On Learning Latin

When i was in eighth grade, i had a choice between Home Ec/Art (i never did figure out what the Ec stood for) and Latin. My dad chose Latin. I love to bake and to sketch, and hate grammar, so you may imagine my dismay and resentment. On the first day of class we found the the original Latin teacher had dropped out last minute and instead we were going to be taught by a poor, innocent math teacher because she was able to speak Spanish (or at least, we were to assume so as she had spent some months in Mexico). Our textbooks were hand-me-downs from another school, and had scribbles throughout (some of them not very "nice" and we enjoyed shocking some of the more conservative teachers with them until they forced us to white it all out). While she laboured over dipthongs, i worked on my algebra homework and cogitated on various ways to talk my dad around. About a month in, we were informed that a new Latin teacher had been found, and hired. A couple of weeks later, we walked into class, and there was the Magister. No one would call him diminuitive, though he was not tall. He had come out of retirement to teach us, and had formerly taught not only Latin, but also English, Spanish, and French. Often he would forget and start speaking in the wrong language, but it made us all feel very cosmopolitan, so we didn't mind. His taste in dress was exquisite and his outfits were always perfectly coordinated - shoes, socks, vest, shirt, and tie. He traveled often, and could tell the most wondrous stories. And he had a most gorgeous tenor voice combined with a suavity of manner James Bond would envy. He was, to put it simply, a Gentleman. I can totally see him fighting a duel. I'm afraid we didn't learn much Latin. It was rather late for him to crack down on us and he hadn't been teaching in a while. However, we learned quite a lot of mythology that year, and Magister's stories were always instructive on some level. And when the fire alarm went off because the Home Ec teacher had left something in the oven, and i heard all her students moan about having to make accounts and all the busy work, i began to appreciate my father's choice. They were not, after all, learning anything i did not already know how to do, and somehow Magister was much more adept than the Home Ec teacher (also our Bible teacher) at capturing the imagination. I continued Latin until the tenth grade. Some days he would be very active, jumping all around and shouting at us. Other days he had a migraine, so he would sit holding his head with the lights off, and tell us to behave. Sometimes we did. Sometimes we would all go outside, or watch movies - Spartacus or The Oddysey. We started actually working at Latin, but i think we still learned much more about mythology, and English grammar, than Latin. We discussed many things in that class - Politics, Theology, Biology, Wrestling, Music, and even Knitting. One day we spent learning how to waltz, and the next we would argue about Ecclesiastes, and the next over whether his car was cranberry or purple. In discussions of the latter sort, or whenever he felt that we were being ridiculous, he would exclaim "When donkeys fly!" Further absurdity would drive him to adding "...with a rubber hose!" and in greatest extremity he would end with "...up your left nostril!" I loved that class. Thanks, Dad.

Non nobis, Domine, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.

My high school choir teacher died this week. Cancer killed her. Years and years of fighting. Chemo. Wigs. Weakness. Her husband is confined to a wheelchair. One of her sons is known as "a disappointment." She taught all of the choirs for the school - elementary, advanced elementary (Wed. afternoons), middle school, high school, and a capella. She was also involved in church choirs. Before Mrs. T, choir was held in a beat up trailer behind the school (band still is), and had been for years. The school focused on their atheletics; the fine arts program existed because all schools need a fine arts program. It is a small high school - around 200 children. Mrs. T got between 70 and 80 of them to school an hour early every school day, and several other days beside. The choir was moved inside, and eventually the room (with the technical capacity of 30) was revamped with more acoustic friendly tiling. The guys wore tuxedos. She got the school to help fund an annual choir trip - to New York, Toronto, Orlando, San Antonio... She continued teaching until less than a month ago. I can't picture the place without her. More importantly, she loved the Lord. She was passionate, dedicated, and tireless. I never saw her without a smile. Her patience with me gave me the courage to continue to sing wherever i can; to volunteer for church choirs. I know how much she means to so many people, and how her example inspired. Now she is dead. Life goes on. Her funeral is hundreds and hundreds of miles away. My brothers still need to be teased and my papers still need to be written. She is dead.

Moving, Part III

We had to leave our dog at my grandmother's house. She would send him to us later, when the paperwork was finished. We arrived in Sicily. Our loyal van would follow us a few days later. None of our goods have arrived yet, so for the first month or so we live in TLA. I'm not sure what that stands for anymore - Temporary Living Assistance? We lived in one apartment for only a few days, and then moved into a different one. Us kids loved it. It was on a hill, so that we could walk off the street into our front door, but out the back was a balcony which looked down a whole story into a parking lot. The floors were all marble, and the bathroom was the biggest room. Right when you walked in, you could either walk down three steps to the side, or facing straight ahead make a flying leap into the boys' bedroom. Inexplicably, my parents preferred the former. My first memories of Kinder Eggs are in this place. We thought they were the greatest things, and they were the only toys we had with us at the moment. They call them Kinder Surprise here, and actually have made them illegal most places stateside in case people don't realize that the toys inside aren't edible. This is a great pity. Polly Pockets, of which i still have a large collection, are illegal for the same reason. Silly people. The Sicilians were (and i assume still are) very friendly. One lady gave us a ride around town in a great white van soon after we arrived. It was just Mom and the kids - Dad was at work. You have never driven, until you have driven in Sicily. The lanes are narrow, the hills are steep, the driving is fast, and there is absolutely zero personal space on the road. We thought it was just as good as a roller coaster ride, and treated it as such, leaning into each other and shouting. Mom looked a little green, although both she and my father came to love driving in Sicily and constantly complain about the arrogance of American drivers. Dad has a favourite story about one of the first times he was driving: It was the first time we saw a police car, we saw another driver flash his headlights(the signal for "Get out of my way, please") at it, and instead of ticketing the guy for speeding the cop moved over. Another time, on the mainland, traffic was jammed solid across four lanes (which in Naples means six lines of cars). There was an ambulance with sirens going lights flashing, stuck behind all of these cars. One driver really needed to get through -he was honking his horn and waving a whitehandkerchief. People just squeezed their cars tighter together so hecould get on through, which he did, through several miles of such traffic.The ambulance had to wait, though, with the rest of us. As long as you kept your head and were respectful, you could get away with pretty much anything. Soon, though, we found a more permanent residence in Motta. Before we left the landlords invited us to a sort of party downstairs. There was a lot of pizza, and wine. Each pizza had different toppings on it, like eggplant, or french fries. We didn't eat much. My brothers and I spent most of the time playing with bouncy balls in the parking lot. UPDATE: Moving, Part I (links to all the other parts available in Part I)

April Rain Means May Mud

So, just in case you were curious, those toes at the top of the page are mine. 100% flesh and blood Marshymallow toes. Okay, that sounds really gross, but you get the point. The toes at the top of the page are on a beach one autumn evening. They are near Sally chasing the tiny sand crabs into the water, and in turn being chased by the surf. Those toes are wiggling over the soft green moss proud of the way the metallic-purple polish is set off. Balancing precariously on the rocks, they know that if they falter the camera risks injury. Those toes are inherited from my father. They stick out like radar. They are big and fat an ugly. And they don't even match - if i ever got shoes that fit properly my left foot would wear size 10 and my right a size 8 1/2. And those toes love to walk in the mud. I remember when my mother used to read the Laura Ingalls Wilder books - i always envied the children because they were allowed to run around barefoot half the year. I love shoes - i love to look pretty, and feet (at least, mine) are never going to be at all aesthetically pleasing. But for comfort, i'll kick off the shoes any day. In North Dakota my brothers and i would have mud circuses. With my brothers those toes ran unshod over the gravel parking lot and through the fields, capturing poor little toads (or frogs?) and putting them in buckets 1/4 full of mud. We were convinced that they were having as much fun as we were, and hopped around out of sheer gratitude, for sharing the mud with them. The shoe-kicking habit stayed with us in Sicily, even though there was rather a shortage of mud. My toes tread on the cold marble floors, up and down the asphalt street, around the balcony - it didn't really matter. As i have grown older i've been forced to retain my shoes in more and more situations. Yet, i've become a master of unobtrusively removing and then replacing my shoes under or at picnic benches, desks, pews, dinner tables, et cetera. I believe it's quite an art. I never buy a pair of shoes without taking into consideration its kick-off-ability. So you can imagine how ecstatic i was upon finding that, excepting the food preparation locations, the college i attend has no policy regarding footwear. It was nearly two months (well, i did wear shoes to church, or at least bring them) before my toes touched another shoe. Freedom!!! I went to class, to work, to choir practice, to my grandmother's, to the library - all with naked feet. Have you ever watched an infant or a small child explore something? They want to know all about it - how it looks, tastes, smells, and feels. Often they place objects in their mouth so they can experience the object with their sensitive gums. I walk everywhere, but I reveled in the different textures and temperatures of the various surfaces - the grass (sometimes dry and prickly, other times deliciously spongy and squelchy, or smooth and verdant), the cement (rather like walking on varying grades of sandpaper), the asphalt (HOT in the sun, but otherwise its a free foot massage), the thick road paint (very smooth, and it always felt deliciously cool after the black asphalt), and the mud. Perhaps you will scoff, but i didn't expect many people to notice. However... Odd looks, comments from fellow students. I noticed a couple approving glances from fellow free feeters. On my way to the (public) library one day, a red truck stopped in front of me. A man called out - "Why aren't you wearing shoes?" "It's such a gorgeous day, and i didn't want to." He smiled, and pulled out. I have found out that it was a main subject of conversation over coffee break in the Archives. I painted my nails bright blue in response. There is even a vocal minority among my fellow choristers protesting my choice. Rumours of passing a plate around for a Marshymallow toe covering came to my ears. But i stood firm on my exposed extremities. Winter came, and with it heavy boots and socks. Blackened remnants of the towering white mountains still remain. Yet, spring is definitely in the air. I have gone puddling twice now this year, and there look to be many more opportunities to track mud inside of the dormitory before i leave forever. It's drizzling outside. Over it i hear the construction being constructed and various people prating and prattling. It's grey and dreary outside, but i don't mind because it will mean more delicious mud. UPDATE: Scientific Proof! Bare feet are better!