It finally happened. This morning as I was getting ready to leave the house I paused to look, really look, at myself in the mirror. My hair seemed a bit chanticleer-esque and I'd forgotten to put on lipstick. The top button on my shirt wasn't all the way through the buttonhole, but I was gratified to see that the shirt at least hung straight. With a start, I realized that my pants were highwaters--something I'd never noticed before, even after wearing them many times in the last few months. When did that happen? And the toes of my shoes were scuffed. These are the shoes that are so sensible that I wore them through Europe two summers ago and can't bear to part with them. So on rainy days I have an excuse to wear them. My trouser socks were navy and I could see the blue in them against the black of my pants.
I had thrown on my raincoat--one I found at an outlet mall at least eight years ago. I found myself looking critically at it to see if it was out of style or not. I couldn't tell. Besides, I like that coat.
Suddenly I started laughing. My mind went back to those long nursing lectures at Cal State, where Karen and I sat with eyes glazed over, trying to pay attention. One thing that frequently occupied our attention was the game we played in Dr. X's class. She had recently moved from a Midwest state and had a stunning reputation as a researcher. But she looked like she couldn't dress herself, and her hair was a picture. It was thin and mousy, clinging to the sides of her head. She didn't wear makeup at first or dress up very much until apparently, someone whispered something to her. She suddenly started wearing bright-colored suits and heels. But her hair never did much of anything positive for her. Karen and I used to sit at our desks during her lectures, studying her features. On the side of our notes, we'd draw hairstyles that we thought would be good for her to try. Some were ridiculous, like beehives and French Twists, while others were cute little flippy styles. There were times that we were nearly hysterical with laughter from the comments and pictures we produced on this theme.
From Dr. X's class, we went into our stats course with Dr. P. He had such a heavy accent that we could hardly understand him--and I'm good at understanding accented English. His hair was pasted to his head and he wore highwaters. One pant leg was higher than the other, and we could see stitches on the outside where someone had roughly basted up the hems. It was almost more than we could bear, day after day, with that brilliant but incomprehensible, bedraggled little man. One religion professor never buttoned his shirt sleeves--ever. They flapped about as he spoke, sometimes working up to his elbow on one arm, whilst the other hung limply almost down to his fingers.
We passed our classes with flying colors, but we often talked about people who were so smart that they could hardly tie their own shoes.
When I looked in the mirror this morning it struck me that perhaps this had happened to me! Ten years ago I would have rather died than look like I did this morning. I used to be such a clothes horse. I love dressing to kill, but rarely have I thought that my clothes caused pain!
My sister recently told me that she loves being the eccentric oddball professor, sweeping into her office in a black coat that almost touches the floor, and with a black hat pulled down over her head so that she looks like a rabbi. She says that every time she looks at her dissertation and what it costs her, she feels that deserves to be whatever kind of mad professor she chooses to be.
Me, too. I shall glory in the remaining fashion sense I possess and try to look my best every day. Hopefully the fashion statement I make will be a victorious declaration and not a yelp.
January 10, 2006
January 9, 2006
Home
I miss my house. My house. We sold it over a year ago. It was full of sweat equity--new bathroom, all newly painted rooms, carpet torn up to show hardwood floors in the bedrooms, painted basement, landscaped yard and tons of demolition and tree removal in the back yard. This house was right across from a middle school, where we could walk on the track. Our street was nestled between two impressive boulevards full of beautifully maintained Victorian homes. We walked up and down those streets almost every day.It was ours. I really miss my house that felt like home.
January 5, 2006
Not all there
I had a medical procedure on Tuesday. It was a big deal for me, since I just hate it when I have to be bothered with the inconvenience of hospitals, tests and doctor visits. The nurse put an IV in my hand and wheeled me into the procedure room. It was like diving into a blue-green pond: cold, dark, and very subdued. I got positioned on the table and the doctor chatted with me for a couple minutes while he tried to push the medication into my IV without my knowing it--as if I would get that warm, heavy feeling for no reason at all!
Anyhow, it felt just absolutely marvelous--warm, heavy, soft. I commented on how wonderful it was. The nurses and doctor smiled knowingly. Wanting to add a superlative, I began to say more but midway through the sentence my brain gave out and my subconscious took over. "Wow! That's better than eggnog!" The last thing I heard was the nurse cracking up and saying off in the distance, "I've never heard that before!" I woke up in the recovery room. Funny thing though, I don't like eggnog.
That wasn't the first time my mouth engaged without my brain. I once worked a double shift and came home to drop into a deep sleep. My friend, Sarah, planned to call me at 1:00 p.m. to see when we could leave for a shopping trip. That would give me five hours to sleep before our outing. When she called, I was aware that the phone had rung and woke up enough to answer it. She wondered if she had wakened me and I protested that in fact, I had been awake all along. I don't know why, but I've always done that when I'm awakened out of a deep sleep. As Sarah began telling me which mall she should like to visit, the "lights" went out. She must have asked me something then, like, what time would I be ready for her to pick me up. I don't remember what she said, only that there was a silence and I felt compelled to respond to an unknown question. I have a vague recollection of saying, "I don't think I can go; I have to get all my teeth pulled this afternoon."
There was a stunned silence. In a voice full of concern and consideration for my altered state, Sarah reassured me that we could go shopping another time and that perhaps I should just rest for awhile.
I don't remember hanging up the phone but five minutes later I woke up with a start as I realized what I'd said to her. I have no idea where this thing about teeth came from, but there it was.
I wonder if this kind of mental disconnect is what people feel like when they have brain surgery or strokes. I recall taking care of a man, fresh out of brain surgery, who responded to all my inquires with, "Whining, twining...whining, twining." This was all he said for two days. It was as if he had some broken links somewhere--which, I suppose he had. At first he had no idea his words were inappropriate, but by the second day he was in despair. The third day dawned and he could say his name, "Yes" and "No."
Our mental wiring never ceases to amaze me--even though there are days when mine is loose.
Anyhow, it felt just absolutely marvelous--warm, heavy, soft. I commented on how wonderful it was. The nurses and doctor smiled knowingly. Wanting to add a superlative, I began to say more but midway through the sentence my brain gave out and my subconscious took over. "Wow! That's better than eggnog!" The last thing I heard was the nurse cracking up and saying off in the distance, "I've never heard that before!" I woke up in the recovery room. Funny thing though, I don't like eggnog.
That wasn't the first time my mouth engaged without my brain. I once worked a double shift and came home to drop into a deep sleep. My friend, Sarah, planned to call me at 1:00 p.m. to see when we could leave for a shopping trip. That would give me five hours to sleep before our outing. When she called, I was aware that the phone had rung and woke up enough to answer it. She wondered if she had wakened me and I protested that in fact, I had been awake all along. I don't know why, but I've always done that when I'm awakened out of a deep sleep. As Sarah began telling me which mall she should like to visit, the "lights" went out. She must have asked me something then, like, what time would I be ready for her to pick me up. I don't remember what she said, only that there was a silence and I felt compelled to respond to an unknown question. I have a vague recollection of saying, "I don't think I can go; I have to get all my teeth pulled this afternoon."
There was a stunned silence. In a voice full of concern and consideration for my altered state, Sarah reassured me that we could go shopping another time and that perhaps I should just rest for awhile.
I don't remember hanging up the phone but five minutes later I woke up with a start as I realized what I'd said to her. I have no idea where this thing about teeth came from, but there it was.
I wonder if this kind of mental disconnect is what people feel like when they have brain surgery or strokes. I recall taking care of a man, fresh out of brain surgery, who responded to all my inquires with, "Whining, twining...whining, twining." This was all he said for two days. It was as if he had some broken links somewhere--which, I suppose he had. At first he had no idea his words were inappropriate, but by the second day he was in despair. The third day dawned and he could say his name, "Yes" and "No."
Our mental wiring never ceases to amaze me--even though there are days when mine is loose.
January 3, 2006
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer
Today is Miss Sawyer's birthday. Although she died at least 20 years ago, I think of her every year on January 3rd. You see, Miss Sawyer was my first teacher and she was not someone that one could easily forget.
People I grew up with in Upstate New York, who are 20 years older than I, were taught by Miss Sawyer. And they thought she was "ancient" when they had her. I was in her last class before she finally retired. She was ageless. One would have to be to teach grades 1-4 in a two room schoolhouse for 30 years in a little town with few social outlets for a single woman.
Anna Sawyer came from a family in rural Maine and had a bit of a twangy "Nah-easten" accent. She grew up on a farm with a horse named Old Nell, who, she reported on more than one occasion, could run a mile a minute. We all wished we'd grown up on a farm and had such a swell old horse and buggy.
Miss Sawyer never married. She was a bit awkward and standoffish, and definitely a no-nonsense woman, but I looked forward to seeing her every day. When I got the mumps in October, she came to the house to bring me my homework and I cried when I saw her. I think I made a scene in front of my mother because I wanted to be allowed to go back to school to be with Miss Sawyer and all my friends. There is no substitute in all of life for that trusting, unabashed admiration a child feels for her teacher.
Our school was really a remodeled two-story house. Grades 1-4 were upstairs in the room with the slanted ceilings and the coatroom that was like a dark little cave. We had wooden floors that creaked, so we couldn't sneak to the bathroom when Miss Sawyer's back was to us. Besides, the bathroom was right in the front of the classroom, even though it had a little partition in front of the door for privacy. We never cared about that. When we could watch Jodie or Berniece pee their pants right in their seats, privacy did not carry a high premium.
We had a huge lawn to play on. It was an entire city block. On one side of the schoolhouse it was all grass where we played Dodgeball. On the other side of the schoolhouse was where we played baseball and two-hand touch football--at least, that's what the older students played. We played on the grassy slope.
Miss Sawyer used to become quite upset when the town doctor's boxer dog got loose and chased us around the playground. He was a randy sort, humping on any child's leg who stood still enough for him to get ahold of. Within seconds, Miss Sawyer would fly out of the schoolhouse brandishing a carton of ground black pepper. Her theory was that if she could just shake some of it on his nose, he'd receive enough negative reinforcement that he'd stop harrassing us. Instead, Boxer would go loping off in circles around a red-faced Miss Sawyer running in high speed behind him, her dress rippling in the wind against her long spindly legs as she ran. We would laugh and imitate her expression of righteous indignation and her ridiculous appearnce charging across the lawn. Boxer thought there never was such a fine game as being chased by Miss Sawyer. I don't think the pepper ever connected with his nose.
She was, I suppose, what some would call a classic old maid. She was abrupt sometimes, and a little off, socially, and she kept to herself a lot of the time. Miss Sawyer wasn't good with students who were out of the mainstream: she taunted my brother, who has a learning disability, and with her yardstick she often threatened a thin, sickly boy who always fell asleep in class. She slapped my face one time when I couldn't recite the colors in the rainbow, even though I was probably one of her favorite students. By today's standards, she would have been fired. I know my parents had words with her about my brother. But in those days, given the values and expectations for teachers, she was still considered a good teacher, and there was something about her that made me love being in school.
I remember hearing women in our church comment on her hair. She had hair--that was all that mattered to me as a child. Apparently though, she had a perm but never combed it out or styled it. So her head was a collection of discrete grey corkscrew curls with no sense of organization, plan, or collaboration. She wore long filmy light-colored dresses with nude colored stockings, and in her bosom she always kept a handkerchief with which to blow her nose.
There were two parts of Miss Sawyer's body that I admired like few other things in my young life at that time: her nose and her upper arms. With one smooth movement, she could reach into her dress for her handkerchief and blow her nose with one hand. As she blew into the handkerchief, she would twist her nose first to one side and then to the other, as if it had no cartilage in it whatsoever. Paul and I tried to do it once at recess and he got a bloody nose.
Miss Sawyer's upper arms had a most arresting swing to them when she wrote longhand on the board during penmanship. They fairly danced to and fro, happily jiggling with every loop of cursive writing she produced. Nancy, Olive and I had contests to see whose upper arm could jiggle like Miss Sawyer's but we never could do it right. It's only now that I recognize that unfortunate quality in my own arms.
My favorite thing about Miss Sawyer was that she loved Jesus with all her heart. And I knew that because of the stories she used to tell us for our devotional first thing in the morning. When it was time for Bible class, she would teach us things about the Bible and God.
I have an indellible image of her in my mind's eye--one that I see whenever anyone mentions her name. She is standing there by my desk, holding the huge Webster's unabridged dictionary in her hands and telling us about how everything we do is written in the books in heaven. And how one day when Jesus comes, He will open the books and see if our sins have been blotted out. If they are, we will go into heaven for eternity (Daniel 7:10). And here is where Anna, the spinster teacher from Maine, became an actress without equal.
"And Satan will say, "She can't go into heaven. I got her to pull her brother's hair and disobey her mother. Look in the book--it's all there."
And Jesus will open up the book (she opens the dictionary and holds it aloft, her finger pointing to something on the page. We all strain our necks to see what she is pointing at) and He will say, "There's her name, right here. And it does say she did those mean things.""
We hold our breath, awaiting the fearful pronouncement that we had lost heaven forever.
"Jesus will turn to God and will show Him the book. And there, right over her name is a drop of blood from Jesus that shows that He died for her sins. Her sins have been blotted out! He'll show God the nailprints in His hands and say, "My blood, Father, My blood." And God says, "Your sacrifice is sufficient." And He turns to you, Barbara, and says, "Come ye blessed into the kingdom prepared for you.""
And Miss Sawyer's eyes would swim with tears and we could see that she meant what she was telling us more than anything else she had taught us in school--ever.
So today is really a special day, one that I never expected to remember for the rest of my life. But it is my teacher's birthday. Now that I'm a teacher myself, I know how it matters to be remembered.
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer.
His sacrifice is sufficient for you, and your gift of love and service for us was more than sufficient. Rest well until He comes for you. Then we shall both hear, "Come ye blessed into My Kingdom."
I'll be waiting for you.
People I grew up with in Upstate New York, who are 20 years older than I, were taught by Miss Sawyer. And they thought she was "ancient" when they had her. I was in her last class before she finally retired. She was ageless. One would have to be to teach grades 1-4 in a two room schoolhouse for 30 years in a little town with few social outlets for a single woman.
Anna Sawyer came from a family in rural Maine and had a bit of a twangy "Nah-easten" accent. She grew up on a farm with a horse named Old Nell, who, she reported on more than one occasion, could run a mile a minute. We all wished we'd grown up on a farm and had such a swell old horse and buggy.
Miss Sawyer never married. She was a bit awkward and standoffish, and definitely a no-nonsense woman, but I looked forward to seeing her every day. When I got the mumps in October, she came to the house to bring me my homework and I cried when I saw her. I think I made a scene in front of my mother because I wanted to be allowed to go back to school to be with Miss Sawyer and all my friends. There is no substitute in all of life for that trusting, unabashed admiration a child feels for her teacher.
Our school was really a remodeled two-story house. Grades 1-4 were upstairs in the room with the slanted ceilings and the coatroom that was like a dark little cave. We had wooden floors that creaked, so we couldn't sneak to the bathroom when Miss Sawyer's back was to us. Besides, the bathroom was right in the front of the classroom, even though it had a little partition in front of the door for privacy. We never cared about that. When we could watch Jodie or Berniece pee their pants right in their seats, privacy did not carry a high premium.
We had a huge lawn to play on. It was an entire city block. On one side of the schoolhouse it was all grass where we played Dodgeball. On the other side of the schoolhouse was where we played baseball and two-hand touch football--at least, that's what the older students played. We played on the grassy slope.
Miss Sawyer used to become quite upset when the town doctor's boxer dog got loose and chased us around the playground. He was a randy sort, humping on any child's leg who stood still enough for him to get ahold of. Within seconds, Miss Sawyer would fly out of the schoolhouse brandishing a carton of ground black pepper. Her theory was that if she could just shake some of it on his nose, he'd receive enough negative reinforcement that he'd stop harrassing us. Instead, Boxer would go loping off in circles around a red-faced Miss Sawyer running in high speed behind him, her dress rippling in the wind against her long spindly legs as she ran. We would laugh and imitate her expression of righteous indignation and her ridiculous appearnce charging across the lawn. Boxer thought there never was such a fine game as being chased by Miss Sawyer. I don't think the pepper ever connected with his nose.
She was, I suppose, what some would call a classic old maid. She was abrupt sometimes, and a little off, socially, and she kept to herself a lot of the time. Miss Sawyer wasn't good with students who were out of the mainstream: she taunted my brother, who has a learning disability, and with her yardstick she often threatened a thin, sickly boy who always fell asleep in class. She slapped my face one time when I couldn't recite the colors in the rainbow, even though I was probably one of her favorite students. By today's standards, she would have been fired. I know my parents had words with her about my brother. But in those days, given the values and expectations for teachers, she was still considered a good teacher, and there was something about her that made me love being in school.
I remember hearing women in our church comment on her hair. She had hair--that was all that mattered to me as a child. Apparently though, she had a perm but never combed it out or styled it. So her head was a collection of discrete grey corkscrew curls with no sense of organization, plan, or collaboration. She wore long filmy light-colored dresses with nude colored stockings, and in her bosom she always kept a handkerchief with which to blow her nose.
There were two parts of Miss Sawyer's body that I admired like few other things in my young life at that time: her nose and her upper arms. With one smooth movement, she could reach into her dress for her handkerchief and blow her nose with one hand. As she blew into the handkerchief, she would twist her nose first to one side and then to the other, as if it had no cartilage in it whatsoever. Paul and I tried to do it once at recess and he got a bloody nose.
Miss Sawyer's upper arms had a most arresting swing to them when she wrote longhand on the board during penmanship. They fairly danced to and fro, happily jiggling with every loop of cursive writing she produced. Nancy, Olive and I had contests to see whose upper arm could jiggle like Miss Sawyer's but we never could do it right. It's only now that I recognize that unfortunate quality in my own arms.
My favorite thing about Miss Sawyer was that she loved Jesus with all her heart. And I knew that because of the stories she used to tell us for our devotional first thing in the morning. When it was time for Bible class, she would teach us things about the Bible and God.
I have an indellible image of her in my mind's eye--one that I see whenever anyone mentions her name. She is standing there by my desk, holding the huge Webster's unabridged dictionary in her hands and telling us about how everything we do is written in the books in heaven. And how one day when Jesus comes, He will open the books and see if our sins have been blotted out. If they are, we will go into heaven for eternity (Daniel 7:10). And here is where Anna, the spinster teacher from Maine, became an actress without equal.
"And Satan will say, "She can't go into heaven. I got her to pull her brother's hair and disobey her mother. Look in the book--it's all there."
And Jesus will open up the book (she opens the dictionary and holds it aloft, her finger pointing to something on the page. We all strain our necks to see what she is pointing at) and He will say, "There's her name, right here. And it does say she did those mean things.""
We hold our breath, awaiting the fearful pronouncement that we had lost heaven forever.
"Jesus will turn to God and will show Him the book. And there, right over her name is a drop of blood from Jesus that shows that He died for her sins. Her sins have been blotted out! He'll show God the nailprints in His hands and say, "My blood, Father, My blood." And God says, "Your sacrifice is sufficient." And He turns to you, Barbara, and says, "Come ye blessed into the kingdom prepared for you.""
And Miss Sawyer's eyes would swim with tears and we could see that she meant what she was telling us more than anything else she had taught us in school--ever.
So today is really a special day, one that I never expected to remember for the rest of my life. But it is my teacher's birthday. Now that I'm a teacher myself, I know how it matters to be remembered.
Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer.
His sacrifice is sufficient for you, and your gift of love and service for us was more than sufficient. Rest well until He comes for you. Then we shall both hear, "Come ye blessed into My Kingdom."
I'll be waiting for you.
January 1, 2006
Happy New Year
This morning at 12:10 a.m., the neighbor kids started shooting off Roman Candles about 30 feet from our bedroom. I realized quickly that I'm a lot older than I thought I was.
This morning, rolling my tired, middle aged body out of bed, I wondered what the most important thing might be to write about on this auspicious day. This entry will be brief--just one comment that I want to make. What came to mind was a statement by one of the founders of my church: "We have nothing to fear for the future except we forget how the Lord has lead us in the past." I hope that I, and anyone else reading this, will recognize and not forget God's goodness, leading and blessings they have already enjoyed. Many blessings to you on this new beginning of our New Year.
This morning, rolling my tired, middle aged body out of bed, I wondered what the most important thing might be to write about on this auspicious day. This entry will be brief--just one comment that I want to make. What came to mind was a statement by one of the founders of my church: "We have nothing to fear for the future except we forget how the Lord has lead us in the past." I hope that I, and anyone else reading this, will recognize and not forget God's goodness, leading and blessings they have already enjoyed. Many blessings to you on this new beginning of our New Year.
December 28, 2005
Sentence Nightmares
Today I came across a real monstrosity of a sentence:
"Given all that Americans read and hear today about the "increasingly serious" problem of family violence in newspapers and on television news broadcasts and newsmagazines, along with the frightening statistics publicized by some organizations devoted to addressing family violence, it is tempting to assume that the prevalence of family violence has reached an all-time high and is getting worse." (Family violence across the lifespan: An introduction, 2nd edition. 2005, O. Barnett, C.L. Miller-Perrin, & R.D. Perrin, p. 24).
Technically, this sentence has a lot of correct things about it. But it's just such a multi-jointed mouthful, jammed with information, that I had to read it several times.
Now I love a good run-on sentence as well as anyone, but this was such an awful sentence to find in a textbook of higher education that it deserves comment. (Sadly, there are numerous such word conglomerations in this text!)
My students have a difficult time writing sentences properly, often resorting to catch-all sentences of shocking proportions. Here is a sentence written in a theoretical analysis of the movie, Tortilla Soup:
"The death of Gomez at the end of the video contributes to the transformation of Martin’s context represented by his openness and acceptance of his daughter's choices to move out of the family house symbolized by offering the house for sale, and the regain of his taste and smell that explains the alternative context he developed that helped him resolve his complexity also symbolized by him proposing to Yolanda after choosing to remain single for long time after his ex-wife passed away."
That string of gobbledygook takes my breath away.
Here's another beauty:
"Her grandfather was a victim of financial abuse and with family members not being close to him and still in relatively good health when he died no one was aware that his savings had been cleared out and his home and land was signed over to a neighbor who he had also written checks that were supposedly gifts."
Phew!
My private fantasy about people who write these sentences is that they are excited writers who are frantically putting down facts without regard to structure. They are caught up in the moment and just don't want to leave out anything so everything gets said willy-nilly. I believe that these people are not boring, but rather, they are quite interesting people. They have so much content that it fairly bulges out of their sentences.
These are not the individuals who write uninspiring narratives such as, "That dog laying by the cat was lame. I don't know why. He couldn't walk away from the barn. The cat didn't seem to like him, either."
No. The "loaded bullet," full-of-facts writer enthuses, "There was this dog near a cat and the dog just couldn't move away from the cat even though the cat scratched him and the dog rolled off to one side to try to get away from him while he pushed with his feet against the wall where the horse harnesses were hanging by the haymow. The dog never did walk away, even though the cat hissed, scratched, and yowled at him, as he laid in a ball on the old blanket in the entryway of the barn that my grandfather built before the Spanish-American War. A person can't see any nails in the beams of that barn because it was made with pegs and grooves like all the old buildings were made back in the days when Teddy Roosevelt and his "rough riders" were in the news because of the men he surrounded himself with, but also because he had to be a rough rider to travel through all the national parks that he set up in those years. Anyway, the dog is probably lame because he couldn't get away from that cantankerous cat--the one who has a blue eye and a green eye, and who has seven toes on all four feet, so he can really scratch his enemies if he gets mad enough, and he scratched the dog who didn't move. So yeah, the dog is probably lame, poor thing that had to be put out in the old drafty barn with that idiot, hyperthyroid fleabag who is half-crazed with cat hallucinations and delusions of grandeur most of the time, even though he's as ugly as a dung heap."
Well, dog my cats! I'll take the run-on sentence writer's stories any day if they're this interesting and full of amazing facts.
Perhaps those textbook authors are smarter than I originally gave them credit for...
"Given all that Americans read and hear today about the "increasingly serious" problem of family violence in newspapers and on television news broadcasts and newsmagazines, along with the frightening statistics publicized by some organizations devoted to addressing family violence, it is tempting to assume that the prevalence of family violence has reached an all-time high and is getting worse." (Family violence across the lifespan: An introduction, 2nd edition. 2005, O. Barnett, C.L. Miller-Perrin, & R.D. Perrin, p. 24).
Technically, this sentence has a lot of correct things about it. But it's just such a multi-jointed mouthful, jammed with information, that I had to read it several times.
Now I love a good run-on sentence as well as anyone, but this was such an awful sentence to find in a textbook of higher education that it deserves comment. (Sadly, there are numerous such word conglomerations in this text!)
My students have a difficult time writing sentences properly, often resorting to catch-all sentences of shocking proportions. Here is a sentence written in a theoretical analysis of the movie, Tortilla Soup:
"The death of Gomez at the end of the video contributes to the transformation of Martin’s context represented by his openness and acceptance of his daughter's choices to move out of the family house symbolized by offering the house for sale, and the regain of his taste and smell that explains the alternative context he developed that helped him resolve his complexity also symbolized by him proposing to Yolanda after choosing to remain single for long time after his ex-wife passed away."
That string of gobbledygook takes my breath away.
Here's another beauty:
"Her grandfather was a victim of financial abuse and with family members not being close to him and still in relatively good health when he died no one was aware that his savings had been cleared out and his home and land was signed over to a neighbor who he had also written checks that were supposedly gifts."
Phew!
My private fantasy about people who write these sentences is that they are excited writers who are frantically putting down facts without regard to structure. They are caught up in the moment and just don't want to leave out anything so everything gets said willy-nilly. I believe that these people are not boring, but rather, they are quite interesting people. They have so much content that it fairly bulges out of their sentences.
These are not the individuals who write uninspiring narratives such as, "That dog laying by the cat was lame. I don't know why. He couldn't walk away from the barn. The cat didn't seem to like him, either."
No. The "loaded bullet," full-of-facts writer enthuses, "There was this dog near a cat and the dog just couldn't move away from the cat even though the cat scratched him and the dog rolled off to one side to try to get away from him while he pushed with his feet against the wall where the horse harnesses were hanging by the haymow. The dog never did walk away, even though the cat hissed, scratched, and yowled at him, as he laid in a ball on the old blanket in the entryway of the barn that my grandfather built before the Spanish-American War. A person can't see any nails in the beams of that barn because it was made with pegs and grooves like all the old buildings were made back in the days when Teddy Roosevelt and his "rough riders" were in the news because of the men he surrounded himself with, but also because he had to be a rough rider to travel through all the national parks that he set up in those years. Anyway, the dog is probably lame because he couldn't get away from that cantankerous cat--the one who has a blue eye and a green eye, and who has seven toes on all four feet, so he can really scratch his enemies if he gets mad enough, and he scratched the dog who didn't move. So yeah, the dog is probably lame, poor thing that had to be put out in the old drafty barn with that idiot, hyperthyroid fleabag who is half-crazed with cat hallucinations and delusions of grandeur most of the time, even though he's as ugly as a dung heap."
Well, dog my cats! I'll take the run-on sentence writer's stories any day if they're this interesting and full of amazing facts.
Perhaps those textbook authors are smarter than I originally gave them credit for...
December 27, 2005
Prayerful literacy
I don't know how the prayer started, but it was a long one. My mind had begun to drift, kneeling in the eighth row with my friend, Shelly. This was the morning to go to a new church and have a different worship experience.
The woman in the bright caftan and large African head wrap prayed on and on in thick, ecclesiastical tones, clearly moved by her own prayer. She was praying for patients in the hospital and a number of other issues that went on for some minutes.
I was aware of the hard floor under my knees, and of the smoothness of the wood pew ahead of me, upon which I leaned.
"And Lord, may we have the patience, that's I-E-N-C-E, because that's what we need."
Hearing the woman spelling something brought me back from my internal distractions. I raised an eyebrow and shot a questioning look at Shelly. Her expression was one of confusion.
"If we are with patients, I-E-N-T-S, we need thy patience, E-N-C-E."
Again, my mind had wandered and I rapidly came to only to hear this woman spelling something. Did the woman believe that the Lord wasn't sure which homonym she was using?
It was one of the funniest prayers I've ever heard, even though the supplicant was intent on communing with God. I've laughed about her literary precision many T-I-M-E-S.
The woman in the bright caftan and large African head wrap prayed on and on in thick, ecclesiastical tones, clearly moved by her own prayer. She was praying for patients in the hospital and a number of other issues that went on for some minutes.
I was aware of the hard floor under my knees, and of the smoothness of the wood pew ahead of me, upon which I leaned.
"And Lord, may we have the patience, that's I-E-N-C-E, because that's what we need."
Hearing the woman spelling something brought me back from my internal distractions. I raised an eyebrow and shot a questioning look at Shelly. Her expression was one of confusion.
"If we are with patients, I-E-N-T-S, we need thy patience, E-N-C-E."
Again, my mind had wandered and I rapidly came to only to hear this woman spelling something. Did the woman believe that the Lord wasn't sure which homonym she was using?
It was one of the funniest prayers I've ever heard, even though the supplicant was intent on communing with God. I've laughed about her literary precision many T-I-M-E-S.
December 23, 2005
Multiple Personalities
I understood something anew about multiple personalities last night. As a professor in the mental health field, it is incumbent upon me to pass along what I learned.
Bilingual people have more than one personality. Now perhaps I am slow, but it dawned on me in a new way last night that people can portray themselves one way in one language, and another way in a different language. My husband's first language is English. I know him as someone who speaks to me without an accent and who responds to me in English. But when he speaks Spanish--which he learned in another country at his parents' insistence--people howl with laughter and respond to him in a completely different way.
I watched this metamorphosis last night. His more serious English-speaking personality was out grilling salmon on the patio when our Spanish-speaking guests arrived. The man of the family quickly joined Sam on the patio and they immediately began chuckling about something or another. It continued until they came in carrying platters of steaming salmon.
Meanwhile, my sister and I conversed in broken Spanish-English with the women in the family. I was a bit distracted, as I had a mishap with the drink out in the garage, then again in the kitchen (we have been finding sticky pink patches in cutlery drawers, under the edge of the dishwasher, and frozen patches of it in the garage--what a mess!)
As Sam began interacting with our guests, I watched and listened carefully. He became someone else, and I loved being able to see this.
It is clear from hearing Sam speak Spanish that his phrasing is rather halting and imperfect. But his pronounciation is excellent and he doesn't let the choppiness of his speech bother him. He listened carefully to the women speak and responded with comments that made them all laugh. They all looked at him with unveiled admiration. He challenged the four-year old to finish her meal so she could have dessert and then followed up with admonishment that sent the family into gales of laughter. Even the serious father. As they left, his typical hugs and kisses were somehow different and warmer.
In English, Sam's humor is usually rather corny and based on literalism of speech. He gets a lot of sympathy laughs, the way I see it. But in Spanish, he is hilarious. I've observed his interactions with Hispanic people several times and come back to this hypothesis each time.
It reminds me of conversations I've struggled through with my spotty German language skills. My German friends have called me serious, ponderous, and associate my conversation contributions as being rather "Catholic" in quality. From what I can gather, that means melancholy, conservative, fixated on right and wrong, and somehow pious. Although I am somewhat melancholy at times, the other qualities don't ring true to me. Yet there they are, as soon as I start to articulate myself in German.
Italian is quite another story. Catholic or no, I come across as extremely sensuous and suggestive in that language. There is something about that language and the way I use the little of it that I know, that creates some sort of languid reclining personality in me. (It is a time when I wish more of an Italian dolorosa-type quality could be part of the mix).
So I began to think about these things last night, watching my husband's body language, hearing his voice, and seeing him make facial expressions--all that look somewhat familiar but not at all what I am used to. Who is this that I married? Whom did he marry? I guess it all depends on what language we are speaking at the time.
Bilingual people have more than one personality. Now perhaps I am slow, but it dawned on me in a new way last night that people can portray themselves one way in one language, and another way in a different language. My husband's first language is English. I know him as someone who speaks to me without an accent and who responds to me in English. But when he speaks Spanish--which he learned in another country at his parents' insistence--people howl with laughter and respond to him in a completely different way.
I watched this metamorphosis last night. His more serious English-speaking personality was out grilling salmon on the patio when our Spanish-speaking guests arrived. The man of the family quickly joined Sam on the patio and they immediately began chuckling about something or another. It continued until they came in carrying platters of steaming salmon.
Meanwhile, my sister and I conversed in broken Spanish-English with the women in the family. I was a bit distracted, as I had a mishap with the drink out in the garage, then again in the kitchen (we have been finding sticky pink patches in cutlery drawers, under the edge of the dishwasher, and frozen patches of it in the garage--what a mess!)
As Sam began interacting with our guests, I watched and listened carefully. He became someone else, and I loved being able to see this.
It is clear from hearing Sam speak Spanish that his phrasing is rather halting and imperfect. But his pronounciation is excellent and he doesn't let the choppiness of his speech bother him. He listened carefully to the women speak and responded with comments that made them all laugh. They all looked at him with unveiled admiration. He challenged the four-year old to finish her meal so she could have dessert and then followed up with admonishment that sent the family into gales of laughter. Even the serious father. As they left, his typical hugs and kisses were somehow different and warmer.
In English, Sam's humor is usually rather corny and based on literalism of speech. He gets a lot of sympathy laughs, the way I see it. But in Spanish, he is hilarious. I've observed his interactions with Hispanic people several times and come back to this hypothesis each time.
It reminds me of conversations I've struggled through with my spotty German language skills. My German friends have called me serious, ponderous, and associate my conversation contributions as being rather "Catholic" in quality. From what I can gather, that means melancholy, conservative, fixated on right and wrong, and somehow pious. Although I am somewhat melancholy at times, the other qualities don't ring true to me. Yet there they are, as soon as I start to articulate myself in German.
Italian is quite another story. Catholic or no, I come across as extremely sensuous and suggestive in that language. There is something about that language and the way I use the little of it that I know, that creates some sort of languid reclining personality in me. (It is a time when I wish more of an Italian dolorosa-type quality could be part of the mix).
So I began to think about these things last night, watching my husband's body language, hearing his voice, and seeing him make facial expressions--all that look somewhat familiar but not at all what I am used to. Who is this that I married? Whom did he marry? I guess it all depends on what language we are speaking at the time.
December 21, 2005
Light Hearted
Two days ago my doctor called me to say that the cat scan I had last week showed that I have a mass in my colon. It could be cancer, he intoned. I should get a colonoscopy right away and see a GI doctor. He told me I would have an appointment in two weeks with this specialist.
Is it anything serious?
Circuitous obfuscation.
Yesterday, I sat cold and exposed on the specialist's table--two weeks earlier than my appointment and very shaky. This doctor had a kind face and I remember thinking that if anyone had to tell me that I have a life-threatening illness, none could deliver such news with greater warmth or understanding.
His first words were, "I'm unimpressed by your CT scan. I don't see anything to be alarmed about on it."
But what about the other doctor's comments to me?
"I don't think you have anything like cancer, so don't even consider that."
Why would the other doctor even say such a thing then?
"Let's focus on getting this irritating twinge in your guts taken care of and don't go down that road."
At this Christmas season, I'm imminently grateful that I don't have a cancer diagnosis to deal with. Perhaps I'm even more grateful that for a day or two I had the opportunity to look at death in the face. As sobering as it was to linger over issues of how Sam would manage to lose me, what I should do with myself before I die, I experienced something very helpful: Waking up at 3:30 and listening to Sam's breathing and wondering how he would sleep if I were dying--wondering what would become of my students, friends, and family. Thinking about how I should move ahead with this illness--whether or not I would have an operation and even be able to teach this next quarter, etc.
What is important is how I love my family, friends and neighbors. What is important is that I live every single day saying, thinking, and doing all that I would do if it were my last day alive. And to live with the understanding that life on this planet is only a tiny jot on the radar screen. The rest takes place for eternity in heaven.
These are not original ideas, nor have I put them down in any particularly creative or gripping manner. But this is where I've been in my head for the last week. I have much to be thankful for this Christmas season.
Is it anything serious?
Circuitous obfuscation.
Yesterday, I sat cold and exposed on the specialist's table--two weeks earlier than my appointment and very shaky. This doctor had a kind face and I remember thinking that if anyone had to tell me that I have a life-threatening illness, none could deliver such news with greater warmth or understanding.
His first words were, "I'm unimpressed by your CT scan. I don't see anything to be alarmed about on it."
But what about the other doctor's comments to me?
"I don't think you have anything like cancer, so don't even consider that."
Why would the other doctor even say such a thing then?
"Let's focus on getting this irritating twinge in your guts taken care of and don't go down that road."
At this Christmas season, I'm imminently grateful that I don't have a cancer diagnosis to deal with. Perhaps I'm even more grateful that for a day or two I had the opportunity to look at death in the face. As sobering as it was to linger over issues of how Sam would manage to lose me, what I should do with myself before I die, I experienced something very helpful: Waking up at 3:30 and listening to Sam's breathing and wondering how he would sleep if I were dying--wondering what would become of my students, friends, and family. Thinking about how I should move ahead with this illness--whether or not I would have an operation and even be able to teach this next quarter, etc.
Catastrophizing? Maybe. But it was frightening to think of Sam going through my death after he had lost his mother to colon cancer; wondering what it would feel like to be "full of cancer" and dying; living with questions of whether or not, or when it would come back.
In all of this, I feel that I learned something about what is important in life and how to see life differently.What is important is how I love my family, friends and neighbors. What is important is that I live every single day saying, thinking, and doing all that I would do if it were my last day alive. And to live with the understanding that life on this planet is only a tiny jot on the radar screen. The rest takes place for eternity in heaven.
These are not original ideas, nor have I put them down in any particularly creative or gripping manner. But this is where I've been in my head for the last week. I have much to be thankful for this Christmas season.
December 19, 2005
What would you do?
I know that my last blog entry was a bit intense. It was driven by how struck I was that I could have been victimized as badly as other people I know.
Today, I have the same intensity but about something quite different. My question is this: If you were told you had advanced cancer and had only six months to live, what would you choose to do?
I've been thinking about this question today. Would I travel, and go see all the lovely things of the world? Would it make sense to climb mountains or paddle rivers--especially if it would take me out of contact with those who would miss me the most? Would I continue teaching, applying myself as never before? Would I take a medical leave and spend my time writing all that I could to as many as would listen? Would I spend my last days giving my husband and family all the attention that I could muster, so they would have good memories after my death? Would I start speaking at every event I could--about how cancer can be prevented? Or would I speak about the beauty of God's love and grace? Or, would I merely continue on in life hoping against hope that nothing would change and that I could beat the odds?
Some life events--near misses, or those interminable waits for test results--bring these questions to the fore. They also prompt us to think about what really matters in life. The events of the last week have reminded me that as Corrie ten Boom said, life is like a piece of embroidery. We can only see the underside with knots and incomprehensible stitches, in all directions. But God sees the top of the embroidery and can see the pattern and beauty that is being worked out. We can only look up and try to guess, from our vantage point, what is being created by God.
What happens on this earth is important, but it is very small in comparison to the greatness of God's overall picture. Heaven and God's view of life is the true reality, not what we see and do here. And thus, even having a shortened life takes on a different face and meaning. Choices and life becomes a bit less complicated. Oh, to see as God sees.
Today, I have the same intensity but about something quite different. My question is this: If you were told you had advanced cancer and had only six months to live, what would you choose to do?
I've been thinking about this question today. Would I travel, and go see all the lovely things of the world? Would it make sense to climb mountains or paddle rivers--especially if it would take me out of contact with those who would miss me the most? Would I continue teaching, applying myself as never before? Would I take a medical leave and spend my time writing all that I could to as many as would listen? Would I spend my last days giving my husband and family all the attention that I could muster, so they would have good memories after my death? Would I start speaking at every event I could--about how cancer can be prevented? Or would I speak about the beauty of God's love and grace? Or, would I merely continue on in life hoping against hope that nothing would change and that I could beat the odds?
Some life events--near misses, or those interminable waits for test results--bring these questions to the fore. They also prompt us to think about what really matters in life. The events of the last week have reminded me that as Corrie ten Boom said, life is like a piece of embroidery. We can only see the underside with knots and incomprehensible stitches, in all directions. But God sees the top of the embroidery and can see the pattern and beauty that is being worked out. We can only look up and try to guess, from our vantage point, what is being created by God.
What happens on this earth is important, but it is very small in comparison to the greatness of God's overall picture. Heaven and God's view of life is the true reality, not what we see and do here. And thus, even having a shortened life takes on a different face and meaning. Choices and life becomes a bit less complicated. Oh, to see as God sees.
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