In yesterday's posting, I didn't mean to sound as if I am against people expressing their opinions. I have no problem with that in most cases. And I am considered a loose cannon when it comes to opinions - for proof, read on:
My problem is that all too often the news media act as if opinions are more important than facts. Our local newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and particularly The Chicago Sun-Times, and our local television news teams, particularly Fox (I shudder, I shudder) present themselves as interactive and hold call-in and internet polls on matters of fact instead of opinion. Some of them are truly absurd: Does Iraq have Weapons of Mass Destruction? Does Iran have nuclear weapons capability?
The first, even though the Current Moron lied to us, has proven to be false. And even when the question was asked before we invaded Iraq in an illegal preemptive strike, no one knew for certain. Not the newscasters, not a kept-in-the-dark Congress, not lied-to Colin Powell, and certainly not the well-intentioned but naive people who responded to the silly polls. I hesitate to use the term slack-jawed yokels again.
The second question is equally unknown to the American public, although my guess is Not Yet.
And even though the questions are patently silly, the media all too often put the responses to these inane questions on the front pages of their newspapers or lead with them on television news - and use them as teasers for hours before the news. Iran has nuclear weapons! Details at Ten!
Unfortunately, the details turn out to be a horseshit call-in poll answered by a bunch of people who have no lives outside their own bubbles, and who spend their time watching Fox News and judging people who have what these flat earth-ers consider heretical religious beliefs.
I don't find this much different from the call-ins conducted by otherwise thorough C-SPAN that elicit answers like, "I worked for Hillary, but I don't agree with Obama's stand on abortion so I'm voting for McCain." How is Obama's view on abortion different from Hillary's? From what I can tell it isn't. This kind of illogic is crazy-making.
When I taught high school English in another life, I once had a student who didn't like studying vocabulary and tried to lead a revolt in the classroom. He said we should vote on what we thought words mean rather than learn a standard, universal definition. While this is an idea that Lewis Carroll's Queen of Hearts espoused: "It means what I say it means," it confounds communication rather than enhancing it. And this immature logic is very little different from that shown too often in the media.
As always, I welcome your comments. Click Comments below to leave one.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Mother Robin and the Democratic Convention
N.B. Many of my political prejudices show here and since I'm heading toward my dotage, I get to take many tangents to express them.
The Democratic Convention in Denver is well under way at this point, and I watched some of it last night with the same kind of concentration lots of people devote to the Olympics.
I watched the Olympics for a while - the first week - but got tired of the same sports being featured (Beach Volley Ball and the scantily clad athletes? Too gruesome for words. Ann pretended to be really disgusted that the women who played BVB wore next to nothing and no doubt ended up with sand in unspeakable places, but the men who played BVB wore long shirts that covered up their pecs, their abs and their deltoids, and long, floppy shorts that deprived her of the eye candy our President seemed to enjoy so much as he awarded the female players with pats on the ass. The thought makes me shudder.) I would have thought, at least from the network coverage, that about two hundred people total participated in the Olympics - in addition to the million plus Chinese volunteers who spent a year making sure the Olympics went well.
So I learned from the Olympics and watched the Democratic Convention on C-SPAN. It offered complete coverage with no comment from so-called experts, at least during the convention sessions themselves. Early this morning when I tuned in briefly, the commentators on C-SPAN were interviewing people from all over the country about whom they would vote for: Obama or McCain - and why - especially in regard to the Clinton supporters who are re-focusing their loyalty, sometimes to McCain.
I heartily endorse the idea that the "common people" should have a voice, but it seems to me that the primaries and state caucuses are the forum to express their support for candidates. In February I hobbled over to the local school to vote in the primary after I broke my ankle, and rather than break more bones, I asked the election officials to haul a voting machine up to the landing of the stairs in accordance with federal handicap guidelines. Anyway, it seems to me that too many slack jawed yokels have opinions based on their emotional reactions to McCain's POW status, or their one-issue litmus tests (Abortion, Immigration, Censorship, or the Briefs/Boxers/Depends debate) rather than a broad examination of the issues and the candidates' stands on them.
I recorded one of the network's prime time programs of the Convention on our DVR. I was appalled first that the networks made America's Got Talent and Two and A Half Men (both no doubt part of the current administration's diet of bread and circuses) a priority over the nomination of the candidates for president. I was taken aback that for the single hour the Convention was broadcast, the regular number of commercials reduced actual coverage to about 40 minutes.
I was more disgusted with the coverage itself, however. Rather than showing the Convention, the talking heads commented on it. This speech was to the point. That tribute covered all the bases.
I am sick to death of being treated by the media as if I am too stupid to do my own thinking. I can watch Michelle Obama's speech and make my own judgments about it without being told what to think by so-called experts who pretend to be smarter than I am. I can watch the tribute to Ted Kennedy and realize that it is a beautifully done propaganda piece, not that the network I watched showed more than a few highlights.
Propaganda is not bad, it merely puts the best face on things. I knew when I was being emotionally manipulated - and I permitted it because Ted Kennedy is dying of brain cancer. And because he has done more things I admire than things I don't. And because his family has made more sacrifices in the name of public service than most I can think of.
On C-SPAN I watched Emil Jones, Illinois Senate Democratic Leader, mouth platitudes and fail to mention that he is retiring and has slated his son to take over his seat in an act beyond nepotism and into primogeniture. On C-SPAN I watched the leaders of the National Education Association and American Federation of Teachers speak about education and agreed with most of what they had to say about involving teachers in educational goals - instead of lawyers who somehow get elected to office and then think all teachers have to do is stand in front of a group of students and talk off the cuff.
On C-SPAN I watched Jesse Jackson, Jr. speak about his association with Barack Obama. He's my federal Congressman, and I enjoyed noting that he's listed as from both Chicago and Homewood, the village where I live.
On the national network, those people got short shrift or none at all. Instead, the talking heads talked to other heads about the speeches - if they mentioned them at all - and filtered those comments through their own prejudices. Just as I filtered my analysis of Emil Jones in the earlier paragraph.
Barack Obama has been accused by the Republicans of elitism. And the media have given his "elitism" a lot of play, at the same time they report on how many houses McCain owns or thinks he owns. It is the media that are elitist, however. They seem to believe that they can take in all the information, all the nuances, all the events at the Democratic Convention - and I'm sure at the Republican Convention coming up - chew them up, digest them for me and 300 million other Americans, and then, like the mother robin, vomit them into my waiting mouth. They seem to believe that they are without bias and reporting straight. They aren't.
I'm smart enough to make up my own mind about candidates and the people who support them. And until the current administration started testing all students on facts instead of the ability to think, so were most Americans.
As always I welcome your comments. Click on comments below to express them.
The Democratic Convention in Denver is well under way at this point, and I watched some of it last night with the same kind of concentration lots of people devote to the Olympics.
I watched the Olympics for a while - the first week - but got tired of the same sports being featured (Beach Volley Ball and the scantily clad athletes? Too gruesome for words. Ann pretended to be really disgusted that the women who played BVB wore next to nothing and no doubt ended up with sand in unspeakable places, but the men who played BVB wore long shirts that covered up their pecs, their abs and their deltoids, and long, floppy shorts that deprived her of the eye candy our President seemed to enjoy so much as he awarded the female players with pats on the ass. The thought makes me shudder.) I would have thought, at least from the network coverage, that about two hundred people total participated in the Olympics - in addition to the million plus Chinese volunteers who spent a year making sure the Olympics went well.
So I learned from the Olympics and watched the Democratic Convention on C-SPAN. It offered complete coverage with no comment from so-called experts, at least during the convention sessions themselves. Early this morning when I tuned in briefly, the commentators on C-SPAN were interviewing people from all over the country about whom they would vote for: Obama or McCain - and why - especially in regard to the Clinton supporters who are re-focusing their loyalty, sometimes to McCain.
I heartily endorse the idea that the "common people" should have a voice, but it seems to me that the primaries and state caucuses are the forum to express their support for candidates. In February I hobbled over to the local school to vote in the primary after I broke my ankle, and rather than break more bones, I asked the election officials to haul a voting machine up to the landing of the stairs in accordance with federal handicap guidelines. Anyway, it seems to me that too many slack jawed yokels have opinions based on their emotional reactions to McCain's POW status, or their one-issue litmus tests (Abortion, Immigration, Censorship, or the Briefs/Boxers/Depends debate) rather than a broad examination of the issues and the candidates' stands on them.
I recorded one of the network's prime time programs of the Convention on our DVR. I was appalled first that the networks made America's Got Talent and Two and A Half Men (both no doubt part of the current administration's diet of bread and circuses) a priority over the nomination of the candidates for president. I was taken aback that for the single hour the Convention was broadcast, the regular number of commercials reduced actual coverage to about 40 minutes.
I was more disgusted with the coverage itself, however. Rather than showing the Convention, the talking heads commented on it. This speech was to the point. That tribute covered all the bases.
I am sick to death of being treated by the media as if I am too stupid to do my own thinking. I can watch Michelle Obama's speech and make my own judgments about it without being told what to think by so-called experts who pretend to be smarter than I am. I can watch the tribute to Ted Kennedy and realize that it is a beautifully done propaganda piece, not that the network I watched showed more than a few highlights.
Propaganda is not bad, it merely puts the best face on things. I knew when I was being emotionally manipulated - and I permitted it because Ted Kennedy is dying of brain cancer. And because he has done more things I admire than things I don't. And because his family has made more sacrifices in the name of public service than most I can think of.
On C-SPAN I watched Emil Jones, Illinois Senate Democratic Leader, mouth platitudes and fail to mention that he is retiring and has slated his son to take over his seat in an act beyond nepotism and into primogeniture. On C-SPAN I watched the leaders of the National Education Association and American Federation of Teachers speak about education and agreed with most of what they had to say about involving teachers in educational goals - instead of lawyers who somehow get elected to office and then think all teachers have to do is stand in front of a group of students and talk off the cuff.
On C-SPAN I watched Jesse Jackson, Jr. speak about his association with Barack Obama. He's my federal Congressman, and I enjoyed noting that he's listed as from both Chicago and Homewood, the village where I live.
On the national network, those people got short shrift or none at all. Instead, the talking heads talked to other heads about the speeches - if they mentioned them at all - and filtered those comments through their own prejudices. Just as I filtered my analysis of Emil Jones in the earlier paragraph.
Barack Obama has been accused by the Republicans of elitism. And the media have given his "elitism" a lot of play, at the same time they report on how many houses McCain owns or thinks he owns. It is the media that are elitist, however. They seem to believe that they can take in all the information, all the nuances, all the events at the Democratic Convention - and I'm sure at the Republican Convention coming up - chew them up, digest them for me and 300 million other Americans, and then, like the mother robin, vomit them into my waiting mouth. They seem to believe that they are without bias and reporting straight. They aren't.
I'm smart enough to make up my own mind about candidates and the people who support them. And until the current administration started testing all students on facts instead of the ability to think, so were most Americans.
As always I welcome your comments. Click on comments below to express them.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Anniversaries
Nine-eleven. November 22, December 7. These are all dates that people of my pre-Baby Boomer generation and older remember. These are national anniversaries, all tragedies.
We all know nine-eleven, the day Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center in New York City, the most recent of the terrible anniversaries. Most of us do not recognize it as the date of chosen son Tim’s birthday, however. It isn’t all bad.
November 22, 1963, is the day I lost my innocence, the day I realized that the world is not a nice place. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas that day. December 7, 1941, is the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, HI, and drew the United States into World War II. That’s before my time, of course.
There are other dates I remember: September 8, 1973, is the day our son Daniel was born. December 2, 1940, is the date of the first self-sustaining nuclear reaction that occurred at the University of Chicago. December 2 is noteworthy date in other ways. It’s my birthday and more important, the date on which we baptized Daniel. The latter two are happy occasions. Perhaps all three are.
January 7, 1993, is the day our son Daniel was killed in a freak accident. It’s a day we always remember, but not a happy one.
And today is an important date. It’s the anniversary of our wedding in 1967.
Forty-one years ago it rained – poured, in fact. We got married in Ann’s parents’ home in New Lenox, IL. The campus minister came up from Charleston and officiated. (He later dumped his wife for his secretary, and then, I hear by the grapevine, dumped her for the new secretary. I don’t know how long the chain was, but he did better by us than by himself.)
We held the reception at Ann’s folks’ home, and Ann’s mother, the eternal Home Ec teacher, prepared the grand buffet herself and asked ladies from her church guild come in to serve. We didn’t see Ann’s parents after the ceremony until they visited us in Ohio (where I had a graduate assistantship at Ohio University) at Thanksgiving. We could never figure out where they disappeared or what they did when they vanished.
Our anniversary is somehow made more significant – and joyous – by the fact that in the general population the divorce rate hovers around 50 per cent. In our demographic, couples whose children have died, the divorce rate rockets to about 85 per cent. That’s an astounding figure and, I think, a testament to Ann’s willingness to make things work and the very good therapists we saw after Daniel’s death over fifteen years ago.
Before he died, we always joked that we couldn’t afford to get divorced, even if we had wanted to. Which we didn’t. After his death, we grieved in such profound and different ways that for a while it didn’t matter if we were married or not. We lived in separate bubbles for a short while. But as we came out of the grief and shock and guilt and anger and all those other conflicting emotions, we realized what love and strength we have together, and continued to build on it.
And no matter what has happened in our lives, the most important fact remains that we continue to love and support each other, that we expect to remain married forever.
We experience occasional joy and occasional sadness, but on the whole we live our lives in great contentment. Early this morning, just after midnight, when I went to bed after the Olympics, I woke Ann to wish her Happy Anniversary. She didn’t curse me for violating the biggest rule of the house: Don’t wake anyone unnecessarily. She didn’t snort and turn over. Instead she giggled and wished me the same. Then we both went right to sleep.
Not to brag, but our marriage works.
As always, I invite you to comment below.
We all know nine-eleven, the day Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center in New York City, the most recent of the terrible anniversaries. Most of us do not recognize it as the date of chosen son Tim’s birthday, however. It isn’t all bad.
November 22, 1963, is the day I lost my innocence, the day I realized that the world is not a nice place. John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas that day. December 7, 1941, is the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, HI, and drew the United States into World War II. That’s before my time, of course.
There are other dates I remember: September 8, 1973, is the day our son Daniel was born. December 2, 1940, is the date of the first self-sustaining nuclear reaction that occurred at the University of Chicago. December 2 is noteworthy date in other ways. It’s my birthday and more important, the date on which we baptized Daniel. The latter two are happy occasions. Perhaps all three are.
January 7, 1993, is the day our son Daniel was killed in a freak accident. It’s a day we always remember, but not a happy one.
And today is an important date. It’s the anniversary of our wedding in 1967.
Forty-one years ago it rained – poured, in fact. We got married in Ann’s parents’ home in New Lenox, IL. The campus minister came up from Charleston and officiated. (He later dumped his wife for his secretary, and then, I hear by the grapevine, dumped her for the new secretary. I don’t know how long the chain was, but he did better by us than by himself.)
We held the reception at Ann’s folks’ home, and Ann’s mother, the eternal Home Ec teacher, prepared the grand buffet herself and asked ladies from her church guild come in to serve. We didn’t see Ann’s parents after the ceremony until they visited us in Ohio (where I had a graduate assistantship at Ohio University) at Thanksgiving. We could never figure out where they disappeared or what they did when they vanished.
Our anniversary is somehow made more significant – and joyous – by the fact that in the general population the divorce rate hovers around 50 per cent. In our demographic, couples whose children have died, the divorce rate rockets to about 85 per cent. That’s an astounding figure and, I think, a testament to Ann’s willingness to make things work and the very good therapists we saw after Daniel’s death over fifteen years ago.
Before he died, we always joked that we couldn’t afford to get divorced, even if we had wanted to. Which we didn’t. After his death, we grieved in such profound and different ways that for a while it didn’t matter if we were married or not. We lived in separate bubbles for a short while. But as we came out of the grief and shock and guilt and anger and all those other conflicting emotions, we realized what love and strength we have together, and continued to build on it.
And no matter what has happened in our lives, the most important fact remains that we continue to love and support each other, that we expect to remain married forever.
We experience occasional joy and occasional sadness, but on the whole we live our lives in great contentment. Early this morning, just after midnight, when I went to bed after the Olympics, I woke Ann to wish her Happy Anniversary. She didn’t curse me for violating the biggest rule of the house: Don’t wake anyone unnecessarily. She didn’t snort and turn over. Instead she giggled and wished me the same. Then we both went right to sleep.
Not to brag, but our marriage works.
As always, I invite you to comment below.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
A Toast not a Roast
Today is the big day: Tim, our grandsons' dad, is getting married to Karen, one of my former students. That sounds surprising, but it isn't. Some of my former students are in their middle to late fifties at this point. Karen, of course is not. She is considerably younger than my early students. And just for the record, she is younger than my middle students.
This week has been a whirlwind of pre-wedding events: Tim's two sisters are staying with us and we welcomed them at about 3 a.m. the other day because of plane delays. A pizza party followed by the bachelor party. The rehearsal. A shower for the ladies. The rehearsal dinner. And today is the wedding. Preceded by photos and followed by the reception. Tomorrow is the post-wedding brunch at the bride's parents' house.
I am the Best Man. Go figure. My duties today include not passing out during the nuptial mass, not crying too hard, and offering a toast. Here's the preview:
As the best man, I have the privilege of proposing the first toast.
I want to say a couple of words about Karen before I talk about Tim. She is one of my former students – as is her sister Susie - and I am happy to say Karen did not receive the only B of her high school career in my English class.
Karen is a lovely person on every level I can think of. In addition to being beautiful, she is kind, gracious, graceful - and I know that Tim adores her.
Now to Tim. When I met Tim I thought he was a very tall man. This was shortly after our son died, and he helped us through a very difficult time. He gave us his two sons David and Jonathan, whom we adore, to be grandparents to. For that magnificent gift, that new connection to life and family, we shall be always grateful.
As I said, I thought Tim was very tall. He told me that as I got to know him better, I’d find out he was not semi-divine, and he would start shrinking – at least in my perception. That happened. I discovered Tim is human. Sometime totally human. Never as human as I am. And he is shorter than I originally thought he was.
Today, however, Tim stands taller than I have ever known him.
Both Tim and Karen know how much I love them.
Let us raise our glasses: To Tim and Karen. Our love and best wishes for great happiness!
Please feel free to comment below.
This week has been a whirlwind of pre-wedding events: Tim's two sisters are staying with us and we welcomed them at about 3 a.m. the other day because of plane delays. A pizza party followed by the bachelor party. The rehearsal. A shower for the ladies. The rehearsal dinner. And today is the wedding. Preceded by photos and followed by the reception. Tomorrow is the post-wedding brunch at the bride's parents' house.
I am the Best Man. Go figure. My duties today include not passing out during the nuptial mass, not crying too hard, and offering a toast. Here's the preview:
As the best man, I have the privilege of proposing the first toast.
I want to say a couple of words about Karen before I talk about Tim. She is one of my former students – as is her sister Susie - and I am happy to say Karen did not receive the only B of her high school career in my English class.
Karen is a lovely person on every level I can think of. In addition to being beautiful, she is kind, gracious, graceful - and I know that Tim adores her.
Now to Tim. When I met Tim I thought he was a very tall man. This was shortly after our son died, and he helped us through a very difficult time. He gave us his two sons David and Jonathan, whom we adore, to be grandparents to. For that magnificent gift, that new connection to life and family, we shall be always grateful.
As I said, I thought Tim was very tall. He told me that as I got to know him better, I’d find out he was not semi-divine, and he would start shrinking – at least in my perception. That happened. I discovered Tim is human. Sometime totally human. Never as human as I am. And he is shorter than I originally thought he was.
Today, however, Tim stands taller than I have ever known him.
Both Tim and Karen know how much I love them.
Let us raise our glasses: To Tim and Karen. Our love and best wishes for great happiness!
Please feel free to comment below.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Port Townsend
Every time I travel, I check out whether or not I’d like to live there. I’m currently at Fort Worden State Park in Port Townsend, Washington, and this is a great place to visit.
The fort sits on a bluff overlooking Puget Sound. Across the bay is snow-covered Mt. Baker. At the bottom of the bluff is a wide sandy beach, a long boardwalk and pier out into the Sound that houses a maritime museum. At the north end, a spit with a lighthouse, a working lighthouse. It is beautiful and romantic.
So far the mornings are gray and foggy. But as the sun climbs and burns off the haze, the days have become sun filled and almost warm. The wind seems to pound relentlessly, although others in my group have reported periods of no breezes. Afternoons are glorious, and offer free time to nap, paint – as I did yesterday – or go to the lectures that we have paid for, even if we prefer to play hooky.
Next to the dorm – former barracks – where Ann and I are staying, picnic tables line the top of the bluff, and it is there we writers gather each evening to chat, and drink, and have un-wholesome snacks, snacks the opposite of the high fiber and heavy-on-the-tofu meals the cafeteria serves.
The barracks is built on a hill, and to the north of us, sweet peas cover the walls of a higher bluff. The oldest building in Port Townsend sits there. It is oddly shaped, a brick house with a three story, crenelated tower. It was home to the first Episcopal priest in the city. He became the British consul in Port Townsend eventually.
Our classes with successful writers are, appropriately, in the old schoolhouse. Before becoming a school, it was the infirmary, and the room where we meet with Chris Albani each morning used to be the mental health section, the insane asylum where crazy soldiers killed themselves. Rumor suggests it’s haunted, but the only unusual occurrences I have noticed are the wind in the vertical blinds that makes a skittering sound and a large yellow bug, probably a moth, that fluttered through class today.
I have barely left the grounds of the fort. Ann, on the other hand, took a day-long whale watching cruise. She said she has never felt so seasick, although the water calmed on the way back, and she saw a pod of whales before she had to go below and lie down again. Yesterday she went to Sequim (pronounced Squim), where, as she passed an elderly woman on her way into a restaurant, the woman smacked Ann with her cane. The natives are friendly, but only up to a point.
That is not to say that she hasn’t had wonderful experiences also. She has done some exploring and shopping and reading and napping and relaxing and she has gone with me to readings by the authors at this writing conference. Last night’s readings by Rebecca Brown and Brian Evnason were terrific and tonight we will hear Chris Albani and Kathleen Alcalá.
Tomorrow morning my fifteen pages get work shopped (yes, dears, you can verb anything) at Chris Albani’s workshop, and in the afternoon Ann plans to take a tour of the Lighthouse while I am at a lecture by Brian Evanson.
Sunday we pile our stuff in the rental car and drive the two hours to Seattle to fly home. We’ll arrive late Sunday night, no doubt happy to sleep in our own bed with our familiar pillows and eat regular low-fiber tofu-less food.
But even though I don’t want to live here, I’ll miss Port Townsend. I love the water, the sound of the waves and the tide rising and falling twice a day. I love the weather, which is literally no-sweat – it gets up to about 70 every day and the nights are great for sleeping.
What I’ll miss most of all is the camaraderie of good and trusted friends, particularly Beth Thorpe and Jim Churchill-Dicks (check out his blog
Beyond Telling listed at the right), whose residencies at Goddard I overlapped, and Rebecca Brown and Chris Albani, both of whom are inspired, inspiring teachers and writers. And I’ll miss Brian Christian whom I met last year and whose poetry will appear in Best New Voices of 2008!, and David and Lowell and Ted Wheeler (whose work will appear in New American Voices of 2009!) and Kyle and “Jim number one” all of whom have wonderful minds and great writing talents. Our paths will cross in the future. I’ll make sure of that.
The fort sits on a bluff overlooking Puget Sound. Across the bay is snow-covered Mt. Baker. At the bottom of the bluff is a wide sandy beach, a long boardwalk and pier out into the Sound that houses a maritime museum. At the north end, a spit with a lighthouse, a working lighthouse. It is beautiful and romantic.
So far the mornings are gray and foggy. But as the sun climbs and burns off the haze, the days have become sun filled and almost warm. The wind seems to pound relentlessly, although others in my group have reported periods of no breezes. Afternoons are glorious, and offer free time to nap, paint – as I did yesterday – or go to the lectures that we have paid for, even if we prefer to play hooky.
Next to the dorm – former barracks – where Ann and I are staying, picnic tables line the top of the bluff, and it is there we writers gather each evening to chat, and drink, and have un-wholesome snacks, snacks the opposite of the high fiber and heavy-on-the-tofu meals the cafeteria serves.
The barracks is built on a hill, and to the north of us, sweet peas cover the walls of a higher bluff. The oldest building in Port Townsend sits there. It is oddly shaped, a brick house with a three story, crenelated tower. It was home to the first Episcopal priest in the city. He became the British consul in Port Townsend eventually.
Our classes with successful writers are, appropriately, in the old schoolhouse. Before becoming a school, it was the infirmary, and the room where we meet with Chris Albani each morning used to be the mental health section, the insane asylum where crazy soldiers killed themselves. Rumor suggests it’s haunted, but the only unusual occurrences I have noticed are the wind in the vertical blinds that makes a skittering sound and a large yellow bug, probably a moth, that fluttered through class today.
I have barely left the grounds of the fort. Ann, on the other hand, took a day-long whale watching cruise. She said she has never felt so seasick, although the water calmed on the way back, and she saw a pod of whales before she had to go below and lie down again. Yesterday she went to Sequim (pronounced Squim), where, as she passed an elderly woman on her way into a restaurant, the woman smacked Ann with her cane. The natives are friendly, but only up to a point.
That is not to say that she hasn’t had wonderful experiences also. She has done some exploring and shopping and reading and napping and relaxing and she has gone with me to readings by the authors at this writing conference. Last night’s readings by Rebecca Brown and Brian Evnason were terrific and tonight we will hear Chris Albani and Kathleen Alcalá.
Tomorrow morning my fifteen pages get work shopped (yes, dears, you can verb anything) at Chris Albani’s workshop, and in the afternoon Ann plans to take a tour of the Lighthouse while I am at a lecture by Brian Evanson.
Sunday we pile our stuff in the rental car and drive the two hours to Seattle to fly home. We’ll arrive late Sunday night, no doubt happy to sleep in our own bed with our familiar pillows and eat regular low-fiber tofu-less food.
But even though I don’t want to live here, I’ll miss Port Townsend. I love the water, the sound of the waves and the tide rising and falling twice a day. I love the weather, which is literally no-sweat – it gets up to about 70 every day and the nights are great for sleeping.
What I’ll miss most of all is the camaraderie of good and trusted friends, particularly Beth Thorpe and Jim Churchill-Dicks (check out his blog
Beyond Telling listed at the right), whose residencies at Goddard I overlapped, and Rebecca Brown and Chris Albani, both of whom are inspired, inspiring teachers and writers. And I’ll miss Brian Christian whom I met last year and whose poetry will appear in Best New Voices of 2008!, and David and Lowell and Ted Wheeler (whose work will appear in New American Voices of 2009!) and Kyle and “Jim number one” all of whom have wonderful minds and great writing talents. Our paths will cross in the future. I’ll make sure of that.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Fourth of July
I’m home from Vermont in time to rest up for the Fourth of July Independence Day celebration – and another gigantic spate of mattress sales. I just don’t understand how selling mattresses – or having any other kind of sale - has anything to do with patriotism, unless we consider capitalism gone wild a way to express our love for our country.
In any event the neighborhood has been pretty calm – knock on wood. Instead of the usual firecrackers all night for two weeks in advance of the Fourth, I haven’t heard anything. With luck, dogs all over the neighborhood are neither peeing on carpets in fright nor jumping on their masters in the middle of the night at the sound of random explosions.
My dogs don’t seem to be afraid of firecrackers or thunderstorms, and for that I am grateful. Brando barks at the vacuum cleaner occasionally, but I ignore him and he lies down by himself pretty soon. Stella doesn’t seem to notice either way unless I put the suction hose on her body, and then she makes herself scarce. With good reason.
I know people whose dogs go wild at the slightest rumble and try to crawl under the closet floor to protect themselves. I don’t understand why some dogs tremble and others don’t, but I suspect it has to do with their puppyhoods. We didn’t have either dog as a little puppy, although we got Stella when she was six months old. Brando came to us six months later at a year old. Both are rescue dogs, probably not full-blooded anything, and that may account for their temperaments.
The Dogs Next Door are apparent basket cases last night and this morning, perhaps in anticipation of coming thunder. They have done nothing but bark. Stella pretty much ignores them, and Brando is working on it, but neither of my dogs has even been outside when the neighbor dogs have heard us – even in the house – and gone wild. The lawn people are here this morning and that is driving the DNDs crazy. Go figure.
In any event, we are going to the grandkids’ parents’ for the Fourth. The grandsons' (David and Jonathan, terrific kids!) father is remarrying in August, and his fiancée has two kids, our two new grandchildren Greyson and Alexa, who are also absolute delights. Now we have four grandchildren to spoil.
And maybe that’s the patriotic theme of this blog today. We have such freedom. Freedom not only to say what we want, and blog what we want, and think what we want, especially if we think George Bush is a mendacious moron. Freedom of association and travel and even, I suppose, mattress sales, are freedoms we can thank our founding fathers for. And we thank also those who have fought for us over the past 232 years, especially son Derek, who went to Annapolis and then gave another six years to the Navy and his country, our country. We owe them deep gratitude.
Happy Fourth of July! Happy Independence Day!
In any event the neighborhood has been pretty calm – knock on wood. Instead of the usual firecrackers all night for two weeks in advance of the Fourth, I haven’t heard anything. With luck, dogs all over the neighborhood are neither peeing on carpets in fright nor jumping on their masters in the middle of the night at the sound of random explosions.
My dogs don’t seem to be afraid of firecrackers or thunderstorms, and for that I am grateful. Brando barks at the vacuum cleaner occasionally, but I ignore him and he lies down by himself pretty soon. Stella doesn’t seem to notice either way unless I put the suction hose on her body, and then she makes herself scarce. With good reason.
I know people whose dogs go wild at the slightest rumble and try to crawl under the closet floor to protect themselves. I don’t understand why some dogs tremble and others don’t, but I suspect it has to do with their puppyhoods. We didn’t have either dog as a little puppy, although we got Stella when she was six months old. Brando came to us six months later at a year old. Both are rescue dogs, probably not full-blooded anything, and that may account for their temperaments.
The Dogs Next Door are apparent basket cases last night and this morning, perhaps in anticipation of coming thunder. They have done nothing but bark. Stella pretty much ignores them, and Brando is working on it, but neither of my dogs has even been outside when the neighbor dogs have heard us – even in the house – and gone wild. The lawn people are here this morning and that is driving the DNDs crazy. Go figure.
In any event, we are going to the grandkids’ parents’ for the Fourth. The grandsons' (David and Jonathan, terrific kids!) father is remarrying in August, and his fiancée has two kids, our two new grandchildren Greyson and Alexa, who are also absolute delights. Now we have four grandchildren to spoil.
And maybe that’s the patriotic theme of this blog today. We have such freedom. Freedom not only to say what we want, and blog what we want, and think what we want, especially if we think George Bush is a mendacious moron. Freedom of association and travel and even, I suppose, mattress sales, are freedoms we can thank our founding fathers for. And we thank also those who have fought for us over the past 232 years, especially son Derek, who went to Annapolis and then gave another six years to the Navy and his country, our country. We owe them deep gratitude.
Happy Fourth of July! Happy Independence Day!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Peonies
Thanks to Jim Churchill-Dicks for his peony photo on his blog at Beyond Telling, which is listed at the right among my favorite blogs. Click on it to see his photographic skill and how beautifully he writes.
Peonies in my little suburb of Chicago bloomed shortly after Memorial / Mattress Sale Day. In fact, mattress sales were extended for a week or so, and the peonies found their glory during that time. Then the weather turned briefly hot and rain flattened the blossoms on the ground where they became piles of independent pink and white and maroon petals until the lawn people came one Wednesday morning and cleaned them up.
Today, three weeks after the real Memorial Day, a month after the fake one, I’m at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, at the week-long Clockhouse Writers Conference. The peonies here are just beginning to bloom. Last night heavy rain didn’t flatten the peonies. Instead diamonds now cover the peonies, and the waxy leaves of the hostas, and the fuchsias in the morning sun. They glitter like a sale in Tiffany’s window.
As the day progresses, again rain threatens and dark clouds glower at the horizon and pass swiftly overhead, but the sun shines intermittently, and everything is green and lush. Lady bugs swirl on flowers I can’t identify, and gnats try to form nests in my nose and mouth and ears. Little white and yellow butterflies flit around the wildflowers, and except for the slight smell of skunk in the village, the air is filled with the sweetness of the blooming clover, and peonies, and fruit trees.
I love Vermont. And I visit every year – this is the eleventh time I've visited since 2000 when I came for a college visit to see if I could handle a week every semester while I worked on an MFA (Master of Fine Arts, not what you’re thinking) in Creative Writing after I retired from teaching.
My current concern is that it is a good two day drive from home out here. And I hate to drive. Or an increasingly expensive plane ride. (Two years ago I paid $299 round trip, last year I came on frequent flyer miles, but this year the flight costs roughly three times what I last paid – plus a rental car for a week. My wife and I spent less per person when we went to England for a week last year to visit her English mum in Nottingham.)
An obvious solution is to move to Vermont, and it isn’t as if I wouldn’t love to. But I’d miss my two grandsons David and Jonathan who give great and consistent joy to my life. Not to mention my soon-to-be new grandson Greyson and new granddaughter Alexa. I’d miss my daughter Shannon, and our friends, and the energy of the city of Chicago. At this stage in my life, not that I’m swirling the drain by any means, I’d miss my doctor of many years and the great medical care available in the City.
And Vermont has winters that are a month longer on each end than Chicago’s. I like winter, but I’m not sure I like it that much.
In The Secular City Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.” And I don’t know whether I’m deciding or not deciding, but I know I’m continuing my own personal status quo. I’ll continue to visit Vermont each early summer as long as I can scrape the shekels together. My little suburb south of Chicago will remain my home. And I'll get to see the peonies bloom twice.
Please click comment below to leave a response.
Peonies in my little suburb of Chicago bloomed shortly after Memorial / Mattress Sale Day. In fact, mattress sales were extended for a week or so, and the peonies found their glory during that time. Then the weather turned briefly hot and rain flattened the blossoms on the ground where they became piles of independent pink and white and maroon petals until the lawn people came one Wednesday morning and cleaned them up.
Today, three weeks after the real Memorial Day, a month after the fake one, I’m at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT, at the week-long Clockhouse Writers Conference. The peonies here are just beginning to bloom. Last night heavy rain didn’t flatten the peonies. Instead diamonds now cover the peonies, and the waxy leaves of the hostas, and the fuchsias in the morning sun. They glitter like a sale in Tiffany’s window.
As the day progresses, again rain threatens and dark clouds glower at the horizon and pass swiftly overhead, but the sun shines intermittently, and everything is green and lush. Lady bugs swirl on flowers I can’t identify, and gnats try to form nests in my nose and mouth and ears. Little white and yellow butterflies flit around the wildflowers, and except for the slight smell of skunk in the village, the air is filled with the sweetness of the blooming clover, and peonies, and fruit trees.
I love Vermont. And I visit every year – this is the eleventh time I've visited since 2000 when I came for a college visit to see if I could handle a week every semester while I worked on an MFA (Master of Fine Arts, not what you’re thinking) in Creative Writing after I retired from teaching.
My current concern is that it is a good two day drive from home out here. And I hate to drive. Or an increasingly expensive plane ride. (Two years ago I paid $299 round trip, last year I came on frequent flyer miles, but this year the flight costs roughly three times what I last paid – plus a rental car for a week. My wife and I spent less per person when we went to England for a week last year to visit her English mum in Nottingham.)
An obvious solution is to move to Vermont, and it isn’t as if I wouldn’t love to. But I’d miss my two grandsons David and Jonathan who give great and consistent joy to my life. Not to mention my soon-to-be new grandson Greyson and new granddaughter Alexa. I’d miss my daughter Shannon, and our friends, and the energy of the city of Chicago. At this stage in my life, not that I’m swirling the drain by any means, I’d miss my doctor of many years and the great medical care available in the City.
And Vermont has winters that are a month longer on each end than Chicago’s. I like winter, but I’m not sure I like it that much.
In The Secular City Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.” And I don’t know whether I’m deciding or not deciding, but I know I’m continuing my own personal status quo. I’ll continue to visit Vermont each early summer as long as I can scrape the shekels together. My little suburb south of Chicago will remain my home. And I'll get to see the peonies bloom twice.
Please click comment below to leave a response.
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