Light and Momentary

Shoes and Ships and Stripey Snakes

The time has come, the blogger said,
to talk of many things:
of whole-house fans and garter snakes,
of cabbages and kings[1],
of why the sea is boiling hot[2]
and whether pigs have wings[3]

Today I was returning from the office when I paused to admire my happy little herb garden. It's always a bit of a mystery which plants will come back, but it generally does pretty well. This year, I thought to myself, the marjoregano[4] is thriving so hard it's trying to take over the yard[5], the tarragon is standing up tall and proud, the sage is huge and covered in purple flowers, and the lavender is lovely even though I thought it might have died over the winter. I was standing right next to the lavender thinking these thoughts when I noticed a quiver at my feet. Or perhaps a shiver. OR PERHAPS A SLITHER???

There was a garter snake in my herb garden. It tried to hide in the tarragon, but I shook the tarragon leaves and it hopped over the bricks and escaped to the hosta bed. WELL, THAT WAS UNEXPECTED, I said to myself with a certain emphasis. 

We used to have a neighbor across the street whose house had a bounteous garter snake population. In fact, a mama garter snake had apparently nested under her porch, and vast quantities[6] of stripey little snakelets would come slithering out into her yard. Now you guys, I was pretty deep into my earthy-crunchy phase at the time but my brand of "we are gentle with living things" did not extend to NESTS of SERPENTS under my PORCH. This mom, though, took earthy-crunchy to a new level. "They're a sign of a healthy ecosystem," she said chidingly one day when I raised the issue. Okay, then! I mean, so are killer whales! Maybe I should found a killer whale sanctuary under my porch then?

I doubt she would have found the killer whale comparison persuasive. 

So here's my first question for you: where do garter snakes (especially those right down by your own personal feet) fall on your personal scale of shriek-inducing? Are you fascinated and grateful for your healthy ecosystem? Or are you thinking it's a shame you have to set the herb garden on fire now? Do tell.

Here is my second question for you: has anyone ever installed a window-mounted whole-house fan? When I was a girl in West Virginia, my father put a whole-house fan in our attic and it was magic. On summer evenings he would open the windows at each end of the house and switch on the fan, and in minutes all the lovely cool evening air would come pouring in. We didn't need an air conditioner. Gladlyville is hotter and stickier than my childhood home in the mountains, though, and I think we have less of a temperature gradient from midday to evening here in the flatlands -- it's hot at noon and it's still pretty hot at 7pm. But I think every year about a whole-house fan, because our AC doesn't do a great job cooling the upstairs. The installation seems like a total pain, which has always kept me from moving beyond the thinking stage. Just today, though, I learned that there are whole-house fans that can go in a window. We have a nice big window upstairs which could be just the right spot for such a thing. Anybody ever tried it? Any tips or tricks or cautions for me to consider? 

This is my first crack at HTML footnotes and Safari won't let me preview them to see if they work. So I am just going to throw them up untested, because I'm wild and reckless like that. It's kind of a jungle over here in Gladlyville, man: snakes on the loose and renegade footnotes, all in one temeritous post.

[1] We don't actually have to talk about those, though comments are open if you have thoughts on matters brassical or monarchical.

[2] Because the Koch brothers seem to have bought themselves a government, that's why.

[3] That would be a no on the pigs having wings.

[4] Marjoram and oregano look a lot alike. We don't know which one actually came back.

[5] It's another poem: thriving so hard...take over the yard. Perhaps I will become a poetry blogger! (I can hear my husband saying, "Don't quit your day job, Jamie."

[6] Well, no, I don't know exactly how many. But can we agree that more than, say, two[7] is a quantity vaster than one might wish to host under one's porch?

[7] Or perhaps one. Or, you know, zero.

If I were less tired this post would have a better title

Last night I said, "Okay, kids, can you set the table with six placemats like this one and six matching napkins?"

Stella answered, "Who's coming over?"

And we were having a dinner guest, it's true, but I felt a little bit harrumphy that her immediate assumption is matching napkins = company coming.

Today was a long day. I have taken over a 7am Adoration hour on Wednesday for the summer, and shortly afterward was the first session of a course redesign workshop I'm doing. The thing about teaching classes a bunch of times is that you figure out what mostly works, and then inertia becomes a powerful force. Like, it would be better if you used a different textbook, but investigating textbook options is a hassle and the current textbook is okay. It would be better if you reorganized the third unit, but prepping new lectures is a ton of work -- a TON of work -- and the existing lectures aren't so bad.

In the summer there's space to do a little dreaming. What's my GRAND VISION for this course? When students think back on this course in five years' time, what do I want them to remember about it? What might the steps between the first day of class and the achievement of the GRAND VISION look like? There's a huge emphasis right now in higher ed on measurable outcomes: how will you KNOW that your students have achieved what the syllabus said they should be able to achieve? But the overlap between measurable and meaningful is imperfect, and the latter should be a higher priority. Today I had the freedom to think to myself "What do I want my students to understand about the social model of disability?" without having to say in the very next breath "Here is the way I will measure their knowledge of the social model of disability."

As soon as the workshop session was over, I walked down to the repair shop where our limping van was getting its oil changed, and headed out to pick up Joe, who took his last final today. The trip there took longer than planned because of a road closure, and the departure from campus took longer than planned because he has a surprising amount of stuff, but it was an uneventful trip despite its length. Uneventful drives are my favorite kind, especially when the lateness of the hour means a glorious crimson sunset, and lightning playing in the sky -- close enough to enjoy, too far away to slow me down. And now Joe is here, hurray! Four of five Gladly kids are home to stay for a while.

No Cigar

I am typing this post at the rock-climbing gym while my 14yo chats with the staff about the right amount of painful in a good rock-climbing shoe. I didn’t know that planned shoe discomfort was a thing in the world beyond women’s dress shoes, but they are having a lengthy conversation about “aggressive” shoes. 

Tonight I almost leveled up, you guys. I have been working slowly on a route rated 5.10b, and it has been a struggle. There’s a move near the beginning that seemed like a cruel joke for a long time, but now I can do it pretty consistently. On Tuesday I made it three-quarters of the way up and ran out of gas. Tonight I got past that part, all the way to the last hold...and then fell trying to match.

In climber-speak, if you want to send a route, or check it off your list, you have to match: get both hands solidly on the last hold. I'm almost there.

I couldn't get a good picture of the route because I couldn't back up far enough to capture the whole thing. I was going to guess that the route is 40 feet tall; Joe thinks maybe it's a little taller. I'm trying to use just the green holds to get myself from the floor, down by the yellow caution flag at the bottom of the picture, all the way to the ceiling, which is three or four holds above the top of this picture. 

I'm pretty sure I can do it on Saturday, as long as they don't take it down before that. I'm also pretty sure I'll be too sore to tackle it tomorrow.

In which I am once again ambushed by entropy

I have this perpetual idea, you guys, that I could Get It Together if only I applied myself diligently. Inbox zero, empty paper trays, and a tidy dust-free home. But then I buckle down and attempt to apply myself diligently, and entropy fights back like whoa.

For instance: I got it into my head that I would tidy up the music room. I would get rid of the random unloved picture books, keeping only the picture books with sentimental value, and merge the music room bookshelves to create more space in there. Maybe I could even get rid of one of the music room shelves and slide a secondhand prie-dieu into its erstwhile home! Wouldn't that be nice, I thought to myself.

I started culling books and was met with immediate and vocal resistance. You can't get rid of [the horrible Lego story] Mission To The Arctic, they shouted. You can't get rid of The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine: Or, The Hithering Thithering Djinn! (I didn't even try to purge The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine, even though I hate it. Weird things happen when people who write postmodern adult fiction turn their attention to children's books. But the boy-turned-young-adult who loves postmodern fiction has a surprisingly fierce attachment to it, so I think I am stuck with it until he moves out permanently. On that day I will wrap it up as his housewarming gift.) There were consultations with the boys who are not at home, and with each consultation the "keep" pile grew while the "cull" pile dwindled. It was pretty clear that both of the bookshelves would need to stay.

Even diminished, the cull pile required three milk crates. They are in the van now, awaiting their new homes. I am going to give the non-religious books to a charity that redistributes gently used children's books to low-income families, but they ask that you don't send them religious books. So I think I'll try to give those away to friends at church and see how it goes.

One of the music room shelves was crammed with poorly organized music, which is now thinned out and at least loosely organized. I have cleared off the top of the piano and I have sifted through the piano bench. I aspire to make myself a big binder with page protectors, in which all of my sheet music is arranged alphabetically. 

The piano tuner will come next week, and I am going to return the cello to my father-in-law since the boy who once played cello no longer does so (and no longer lives in this time zone). All of the random stuff that had drifted under the loveseat has been re-homed, including a lonely bugle mouthpiece and a children's version of the Ramayana. ("Oh!" said Stella, "I've missed this!") Hm, I looked up the Ramayana at Amazon to see if I could spot the version we have, and I wonder what my targeted ads will look like now. Amazon has been trying to sell me romance novels for weeks now. Dear Amazon: I will never buy a book with a shirtless man on the cover. You could have exclusive rights to a lost Jane Austen novel, and if you put a naked man on the cover I would just have to wait for the copyright to expire. Because no -- just no.

Anyway: I am declaring a tentative victory in this round of Jamie vs. Entropy. Stay tuned for round 2.

In my mailbox

Gladlyville University
Office of the President

May 14, 2019

Dear Dr. Gladly,

Congratulations! As a result of the significant contributions you have made to your discipline and to Gladlyville University, your applications for tenure and for promotion to Associate Professor have been approved and will be effective August 16, 2019.

Best wishes for continued success as a member of the Gladlyville University faculty.

Sincerely,

President McPseudonym

Fast Food

Our dinner is simmering on the stove right now, and while the rice finishes cooking I am going to tell you how to make it. We are having chana masala, chickpeas in a sauce that's slightly tart and slightly spicy. Super-quick, super-tasty, super-cheap, and my kids will all eat it, in welcome contrast to the last meal I cooked for them. (Mother's Day lunch. I was riffing on salade niçoise. They were unenthusiastic.)

I first encountered this recipe in Urvashi Pitre's Indian Instant Pot Cookbook, a slim little volume that is totally worth the shelf space. I have a sour tooth, and so I was immediately intrigued by the description. Her recipe tells you to cook down a bunch of onions before you make the chana masala, but you don't actually have to do it that way unless you want to. The recipe that follows is a hybrid: some of the Urvashi Pitre recipe, some of the recipe from the back of the spice box. No Instant Pot necessary.

Sauté a diced onion in neutral oil. When it begins to brown lightly, add chopped garlic (maybe 3-4 cloves) and minced ginger to taste. You'll add 1/2 t. cumin seeds and 2 T. chana masala spice mix. (Urvashi Pitre says you should not expend a bunch of effort trying to make your own chana masala spice mix. Buy in. The box I linked is not the same one for sale at our Indian grocery, but the ingredients are almost the same and the reviews are good. One box will let you make about half a dozen batches of chana masala.) Toss them around in the fat for a minute, and then add a 15-oz. can of petite diced tomatoes and two cans of chickpeas. Simmer until your rice is cooked. Squeeze the juice of a lemon over it if you, like me, do not keep amchoor in your spice basket. Serve with cilantro.

I made a gelatin salad to go alongside: orange juice, lemon juice, shredded carrots. Will the kids tell me that 1956 called and wants its side dish back? Stay tuned for more riveting updates from Gladlyville.

And they're off

Our graduation reception was yesterday afternoon. I always enjoy them. Our grad students are back on campus after their external placements, pleased and proud and a little disbelieving: it felt like their program would last forever, but now it's done. They want us to meet their families and their fiancés, and hear about the new jobs they've lined up, and we are happy to oblige.

I've known some of this cohort for a long time. Five or six of them took the 100-level anatomy class with me in 2014, and then they took my 300-level classes, and then I taught them across both semesters of their first year in grad school. Along the way I supervised their honors projects and independent studies and symposium presentations. I feel a little nostalgic: when I met them, they didn't even know the larynx had joints. I bet that these days if you woke them out of a sound sleep and said, "Quick, name the joints of the larynx," they would mumble the right answer.

(I mean, that's practically the same as witnessing someone's first steps.)

One of the good things about working in this discipline is that 100% of our students find jobs in the field. They may not land in their preferred setting right off the bat, but we can give them sincere encouragement that their job searches will be fruitful, and that the future offers them varied and interesting work with the potential to make a real difference in the lives of people with disabilities.

Ugly Cars

For a long time I was going to write a blog post called In Praise of Ugly Cars. It was going to be about buying ugly cars on purpose, something we used to do out of necessity and now do voluntarily. Just now I'm keenly aware of the drawbacks of ugly cars, though.

Consumer culture says, "What is the most house (or car) that I can afford?" Voluntary poverty says, "What is the smallest house (or ugliest car) that will meet my needs?" (We are lucky here in Gladlyville to have reasonably priced housing options, so please don't feel this post is aimed at you if you are feeling squeezed by a big-city mortgage.) I had never encountered the idea of voluntary poverty before I became Catholic, but it struck an immediate chord with me. Let me hasten to say it is a practice I engage in only selectively. Dorothy Day would doubtless look askance at our restaurant budget. But I think big-ticket purchases, and especially cars, are a sensible place to think about voluntary poverty. Our strategy has always been to purchase an older no-frills car, often one with some minor cosmetic blemishes.

A few years back I dropped off a kid for a Scout campout, and the volunteer collecting health forms needed to write something on the paper I handed her. She laid it on the trunk of the closest car, on top of a stack of papers, and added a quick note. The car's owner came swooping down on us, furious. It was his prize possession, a Mercedes convertible, and he was incensed that she had used a ballpoint pen on top of his expensive paint job -- even with a pile of 10 papers in between. He whipped out a cleaning cloth and wiped fretfully at the (wholly unremarkable) spot. I thought to myself, "If ever I get that focused on the appearance of an object I own, I should probably throw it into the sea." I can't predict how I would respond to the prospect of damaged paint on a car worth more than the median US income, but I hope I would still be courteous to the well-intentioned person in front of me -- the person whose years of volunteer service to the Scout troop made it possible for my kid to attend camp.

I am typing this post and thinking it's practically a cosmic invitation for me to discover what I would do in a parallel circumstance. Maybe tomorrow the babysitter will overturn a glass of tomato juice on the piano keyboard or something. I would be unhappy about that (although I hope I would still be polite). But that's why I don't keep my piano on the front porch. The thing about cars is that they are uniquely vulnerable to depredations at the hands (or bumpers) of others. All it takes is a moment of absent-mindedness or bad judgment -- one inattentive driver out of the thousands of drivers who will operate their vehicle near mine across its lifespan.

It's easier to cultivate detachment from material things if your car is pre-uglified. If a teenaged driver has an accident in a pre-uglified car, it's likely to be less conspicuous, which makes it easier to say sincerely, "I'm just glad you're okay." It's easier to give generously if you're not working around a hefty car payment. All sensible observations, right?

This has been an expensive year for car repairs, though. Within the past week we've put $1800 into our newer vehicle. Elwood and I have been debating automotive end-of-life issues again. Across all 26 years of our marriage, I've always been the one saying "DNR the car!" while he says, "No, I really think we can nurse her through this crisis." It always works out. In this particular conversation I have been feeling the influence of some wealthy friends, who arrange their budget so they pretty much never have to deal with car repairs. But I've also been thinking tonight about Dorothy Day, and specifically about this quote from a blog post by a woman who interned at a Catholic Worker house: "Dorothy Day writes that though we may attempt poverty, a kind of stripping of ourselves, 'still you will reach out like an octopus to seek your own comfort, your untroubled time, your ease, your refreshment' (Loaves and Fishes, 84)."

Weekend Report

Oh, I think May is my favorite month. The light! The blooms! The demise of drear! I woke up on Saturday morning after 9 hours of sleep to a glorious spring day, full of determination to Get Things Done. The determination to Get Things Done doesn't always turn into the reality of Having Done Things, but on Saturday it did.

I’ve been in a bit of a slump, you guys. I’ve been feeling burned out and uncertain at work. I still have not adjusted to life with only two children at home — mostly because I miss the ones who are far away, but even in practical terms I've been flailing for longer than I would have expected. There is no one who is responsible for emptying the dish drainer every morning, even though I’ve had nine months to figure out the dish drainer situation. But things are looking up.

Joe came home this weekend, which was delightful. We fit in a bunch of rock-climbing along with Pete. Our rock-climbing gym opened its outdoor boulder last weekend, and Joe was excited to try out the new routes. I remain a lot more cautious about trying new things at the gym. I was not optimistic about the outdoor boulder, because Pete had warned me that it was a lot harder than the indoor routes. But do you know, I was able to top out on two routes (that’s what the climbers call it when you haul yourself all the way onto the upper surface and take the steps back down), and reach the last hold of a third route. We will gloss over the fourth route, where I slipped off a not-great hold at the top of the boulder and fell all the way to the ground. (Ouch. But I’ll get it next time.)

Pete and I got in some gardening time, to our mutual satisfaction, and Stella and I took a trip to one of our favorite spots, a nearby nature preserve. Red-wing blackbirds and yellow-bellied something-or-others, peeping frogs and trees for climbing. It’s one of my favorite places to spend a weekend afternoon. 

In an ideal world perhaps I would be less affected by gray skies and wet weather. I guess the upside of Seasonal Affective Disorder is that my November malaise yields reliably to May enthusiasm. If I can't be more even-keeled, at least I can take advantage of the upswing.

It's #SAMDRAL time

Every year that I have been on the tenure track, I have celebrated the end of the spring semester with a deep dive into a fat Dickens novel. That means this is the Sixth Annual May Dickens Read-Along (#SAMDRAL for all you hashtaggers), and this year I am mixing it up a little. I am planning to reread two of the short novels instead of one of the fat novels: Tale of Two Cities and Oliver Twist.

Usually I start after final grades are submitted, but do you know, I am ready to leave the cruellest month behind and plunge right in. I plan to read ToTC across about ten days, posting intermittently about it as I go. Join me!