “cf.” is correct, maybe they will stumble across this post. I realize just how unlikely this is. At best, the subsequent paragraph ¶ is archived here so I can drop it into all future reviews.

The “cf.” is from the Latin conferre and indicates that the subsequent citation contrasts with the claim just made. In other words, to signal to the reader that opinions vary and a contrary view appears elsewhere, the “cf.” is apropos as in “We endorse the belief that learning does not necessarily derive from experience (cf. Dewey, 1910).” There is only one period in “cf.” because it is an abbreviation of one word. Only use “cf.” if there is a desire to indicate that another author offers an alternative view. If you are instead trying to point the reader to other sources that are examples, then “e.g.,” is the proper abbreviation. A stupid way to remember this is: “eg”-sample. Why two periods? Because the original Latin phrase was two words: exempli gratia (literally “for the sake of an example”). Why the comma? Because that’s how it uttered: “for example [pause].” And what of the “i.e.” abbreviation? First of all, it comes from two Latin words; that’s why there are two periods. Second, those two words are “id est” which translate to “that is.” Third, a comma follows the abbreviation. A simpleton’s mnemonic (not “pneumonic”) for “i.e.” could be “in essence.” In summary, if you were reading your text aloud and would say “for example” then use “e.g.” If instead you wanted to restate using an alternate, synonymous phrase as in “that is” then insert “i.e.” in the sentence. But, if you are asserting a claim that others view differently, then precede that citation with “cf.” as if you want to say “compare this with” followed by the citation revealing you have a substantive knowledge of your field.

In all likelihood there are things about my writing that irritate those who review my work. Maybe I use flourishes that make readers fidget. I don’t even know exactly what it is I do that others find so wrong. Perhaps this unknowing is liberating because I don’t fear my use of unacceptable phrasing, punctuation or descriptions in threesomes. Given my inevitable flaws, I apologize about my clumsy writing and would welcome your efforts to correct my flubs. It was in this spirit that I composed this request for others to discontinue using “cf.” until they know what they are doing.

fall's on-time arrival

According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, the fall equinox of 2012 began today, September 22nd, at 10:49 am EDT. Aside from the implications care of astronomy (i.e., position of the Sun relative to the Earth and the ratio of day to night) I suppose I've always believed the date was approximate and that the time was trivial. Today I experienced the instantaneous of the seasonal change.

 

We took the canoe out today simply because it was a bright, warm and calm day. It is unlikely we will have many more of these this year and rather than postpone the opportunity, we loaded the gear and began to paddle around our favorite local pond. At 10 a.m. on a Saturday, nobody else was around. We spied a couple of herons, saw a couple dozen Canada geese flying in their crooked vees. Otherwise, it was a peaceful as ever with subtle hints of fall color.

At one bend, there was a puff of air and we were pelted by plant debris. Twigs pierced the water and a few leaves drifted into our collars. Sue noted the time as being 10:49 am. We had paddled all the way from summer 2012 right into fall 2012. The burst of leaves came our way as if they  had appointments. After an hour of so of paddling, we made our way home, noticing an occasional maple that was exhibiting more orange than the surrounding green trees. Estimates are that our local colors will peak near the end of October. No complaints from me because gently easing into winter is one of the best journeys I know.